Age of the Gods: The Complete, twelve novel, fantasy series (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga) (107 page)

“What is it?” Linaya demanded.

“The king lives, though all of the knights in his retinue, save one, were lost,” Borrik replied. “At least that is what I make of it from this distance.”

“We’re going back,” Linaya stated and turned her mount as if to do just that.

“No m’lady. If the king stands than so too do his orders. Attacked or not, our orders are to visit Boulder Gate,” the dwarf responded.

“But I should have stayed!” Linaya cried, angry tears welling up in her eyes. “I could have helped him.”

“How?” Zorbin asked. “Would you fight off the kingdom’s enemies with a pretty smile?

“We each have our orders, Lady Linaya,” Borrik stated. “Know this; the king lives and has asked a boon of you. It is your duty to carry out his wishes, and by doing so, perhaps you will save his life and many more in the days to come. None of us knows what the future holds, and until we do, we can only carry out that which was presented to us today.” Borrik sounded more like a priest than a warrior.

Linaya knew herself foolish, and accepted Borrik’s words at face value. For a monster of a man he was wise, and his counsel was probably right. Linaya would stick to the plan and do everything she was able to bring dwarven aid back to the kingdom.

“Is there anything else you can share with us before we part Borrik?” Linaya asked, her resolve restored once more.

“Aye, be careful,” Borrik replied. “Last night Sara was attacked by an assassin, and also the king and his knights were assaulted. It is likely that more attacks will come, so be vigilant.”

Without another word, Borrik nodded to the dwarf in respect, then putting his clawed toes to the soil he sprinted away at incredible speed, heading once again eastward, directly towards the mountains. Linaya and Zorbin watched him go for several minutes as he slowly vanished to nothing in the distance. Once again they resumed their own trek in hopes of finding an ally in the dwarven nation.

* * * * *

After the battle with the black horseman, Garret at first had no notion of what to do. For a moment, a very long and painful moment, Garret was ready to give in to defeat. Though he no longer saw any possibility of vanquishing their foe, having lost the vast majority of his battle champions, he forced himself to keep going. As King of Valdadore, he was the only person who was never allowed to give up. It was up to him to push on when no one else could; it was up to him to lead his kingdom into war even if it meant certain death. Even death was better than slavery. Garret also knew that he could not do it alone, and fortunately he did not need to. It was this thought that brought Garret back from the brink; the thought of all those he loved, all those who needed him to persevere even when everything seemed lost. Though his mighty knights had been decimated, and his powerful red-robed battle mage Vladmere had defected, going instead to join the enemy, there was still a sliver of hope. After all, he himself was a formidable warrior, and his brother was the most lethal mage history could even recall. This very moment the armies of Valdadore were swelling with those who heeded the call of the kingdom, and if the gods were with them, even the woman he loved would succeed. Garret prayed that Linaya would be successful, knowing that without the aid of allies their chances of survival were small.

So it was that once again Garret took up his shovel. Calling upon his blessing he exploded in size. Carefully over the next several hours Garret dug each of his comrades a deep grave. There was no use now to bring them back to the city, there was no time to honor them properly. Out of necessity Garret dug them each a tomb and one by one he hefted their small bodies from the ground and placed them each within one. Saying a prayer to Gorandor, Garret once again retrieved his shovel and began to cover the bodies of his fallen comrades. These were men that just months ago he thought to be invincible; men that just hours ago he counted on to carry out his plans. Throughout the morning Garret buried each one within the ground, saying prayers and recalling what few memories he could of them all.

Just before midday Garret lowered Horace into his grave and paused to pray as he had done for each of his knights. Closing his eyes Garret began to whisper, but was interrupted as a cough sounded from directly below him. His eyes popping open, Garret looked down into the grave at his feet and watched as Horace moved slightly and a moan escaped his lips. Garret could hardly believe that he lived. The unholy blast that should have ended his life had taken one of his legs clean off, yet Horace still refused to die. Garret could not help but grin as he lifted his comrade from the hole and sat him once again upon the soil. Closing off the power provided by his god, Garret shimmered slightly and returned to his normal size with a pop. He kneeled before Horace, still not entirely believing he was alive.  The knight opened his eyes.

“I must still live,” Horace gasped, his voice sounding weak.

“Yes, you do,” Garret smiled, “though I do not know how.”

“You forget who you are talking to,” the knight replied in jest. “Had I not dreamed you were about to bury me, would I still be alive?”

“For a few moments,” Garret laughed. “At least, until you suffocated.”

“You see, even in my sleep I evade death.” Horace’s joking words were followed by a round of coughing.

“I need to tend to your wounds,” Garret stated, eyeing his friend’s stump of a leg.

“Are you a healer now?”

“No,” Garret answered.

“Then leave it alone lest you reopen it.”

“You need a healer, Horace,” Garret admitted, “but I am afraid to move you.”

“No, I cannot ride, nor could you carry me quick enough without doing me harm. It seems I lived only to die more slowly.”

“What would you have me do?” Garret asked, not wanting to watch the man die again.

“You are young, my king. Have faith,” Horace said in barely a whisper, unconsciousness seeking to claim him once more. “Pray and believe.”

Garret watched as the injured knight lost consciousness again and drifted into sleep. He looked around for an answer, thinking at first to make a litter that the horses could bear, but there was nothing to be seen but water and grass. In his blessed form he could easily carry the man, but not without jostling him excessively. There was quite literally nothing Garret could do. As midday fell upon the king, he knelt upon the soil and raised his face to the heavens.

“Mighty Gorandor, I pray that you save this man as he has been a loyal servant to you for many long years. I pray that you see him through this injury and restore him to his former glory,” Garret prayed aloud. Looking to his comrade before him Garret witnessed no change. Instead of giving up, Garret did as Horace had instructed him.

“Mighty Gorandor, if you and the other gods are with Valdadore, I pray you give me a sign that this is so. Show me the way to save my people; show me a way to save Horace, a loyal servant to the both of us,” Garret concluded.

He knelt there for a long moment, his face towards the heavens, hoping beyond hope that his prayers would be heard. From a distance, Garret heard as a bird took flight, squawking in alarm to warn any others of its kind nearby. Opening his eyes, Garret began to turn towards the sound. Then he heard another sound from another direction. Somewhere to his right he heard a bark and a couple footfalls. It seemed the local population of predators had picked up on the scent of blood. Garret looked to see what feral beast it was that approached and found himself surrounded. Closing in upon him from all sides were hundreds of his brother’s soldiers, their hair-covered bodies taking enormous strides, their eyes gleaming in the daytime sun. Though most kept their distance, three approached Garret, and unexpectedly, they each took a knee before one of them spoke.

“Your majesty, I am glad to find you unharmed,” the hybrid half growled. “Word has already been sent to our master and he wishes us to aid you however you see fit before we continue on our mission.”

“I need to get Horace to a healer,” Garret replied quickly. “However, I fear if we move him his wound will reopen.”

The beast of a man, a motley of different colored furs, inspected the wound in a glance and nodded his agreement to the king before his eyes lost focus for a moment, as if he stared at something far away.

“The creator sends healers with all haste. They should arrive before nightfall,” the werewolf stated.

“The creator?” Garret asked, his mind a confused mess.

“Your brother, our creator. Did you not just pray to see what gods were aligned with Valdadore?” the wolf hybrid asked, having clearly overheard the king as he approached. “Now you know of at least one that lends his support.”

“Indeed,” Garret replied not wanting to upset the wolfman. “Are you off then to harass King Sigrant’s army?”

“Only if we can serve you no further,” the werewolf replied.

“Unless you each brought a shovel I think my plans here are in ruins,” Garret replied in earnest.

“Tell me of your plans,” the werewolf responded.

Garret relayed his intention to dig a great trench from here to the beginning of the rolling hills, leaving a dam at the edge of the lake. He explained how, when the enemy was within the hills, the dam would be broken which would send a torrent of water barreling down upon the enemy. The wolfman listened intently and agreed that he and his men were ill equipped to dig a deep, large trench, but he did offer up an alternative that was feasible.

“Your majesty, if I might make a suggestion?” the wolfman asked.

“Be my guest,” Garret said, knowing full well that his own plans were in ruins.

“Though a great torrent of water could do the enemy harm as well as delay them, if the rolling hills were flooded now, Sigrant would still be forced to build rafts or bridges, thus delaying his arrival to Valdadore,” the wolfman stated.

“So what do you suggest?” Garret asked.

“Have you ever seen a dog dig a hole?” the wolfman joked, his laugh more like a bark. “If we can dig a small trench now, no more than a ditch really, we can gradually flood the lowlands over the next week and it would be significantly less work.”

“I admit it is a good plan,” Garret said. “But there is one major setback to doing it your way.”

“What is this setback, your majesty?”

“You and your men will be trapped on the other side of the water with the enemy,” Garret explained.

“So be it then,” the wolfman said simply.

“You would consign yourself and your men to certain death?” Garret asked, appalled.

“My orders are to slow the enemy. And do you not yourself rush into battle, praying your god will deliver you from the battle alive?” the wolfman questioned.

“I do,” Garret admitted.

“Then let us dig your ditch,” the werewolf said. “As you have faith that Gorandor will see you through a battle, so too do we have faith that our creator will deliver us back to Valdadore to serve him again.”

“Very well,” Garret agreed, thinking to himself that everyone needed to have faith in something.

Without so much as an order, every single one of the wolfmen and women raced towards the point where Garret and his men had stopped digging. Dropping to all fours, each of them began clawing at the soil with their bare hands, flinging dirt into the air in all directions. Into the night they worked without so much as a single pause, even after the healers arrived and began to work upon Horace. By the middle of that same night the water began to flow south. It started pouring through the narrow ditch, churning and swirling, and as it washed away more soil the flow increased. Within the first hour the small ditch doubled in width as the current alone worked to widen and deepen it, carrying soil away to deposit elsewhere. Garret thanked Seth’s troops wholeheartedly, and watched them disperse into the night, their faith alone letting them believe that they were not consigning themselves to death.

* * * * *

Seth stood within the street awaiting details of his brother’s attack, looking to Jonas for answers. The crowd waited anxiously with him as all ears listened in on the conversation transpiring between the dark prince and one of his created soldiers.

“They were set upon in the night by a warrior blessed with many abilities,” Jonas relayed the information. “Only the king and a knight named Horace survived the battle, but the knight is mortally wounded and cannot be brought back to the city.”

“Jonas, you are faster than I,” Seth began giving his orders. “Outside the castle wall there are healers. Go to them and command them by order of the king to race with all haste to the southern shore of Hollow Lake.”

Jonas turned and leaped over the nearest bystanders, bounding through the crowd over the heads of those who failed to move out of his path. Many long minutes passed, and Seth began to grow impatient. When the werewolf did return he had more news.

“My prince, the king and his knights were unable to complete their mission…”

“Then complete it for them,” Seth interrupted, cutting Jonas’ sentence short.

Again Seth and the crowd waited as messages were relayed and a conversation was held on the other end.

“The king directs your men as they carry out his mission,” Jonas stated many minutes later. “The men will see it completed, though due to circumstance they will be trapped with the enemy,” the werewolf concluded evasively, not wanting to feed the crowd too much information.