A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2) (41 page)

He grabbed at the assassins’ bodies, tearing apart their clothing in search of clues. Mammoth tusk tattoos marked more than one of them, while a bear carved dagger had fallen from another’s hand. The emptiness that had been left in his heart by sorrow disappeared, filled with a rage and eagerness for vengeance. A thousand ideas passed through his mind, most ending with his own death. Until he looked at Tealla.

Her deep, crimson gaze fell on him, full of passion, pain, and sympathy. Her words, above all others, echoed inside his head. Her words about her father’s and brother’s death rang most true to his feelings about his sons. Slar took Tealla’s hands and kissed them.

“They have more warriors and more shamans than we could ever hope to fight. I have only one choice.” He squeezed her fingers. “Gather two packs of supplies – food for the two of us for a long journey. Take them to the east gate and wait for me behind the stone where we watch the sunrise.”

Slar eased Sharrog’s body to the floor, then jumped up and threw open his chest. He pulled out the large, silver sheened longsword and wrapped it with three long cloaks from his wardrobe. Before closing the chest’s lid, another trinket caught his eye. It called to him in some way. He reached down and pulled out the amulet worn by the vessel, then tucked it into his pocket.

Before leaving, he leaned in to kiss Tealla. “I will see you there. Be swift, for I may not be an hour.” She returned his kiss with passion.

Slar grabbed his scimitar, hoisted the earl’s sword, and set off down the hall.

An uncanny quiet hung over the fortress. Guards did not stand where they should. Muffled clashing sounds echoed through the stone. Slar doubled his pace.

The dungeon guards bore the tattoos of the Ram Clan. “Go to your people,” Slar told the warriors. “Chaos rules over us. It is time to see to those who you hold dear. Care not for a few paltry prisoners.”

The guards gave him strange looks and then looked to one another before dashing off. Grabbing a torch from the wall, Slar opened the outer door of the dungeon and plunged within. He stalked past the captain’s cell, straight to the earl’s. After leaning the longsword against the wall, he opened the door and held the torch high to address the human lord.

“If you were free, would you stand up and take your father’s crown?”

The human blinked. “I have never desired it.”

Slar laughed. “I did not desire for Galdreth to pull me from my squad – to drive us into war – yet it is as it is and I must deal with reality.” He leaned in closer, staring into the bizarre blue eyes, unlike those any orc had ever possessed. “You could lead your people and you could make peace. You could end this war.”

The man stared back at him. “I could, but your people must do the same.”

Rubbing his chin, Slar nodded. “Aye, that is a problem. But it is only worse if Galdreth gains the power of the vessel, this Tallen you are so fond of.” He leaned forward and unlocked the manacles. “Can we trust one another to work for peace between our peoples? A true peace, not a shadow war.”

The human reached out his hand. Slar examined at the pink skin, so different from his own thicker, greener hide. Then he remembered the blood that foamed in the Gallond after so many had died. The crimson was no different when it poured from a human, and the guts smelled just the same.
This is how trust begins, I suppose.

“Fine, then.” Slar clasped the human’s wrist and lifted him to his feet. “Don’t make me regret this.”

The man held onto his wrist when Slar tried to turn. He almost pulled his scimitar before he saw the expression on the human’s face.

“I swear, by the Waters and the Flames, all the elements and the true Balance, that we will find a way to peace.” The Bluecloak released Slar’s wrist and bowed his head. “I am Earl Boris Mourne, and I offer my friendship. I hope you can call me Boris, though I do not know your name.”

“Slar, son of Grinbad of the Boar, Warchief of all Clans.” Slar barked a hollow laugh. “Though not Warchief for much longer I fear.” He handed Boris the longsword. “Come, we must hurry if we are to stop the ceremony.”

Slar led him to the woman’s cell and pointed for Boris to open the door. He almost sighed in regret when no boot flew out.

“Boris!” came the voice from within. “You got out. How?”

“Our captor has seen the light,” Boris gestured in Slar’s direction. “Maddi Conaleon, meet Slar, son of Grinbad, of the Boar Clan.”

The woman huffed, as Slar knelt down to undo her chains. “We’ve met.” She looked up at Boris when the manacles fell away. “Really?”

The earl shrugged. “Do you want to save Tallen, or do you want to stay in your cell?”

She jumped up and stepped into the corridor, where she pulled an unlit torch from the wall and lit it on Slar’s. “Let’s go.”

Slar waved them back up the dungeon hall. “There is one more of you, though I think he may need your aid, if you truly are a healer.”

The woman stepped close, a scowl on her face. “What have you done to him?”

Slar led them to the captain’s door. “I did nothing. He did not get along well with his guards, from what I understand.”

When he opened the cell, the woman pushed him aside and fell down by the soldier. Slar watched as his bruises faded and the odd bend in his wrist straightened. He knelt down to unhook the chains.

“That is quite amazing,” he said to her. “Your mate is a lucky man.”

“If we can save him,” she replied, standing up.

The Bluecloak blinked at his commander.

“Come on, Captain,” the earl snapped. “We’re going.”

The soldier jumped up and stood ready for the earl’s orders. Boris gestured for Slar to lead the way.

“Douse that torch and let’s go.” He gave each human one of the cloaks he had brought. “These won’t bear close scrutiny, so keep the hood up and crouch as low as you can.” Slar blinked at the two men. “Very low.”

They threw on the cloaks and followed him back out of the dungeon. But where he usually turned to head back up to his chambers, he led his escapees the other direction – down toward the deepest parts of the mountain caves.

“Stay behind me. I will warn you if anyone comes.” Slar darted ahead, but the halls remained quiet. The earlier din he had heard was gone and only gloom followed their steps.

The passage narrowed as they delved into Dragonsclaw. The three humans crept along in fair silence, the woman being the best at it.
Great Fires, what am I doing? Save me from my own madness!

He led them onward, past the point where carved passages gave way to natural ones. Down a long, steep slope to a small trickle of water, over the stream, and up a much more gradual incline.

A scrape of metal caught Slar’s ear. He held himself still, and the humans responded, ducking down behind a boulder just as a group of warriors marched into view. They halted at sight of their Warchief’s torch. Luckily, most of them had Wolf and Boar tattoos.

“Warchief Slar?” Their captain looked at his sergeant. “The shamans told us you did not wish to attend the ceremony.”

“I have changed my mind, Captain Vargul.” Slar returned their awkward salutes. “I must witness this. Why do you not remain to guard the shamans?”

The captain shook his head. “They dismissed us. They ordered us to have a celebratory feast prepared for the dawn. Is that alright, Warchief?”

Putting on his best face of command, Slar waved at the passage behind him. “Something is amiss in the camps. Make your way back to your own people and protect them. I do not know for certain what tonight will bring.”

The warriors looked at each other with concerned frowns. One or two whispered nervous curses. The captain stared at Slar with concern writ on his brow, but then turned to lead his men up out of the cavern at Slar’s confident gesture.

Once they had moved on, Slar signaled the humans.

“We must hurry. Time is short.”

A faint, purple glow flickered up ahead. They passed through an opening and the light grew. It shimmered behind a row of thick, natural columns, casting bars of shadow and light upon the cavern floor. Slar led the humans up to them, and they peered between.

Two large pillars of glassy rock rose in the center of the chamber, meeting together at the floor and ceiling. Pale white marble with the faintest pearlescent glow formed one column, while dark quartz composed the other. A huge crack ran down its side. The purple light emanated from within it.

Six shamans from Mammoth and Bear clans gathered at the feet of the pillars, their arms outstretched. The vessel stood in the middle of their circle, his face wrinkled in pain and concentration. He seemed steadier on his feet than Slar had supposed.
Perhaps their magewort is no longer working so well.

The smoky, twisted form of Galdreth began to spill out of the cracked pillar. The knot in Slar’s stomach flared with his revulsion at the once familiar sight. He spat blood and cursed his own foolishness as he watched the smoke float toward the young man.

A strange shiver rippled up Slar’s spine as the young human squeezed his hand into a fist, and all six shamans dropped to the cavern floor like emptied sacks. The vessel gasped at his handiwork and looked upward.

The purple light flared, and a reptilian shape began to coalesce out of the dark smoke. Slar felt his heart seize and his gut knot flash, but the paralyzing fear did not claim him so completely as before. The swirling shape of Galdreth seemed to no longer hold such great power now that Slar felt certain of his path.

“Now, Human, you shall be my vessel, and I shall ride you to power beyond all others!”

The young man looked up at the hovering Dragonsoul, its shining silver eyes beaming with ferocity. Slar felt something hot within his pocket.

“Good luck with that,” the human said, passing one hand over his head. He collapsed to the floor.

Galdreth reared back, the swirl of smoke freezing. The silver eyes appeared to blink. Then the spirit spun in on itself and disappeared.

“Tallen!” Maddi screamed.

Dragonrock has to be a part of the spell, or so Gan claims. Only granite melted down and reformed by the fire of Ancient Ones has the strength to trap a Dragonsoul. Gan knows of a singular place with such amounts – an old, lone mountain north of the Bloodwood and Iron Mountains. My counselor spirit says that dragons once nested in this mountain, and that an Ancient One left its mark there millennia ago. I can only hope it will be enough. – “The Spirit Trap” by Leolan “Lastking” Calais

T
allen rolled onto his side in the darkness, the clanking of his chains following him. He could not tell the passage of time inside the cell, though he was certain it had been hours since the last shaman had forced the
magewort
down his throat. The constant doses of magewort not only kept him from his power, but held him in a constant state of semi-stupor.
When I’m not completely unconscious…

“I must pull myself together,” he whispered to the darkness. He shook his head vigorously, trying to drive away the cobwebs that clouded his mind.

The fuzziness had barely begun to abate when the door to his cell slammed against the wall. Four burly orcs stood in the light of a ball of magic, one he could not sense other than to see it. They pushed their way in and grabbed him by his torn collar and the thick chains. A shaman stepped into the light carrying a full goatskin.

Tallen fought against the strong arms holding him, but his movements remained feeble
. If they dose me again, I won’t be able to stand!

Despite his near frantic struggles, the orcs held him down while the shaman forced a tube from the goatskin down his throat. The shaman squeezed, and a bitter tea surged into Tallen’s mouth and down into his stomach. He spluttered as some spilled into his lungs. For a while he struggled, but eventually the shaman emptied the skin into him.

The warriors dropped Tallen to the ground and he vomited, bringing up a good part of what they had just forced him to consume.

“No matter,” the shaman said to the warriors. “It is more than enough
magewort
for us to get him to the chamber. Then Galdreth will see to it that he is no longer any danger.”

A shot of panic ran through Tallen, shooing away his breath and leaving his heart in palpitations. But the stupor of the
magewort
sank over him, muffling his perception of time, space, and magic. The Aspects fluttered about in his consciousness like wild, multihued butterflies too swift and ethereal to be captured.

At first, he could not make his legs obey, and they dangled behind as the guards hauled him down the passage. After a few dozen yards, the scraping pain woke his muscles enough to move, and he staggered alongside the orc warriors. An interminable time passed. His feet gained some strength, and he sensed that the group continued downward, deeper into a black maze. They passed through an open cavern with a small trickle of water at its bottom. The small splashes woke Tallen further from his daze.

A strange awareness came over him as they descended – a tingling at the nape of his neck. Something he had sensed before, but greater, more intense.
What is it? I—I cannot think straight!