The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars) (30 page)

“What is to stop me from owning you?”

That comment brought a bout of laughter to the young Baron.
“Own
me
?”
he demanded.
“Me? You have neither the nerve nor the stomach for that. No, you will do as I ask. You are far too weak and noble to do otherwise,”
the Baron finished.

“Which is why you need me, isn’t it? Very well. How can it be destroyed?”

“It must be destroyed by the force which created it centuries ago. Cast a Sigilspell combining the powers of Flame and Spirit into the gem, then you may smash it with an ordinary object. When it breaks I will be free!”

He truly had no choice, it would only be moments before the Headless Rider began killing his friends. It was time to act. He broke the weakened chains with a surge in his arms and they fell to the floor in a pile of metal dust.

“Break your chains!” he shouted to his friends. “The ghosts will help us, take no action against them!” Carym desperately hoped his friends understood what was transpiring, and for all their sakes he hoped they would not strike at the Baron’s minions. Although startled, Kharrihan, Bart, and Gennevera did as they were bade and shrugged free of their bonds, prepared to fight. Then Carym reached out mentally to both the Spirit Stone and the Flamestone. He charged across the room bending the Tides to his will. He called out the name of the Sigil that would do his bidding and was rewarded by the sense of power flowing into his body.

As he reached the throne, the orok guards had recovered from their momentary surprise and raced toward him. He had barely a second to do what he needed. He grasped the black gem in his free hand and infused it with the power of the Flames and the Spirit. Suddenly he felt an onslaught of spindly, but strong, orok arms grasping at him, beating him, but he would not release the precious stones in his hands. After several savage kicks, and a wicked slice on the back of one arm, Carym dropped the large black diamond to the ground. The oroks dropped back in surprise, fearful of the stone as it danced and spun on the floor, wisps of smoke drifting lazily from its slick surface.

“NO!” came the powerful, yet fearful tone of the undead knight’s corpse-voice. Hessan, sword in one hand and scythe in the other, stalked toward Carym, his boot falls striking fear with each step, his black blade glistening with dark flames. Carym felt compelled to freeze in place, but the call of the stones in his mind was too strong to ignore. He was dimly aware that fighting and agonizing shrieks had broken out throughout the chamber, but he could only focus on Hessan and those angry red points of light suspended over a cavernous neck. Pushed purely by the force of the Tides in his body, Carym stomped the black gem with his boot heel, shattering it to pieces.

Ederick flexed his strong arms and the shackles that bound him fell away like dust. He immediately grappled and overpowered a nearby orok. With a great heave, he silenced the struggling beast, used it as a living shield and barreled into two more oroks nearby knocking them senseless. He grabbed an Orkish polearm from the ground and began swinging it in a deadly arc as the fearless little oroks closed in on him.

Three oroks faced Ederick who now stood with his back to the wall as they advanced upon him in a wedge. Although they were brave and disciplined, the little beasts were no match for the powerful knight who battled with decades of martial experience. Ederick parried a thrust from the lead orok, and followed through stabbing the orok in its exposed neck; a surge of orok blood spurt across the floor and splattered the Zuharim knight. His first opponent out of the way, the knight brought the butt of the long-handled weapon up between the legs of the second orok, stunning it and followed with a solid smash onto the top of the thing’s thick skull with the head of the weapon.

When he turned to face the third orok, he was surprised to find it had been hoisted into the air by an unseen force, its face going blue and its feet kicking wildly. He couldn’t see what was holding it, but he could hear the wicked cackling laughter of madness and he began to guess what was transpiring.

Nodding a quick thanks to the unseen ally, Ederick turned and began to battle his way toward the companions’ belongings. It was then that he heard the chilling sound of a funeral dirge being played on a flute!

The nimble Kharrihan had scampered quickly around the not so agile oroks, ducking sword strikes, leaping over backs, and skidding to a halt near the companions’ belongings just ahead of the Knight. A longtime friend of Bart’s, he well knew the value of the bard’s sword-staff and grabbed for it first. With a glance at Bart to ensure he was looking, Kharr threw the staff like a spear to his friend who was fighting his way towards the small elf.
The man is a marvel to watch,
thought Kharr. A master of the Volan form of unarmed combat known as
the panther, a
veteran of the Arnathian gladiatorial games, and an ex-mercenary of some renown, the unarmed man was handling even these organized and brave oroks with deadly skill. The elf knew something else about the bard’s background, too; but Bart’s lineage would remain secret as long as the bard wished it so.

Quick as lightning, Bart plucked his sword-staff from the air and quickly incapacitated a pair of oroks with two strikes. Then he separated his staff into two pieces; in his right hand he gripped one rapier, in his left the other rapier still sheathed in the rest of the staff. He whirled the flute section in the air, this way and that, in circles and in figure-eights, producing a melancholy dirge. With his other hand he deftly worked the rapier into the gut of an orok that was lulled into inactivity by the music.

His music was drowned out by another sound; a cacophony of riotous screaming, screeching, and hideous laughter! He looked around wildly and saw shadows and shapes flitting around the room, diving into and away from Orokish guards. Two oroks, who had been standing near the throne, were lying on the ground with their throats flayed wide open, droplets of blood falling from unseen hands suspended above them.

The bard wasn’t sure if he should be grateful for the unseen help, but figured that any chance of escape was better than none. Now, with his old friend Kharrihan at his side, the two battled Orokish reinforcements who were pouring into the room. Back to back the pair skillfully fought the toughest oroks either man had ever seen.

Carym used the raw power of the Sigil Stones to strengthen the Tides that were already swirling riotously around him. The power of the Flamestone surged through his body and flowed outward, forming a sword of pure flame in each hand. Carym flicked one of the swords of flame in the direction of the advancing death-knight, slinging a small ball of fire across the room. The mini-fireball crashed into Hessan and enveloped him in tendrils of flame; for a moment the ancient evil knight disappeared from view. Then the fire simply vanished, Hessan came on again; his corpse-voice laughing at Carym form somewhere off to the side.

“So, you
are a
Fyrbold!”

Carym wished that the damn corpse-thing would be cut down so he wouldn’t have to listen to that sickening, chortling, voice.

“The Flame Sigil is weak compared to the might of the Shadow! Join me and taste its power!”

Carym remembered the Spirit Stone! He had no formal instruction in the use of any of the Sigils other than the Flame Sigil, and knew that dabbling could prove dangerous, even fatal, if done improperly. It was a completely foreign language and he was making assumptions about its use based on the very little he knew. But he had little choice; dabble or die.

Hessan swung the tip of his scythe toward Carym, mocking the man’s pervious attack and launched a deadly missile of his own. A skull trailing flames of blue and black sailed across the room, shrieking so that Carym felt his stomach turn and the desire to fall to his knees almost overcame him. He knew that to do so was to die.

He swung his sword of flames at the skull and the impact caused a powerful concussion, destroying the devious magical construct, showering the room with fiery embers; still the Rider came on. Suddenly the evil knight was there and his seven foot frame delivered a devastating blow with his sword down toward the top of Carym’s head. Carym held his enchanted blades up to the attack, but bowed somewhat under the unnatural weight of the deadly being. Carym gave way to the downward pressure and rolled to the side, causing the Rider’s blade to crash downward into the floor. On the ground now, Carym swung his stick with all his might, trying to sweep one of Hessan’s legs while he was off balance. Though it felt like striking the trunk of an oak tree, and his hands stung from the effort, he succeeded in causing Hessan to stumble.

Carym quickly rolled out of sword range and remembered his magic. Why did he always resort to martial combat when he had magic at his disposal? Safely out of range of the recovering Rider, he tried to finish what he had begun earlier and forced the Spirit and Firestones to bend to his will. Suddenly Carym’s flaming swords surged with tendrils of silvery flames from the power of the Spirit Stone, crackling with now with flames of both silver and red.

Hessan must have sensed the presence of the new element for he hesitated; Carym seized the initiative. Body and weapons infused with magical energy, Carym charged the undead knight with magical speed. His blows reigned down with ferocity and power, causing Hessan to fight defensively. He scored a hit to the evil knight’s elbow, followed by a successive hit to his thigh. Each time Carym found his mark he was rewarded with an explosion of sparks of silver and red. The rapid succession of blows forced the undead knight into pure defensive maneuvering, backpedaling, parrying Carym’s dual sword attacks with his own sword and scythe. Carym delivered a strike to Hessan’s right shoulder, which the Rider willingly accepted as he found an opening in the mortal’s defenses. The Rider, gaining the opening he needed, was able to drive his elbow into Carym’s head, stunning him. Carym stumbled backward, his magical blades dimming from his lack of concentration, his vision blurring.

“Join me, and I will teach you the true power of the Sigils!”

Carym answered by regaining his focus and standing with his magical blades fiercely burning once more. Hessan cackled then.

“Very well. Let us finish this, mortal!” The Headless Rider raised his sword high and his scythe low, confusing Carym with whatever attack the creature had in mind.

It was then that the Black Baron struck. A cloud of inky blackness swirled and writhed around the Headless Rider causing him to swat at it in dismay. “No!” shouted Hessan as he ferociously swung his blades. “You are
my p
risoner!”

“I am NO ONE’s prisoner!” came the angry and malevolent voice. Slowly the semblance of a man appeared in the blackness that gripped the evil knight. Hessan struggled but found his arms bound to his sides. Then the cloud flowed down and into the gaping hole in the neck of the dead knight, causing Hessan to jump up and down, cursing, attempting to swat away the inky cloud, trying to throw off his attacker.

“Oh, SHUT up!” came the silky voice of Baron Tyrannus. The corpse serving as the voice of Hessan the Headless Rider burst into flames and was silenced. A gaping hole of inky blackness appeared next to the struggling Headless Rider. Silvery snake-like tendrils darted out of the hole binding the struggling death-knight; Carym staggered back from the gaze of the hungry eyes that glittered in the dark portal. For a moment Carym feared more enemies would pour from this sinister doorway. Then the evil knight was dragged, thrashing, into the dark portal as it snapped shut. The face of the evil Baron Tyrannus glimmered into view and Carym thought he would have to fight that one next.

Fear evaporated as the despicable Baron threw a sly wink at Carym and vanished.

All around him was chaos. His friends were battling oroks as well as their tall human reinforcements from the courtyard above. Inky black shadows with silvery blades were raining murder on the forces of the Headless Rider who was now nowhere to be seen.

In all the confusion Gennevera had the presence of mind to find the companions’ belongings and guarded them closely. When one came near she would offer them something to help them fight. It had seemed a desperate thing, and she wasn’t optimistic they would escape until the hell of the ghosts broke loose upon the living.

When it seemed that the tide was in favor of the Baron’s ghostly soldiers, momentum shifted away with the arrival of living reinforcements. Then the room filled with a thick hazy mist hiding the occupants from each other. Soon the chill screams of the dead and the roaring of the living filled the air as Baron Tyrannus’ minions sought revenge on living flesh. Carym found Gennevera in the confusion. Quickly he searched for the magical device, Fyrendi’s Home.