Sword of Light (The Knights of the Golden Dragons - Book One) (32 page)

           
The
demon before Gregor did not disturb him nearly as much as the body lying on the
seat of the massive throne. Even at this distance, the young knight could make
out the shimmering pool of blood surrounding the figure. The swords at the
unmoving form's sides confirmed Gregor's worst fears, though what remained of
Lord Silverwing was little more than a mass of flayed flesh and tattered armor.
Only the irregular rise and fall of his chest gave Gregor any hope at all.

           
The
demon began to speak in a tone that was conversational, almost reverent,
distracting Gregor from Silverwing’s tortured form. “Lord Lightsword, I am
honored to finally meet you. You have grown since our last encounter. Hopefully
your wisdom and skill has grown to match your title. Forgive me. I assume you
recognize me in my chosen form, so different from our last meeting. Allow me to
refresh your memory.” The Tharnorsa grew to its normal full height, shedding
the skin of the humanoid form it possessed only moments before. The great demon
stared down at the three humans before it with a broad grin dominating its
features. It took a single step backward, scooping some unseen object from the
arm of its throne, and brought its horned head down to meet Gregor's gaze. “I
am certain you remember me now, young knight. The years have not erased that
night from your memory.” Not waiting for a reply, the demon reassumed his
humanoid form and closed the distance between the knight and himself.

           
Hatred
burned in Gregor as he watched the demon approach once more. The knight stayed
his hand, resisting with every bit of will he had the urge to draw his blade
and cut the demon to pieces. The creature had not caused Boremac's blades to
shine with their warning white glow, and there had to be some reason for
it.
 
The demon spoke once more, as if
reading Gregor's thoughts. “Your God shares no warning because I am no threat
to you, Lord Lightsword.
 
We seek the
same thing, you and I. Freedom from the evil that threatens the peace of this
world. You know who your true enemy is. I am only a servant to that Master.”

           
Gregor
replied with disgust tainting every word he spoke. “Farther Tur'morival keeps
you as his thrall? I find that interesting, but fail to see how we could
possibly seek the same end to this conflict. I am here to avenge the souls you
cast into the spirit world when you destroyed the Knights of Bella Grey. Your
destruction will no doubt lead to Father Tur'morival's death as well.”

           
“There
is only one thing the Master fears, Lord Lightsword.” The demon extended his
clawed hand as the creature's tail danced around it, appearing to examine the
hilt he held before retreating behind his back. Gregor recognized the blackened
hilt immediately, but made no move to take it. The knight sensed the dancing
tail's movements had been a warning against attempting to seize the offered
hilt. “You are correct, Lord Lightsword. It would be unwise to take the hilt
from me. There is no power you can bring against me that would not end in your
death, and we have a mutual enemy to deal with before you bear your sword
against me.”

           
Gregor
felt he was walking into a trap directly in front of him, but saw no way to
avoid it if what the demon said was true. “Why should I trust you at all? It
would be better to send you back into the Abyss and take the hilt than to
bargain with a demon.”

           
The
demon stared into the young knight's eyes, keeping his hand extended as he
spoke. “Take the lesson offered by your mentor, Lord Lightsword. I have little
doubt that he is the superior weapon handler of the two of you, yet here I
remain while he lies in a pool of his own blood. Would you suffer the same fate
in a foolish attempt to destroy me? You should forget the past, holy warrior,
and look to preserving the future. Your death at my hands compromises all the
people of this world, do not doubt that even if you doubt me.”

           
Gregor
was about to respond when the demon’s eyes shut and the Tharnorsa took several
rapid steps backward, clutching the hilt to its chest. The creature's body
trembled as some unseen force shook it. Only the grip of its clawed feet,
digging deeply into the rocky ground under it, held the demon upright. The
 
violent fit persisted for several
seconds,
 
and the Tharnorsa spoke as if
all breath had been forced from it when the shaking stopped, pushing words
through lips bent by pain. “As you wish, Master.”

           
The
demon moved with blurring speed as it sprang to the seat of its throne where
Lord Silverwing lay. Without warning, the Tharnorsa drove its stinger into the
center of the failing knight's chest. Before Gregor had time to react, the
demon swept Tana from his side and buried the venomous tip of its tail into
Gregor's exposed neck. Boremac took only a moment to move between Gregor and
the demon, but it was enough. The wicked tail snaked its way around the rogue's
neck, cutting off the flow of air through his throat as the flaps of skin near
the tail's stinger covered Boremac's eyes. “Father Tur'morival knows you have
come. The poison I have injected should give you just enough time to find him.
I will amuse myself with your companions until you return, if you return.”

           
Gregor
found his voice as the venom began to work its way into his body. “In the name
of the God of Light, I command that you not harm them!” The Elenondo metal of
Onmea, the weapon forged by Master Firebeard in what now seemed another time
and another life, ignited with white flame.

           
“Your
God has no power over me, but I will honor your faith on one condition.” The
Tharnorsa tightened his tail's hold on Boremac's throat, lifting the rogue from
the ground as he did. “Father Tur'morival possesses a stone which binds me to
him and gives him some amount of my true powers. Do not destroy the stone, and
your companions will live.”

           
“You
will be destroyed, demon, that I promise you. I will return with the stone when
your Master has tasted my blade.” Gregor began to turn from the demon as the
Tharnorsa tossed the blackened hilt toward the knight, dropping Boremac to the
floor.

           
“Your
blade will fail, Lord Lightsword. Wield the sword of your long dead master,
boy, and carve out the priest's heart.”

           
Gregor
grabbed the hilt from the air and brought the transforming piece to meet the
blade he had carried for so long. A brilliant golden light infused the hilt,
returning it to its former glory, as the sword was once again made whole. The
young knight wasted no motion as he slid the holy sword of the Knights of the
Golden Dragon into the scabbard at this back. Somehow he knew now was not the
time to expose that blade, and he took Onmea into his gauntleted hands for now.
Gregor turned, moving toward the stairs leading into the keep and the destiny
set before him. Despite the poison coursing through is body, Gregor felt the
reassuring weight of the weapon in the scabbard at his back and knew he would
see the demon once more.

           
Father
Tur'morival was surprised to see the young knight enter his chamber. He rose to
greet Gregor, his priest's staff in one hand and the soul stone in the other.
The priest looked at the knight with interest, noting the presence of the black
blade Gregor carried and the odd halo of light that encircled the holy
warrior's head. The priest was glad the knight had prayed for divine protection
before facing him. It would make killing the fool all the more satisfying. “So,
the demon has failed. I suppose it is only fitting that the pleasure of killing
you will be mine. Come closer, knight. Bring your faith and your weapon against
your executioner.”

           
Gregor
slowly closed the distance between himself and Father Tur'morival, both his
hands flexing on the grip of Onmea. “This is the last day you will draw breath,
Father Tur'morival. Your pet still lives but will be destroyed soon enough,
once I have dealt with you.”

           
The
priest's staff and the soul stone became enveloped in the same crimson mist
that Gregor had seen so many times before. Father Tur'morival's condescending
tone as he addressed the knight infuriated Gregor, but he restrained himself
from drawing the holy sword from its scabbard at his back. He might disagree
with his rogue companion's chosen profession, but he could not deny the wisdom
of what he had learned in watching Boremac face the assassin that had almost
killed him. One should take a full measure of an opponent before striking to
kill. “It is good that you know the true name of the one that will send you to
your God. I wonder if your studies gave you wisdom enough to know that there is
no hope for you, or any of the people in this land.”

           
“You
speak of the Crimson Night that you have labored so long to bring, I assume.
There is no honor in taking demons as allies. Even if you were to open the gateway
into the Abyss, do you think the demons that would pour forth will reward a
mortal with anything more than an eternity of suffering?” Gregor closed the
distance between himself and the priest as he spoke. Father Tur'morival was
almost within his reach.

           
“The
powers of the Abyss are readily controlled once one understands what is
required. The Tharnorsa you have somehow gotten past does not call me its
Master out of respect, I assure you.”

Father Tur'morival stepped forward, bringing
Gregor within the reach of his staff. “You do not think I fear that sword you
bear, do you? Kill me, if that is your destiny. Let us match weapons and see
who falls.”

           
The
time for words was at an end, and Gregor drew from all his companions’ fighting
styles to choose the best way of striking the priest. Father Tur'morival showed
no sign of recognizing the weapon resting in the scabbard on Gregor's back, and
the young knight intended to take advantage of his ignorance. Gregor swept
Onmea in a tight looping formation before him, attempting to draw a strike from
Father Tur'morival's staff. The staff in the priest's hands spun end over end
in a tight circle at a blurring speed, forming a shield of red mist before him.
Gregor sighted a flaw in the defense immediately. If the arc of the staff could
be halted as the tip faced the ground, the knight could possibly dislodge the
metal pole in the priest's grasp. The problem was, if Gregor could not sweep
the staff properly, his own weapon would be cast away and he would be disarmed.
No one ever said the slaying of Father Tur'morival would be without peril.

Gregor thrust his black blade into Father
Tur'morival's spinning staff and felt a wave of pain travel up his arms as the
staff and sword made contact. The priest's staff swept the blade to one side,
almost causing Gregor to lose his grip as the sword vibrated in his hands. The
force of the staff's motion carried the knight's blade high to Father
Tur'morival's left, telling the knight which direction the weapon was traveling
at least. If the priest kept the staff spinning in the same direction, Gregor
could take him with his next strike.

           
The
young knight drew his sword back to a ready position as Father Tur'morival
resumed turning the staff rapidly in his hands. The priest seemed to be
unimpressed by Gregor's attack, allowing the knight a moment to retreat and
regain his balance. Gregor nearly betrayed his intentions with a smile. Father
Tur'morival's pause would prove to be his last mistake. The priest had resumed
turning the staff at a much slower pace, building the speed as if he were
demonstrating his lack of concern for the challenge Gregor presented. Now the
knight knew for certain how to strike him.

           
Gregor
moved toward Father Tur'morival and once more thrust his blade into the
spinning staff, releasing the grip of his stronger hand from the hilt and
twisting the sword's blade with the other to counter the force of the impact.
Even as the staff was propelled into the air at the priest's side, Father
Tur'morival countered the motion, moving to strike Gregor violently in the side
of his head. As his blow slammed Gregor's head to one side, Father Tur'morival
caught sight of the hilt of the true sword of the Knights of the Golden Dragon,
and the priest stepped back. The holy blade had haunted the priest throughout
his existence, ever since he had learned to use the true powers of the Abyss to
preserve his mortal form. The blade, broken for so long and now whole once
more, was the only holy artifact that could be wielded against him. The demon
had betrayed him. Father Tur'morival drew his staff to his side, confused by
his failure to prevent the restoration of the weapon that cast a halo around
this petty warrior's head.