Sword of Light (The Knights of the Golden Dragons - Book One) (31 page)

           
Boremac
cocked an eyebrow at the knight's words, ready with a sharp reply of his own as
if he had anticipated just such a response from the young man. “You sound more
like your mentor all the time, holy blade. That is disturbing, to put it
mildly. I suppose now you will perform the last of your sermons before we rush
into the maw of death. Skip the speeches in honor of the God of Light. We
should get down the road while night still covers us.”

           
Tana
spoke at last, breaking her silence after she had watched the two discuss the
group's fate. “Gregor, you know it pains me to do so, but I have to agree with
the bandit this time. Whether we are fated to live or die, we may as well get
to the end of it. Sephia's directions will put us at the gates of hell by
tomorrow after nightfall if we stop to rest during the day when the sun rises.
Let's let the walk warm us and see if we cannot set the world right tomorrow.”

***

           
Fasurel
lay just inside the mine entrance where he and Silverwing had entered to travel
to the other side of the mountain. The mountain man had regretted leaving the
knight, and held little hope that Silverwing still lived. Fasurel had taken
wounds of his own once he had entered the mine at the far side, when the demon
bloods had hunted him down, intent on his destruction. The ranger had chosen
the lizard form of his long dead animal companion to flee deeper into the mine
shaft, but even six legs had not made him fast enough to avoid his relentless
pursuers. In the end, he had turned to face nearly twenty of the creatures and
had the torn flesh to prove it. His enemies had failed to capture or kill him,
and his claws had torn them to bits in the end, but four of Fasurel's six
reptilian legs hung useless from his body. Some amount of luck allowed the
ranger to rip the heads from the last two attackers he had killed. Soon the
wounds he had sustained would claim him, so in the end it had made little
difference.

           
Fasurel
awakened to the first sound of hope, certain he was having a fever dream
brought by the loss of blood. His lizard form had given him just enough speed to
find a hiding place, but not enough strength to get to a village. The rough
voice of one of his brothers carried into the mine from the entrance near where
Fasurel lay. Light, little more than a flickering blur at the opening, gave the
only indication that the mountain man had been found, and Fasurel was thinking
it was an angel of death coming to take him home.
 
“Master Fasurel? Master Fasurel! Are
ya
there?! Shaman sent me
ta
gather
ya
!
Ya
there? Damn
ya
,
ya
bes
' no' be dead, I come as
fas
'
as I could!”

           
Fasurel
scraped the ground with his remaining strength to draw the ranger's attention
into the mine where he lay. He had no voice left to speak, but the scrabbling
noises were enough.

           
“I
'ear
ya
, Master Fasurel! I 'ear
ya
!
Lay still,
ya
' old fool! Gonna wear
yerself
out!” Moments later the sound of rough boots
slapping the rocks sounded near where Fasurel lay, a mutilated giant in a pool
of his own blood.
 
It was the sweetest
sound the mountain ranger could recall in all his life. “Went an' made a mess
o'
yerself
, I see!” Dramor knelt down by Fasurel’s
unmoving form, noting the shallow rise and fall of his chest and the odd angle of
one of his legs.
 
“
Lemme
get
ya
fixed up. Bes' take your normal form as I
doubt I can carry
ya
like this.” Fasurel morphed into
his naked bipedal form, with Dramor wasting no time setting his brother's
broken leg and tying up the wounds Fasurel had sustained, holding his own
healing gifts to the last. He set his hands to Fasurel's more serious wounds
and drew on his limited powers to heal what he could.”'
Fraid
I
ain't
much
fer
the
healing arts, but that'll hold
ya
til
I can get
ya
to the shaman.
Gotta
pick you up, Master Fasurel, an’ I be feared it's gonna hurt awful. Grit
yer
teeth an' with a bit a luck
ya
pass out.” Fasurel nodded by way of reply and gritted his teeth as he was
instructed. The stout mountain man slung Master Fasurel over his shoulder like
a bag of rocks and started off toward the nearest village. Fasurel's luck held
once more, and the wounded ranger slipped into a gentle darkness as Dramor took
his brother home.

***

           
The
road was easy to follow, and no creature roamed near the path Sephia had laid
out for the group. They had taken a brief rest at Tana's insistence as the
midday sun heated the rocky path. Even Boremac, so used to exercising his
tongue, had said little as they finished eating their remaining foodstuffs and
saved only enough water for the return journey. No one thought they would be
leaving the Forsaken Mountains, and each prepared themselves for the end in
their own way. Gregor had spoken quietly with Tana before they started down the
road once more.

           
Gregor
removed the curative potion that Mistress Mithrina had given him so long ago
and held it out to Tana. “Take this and heal Lord Silverwing, if his heart
still beats in his chest. The sword of the Knight of the Golden Dragon must be
restored. If I am to be slain, Lord Silverwing will be the only hope for
destroying Father Tur'morival. The future of the world should not be trusted to
one so young. That is something the rogue and I agree upon.” Gregor's eyes were
filled with so many more things he longed to say to her but could not, not now
when he was at the edge of his destiny and saw only darkness ahead of him.

           
Tana
read the thoughts that the holy warrior could not disguise and brought her hand
up to touch his cheek while she accepted the potion with the other hand.
 
“You cannot see what is so plain to all of
the others who look into your eyes, Gregor. We will speak of many things once
this is over, and there is no other with whom I would choose to share such
gifts.” Tana leaned close to Gregor and gently touched her lips to his, drawing
her head back with a knowing wink.

           
Boremac's
voice carried over to where Tana and Gregor sat, the rogue making no attempt to
hide his amusement. “If you two are done saying your goodbyes, I believe we
have a bit of unfinished business at the end of this road. Hate to break up the
party, but no point in postponing the inevitable any longer.” The rogue rose,
dusting himself off before helping the other two to their feet.

***

           
The
broken terrain before them defied description. Vast craters topped ever-growing
mountains that poured lava down their sides and spewed ash into the blackened
sky. Bits of landscape not covered by molten rock were permanently scarred with
deep crevasses from the irregular rivers of glowing rock that poured, with no
discernible pattern, across the Forsaken Mountains. No stars shown in the
darkness above, and the moon did not dare peek from behind the great swirling
clouds high above them.

           
“So,
this is hell. The better I should know where I am headed when I get killed out
here, I guess. Makes the trip terribly short when you walk right in like this.”
Boremac studied the landscape, looking for the telltale cave entrance of which
Sephia had spoken.
 
“Ah, there it is.
Conveniently located between two broad flows of molten rock. Looks like we are
out of luck, kids. We did all we could. I guess we will just have to head home
now.” As the rogue turned to start back the way they had come, Tana and Gregor
grabbed him by the arms and went to take a look for themselves.

           
“You
claim to be a capable guide, and you fail to note the bridge of stone someone
has constructed. Narrow though it may be, it will serve our purpose.” Tana spun
the rogue around until he faced the cave entrance once more.

           
Boremac
was moved to answer, “That, dear huntress, would depend entirely upon your
purpose.”

           
Gregor
quoted the rogue's chiding remark from the campfire just a few days
before.
 
“I will take you to your doom to
prove the strength of the word I gave your mentor.' Would you turn away from
the chance to prove your word to the very man to whom you swore that oath?
There is no hazard here, if the daggers you possess are to be trusted. In all
likelihood, the danger to us all has passed, and Lord Silverwing only lies
wounded, awaiting us to take him home.” Gregor tried to sound hopeful but his
own sad eyes betrayed his feelings as he voiced the thought. “Remain here if
you must, Boremac. You are not bound to me, and you will prove to be of little
worth if you are constantly checking your rear.”

           
Boremac
was never really sure if it was Gregor's words, or Tana's laughter after the
words were spoken, that pushed him to continue. In the end, he figured it was
each in equal measure. Later, as he reflected on where that choice had taken
him, he realized that it mattered very little what the cause had been.
 
The effect ended up being much the same as it
always was; Boremac up to his neck in the proverbial cow dung once more.

***

           
The
imp messenger danced convulsively on Father Tur'morival's extended palm as it
gibbered in the dark language of the Abyss. The priest rose from his throne and
brought the stone into his free hand with one smooth motion, though the words
he spoke to the imp conveyed no sign of pleasure at the information the
creature brought. “The blade bearer is here? Why would the demon not share this
with me? He will pay dearly for this deception. The Tharnorsa tests the limits
of my patience. Lord Silverwing should have been destroyed when he was taken to
the demon, and now this? What possible profit can the demon hope to find in
keeping the young knight from me?” Even as the words passed Father
Tur'morival's curled lips, the priest felt he knew exactly what the demon's
intention was. The creature would find this summoner was not so easily undone.

           
The
priest lifted the crimson soul stone even with his hooded gaze and spoke
directly into it as the mists within ignited. Father Tur'morival directed his
words into the demon's mind, making certain the cunning Tharnorsa could not
twist the communication and its intent. Obviously the demon needed a reminder
of the power the priest held over the creature. Father Tur'morival found it curious
that he could not see through the eyes of his unwilling servant, but it did not
matter. “You have disobeyed my commands for the last time, demon. Kill the
knights and bring them before me now, or suffer at the hands of the Unnamed One
for all eternity.
 
This I command, and I
invoke your name and thus your compliance, Siniamadrau!”

           
Father
Tur'morival felt the surge of anger and pain that penetrated the demon’s mind
as its true name was spoken. The priest wished he could sacrifice the powers of
the soul stone, dismissing the demon immediately, but there would be time for
that once the two holy warriors were dead. Both Father Tur'morival and
Siniamadrau shared a link that could not be severed, not yet.

19

Reunion

           
Several
horrors battled to overcome Gregor as he entered the vast cavern. The boiling
contents of lava-filled craters positioned at each side of a gigantic throne
provided the only light. The grotesque throne itself dominated the center of
the room. Its rear portion, capped with a ram's head formed of black shimmering
stone and possessing glimmering eyes the color of blood, was nearly lost in the
darkness overhead. The body of the throne itself depicted images too terrible
for Gregor to contemplate. Two other forms drew Gregor's attention as the
remaining three companions moved into the vast open area, walking slowly toward
the base of the demon's throne.

           
The
first was a vaguely humanoid creature with two horns curving out of its scaled
skull, and eyes that flickered with flames. The creature's mouth bore ugly
fangs at each corner, pointing at its razor-clawed feet.
 
A thick, split tongue darted out of the
creature's mouth at random intervals, as if the demon were anticipating its
next meal. The serpentine tail darting around the creature's back, with shiny
reptilian skin forming flaps at either side of a jagged stinger, seemed to have
a mind of its own. The wicked appendage darted around its host, intermittently
flaring its fleshy wings threateningly, and in the next moment resting at the
demon's shoulder like a trusted pet.