Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter 10

G
ant and his uncle marched steadily all afternoon. Silently Gant worried about Chamz.  As the day faded into dusk, a light mist began to fall.  Jarlz guided Gant through the trees to the mouth of a shallow cave about a hundred yards from the road.  Jarlz tethered his horse nearby and within a few minutes had a glowing fire perched in the cave opening.  They sat, backs to the wall, in the dry cave.  The fire warmed their spirits as well as their bones.

“How did you know about this cave?” asked Gant as the fire loosened his tongue.

“I found it years ago.  An ambush drove me off the road and good luck led me through the trees to this hillside.  The cave gave me a perfect fortress.  Only one of the rogues could attack me at a time and the rabble that they were left them no match for me one-on-one.  Several of the biggest fell before they got the idea they'd rather look for easier prey.”

“Some people are born lucky,” said Gant rubbing his hands in front of the fire.

Jarlz pulled a few pieces of firewood from a cache under a pile of stones and tossed them on the fire. “Sometimes you need a bit of luck,” he said.  “Sometimes you make your own luck.  In the morning we'll restock the firewood.”

He poked the hot coals with a long stick and continued, “Tomorrow night we'll sleep better.  I know a wizard who lives within walking distance.  Warm house, fine beds, and best of all, he'll know who to watch out for at the games.”

“Good,” said Gant and let the fire's warmth ease the tightness in his muscles.  “Do you think Chamz is okay?  It was a long way back to Blasseldune.  It seems impossible for Uric to get Chamz there in time.”

Jarlz smiled.  “Don't worry about Chamz.  Uric has his ways.  Next time you see Chamz, he'll be fit as ever.”

Gant still didn't see how, but his uncle’s reassuring words put Gant temporarily at ease.  His thoughts turned to his father.  How was he doing in the smithy without Gant?  He sat up.  “Uncle, do you think my father is angry at me?  I couldn't stand by and let Wendler do what he was about to do, noble or not.”

“Gant,” said Jarlz, putting one hand on Gant's shoulder, “your father loves you very much.  He knows you did what’s right.  But he can’t change the law.  Often I think he felt inadequate marrying a noblewoman.  But my sister loves your father and has never regretted the marriage.  Somehow this will all work out.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Gant.

Jarlz slapped him on the back.  “Sleep now.  I'll take the first watch.”

“Okay,” yawned Gant, “Wake me for my turn.”

Jarlz nodded.  Gant rolled over in his bedroll, his mind filled with questions about his father and mother and what was a real wizard like.  And how could Uric just show up in the woods when Chamz was shot?  Maybe Uric was a wizard.  He fell asleep wondering.

#

Jarlz was still sitting in front of the fire like a fury statue when the morning sun woke Gant.

“Jarlz!” barked Gant.

“What?”  Jarlz's head snapped around.

“You didn't wake me.”

“Of course not.  You needed your rest and I'm used to standing watch by myself.  Now get up.  It's time to be moving.”

They wolfed down a cold breakfast bundled in their furs while the north wind whipped around the cave mouth.  The small fire barely fought off the chill. Gant's feet were numb by the time they were ready to start the day's trek. He stamped heavily to bring them back to life.

They started off, keeping a fast pace all day.  Except for bends in the road they walked straight into the wind.  They pulled their furs around their faces and ears until only their eyes peeked out through slits.  Gray clouds blotted out the sky making everything dull and lifeless.  Occasionally a streak of sunlight burst through to lighten their mood.  Neither of them cared to talk and they trudged on silently.  Even lunch was on the move.

The quick pace not only kept them warm but also got them to their destination early.  The sun was well above the horizon when Jarlz pointed to a narrow footpath leading off the road.  They turned in and followed it until, through an opening in a wall of tall pines, Gant saw a stout log cabin. Amazingly, the windows were wide open. Flowers bloomed in well-tended beds up against the house.

Jarlz stopped at the edge of the ring of pine trees.  Gant stopped behind him and only then noticed a shimmering wall that blocked their path.

Jarlz planted both feet, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Abadis.”  After a moment's pause he yelled louder.  “Sir Jarlz of the Whispering Blade wishes to visit.”

Whispering Blade, wondered Gant.  What was that about?  Must be another tale he hadn’t heard.  He made a mental note to ask about it the first chance he got.  Just then a bearded face, wrinkled heavily around eyes that glowed, peered out one of the windows.

“Ah, Sir Jarlz, ‘tis you.  And with a young man.  No doubt your nephew and new apprentice.  Enter as you wish.” 

The old man mouthed a string of words that were strange to Gant and the shimmering wall faded.  Jarlz stepped through with Gant close on his heels.

Once inside, the translucent barrier reappeared behind them. Gant noted that the air was warm, like a summer day.  Jarlz dropped the lead line to his horse and the big chestnut mare lowered her head to taste the tender grass.  Jarlz pulled off his furs and heavy breastplate and held them out at arm's length.  Miraculously, a hand-shaped tree limb swayed down and scooped them up.  The limb and its load disappeared back into the pine leaving no sign of the garments.  Gant stepped back bewildered, a small knot growing in his gut.

Jarlz chuckled, motioned to the trees and said, “These are his servants.  Enchanted to receive guests. They'll hold your bulky gear until we depart.”

“But. . . it's warm, and. . .” Gant waved his hand around trying to formulate all the questions he had.

“Don't worry,” laughed Jarlz, “Abadis’ magic is powerful enough to control everything around this house, weather included.  Come on, get your things off, lad, and let's get inside.”

Gant obeyed.  Warily he eyed the bough that took his furs and breastplate.  And then the two men walked to the door.

The door opened as they approached.  Inside, the main room was warm and cheery despite a cluttered of jars, boxes, sacks, bowls, and other paraphernalia.  Shelves lined every wall and except for a small table with stools there was no furniture.  The roaring fire in the fireplace on the far wall put a golden glow on everything.  The old man Gant had seen at the window stood near the center of the room wrapped in dark robes, arms folded across his chest.

“Sir Jarlz,” he said with a smile.  “It's been long since we sat together.  Welcome.”  He opened his arms and glided over to Jarlz, hugging him as a father would a son.  Then turning to Gant, “And this must be the nephew you're always talking about.  Grown up, is he?”

“Yes, this is Gant, my sister's son and the son of my sword maker, her husband.  A fine man he's grown into wouldn't you say?”

Gant bowed stiffly from the waist not sure what the proper greeting for a wizard was.  He said, “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Jarlz turned back to Abadis.  “Gant and I are going to Devonshield.  Gant is entering.  What can you tell us about other entrants?”

“There is time for serious talk later.  First, let us dine.  Surely you must be hungry from your long walk.  I'm hungry myself and I hate to talk of important matters on an empty stomach.”

Chapter 11

M
eanwhile, Barlon Gorth sat at his table in the Mountain Castle, eating a meal of roast meat, crusty bread and an endless supply of ale.  His wizard, Razgoth, sat with him.

“My Lord, are you certain we shall have the help of the craftsmen we capture?” asked Razgoth running his hand through his disheveled hair.

“Razgoth, you worry too much.  We have ways to ensure they will give you all the help you need.  The timeline has only moved up a little.”  Barlon worried that his masterstroke would be too late and not catch Netherdorf in turmoil.  Already reports hinted that the nobles were less interested in the fate of the commoner, Gant, and more concerned about Barlon's growing armies.  A unified enemy was not good.  Perhaps his spies would yet be able to stir the pot a bit before the attack.

At that moment, Shalmuthe, Barlon's stocky master spy rushed in, stopped behind a chair, and stood motionless waiting for his ruler to speak.

“I hope you bring me good news,” said Barlon between chewing.  “Like maybe the Netherdorf nobles are going to revolt against their king.”

“No. Nothing so important.”  His left hand went to the scar across his left cheek, rubbing it unconsciously.  “I thought you'd want to know that our attempts to intercept Gant on his way to Devonshield failed.”

Razgoth jumped up.  “Failed.  I told you Gant would be trouble.”

Barlon waved Razgoth back into his seat.  “Nothing has happened.  So he goes to Devonshield.  Until he wins there, it proves nothing.  But,” Barlon turned back to Shalmuthe, “how did you fail?  I thought you had it all planned.”

“Talth turned out to be less efficient in deed than in word.  They did ambush Gant, as agreed, but shot only Gant's insignificant friend and when they saw Sir Jarlz, they turned and fled.”

Barlon scowled.  “Then Sir Jarlz is not in Netherdorf.”

“True, Sire.  He has gone with Gant to Devonshield.”

Barlon rubbed his chin for a moment, thinking.  “All is not lost.  We may have to postpone our attack until after Devonshield.”

“How's that, my Lord?” asked Razgoth.

“Fool. Capturing Netherdorf without capturing Sir Jarlz ruins the plan and the amulet becomes worthless.  We’ll wait until he returns.  In the meantime, Shalmuthe, what about Talth?”

“I think he should be eliminated,” growled the master spy.  “Failure is not acceptable.”

“Failure is not acceptable.  Cowardice even less. We've no use for gutless vermin.  See that he's taught a permanent lesson that others will not miss.”

“Consider it done.”  Shalmuthe turned to go.

“Make sure you let me know when Sir Jarlz returns to Netherdorf.”

“And make sure we know the results of Devonshield,” added Razgoth.

Shalmuthe waved over his shoulder without turning and hurried off.

Razgoth leaned forward in his chair, took a drink of water.  “Sire,” he began, “what shall we do if Gant wins Devonshield?”

Barlon shook his head.  “You are concerned about the prophecy.  Are you familiar with the details?”

“I’ve heard it often enough.”

“Let me refresh your memory.  First a descendant of Bartholomew must win at Devonshield.  After which he is supposed to receive a sword powerful enough to kill Varg.  I’m guessing the dark elves have it hidden somewhere.  We know Gant is such a descendant, so if he wins, he still must get this magic sword. If you think about it, the sword he carries is a nice piece of work but it is hardly the kind of weapon that would concern Varg.  No, for now I don’t see any reason to worry.  We’ll keep track of Gant and if he wins and suddenly has a new sword, then we will disarm him or kill him.”

Razgoth thought about his liege lord's words and a plan took shape.  A smile crossed his face.  “That's when Egog will be of service.  A service I did not foresee.”

Barlon sighed.  “There are lots of things you don't foresee.  Sometimes I wonder if you are a wizard at all.”

“But sire,” choked Razgoth, “not all wizards are good at seeing the future.”

“Obviously.”

Chapter 12

G
ant and Jarlz ate a hearty meal with Abadis.  The food was delicious even though Gant couldn’t identify anything on the table.  It all seemed to be concoctions of ground and powdered vegetables, grains, and nuts.  It was tastier than anything Gant could remember since his last meal at home.  That reminded him of his mother and father.  He wondered how they were and whether he would ever see them again.

While they ate, Abadis and Uncle Jarlz talked lightly of past events and of recent happenings.  Finally Abadis cleared the table and gave them each a sparkling, crystal glass containing a translucent violet liquid.  The aroma was euphoric.  The flavor even better.

“So.  Gant is to enter the competition?” started Abadis once they were all settled back around the table.  “If Jarlz says you're ready, then I don't doubt it's true. I should warn you that Zeigone will be there to defend his crown.  A nastier champion there has never been. Three times he's won and never left a man alive to fight another day.  He's a scoundrel, a skillful one which makes him all the more dangerous.”

“I'll wager Gant will show him a trick or two,” said Jarlz winking at Gant.

“As for tricks, Zeigone has a few himself. He's won the last two titles by slashing his opponent's forearms. He uses a deft twist of the wrist that’s very effective.  No one’s been able to defend against it and believe me they’ve tried.”

“What about his weapons?” asked Sir Jarlz.

“Two-handed broadsword, light armor, no shield.  Both sword and armor have a bit of magic in them, or I’m a blind old man.  Zeigone was born evil and has only gotten nastier.  He must be stopped.”

“How can I defeat him?  My sword has no magic, nor my armor.”

Jarlz glanced at Abadis.  A fresh gleam sparkled in the old man’s eyes.

“Gant,” said the wizard, winking secretively, “I must confess.  I knew you would come, and in fact, knew your goal.  Knowing Jarlz as I do, your training could be aimed at nothing else.  So. . .”  He rose and stepped lightly over to a small chest sitting unobtrusively next to a tall rack of powders, potions and books.  Flipping open the lid he pulled out two silvery mail sleeves.  “I wish it were more,” Abadis said with a sigh, cradling the shimmering sleeves.  “I made them for you.  It took almost a month, but worth it if you can stop Zeigone.”

The wizard stepped over to Gant with the sleeves laid across his outstretched forearms.  The tiny metallic links intertwined in a pattern too intricate to follow, so perfect that they appeared solid.  The firelight flashed and reflected off them in lively prismatic splashes of color.  Gant had never seen anything so masterfully crafted in his life.  How could he accept such a gift from a total stranger? “Take them,” said Abadis. “They will only fit you.”

“But, how can I repay you?”

“It is I who repay old debts,” said Abadis and nodded to Jarlz.

Gant reached out and reverently cradled the brilliant chain mail sleeves.  A strange warmth rushed up his palms, through his arms and spread through his body.  An irresistible urge to wear the sleeves swept over him.  Recklessly he pulled them on.

At first they felt awkward.  They were too big, too vibrant, almost alive.  Then they shrank, molding themselves to his forearms until they were like a second skin.  The sensation faded and it was as if they weren't there at all.  Gant had to concentrate to feel them.  Every way he moved, they moved with him with an energy of their own.  How much easier it would be to wield his sword, he thought.

“Wear them against Zeigone.  They will deflect his attacks at your forearms and give you the speed to counterattack.  No matter what, don't let him see you wearing them before your combat has begun, least he devise some new methods you are not armed against,” warned Abadis sternly.  “The others you fight, and there won't be many for Zeigone has scared off most men, will have little chance against you.  Only Zeigone can test you and with these sleeves as a surprise, you can defeat him.

“Lastly, cruel as it sounds, do not spare him.  If he lives I see only more evil.”

“Kill in cold blood?” Gant was horrified.  “I won't do it.”

“You must,” demanded Abadis.

“Evil men know no silence but the grave,” broke in Jarlz. “And make no mistake, this Zeigone will kill you if he can.  You will likely be forced to do him in first.

“Abadis, you've done us a great service,” continued Jarlz, “for which Gant and I thank you.  Our visit here has been more valuable than I had hoped.  Gant will not betray your trust.  He will dispatch Zeigone or I shall do it myself.”

Abadis laid a gnarled hand on Jarlz' shoulder, “You know, old friend, that heroic deeds are for the young.  Our time has passed.  Be content to train those who carry on.”

Jarlz nodded slowly.  That over with, they all sat back around the table and sipped from refilled glasses.  Talk turned to days past, old friendships, and the conversation carried long into the night. Gant sat quietly and listened.  He wasn't going to kill Zeigone.  If letting him live brought evil, then someone else would kill him later.

Soon though, he found himself caught up in the stories Jarlz and Abadis shared.  It reminded Gant of Uric at the castle.  Tall tales, fun to listen to.  And all the while he soaked up a newfound warmth from the magic sleeves.

#

The next morning dawned clear and calm.  The sun shone through scattered clouds.  It was still cool, but comfortable for walking.  Abadis fed them well before they left.  Once more he wished Gant luck against Zeigone and reminded him to hide the sleeves until the last minute. And with that Gant and Jarlz started down the road to Devonshield.

Eventually they reached Devonshield.  It was a quaint town built in the middle of a great forest.  The buildings were almost exclusively wood.  The lone exception was the king’s towering stone castle.  The shops were small and pushed together along narrow streets.  The population swelled with the throngs who arrived for the games.  Tents were packed together around the wide meadow that comprised the tournament field.  Jarlz shed his distinctive armor and kept his face hidden to avoid being recognized, and Gant and Jarlz mingled with the crowds passing unnoticed into Devonshield. 

Once in town Jarlz insisted they stay out of sight so that the other competitors would wonder who Gant was.  Surprise could be the deciding factor, Jarlz explained and he planned to use it to their advantage.  Jarlz knew an old stable master who put them up where they wouldn't be bothered and then he went alone to enter Gant's name in the competition so that up to the first match no one had yet seen Gant.

The next day was clear, sunny and a bit cool.  When they reached the tournament site, Gant surveyed the vast expanse of meadow that served as the battlefield.  He marveled at the number of tents surrounding the field sprouting dozens of colorful banners.  At the end of the meadow, central to the combat area was the raised platform and tent of the King of Devonshield. 

The splendor and majesty overwhelmed Gant.  There was nothing like it in Netherdorf.  King Tirmus forbid fighting for sport. For a moment Gant was filled with doubts.  He’d only ever fought unskilled thugs. 

“Are you sure I’m ready for this?” he asked his uncle.

Jarlz’ reassuring pat on the back did little to calm Gant.

The draw for opponents put Gant in the opposite division from Zeigone. A good sign, his uncle assured Gant.  There were only eight competitors registered.  In the first match of the day, a wiry man named Evan bested a blocky man known simply as Tee by dodging, parrying and counter strokes.  It was not a short match and Gant studied both men knowing that if he won his first match then the winner would be his next opponent.

The next match pitted Zeigone against the king’s own entry, Sir Harold.  Gant watched as the valiant knight attempted to avoid Zeigone’s deadly slashes to the wrists and forearms, and failed.  Bloody, and hardly able to hold his sword, Zeigone dispatched him with a thrust to the neck.  Sir Harold died on the field.

Gant was up next.  He swallowed back his fear and studied his first opponent.  He was a huge bulk of a man named Brax.  He carried a two-handed sword that matched his size.  The king sounded the beginning and the two combatants advanced across the field.  As they closed with each other, Brax pulled back his sword for a massive strike.  Gant readied for it.  Brax swung.  Gant pushed it aside and countered with a cut to the head.  Brax staggered for a moment, righted himself and swung again. Gant dodged it and swatted Brax on the side of the helm again.  Before the bigger man could react, Gant hit him again, this time with the flat of the blade.  Brax’s head snapped back and Gant darted in and hit him with the pommel under the chin.  Brax sank to his knees and fell forward.  Gant sighed with relief, thankful it had been quick.  Better yet, Brax soon would be fine.

The first round ended with a match between Argoll and Karnon.  Gant barely paid attention, instead planning his strategy against Evan.  It wouldn’t be anything like his battle with Brax.

Karnon won and rested while Gant took on Evan.  This time, Gant was up against a polished swordsman who was as quick as Gant and nearly as skilled.  Back and forth they went, slash and parry, cut and counter.  In the end, Evan yielded, totally worn out from two long drawn out contests.  Gant was thankful he’d defeated Brax quickly.

While Gant rested, Zeigone took care of Karnon, slashing him to pieces until the loss of blood caused him to falter.  Zeigone finished him with a cutting stroke to the neck.

The crowd loved a winner and after his first match, they cheered Gant even as they cheered Zeigone for his indefensible slashing attacks.  Expectantly, the crowd waited as the two favorites worked their way toward the inevitable confrontation.  Betting ran heavy on them both.

Finally it was time for the championship match.  Behind the grandstand, Gant slipped on the magic sleeves and walked nervously out onto the field.  He stopped at his designated spot.  Across the way, Zeigone strode to his spot.  The crowd quieted, breathlessly silent in anticipation.  In his viewing stand the King of Devonshield stood up and paused at the railing, poised to signal the beginning of the final contest.

Gant stood on the grassy field studying his opponent.  He hefted his sword in one hand and balanced his shield in the other.  The magic sleeves warmed his forearms.  Despite his earlier victories, Gant was less than confident.  Not that he feared dying.  It was more about letting down his uncle and Abadis.  What if he failed?

Zeigone stared back haughtily, dripping confidence.  His dark beard bristled from under his open faceplate; his heavy black helm seemed to suck the light from the air.  The strange white, eye-shaped symbol on his breastplate stared hypnotically at Gant.

Now the king walked with measured steps to the large brass gong hanging on the front rail.  With a slight rap he signaled for the contest to begin.

“Let the battle for the champion of the Devonshield Games begin,” he said hoarsely and quickly returned to his seat.

Zeigone hefted his two-handed sword and strode boldly toward Gant. The mysterious white-eye emblem on his armor captivated Gant, forcing his attention to it. As Zeigone stalked closer, his sword cocked for the attack, Gant remained spellbound, his sword hanging at his side.

In an instant, Zeigone was within striking distance.  A hush fell on the crowd.  In the last possible moment, Gant snapped out of it and realized Zeigone was too close.  Too late to wonder how he'd been tricked, Gant leaped backward, barely dodging Zeigone's first stroke.  Gant circled to his right, raising his sword in defense.  Zeigone pressed his advantage, lashing out again.  Gant parried.  Zeigone twisted at the last instant using the same ruse that had worked on the others.  His sword flashed past the parry to slash at Gant’s exposed forearms.  There was an audible clang as metal slammed into metal and a blinding flash as the magic in Zeigone’s sword clashed with the magic in the sleeves.

The stands erupted in a loud groan.  Zeigone was already twisting for another slash when Gant's counterstroke caught him on the side of the helm.

Zeigone’s head snapped back, his sword hand drooped.  Gant rushed in with a straight thrust. Zeigone faltered only for an instant and blocked it.  He countered with another twisting blow at Gant's forearms.  Again there was the ring of metal and a flash of light.  Gant ignored the attack, trusting the sleeves, and stabbed straight in.  His sword point pinged heavily on Zeigone's breastplate, but the metal held and only a small dent showed that a hit had been scored.  Zeigone slashed Gant a third time across the forearms and got a vicious backhand on the left shoulder for his trouble.

The two men slid away from each other, circling warily.  Zeigone’s confident air was gone replaced by a grim look of determination.  Gant grew bolder sure that Abadis’ gift would ward off Zeigone's favorite attacks.  For each slash across the forearms, Gant dealt a smashing blow to Zeigone’s black armor.  Yet there was power in that armor and the best Gant could manage was a series of small dents.

Finally, Zeigone rushed in with another slash at the forearms.  Gant ignored it and attacked.  Too late.  It was a fake.  Zeigone twisted at the last minute just as he had done all day only this time he redirected his attack at Gant's head.  It landed square on Gant's helm.  The steel parted.  The blade gashed an ugly wound along the side of Gant's head.  A spurt of warm blood blurred one eye and an explosion of pain roared through him.  Gant stumbled back.  Zeigone dashed in. He stabbed at Gant’s ribs.  Gant blocked with his shield. Zeigone followed with a lightning two-handed swing at the head.  Desperately, Gant parried, partially deflecting the blow.  Before he could recover, a second slash rent Gant’s helm.