Destiny (16 page)

Now that the magic was not active, the fastenings of the armor were visible. Even so, Hartz had difficulty undoing it as the design made it hard to find the openings. When they had finished, they saw that the being inside was nothing more than a dried up, gaunt thing, like a mummy, which must have been dead for more than a thousand years… Hartz shrugged, smiled at his beloved and helped her put on the strange armor. Komir looked on in silence, lost in thought.

“There you go…” said Hartz. “But it’s too big, you won’t be able to use it.”

Kayti looked at the rune on her chest and passed her hand over it. It was beautiful. At the touch of her skin the rune flashed golden and Kayti felt as if the rune were piercing her chest, penetrating deep into her soul. For a moment she was breathless, and fear got the better of her.

“Ilenian magic!” Hartz cried in alarm.

The golden flash spread through the whole armor. As if the metal were contracting, it began to mold itself around Kayti’s body piece by piece, from head to foot, until it formed a whole. The fastenings disappeared, leaving the armor sealed, with no crack or weak point visible. When the process ended the armor was perfectly adapted and molded to Kayti’s body, better even than if the greatest armorers in all Tremia had made it specially for her.

“It’s very light, incredibly light… I can barely feel any weight on my body. It’s as if it were made of silk…”

“And impenetrable,” said Yakumo, who was watching with great curiosity.

“I don’t like this damned Ilenian magic at all…” Hartz protested.

“Don’t worry, the spells in this armor will be to protect its wearer, like those in your sword, Hartz. I don’t think they’ll harm me, on the contrary, I think they’ll protect me in battle in a way that no other could. I certainly won’t be tired anymore from wearing heavy armor.”

“If you want to wear it, suit yourself. But be careful, these Ilenian objects have unexpected… effects…”

“It’s Nature’s way of balancing the extremes,” Lasgol said, pointing to the mummified being on the floor. “All magic has its cost, its price…”

Kayti took two steps in the Ilenian armor. It felt almost like a second skin.

“It has the same rune engraved on the back,” said Lasgol. “It must have some meaning. You’d better be careful…”

“I will,” Kayti said, smiling, as she put on the plumed helmet. Like the rest of the armor, it adjusted itself perfectly to her head and face.

“I think… I think we’ve found an Ilenian Grimoire of enormous relevance…” stammered Sonea.

“Yes, it is extremely valuable…” Lindaro agreed.

Komir came up to them and looked at the great book.

“Why do you think that?” he asked the two scholars.

Sonea looked at him with excited eyes.

“This is the Ilenian Book of the Moon. From what little we’ve managed to piece out, it seems to contain very valuable knowledge about the Lost Civilization and its powerful magic. It tells of the power of Moon magic, death magic… We’ll need time to decipher the mysteries in it, but I have no doubt that we’re in the presence of an incredibly relevant Grimoire.”

Lindaro nodded energetically.

“This temple has been built to venerate and protect this precious Grimoire.”

“And will it get us out of here?” Hartz asked, his brow furrowed.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to find the way ourselves…” Lindaro said with a worried frown. “The book is a compendium of Ilenian magic. With the help of the Light it’ll give us the answers to how to operate the portal.”

“But it’s not going to be easy. It might take us days or even weeks… or perhaps we won’t find out at all…” Sonea said, sounding worried.

“We’ll find out,” Kayti said with conviction as she stared intently at the great Grimoire.

Sonea looked at Kayti’s chest and pointed to the rune.

“That’s the rune of the Soul.”

They looked at Kayti in her shining white armor.

Lindaro came to her side and nodded, his eyes on the rune.

“Let’s hope you’re right, White Soul.”

The four First Generals of the Norghanian forces were arguing heatedly over what strategy to follow in order to take the walls of the besieged city. The tension in Count Volgren’s command tent grew greater with every opinion expressed. The difficulties involved in the attack were now evident, since the siege weapons were lost. The casualties of a frontal assault on the walls would be high, and the arrival of the Nocean Legions were making the Count decidedly uneasy.

The horns sounded shrilly, announcing the arrival of a delegation.

“And now what?” Count Volgren exclaimed in annoyance.

“No idea, sire,” General Rangulfsen replied as he bent over a plan of the city. The brilliant soldier had marked the defenses and the weak points where the attacks had to be concentrated in order to conquer the city.

“Who dares to interrupt us?” brayed General Odir with a flash of rage in his belligerent eyes. “I hope it’s a Nocean emissary. I swear I’ll take his guts out and send him back tied to his horse.”

“You’re always so subtle in all your suggestions,” said Rangulfsen. “That’s just what we need now, confronting the Noceans…”

“I’m not afraid of them, they’re just desert cockroaches. And we, the Men of the Snow, will squash them under our boots,” Odir said disdainfully, and spat to one side.

“I’m sure the Rogdonians would cheer like mad to see us killing each other in front of their besieged city, like mere apprentices in the art of war,” Rangulfsen said ironically.

“That I forbid!” Count Volgren ordered, very annoyed.

“We’ll soon find out who it is,” said General Olagson, stretching his big body. He shrugged, dismissing the question.

Rangulfsen shook his head. Gesturing to his map, he went on explaining his plan of attack and the possible threats to it.

A soldier in a uniform of golden scales entered the command tent and announced:

“Attention! His Royal Majesty Thoran, King of Norghana!”

They stood to attention at once.

King Thoran entered the tent after the soldier. With firm steps he came to stand in front of the four Generals and Count Volgren, who were looking at him with disbelief.

“Your Majesty… we weren’t expecting…” stammered the Count, falling to one knee. The four Generals followed his example immediately.

The King, an imposing man, was more than seven feet tall. His hair was long and blond and his appearance as Nordic as all his lineage. His strong build and presence were overwhelming. His face, always sullen, bore a golden beard and eyes as clear as ice, which stared at Count Volgren.

“I’ve been forced to travel to this insipid land of the West. And you know why, Volgren?” he asked in a voice as cavernous as it was fearsome.

“No, your Majesty… I don’t know what we owe the honor of your presence to...”

“To your unbelievable incompetence!” he howled, with such force that for a moment it seemed the tent would collapse.

Nobody dared move a muscle. They remained on their knees, heads bowed.

“My Ice Mages tell me that not only have you so far failed to assault the city, but that the siege weapons have been destroyed by the enemy… How has a catastrophe like this come about…?”

Count Volgren began to explain.

“You see, your Majesty…”

King Thoran took his war axe from his belt. With a tremendous blow he drove it into the table and broke it in two.

“I granted you the command of my armies so that you would bring me Solin’s head on a pike. And have you done so? No, don’t answer if you want to keep yours,” he threatened, twisting the axe in his hand. Volgren looked down and kept silent for his life’s sake. “That treacherous halfwit Solin killed my brother Orten. I want his head and all his family’s! I want this city razed to its foundations, with not even the ashes of the embers left. Are the King’s wishes understood?” he said, and laid the edge of his axe on the Count’s neck.

Nobody dared to speak.

“I see I’ve made myself clear.”

Without looking at his King, Rangulfsen whispered:

“And the Nocean forces, your Majesty?”

King Thoran walked up to the General and laid the head of his axe on his shoulder.

“You’ve already dishonored your King once, Rangulfsen. If you’re still alive today it’s because I need your intelligence and military skill to conquer this city. Don’t try my patience… I’m not a temperate man. If the Noceans turn against us ‒ and they might, like the treacherous vipers they are ‒ then we’ll destroy them. They’re not even half the man a Norghanian is. If they try to betray us, we’ll turn against them and squash them like worms.”

Rangulfsen gave a short nod.

“And now, attack and raze this filthy city to the ground until there’s not a rock standing! I want not a single man, woman or child left alive!”

From the battlements Gerart, his spirits heavy, was watching the immense red and white tide which was beginning to advance towards the wall. A sea made up of thousands of fearsome men of the snow who were coming to deliver death and destruction to his people.

“They’re coming…” he said, deep sadness in his voice.

Haradin too, by his side, contemplated the terrifying Norghanian host.

“Yes, and what’s surprising, they’re not waiting for the Nocean army.”

“They want to conquer the city for King Thoran,” Solin said. He was looking south, where the Nocean legions had not yet finished taking up their positions. “They won’t wait for the Noceans, they want all the glory for Norghana. They want my head. Urien had already foreseen this; he warned me this would be their course of action.”

“Good, good,” Haradin said. “This is very good news.”

“Good, Haradin?” Gerart asked in puzzlement as he watched the Norghanians shouting like enraged white bears, filling the plain with their deafening din. Thousands of throats roared, terrifying the hearts of the defenders.

“It’s not a joint attack from both hosts. If both armies attacked the wall simultaneously…” said King Solin.

Gerart immediately understood.

“We must take advantage of this clumsy decision and make them pay dearly,” said King Solin. “While distrust and greed reign among our enemies, we have a possibility of victory.”

Haradin nodded.

“It’s time to defend our land, to shed enemy blood,” the Mage said, watching the hosts advance.

“Archers of Rogdon, to the walls!” the King ordered at the top of his voice.

Swiftly and efficiently, the archers in blue and silver took their positions along the wall. The whole northeastern section was now crowded with the Rogdonian forces, bows tense and ready. Gerart scanned the faces of the men. Fear and anguish were visible, as if they had taken possession of those good souls. The Prince looked out at the immensity of the Norghanian hosts, marching on with unstoppable strength, indestructible, and his spirit fell too. He could perfectly understand his fellow-countrymen’s unease.

“Don’t let fear cause your courageous hearts to sink!” King Solin harangued them, as if he had read Gerart’s thoughts. “You are brave defenders of Rogdon! Today you will fight to protect the last Rogdonian redoubt. Today you will fight with courage, with the valor known to the men of Rogdon. Today we shall deliver death to the enemy!”

Gerart saw the faces of his countrymen lighting up. The flame of courage had taken hold inside them, fanned by the King’s words.

“Today we shall repel the enemy! We shall oust the invader! Their blood will bathe our battlements! Not one of them will set foot in our city!”

The soldiers began to cheer the King’s words, enthused by their monarch’s fervor.

“Death to the invader!” the King roared like a lion.

“Death!” all the soldiers replied as one, their awakened enthusiasm filling the walls with deafening cheers.

“For Rogdon!” the King shouted.

“For Rogdon!” they cried with all the strength of their lungs, so that the sound of their cheers drowned the cries of the enemy army.

“Death to the Norghanians!” roared Solin.

“Death!” the whole wall thundered, sending forth their message to the enemy.

The King turned around and looked at Gerart:

“Now, Prince of Rogdon, I give you command of the defense of the wall. Defend it with your honor, with your life. The enemy must not overrun us. I shall defend the great gate.”

Gerart looked into his father’s eyes. Filled with pride and respect, he accepted the responsibility and bowed to the King, who left with a dozen Royal Swords. Three of them remained behind to protect Gerart.

“Get ready!” the Prince shouted, his eyes on the enemy.

The Norghanians advanced in close formation, and the thunder of thousands of boots on the ground seemed to make the foundations of the wall shake.

“Wait for my order to shoot!” he said, seeing that the first lines were now close.

He could now make out the enemy he knew so well. He could already see the winged helmets covering the blond manes and beards of men pale as snow: tall, robust, broad–shouldered and strong–armed. All wearing full scaled armor, carrying swords and battle axes, with round wooden shields in one hand to protect themselves against arrows and spears. After the host, came the two siege towers, slowly. Thousands of ladders and hooked ropes were also carried by the soldiers of the snow to climb the magnificent wall which protected Rilentor.

“You will fail…” Gerart said to himself. Rage was spurring him on. He gazed at the plain at his feet once more, flooded by an ocean of Norghanian soldiers. “Not this time…” he repeated.

“They won’t,” Haradin assured him, standing calmly beside him.

The enemy was less than a hundred paces from the wall.

“Release!” Gerart ordered raising his sword. “Release!”

At the Prince’s order the archers launched thousands of arrows at the first enemy lines. Gerart knew they would not stop the advance ‒ nothing would ‒ but he saw the first men fall.

“Keep shooting!” Gerart shouted, as the archers discharged an incessant rain of death on the tide of attackers.

A roar came from the first Norghanian rows, and the shields rose to protect them from the arrows. The archers kept sending arrow after arrow against the sea of shields, but the enemy reached the foot of the wall, roaring like a monstrous beast with a thousand eyes, wounded and enraged. That beast from the deep abysses of the snowy mountains advanced unstoppably. Only the regal wall and the courage of the defenders on the battlements could reject it.

“Defend the battlements!” Gerart shouted when he saw the first assault ladders appear against the wall.

Thousands of hooked ropes soared over the battlements to find their hold along all the northeastern section of the wall. The winged helmets appeared close behind them on the battlements, and furious fighting ensued on the wall. The brutal Norghanians were formidable opponents, tough and ruthless. The defenders repelled them with spear and sword, knowing they were their people’s last line of defense. Behind them, in the highest part of the city, women and children were in hiding, sobbing with impotence and fear.

“Drive them back!” Gerart shouted, fighting without respite, flanked by his three Royal Swords, dealing death to all the Norghanians who reached his part of the battlements. The fighting on the wall turned desperate in a heartbeat and the thunder of the shouting became deafening, with cries of rage, despair and death. Blood bathed battlements and wall: Norghanian blood, Rogdonian blood, staining soldiers and rock alike.

“Fight! For Rogdon!” Gerart shouted after skewering an enormous soldier of the Thunder Army. He glimpsed a battleaxe out of the corner of his eye and ducked to the right. The weapon grazed his head and buried itself in the back of a Rogdonian soldier. Gerart took a step forward and in a fury, slit the Norghanian’s throat. Enemy blood spattered his golden armor. Gerart fought and fought with all his skill and all his strength. Chaos took over the battlements, death reigned on the wall. The Norghanians were too many, their brutality unstoppable. They would not be able to drive them back for long. The fearsome Men of the Snow went on climbing, tireless, immune to the fear of death which awaited them above. His Royal Swords helped him clear the section, but he knew it would soon be filled with enemies again.

Haradin came to stand in the middle of the wall behind the parapet. “Protect me,” he said. “The moment has come for me to act.”

He closed his eyes and seemed to fall into a trance. Disconcerted, Gerart turned to his three Royal Swords and ordered them: “Protect him with your lives!”

Haradin concentrated; he was well aware of the risk he was about to take, but there was no other option left to him. The Norghanian hosts were too numerous, the defenders would not be able to drive back wave after wave. He had not been able to pinpoint the location of the Ice Mages amid that sea of Norghanian soldiers, but he could feel their power and he knew that with the numbers in their favor they had the upper hand. Unfortunately, he had to do something, since the situation on the battlements was getting desperate. He knew the calculating Ice Mages must be too close now, camouflaged among the soldiers, but he had to risk it. He closed his eyes and searched for his source of inner energy, the blue pool which lay inside his chest.
Don’t fail me now,
he begged his Gift. Although much improved, his magic was still not responding as it should. He invoked a Spell of Earth Magic and cast an enchantment on himself; a spherical shield formed around his body, enveloping him completely. The sphere was made of compact hard earth and rock, but it appeared almost translucent.