Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

The second man rushed Gant from behind.  Gant heard his footsteps, spun, blocked with the flat of his blade, and then in one smooth motion chopped down on the bounty hunter’s right arm.  Gant stopped Valorius before she cut too deep.  There was a rush of crimson and a grunt of pain.  Gant stepped in for a backhand swing.

“Stop.”

It came softly in Gant’s ear, barely discernible, yet it echoed inside his mind with a strange power that demanded attention.

Gant stopped, turned.  Behind him, dressed in full battle armor, stood the fairest warrior Gant had ever seen.  The man was a full head taller than Gant.  He had golden hair flowing out from under his sparkling helm.  His eyes were the deepest blue but were tainted by a sadness that didn’t belong.  His face was square and lean with a strong, cleft chin.  Even his teeth were white and perfect.

“You have attacked peaceful citizens unprovoked. I cannot allow it.”  Again the voice was soft, barely a whisper and yet it rang within Gant’s mind loud and clear.

What could he say?  To an outside observer it probably looked like he
had
attacked them.  Yet they had come to kill him.

“It is not your business,” Gant said finally.

“Right and wrong are always my business.”

“Then you should learn which side is right.”

“No.  The sword shall decide.”

With that, the stranger drew a beautiful, shimmering sword. Yellow rays glittered off the finely crafted length of steel. Faintly, here and there, a rune or marking shimmered as the stranger twisted it slowly left and right. Gant stepped back into a defensive posture with Valorius held ready. The newcomer’s sword looked every bit as splendid, maybe more so. Gant realized this was not going to be easy.

“This is foolish,” said Gant.  The madness had left him and now the thought of more suffering revolted him.

The blond warrior did not answer.  He darted in, his first move a straight lunging thrust at Gant’s midsection.  An easy snap of the wrists turned it aside.  Gant slid backward another half step.  The stranger wheeled his sword overhead, tracing an arc aimed at Gant’s neck.  The two blades met edge to edge with a fiery hiss of sparks.  Gant noted with surprise that the other sword withdrew unmarked.  So did Valorius.

Gant countered now, swinging low at the blond man’s midsection.  The stranger turned it aside.  Gant followed that with another attack.  That too was blocked.  Now Gant had to block.  The swords met again in a shower of sparks.

Gant thrust straight in, but was swept aside.

This time the stranger moved Valorius far enough to the side to create an opening on Gant’s opposite side.  The blond warrior struck like a snake.  It was too fast.  The magnificent sword slammed into Gant’s armor, the force almost knocking Gant from his feet.  There was a flash of white light and a loud crack.  Gant’s armor held.  The stranger drew back leaving only a thin crease.

Gant staggered off balance, open to attack.

Instead of taking advantage, the stranger stared wide-eyed at Gant, his blue eyes riveted on the spot where his sword had landed.  Gant righted himself.  The stranger pulled himself up ramrod straight, his sword arm lowering ever so slowly until the tip rested on the floor.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, awe in his voice. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.  I could not know you were The One.”

Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee, laying his sword at Gant's feet. “If you’ll have me, I seek only to serve you.”

Bewildered, Gant returned Valorius to his scabbard. 

“Rise.  I am no lord to be served.  I am a free man, like you.  But why the sudden change?”

“Your armor.  You have the armor that my sword cannot cut.  That is the one I shall serve until death.”  He stood as he spoke, sheathing his weapon.

“I doubt if you’re talking about me, though this is unique armor.  How about an ale?  Maybe you can tell me what is going on.”

“As you wish, m’Lord.”

“Stop calling me that,” said Gant. 

He glanced around and, assuring himself that the two bounty hunters were gone, turned and started back to his table.  The stranger followed. The patrons had already forgotten the incident.  Gant reseated himself and motioned for Jake.  When the innkeeper arrived, the stranger ordered a glass of water. Jake left it on the table and went about his business.

“Who are you?” asked Gant as the inn returned to normalcy.

“I am Zandinar.”

“I am Gant, formerly of Netherdorf.  Today some call me Ironlimb.”

“You were Champion at Devonshield.”

“I was.  Though more by chance than choice.  But tell me, what has happened to the world?  Those two I rousted from their table swore that Netherdorf has fallen and is at war with the Western Kings.”

“Yes, that is the news these days.  I just arrived from the north seeking m’Lord.  The first part of my destiny is fulfilled.  Now I need only follow you.”

Gant studied Zandinar looking for any trace of mockery.  There was none.  “What do you mean, you’ve only got to follow me?  I’m not sure where I’m going.”

“It doesn’t matter. You will lead me where I am supposed to be.”

“How do you know?”

“It is foretold.”

“By whom?”

“My mother.”

“Oh.”  Gant examined Zandinar more closely.  His armor had some strange power.  It reminded Gant of the magic in his own armor but with a subtly different feel to the force emanating from it.

“What else do you know about the fall of Netherdorf?” asked Gant.

“Not much.  There are few left who claim to be King Tirmus’ men.”

“Is it also true that Sir Jarlz has turned traitor?”

“That I could not say.  I have heard this Barlon Gorth uses treachery and deceit as his first weapons and that a demon aids him.”

“Jake may know more,” said Gant and motioned for the innkeeper.

Leaving a table full of merchants, the chubby proprietor returned.

“Rooms for the two of us,” said Gant as soon as the fat-cheeked innkeeper reached their table.  He tossed Jake enough coins for the room and more.  “What do you know of Barlon Gorth and Netherdorf?”

Jake looked at the floor.  “Little enough.  His agents spread the word that the peasants have been freed from an oppressive king.  The few survivors that got this far told a grimmer tale. One I'd rather not repeat.”

“And is he at war with the West?”

“I think that may be true.  No merchants have come from the West in a month or more, and those that left for the West have not been seen again.  Only evil men come from Netherdorf these days, and I begin to fear for Blasseldune.”

“Can’t you tell us more?”

“There’s not much else to tell.  Anyone who held a position in King Tirmus’ court is wanted for crimes against the people, though the people were a lot happier when the king still ruled, and I dare say, they’d be more than willing to help him regain the throne, if he still lives.”

“I see,” said Gant, though he didn’t really understand much. “What about my father, the smith?  Or my mother?”

“I don’t know,” said Jake after a moment's thought.  “With all the plunder, the killing I’ve heard about, I wouldn’t want to guess.”

“Thanks,” said Gant and slipped an extra coin into the innkeeper’s fingers.

Jake turned and hurried back to the merchants.

For a long time Gant was lost in thoughts of home, his father and mother, Uncle Jarlz and Chamz.  And what about Dalphnia?  He wondered why he had left the warm sanctuary of her treehouse. Then Uric’s words would come back to him and he’d think about what must have happened to his family and that fueled his desire to do something about it.  Who could help him?  Only Abadis.  Everyone else was gone.

Eventually Gant looked over at Zandinar who sat quietly, his plate empty.  “Are you really going with me tomorrow?”

Zandinar nodded.  “I am.”

“Then we better get some sleep tonight,” said Gant.  “Tomorrow we leave for Abadis’ house and it is a long way.”

With that they both got up and went upstairs to their rooms.  Gant did not fall asleep right away.  The turmoil in his head kept him awake a long time.

Chapter 26

T
he next morning when Gant went for breakfast he found Chamz sitting at a table enjoying a bowl of porridge. The moment Gant entered the room Chamz spotted him and jumped up to welcome his friend.

“Great to see you, Gant of the Ironlimbs,” said Chamz, throwing his arms around Gant.  “When I heard you were in town and you didn’t come to Hammond House I was pretty sure you’d be here at the Drake.”

Gant hugged him back.  “Am I glad to see you.  But don’t call me that.”

“Hey, that’s what everyone calls you now.”

Gant shook his head.  “Fine.  How are you doing?  Are the arrow wounds healed?”

“Completely.  I never felt better.”

“Great.  At least there is some good news.  I hear Barlon has taken Netherdorf.”

“True enough.”

“How’d you get away?”

“I grabbed my parents before Barlon’s men saw us and brought them here.  You should have seen the look on their faces when I said we were going to Blasseldune.”

“I can imagine,” said Gant, letting Chamz go.  They sat down at the table across from each other.  “What are you doing now?” asked Gant, waving to the server for a bowl of porridge.

“My parents and I are staying at Hammond House.  I thought I’d get my old job back but it turned out that the City Council was worried about Barlon and decided to form a city militia. I got the job of leading it.”

“So you’re a general?”

“Hardly.  We aren’t that well organized.  Or big.  Wish I had known you were walking into trouble yesterday.  We’d have stopped it.  But I didn’t find out until after things were settled.  Not that you needed help.”

Gant’s porridge arrived.  He took a few bites, and glanced around the room, assuring himself that he needn’t worry about trouble from any of the other patrons.

“Nice sword and armor,” said Chamz pointing with his spoon.  “Just like the prophecy.  I told you you’re The One.”

“I suppose.  I’m on my way to Abadis’ house looking for advice,” he started, and then realized Chamz never made it there so added, “the wizard we were going to see when we were attacked. I am told that this sword was crafted specifically to defeat Varg but have no idea when, where or how that is supposed to happen.”

“I can’t help you with that.  You could stay here and help me defend Blasseldune.”

Gant sighed.  “I wish I could.”

Zandinar came in and sat down next to Gant.  “Good morning,” he said nodding to Chamz.  “Who’s your friend?”

While Gant made the introductions, Zandinar got a bowl of porridge.  For a few minutes they ate in silence.  As the bowls emptied, Gant said, “What about Gwen?  Is she all right?”

“Nothing happened because of Wendler, if that’s what you mean.  The scum never said anything about Gwen.  He claimed you ambushed him in the woods, that you had it in for him and jumped him from behind.”

“I should have known he’d never bring her into it.  Might lead to embarrassing questions.  But I meant after Barlon’s attack.  Do you know what happened to her?”

Chamz shook his head.  “Sorry, I don’t know.  And there’s been little word out of Netherdorf since Barlon took over.”

Gant pushed his porridge bowl away.  “Great seeing you again. I wish I could stay longer but we’ve got to get going.”

Chamz pursed his lips and said, “I’d go with you but I promised to take charge of the militia and protect the city, including my parents.  You understand.”

Gant clapped his friend on the shoulder.  “Of course.  Your duty is here now.  Mine is elsewhere.  We’ll get together once this mess is put right.”

After a short goodbye, Gant and Zandinar gathered their belongings, got their horses and headed for Abadis’. 

#

While Gant and Zandinar rode north toward Abadis’ house, Abadis traveled to Falls Hill.  Abadis quickly learned that Gant had never reached Falls Hill and he took this for the worst.  Determined to get to the bottom of Gant’s disappearance, he backtracked up the road through Little Mountain Pass where he met four fur traders coming south.  They had not seen anyone matching Gant’s description.  They did admit seeing a strange monster dead in the cavern in the hills where they stopped for an overnight.  Along with it were the bodies of several men.  Abadis hurried there, found Egog’s dead bulk and guessed the truth. While this was not Varg it was a creature from the beyond and Abadis knew it would take a powerful sword to kill it.  If Gant had used Valorius then some of the magic would have been drained.  How much?  And would whatever magic was left be enough to kill Varg?  Abadis hoped so.

At the cave, Abadis’ cast a spell that revealed signs of Gant’s struggle but he could not find anything to indicate Gant’s fate.  As a last resort the aged wizard decided to visit the beautiful woodland nymph, Dalphnia, who lived nearby hoping that she could provide clues.  To his surprise, he found her home empty.  In the ninety-plus
years he had known Dalphnia she had never been far from home. Something extraordinary must have happened to make her travel from her tree.

While he pondered her absence, he pulled out the small mirror he kept in one of the pockets in his robe.  Through it he checked the mirror in his cabin and found it blank. He knew that things would soon reach a critical point and he had to locate Gant. He started the lonely trek through the forest, searching for either Gant or the missing nymph. His travels through the forest became a small tale of its own and it was several days before Abadis stood on the banks of the east branch of the Rushon River. He stared out at the slow-moving current, its brown eddies turning little pirouettes as the muddy water slid past. Patiently he waited for the next riverboat, all the while wondering how to find Gant.

#

At the same time,
Gant and Zandinar reached Abadis’ log home. The protective shield was there just as Gant remembered it with the sentinel pines inside. Though the shield was barely visible, Gant spotted it and drew his horse to a stop just before the magic barrier.

“Abadis,” he called. “Abadis, it is Gant. Let us in.”

Moments passed.

“Abadis. Please drop the shield and let us in.”

Gant waited with fading hope. Abadis wasn’t home.  It was impossible to guess how long he would be gone. Perhaps there was a price on the wizard’s head. Maybe he was already dead. Or if Sir Jarlz had joined Barlon Gorth, perhaps Abadis had too. Though such an idea might be possible, Gant refused to believe that Jarlz would have done so voluntarily.

“Why don’t we go in?” asked Zandinar, his voice hardly audible.

“How?”

Instead of answering, Zandinar slipped off his horse. Snapping his visor shut he walked boldly to the shimmering barrier.  Tentatively he reached out with one armored hand and touched the magical field. A faint blue aura grew around his fingertips and then Zandinar’s hand penetrated harmlessly.

“We can walk through.”

“What?” Gant watched the handsome knight step through the shield as if it were nonexistent. “How did you do that?”

Zandinar stepped back to Gant’s side of the barrier. “Good magic never harms good magic. My armor lets me pass.  Yours should too.” Zandinar re-entered the wizard’s grounds.

Still not exactly sure how it worked, Gant slid off his horse. He pulled his visor down and walked into the shimmering wall. A blue glow surrounded him filling his ears with a fuzzy noise and then he was through onto Abadis’ climate controlled lawn. Gant glanced at the sentinel pines and was happy to see that they remained motionless.

A few running steps and Gant caught up with Zandinar. They walked to the front door. Gant knocked.  As expected, they got no answer. They walked around the house and found no sign of Abadis.

“He’s not home,” said Gant. “We’ve come a long way. Perhaps we should go inside and leave a message.”

“And where will we go then?”

“I don’t know. Without Abadis, I guess my next choice would
be to find King Tirmus, if I knew where to look. Or Sir Jarlz, if he hasn’t really defected. Maybe Uric,” said Gant. “Surely they wouldn’t have killed Uric.”

“Who's Uric?”

“Ah, my tutor.  That is he used to be my tutor.”

“Why not wait inside?”

“It isn’t my house.”

“Of course not, but maybe your friend is inside dead. We should check.”

How stupid, thought Gant. It never occurred to him that anything could happen to Abadis in his own home.  He opened the door and peered inside. The house was much as he remembered.  They went in. The ever-present clutter of magical paraphernalia seemed to have grown since his last visit. The small table and stools were still the only furniture. The fireplace sat cold and black.  Gant noticed an oblong mirror on the wall behind some shelves that he didn’t remember seeing before. Someone had cleared out the bottles, jars and boxes to expose it. A colored grease stick lay by mirror.

“I wonder what this is for.  And why is everything cleared away from in front of the mirror?” asked Gant. “Maybe someone is here, hiding, afraid to come out.”

Gant ducked into the back room. It was empty except for a mattress that floated off the floor without benefit of a bed frame, and piles of written documents, many of which seemed like notebooks full of scribbling. There was no one there.

“No one,” he said reemerging from the bedroom.

“We’ll wait. Someone will come.”

“Okay,” agreed Gant. “For a day or two. But we’ll camp outside the barrier with the horses.”

Carefully they closed the cabin and exited out through the barrier.  They settled into a little camp and built a small campfire for cooking and warmth. They both sat near it while their horses grazed over the tiny meadow outside Abadis’ barrier.

Zandinar remained quiet, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Even Gant’s occasional mumblings brought no response.  Gant couldn’t help thinking about his mother and father. He wondered if they’d died quickly, mercifully. Probably not, he decided. And what about Jarlz? How could he betray King Tirmus? There were no answers and Gant continued to wrestle with the questions.

Eventually Gant slept and the night passed.

#

Earlier that day, on the hot plains that stretched out for miles from the gates of Pogor, two armies marched toward each other. The land was flat and now dusty as thousands of feet and hooves trampled the dry grasses. There was no high ground so Razgoth raised Barlon on a shimmering disc that held him above his horsemen; high enough to watch the formation of Fasoom’s and Petre’s foot soldiers as they moved to block Barlon’s advance. A lone eagle soared high overhead and Barlon envied the bird its magnificent view of the battlefield.

Ahead and to Barlon’s left were Fasoom’s pikemen, dressed in scarlet and white.  Their lines stretched straight as rays of sunshine across the battlefield, their long, steel-tipped poles held at the ready position forming a bristling thicket.

Against them, Barlon moved five brigades of foot soldiers.  Behind them were Lom’s knights, who had dismounted and were leading their horses so it would appear the footmen were unsupported. As soon as the battle started, the foot soldiers would mass near the center of the enemy line and open a hole. Then Lom’s knights would mount and charge straight to the heart of Fasoom’s headquarters.  It would be short work.

Off to Barlon’s right were Petre’s foot soldiers. Armed with bows and short swords, they were more dangerous than the pikemen. Their weapons held an ancient magic, and though it was weak it might hold enough power to threaten Lom’s purple armor. On that front, Barlon sent his massed infantry and Varg.  The infantry out front to help obscure the demon’s presence.

Barlon thought it was a good plan. King Daggon had not arrived in time to join the battle and would soon find himself without allies. Petre’s handful of knights, at least those Barlon could see, were drawn back to protect their king.  The only wizards present huddled around Fasoom and his aides. They held back their trump cards while Barlon played his. Soon it would be too late and Barlon would control the plain and the road to Pogor.

As Barlon watched, his foot soldiers reached the pikemen. Swords rang against shields and pikes. Barlon’s men fought with a fierce determination.  As planned, they massed at the center of the enemy line and quickly opened a gap. Immediately Lom’s men were on their horses charging for the opening. Barlon’s brigades scurried aside, disengaging the enemy in their haste to be out of the way of Lom’s flying hooves.  Surprisingly, Fasoom’s pikemen hurried aside as well and the gap grew to a broad rift. The yells of men caught up with battle lust filled the air. Lom’s purple clad Knights of Habichon stood out in a sea of red and white.

As the first of Lom’s riders raced through the breach in the wall of iron-pointed pikes, they were met by a charging company of armor-clad cavalry wearing Petre’s blue and gold. Barlon watched in horror as the two onrushing columns plowed into each other.  The clang of steel sounded above the other battle noises, loud enough to be heard all the way back to Barlon’s vantage point. The screams of the dying rose even higher. The purple line of horsemen slowed and finally ground to a halt as more and more of Petre’s magically equipped horsemen joined the fray.