Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

“I
can’t
do
that.
 
The
cook’ll
have
my
hide
if
I don’t
make the
delivery.”

“Then
eat
it
yourself.
 
You
look
like
you
could
use
it.”

Again
he
waved
her
away.

“But
what
if
Sir
Jarlz
awakens
and
finds
his
snack
missing?  Then
I’ll
be
in
worse
trouble.
 
Let
me
put
the
tray
in
his
room.
 
It’ll
only
take
a moment.”

The
guard
hesitated.
 
His
sword
point
sagged.
 
“Okay, just
be
quick
about
it.”

Silently,
she
opened
the
door
just
enough
to
slip
into
the room.
 
Sir
Jarlz
lay on his back, his thickly muscled chest bare above his breeches. The heavy
amulet
hung
off
one
side
of
his
chest
like
a mountain climber
scaling
his
side.
 
The
bread
and
cheese
she’d
brought earlier
was
almost
gone.  She put the second tray of bread and cheese on the table beside the first.

She
noticed
the
ale
had disappeared
and
hoped
that deepened
the
knight’s
slumber.
 
Hurrying,
she
slipped
the medallion
up
over
his
head
so
only
the
chain
under
the
back
of his
head
kept
her
from
taking
it.
 
Gently she
pulled
on
the chain,
steadily
increasing
the
force
until
the
chain slid
between
his
hair
and
the
pillow.
 
He
mumbled in
his
sleep
and
rolled
to
one
side.
 
The
medallion
came
free.

She
froze,
holding
her
breath.
 
Sir Jarlz’
eyes
never flickered.

Running
lightly
on
the
balls
of
her
feet
to
the
door,
she stuffed
the
medallion
up
under
her
sack-like
dress
so
it
caught in
the
belt
she
wore
underneath.
 
Now,
slowing,
she
snuck
out
the door.
 
The
guard
was at
his
post
at
the
end
of
the
hall
near
the stairs.
 
She
felt
the
amulet
swing
with
each
step, like a pendulum.  She
kept
her
strides
small,
hoping
to avoid having the amulet raise
a bulge
in
her
dress.

The
guard
glared
at
her,
but
said
nothing
as
she
reached
the
stairwell.
 
She
hurried down through the dark, back to the room that had been hers when Fasoom was king.  No one used the rooms in the older hall and her things remained
untouched.
 
She
hid
the medallion, and then, exhausted, lay
down
to
sleep.
 
In
the
morning
she
would fly with
the
medallion
to
the
forest
in
the
foothills
and
hide
it
in
an abandoned
eagle’s
nest.

#

The sun flowed in through the slit windows on the second floor of the nobles’ wing.  Sir Jarlz woke feeling fresh, revitalized, like a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.  He swung his feet to the floor and looked at the evil purple armor against the wall.  A flood of memories washed over him, memories of Netherdorf Castle, of dead friends, of Uric hauled away, of battle against the Western Kings and through it all, his sword killing people he knew.

“How?  Am I mad?” he grumbled.  He got up, kicked the armor and watched it tumble over. “Why would I wear that cursed armor?” he asked but got no answer.  He looked around for a clue, his hands trembling.  “I’ve killed them!”  He slammed his fist into the purple breastplate.  “Killed them all, gone crazy listening to Barlon Gorth,” he screamed.  He kicked the armor again.

Hot tears blurred his vision.  With one swipe, he slung the food off the table.  Spinning, he lashed out in every direction, swinging wildly, smashing the stools, overturning the table.  And then, when there was nothing left to hit, he fell on the bed and cried bitter tears that did nothing to wash away the horrible guilt.

When he could neither cry nor rage anymore, he got up, pulled on his traveling shirt and went out. He walked like a man in a trance, stumbling blindly out of the castle to the first inn he found.  There he sat and drank until afternoon.  When he fell from his stool, the innkeeper had him dragged outside and laid under a parked hay wagon to sleep it off.

Chapter 34

T
he afternoon sun brightened the topmost tower chamber. Barlon Gorth slept in one of the chairs, a spilled wine goblet on the floor beside him.  Empty wine bottles stood like soldiers at attention in staggered rows across the tabletop.  Barlon’s alcoholic stupor persisted despite the bright daylight. At the door to his back, two knights stood stiffly at attention in purple armor.  They both stared ahead, their pure white eyes seemingly blind.  Wendler was one of them. Barlon had paid them no attention all day.

Unnoticed by the unconscious Mountain Lord, a pinpoint of blackness formed in the shadows in the far corner of the room.  Slowly it grew until it was a pulsating sphere of darkness that filled the entire corner.  And then Varg stepped out of the void, a brown leather sack clutched in one massive claw.  He looked over at the sleeping figure.  Smiling, he set the sack on the table and slowly unfolded the stained leather to reveal the bloody head of the Farmer King, the last of the Western Kings.

“Your enemies are dead,” he whispered to deaf ears.

He went to Barlon and deftly slipped the medallion from his neck without waking him.  In his eagerness Varg let the chain rub against the man’s ears, but it didn’t register on Barlon’s numbed senses.  Triumphantly, Varg placed the medallion around his own neck.  Immediately, the gold threads in the medallion released their hold on the demon’s likeness that was in the middle.  As the medallion loosened its grip on the molded image, the miniature’s eyes went completely dull while Varg’s eyes shown brighter than ever.

“Barlon,” he roared, his voice thundering through the stillness.

Barlon snapped awake. His bloodshot eyes focused on the creature before him.

“How did you get in here?” he demanded.  “Guards!”

The two Knights of Habichon stood unmoving, their white eyes unblinking.

“They are with me,” hissed Varg. “The armor has converted their souls to my cause.”

“But how did you get in here?  My men outside the door were told not to let anyone enter.”

“I came a different way.”

“Magic?  I didn’t know you knew such tricks.”

“There are many things you’ll never know.”  The Demon-Prince’s voice dripped with contempt. “I know a little magic, though I’d never qualify as a wizard. My strength, my power, my invulnerability make all that unnecessary.  I have brought you your enemy's head.”  He pointed to the bulging-eyed, bloody head resting on the table.  “Now, you promised my freedom.”

Barlon glanced back at the monster.  “Not yet.  Not until the Priests of Scaltzland are humbled before me.”

“It is as I thought.”  Varg touched the medallion now hanging on his chest.

Barlon’s eyes widened as he clutched his own bare chest in despair.  He started to scream, tried to turn the ring on his left hand, but faster than he could have imagined, one clawed hand clamped around his throat stifling his sound to a choking gasp.

“But we had a bargain,” rasped Barlon through a half-crushed windpipe.  “You can’t break a bargain.”

“My part is done.”

Varg squeezed and his hand crushed tighter than a vise.  The pressure built in the squashing arteries and veins of Barlon’s neck until his head popped off like a thumb-shot grape.  His dead eyes reflected the same terror that was still visible in King Daggon’s head.  Hot blood pumped in waves over the chair onto the floor.  Varg released his grip and Gorth’s body collapsed to the floor.

Varg went to the window and pulled the thick curtain over it to shut off the sunlight.  Then he went to the growing pool of crimson and dipped one claw into the warm blood.  Slowly, meticulously, he drew a large circle on the floor in the darkest corner.  After the circle was complete, he filled in around it with a multitude of symbols, runes and signs of power, re-dipping the claw regularly, until the circle was finished and surrounded by runes. He sprinkled a few drops of blood in the center and began a dark, evil chant.  Blackness grew in the center of the circle, swelling to fill the area inside until an arched portal opened forming a doorway into a foul landscape.  Visible through the blackness was the fiery nether planes of Varg’s home.  The land seen through the portal was cracked and barren, tortured beyond recognition.  Flames shot skyward, if there was a sky. The land burst open in a crazy spurt of molten lava and clouds of inky smoke obscured the landscape.

The Demon-Prince waited a few moments.  There was a flapping of great leathery wings and through the opening shot a large, bat-like creature with a twisted, skull face.  It landed on strong hind legs that resembled a man’s yet ended in a goat’s hooves.

“Lord Master, you have freed us.”

“Yes, Grapus, fetch my army. Guide them to the bridge and lead them through.”

The great winged monstrosity spread its wings and dived back into the blackness.  It soon disappeared across the broken landscape.

Chapter 35

A
melia woke later than she’d planned.  The sun was already well above the horizon.  Quickly she recited the spell for changing and became a great eagle.  She tested her wings, and with Sir Jarlz’ medallion clutched tightly in one talon, she flew through the window out across the bustling city of Pogor.  As fast as she could, she headed east for the Monolith Mountains.

The sky was clear, with only occasional high white puffs of cotton, and she made good time.  The sun had not reached midday when she glided in to land in the massive jumble of sticks that formed an abandoned eagle’s aerie atop a mighty redwood.  She rested only a moment after hiding the medallion deep in the nesting material, and then soared back into the sky.

She was already late for her duties in the kitchen, and knew the cook would be furious.  She sped on trying to think of a suitable excuse to blunt the cook’s wrath.  Another day or two and she’d have to leave anyway to report to her grandfather.  After which she wouldn’t be able to return.

The plains passed swiftly below, and soon she glided over the sprawling outskirts of Pogor.  If she’d been watching, instead of thinking, she would have noticed the masses of people racing from the city, or, as she neared the castle, she might have seen several black creatures flying around the tower.

She started her final glide toward her window, when a huge, dark shadow fell across her.  She turned her head to see what was coming.  Too late.  She only caught a glimpse of the fanged skull before a talon ripped into her right wing, bowling her over in midair.

She fell, curled in a fetal position, trailing a plume of feathers, a ball of broken, flightless pain.  The black creature flapped wildly to a halt and hovered, trying to follow her crash.  However the trail of feathers obscured Amelia’s plummet, and the nightmarish monster didn’t see her plop into the mound of hay in the wagon.  It merely turned and flapped noisily back to join the others circling the tower.

#

Razgoth stood in his room, lost in thought.  Perhaps things would work out all right after all.  The people of Pogor seemed willing to accept Gorth’s rule, Varg had been docile enough, and if Razgoth got enough time to study, maybe the demon could be re-exiled.

A vast black shadow sailed across Razgoth’s window, interrupting his thoughts.  What was that?  And then the monstrous flying demon circled past the wizard’s window. Razgoth knew what it was.  Fear trickled across his gray eyes.  Something had gone wrong.

Immediately the mage was out of his room and into the hall. His first thought was to get to the tower room and find out what was happening.  On the stairs above him he heard heavy, hooved feet stomping downward.  Without thinking, Razgoth recited the teleportation spell he knew so well and his body vanished, only to reappear in the top tower room.

With a tiny burst of light, Razgoth materialized in Barlon’s tower sanctuary.  His eyes swept over the carnage.  King Daggon’s head remained on the table near where Barlon’s headless body had fallen.  A great pulsating blackness filled the air within a magic circle drawn in blood on the floor and through it stepped nameless, horrible things.  Varg stood before the gaping portal and accepted each of his minions’ sworn fidelity as they entered the world of man.  A massive hole had been blown outward through the thick walls of the tower.  Through it, flying things launched and landed.  Several other black humanoid monsters stood around Varg.

All this Razgoth took in in a split second.  He knew the danger and prepared to teleport back to the Mountain Castle, where he’d be safe, at least temporarily.  Before he could begin his incantation, a stubby, barrel-like thing scuttled at him from behind and ripped into the wizard’s right leg with sharp claws.

Razgoth screamed, that spell forgotten.  In his anger he automatically went on the offensive.  A quick word and gesture and flames leaped from his fingertips burning the stumpy creature.  The beast collapsed, a charred lump.

Varg looked up at this intrusion.

“Kill him,” rasped the Demon-Prince, and motioned to two towering, four-armed guardians at his side.

Razgoth fired a blast of blue-white electricity at the nearest creature.  It shriveled before the sizzling bolt and fell dead at the wizard’s feet.  Without pausing, Razgoth unleashed another bolt that forked and slammed into the pair of assassins moving toward him.

To Razgoth’s surprise, the two beasts fought frantically with their four hideous arms to deflect the bolt.  Most of the magic dissipated without visible effect.  Immediately Razgoth fired another bolt.

Before he had time to gauge the effect of his second blast, a heavy blow landed on the base of his skull.  The room spun.  His knees buckled and he fell.  Desperately Razgoth fought to remain conscious. By sheer will power, he managed to ward off the growing curtain of blackness.

Instinctively, he rolled aside, dodging for the moment the growing numbers of pursuers.  His head ached fiercely.  He couldn’t concentrate.  All around him, claws flashed, reaching to carve up his flesh. His spells were a jumble inside his brain.  One mistake and he’d kill himself with a failed spell.  He must think clearly or die.

Just when it seemed he could not escape,
his mind grasp the only spell it seemed capable of remembering.  It was a quick, simple distance translation that could take him outside the castle.  He snapped off the verse and the simple finger motions, and just as the talons came down to rend him, he was gone.

For a moment, Razgoth lay on the cobblestone street where he appeared.  He knew it wasn’t safe and with supreme effort, he dragged his battered body to a hiding place beneath some trash piled haphazardly against a nearby building.