Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga) (16 page)

“They know,” he thought aloud, legs almost buckling under the brevity of the situation. He strolled over to one of the plush couches and flopped down on it as though he hadn’t rested in months. He found no comfort there. This can’t be happening, I’ve come such a long way, he thought.

Only weeks prior he was slaving away as the unmentioned, and unappreciated steward to the Archmage. He grew to despise the wretched man, who claimed all glory in every innovative find that they worked on together.

It was Baylor, Horace's unknown dwarf prodigy, who should have been accredited countless times. It was he who led the research and dissection of Sir Williamdale’s enchanted armor. It was also he who’d unearthed Ambrosia's hideaway atop Loyola, after many sleepless nights sifting through a mountain of Ambrosia’s notes.

Time after time Horace curbed him from receiving his rightfully earned credit. After all his work, he was the Archmage, and Baylor was nothing but his lowly steward. What Horace didn't know, was that his stingy actions were planting seeds of bitterness and disgust within his servant, which blossomed into healthy stalks of resentment and hatred, inevitably bearing a harvest of revenge.

Once, Baylor had dreamed of becoming Somerlund’s Archmage. Those dreams faded away, as repulsion for everything Horace represented quickly molested his view on the position. The title had suddenly become a blazing hypocrisy to him, having no true mission but to impress the king and fuel one’s own pride. So for his last years as the invisible apprentice he’d been working under an ulterior motive with a new dream, to obtain the power he needed to bring Horace, along with all of Somerlund if need be, to its sanctimonious knees. He would take the respect that was due to him, no matter who got in his way.

When he first read the scroll the king's braggart son discovered, he saw the manifestation of his dream. Although he was quite a gifted sorcerer in his own right, the ability to summon a dragon would make him virtually unstoppable. If only he was able to break the mystery of what happened to the diamonds on that fateful night in the Evernight forest.

Then, after hundreds of pages of journal after journal, he discovered codes, carefully scattered throughout Ambrosia's archives. Although most of the code proved unsolvable, he was eventually able to cipher a small portion that turned out to be coordinates on a map. The coordinates pointed him to Loyola. He rejoiced at his find, but instead of charging immediately to investigate he once again made the mistake of discussing it with his master. Why he revealed this monumental discovery to the man he loathed so lividly he would never know. It was probably a subliminal attempt to give his once idolized teacher a second chance at becoming what Baylor really needed, a mentor and a father figure. Unknowingly, Horace ultimately failed to grasp his second chance.

Instead of congratulating his assistant, a delighted Horace swiftly announced to the king that the blue diamond mystery had been solved. He, the great Horace, through countless hours of hard work, had unearthed the possible location of Ambrosia's fabled diamonds.

This proved the last straw, driving Baylor mad like a dog that had been beaten by its master one too many times. That same night, Baylor waited for Horace to return to his laboratory, murdered him, and sacked all the information pertaining to the stones. He was surprised to find that not only was he able to take a life without hesitation, but that he took great pleasure in the kill. It brought him to a state of euphoria he’d never felt before. The feeling was only amplified by how easily he’d gotten away with the crime. For the first time in his life he felt powerful.

Then, when he first opened the black doors atop the mountain, he saw something that brought him even higher than killing Horace. Lying in the center of the marble floored room was one of the blue diamonds he dreamt so often about. The only thing that would’ve been better was to have found all four of the stones, but this didn’t matter. For the first time it was his find, his discovery, and he intended to take full credit for it in grand fashion. He was going to show Somerlund what real power was, and no one was going to take him for granted ever again.

“Now everything has changed,” he spat and quivered in anger, cursing the day he’d forgotten one major detail. The book
Spirit Stones
held the knowledge that he needed in order to control a demon spirit once summoned from its crystal cage. The tome held instructions on how to forge soul gems into the steel of a weapon, adding another level of control to the wielder.

If summoned directly from the stone these creatures were extremely difficult to command for long periods, while even for short periods command would be volatile at best. If only Jevon’s pest of a son had made it back by now, he would have been able to forge his weapon and leave the miserable mountain along with the wretched Hammerheart clan. A storm of paranoid thoughts flooded into his mind as he clutched at his chest, tightly gripping the diamond that hung from a leather cord under his shirt.

“There be no other way,” he decided.

He exhaled in defeat, staring emotionless at the mosaic wall before him. It was a scene depicting a gallant knight, locked in the heat of battle with a fearsome dragon. The surrounding forest in the scene was being laid to waste by dragon flame, colored with ruby and amber, while the lone knight held up a great shield in a daring defense.

Baylor knew the tale. The exact same mural, minus the gemstones, was displayed on a tapestry hanging in the castle ballroom back in Somerlund. It was the story of the great General, Sir Williamdale Bryon, slaying a dragon for the first time in an amazing show of bravery, but Baylor saw something altogether different. Instead of a brave hero he saw a knight full of fear, begging for his life. Baylor also saw conquest. A dragon’s conquest. His dragon’s conquest.

Baylor pulled the necklace from his shirt and held the diamond up, dangling the stone in the torchlight. Blue dots of reflected light danced over his face as he peered into the diamond, as if looking for his pet. He saw nothing but hundreds of tables of fruit and chalices of wine. He lowered the gem and rose from his seat, then slowly walked out the door. Once the chill smacked his cheeks he immediately fell to his knees next to the frozen Burt. There was no time to wait for the book, even if Jevon really did send his son to retrieve it. Then a second thought twisted his spine. What if he sent that son of his to send warning to the king? That meant he had even less time than he thought. He gripped the diamond tight now, closing his eyes and sucking in rapid, shallow breaths of cold air.

“I summon ye dragon, from the depths of the abyss, to come and do me bidding,” said Baylor.

The dwarf was now locked in a teeth-grinding smile, clutching the diamond with both his hands above his head. Baylor’s entire body was lit up in a bright crimson hue, the strongest point of light resonating from his cupped hands. Then Baylor's entire body tightened, and the top of the mountain quaked in a brilliant explosion of fire.

The great explosion lit the blizzard directly above the glowing dwarf into a million dancing fireflies, and blasted away the mountain’s apex to reveal Ambrosia’s chamber to be the true peak. Yet unlike an ordinary explosion, this one expanded, and then held its mass intact for several moments before sprouting wings, a tail, and a serpentine neck. From afar it seemed as though the mountain had given birth to a giant bird of fire.

Then, after circling the summit several times, the massive, winged fireball rolled down the great mountain with frightening speed, only to vanish moments before reaching the bottom. Baylor peered over the ledge and stared in awe.

Ignore the pain.

Baymar clung to the thought, in hopes that his body might obey. The makeshift bandages he wrapped over gashes in his forearms and chest were clouded red with blood. They defeated the griffins, but the fight left serious injuries in need of tending that only he could provide. It was the purpose he was brought along, yet he never imagined his services would be needed so early in the journey, or that it would be his fault.

Shomnath and Pall kept Rolo and Kala warm with blankets, while applying pressure their wounds with makeshift bandages as the cleric rummaged through his satchel. Rolo’s face and upper body was caked in dry blood, but between the few spots that weren’t covered his skin had gone pale white. Baymar knew he had little time left to save him. The giant’s eyes were rolled back and his skin felt cool to the touch.

Pall couldn’t pull his eyes from Kala, who hadn’t moved since he carried her from the beach and into the shade of the Evernight. After laying her down, it took the three of them to drag Rolo to her side. She had been fully unconscious, and that was twenty minutes ago.

“Please don’t let them die,” pleaded Shomnath.

The prince was on his knees cradling Rolo’s head. This was the most vulnerable the prince had ever seen the giant, and until today he honestly thought the man was unstoppable. He knew they would all have to face their mortality one day, but he took solace in one core belief. Shomnath always believed he, out of all his friends, would be the first to die. It was only logical, considering he always took the biggest risks and was the first to fight.

In a way the thought was just an emotional safety net, allowing him to be brave, although most times his bravery bordered recklessness. But now, staring down at his friend he could hardly call on that same courage. The fight with the griffins didn’t fill him with glee the way a close getaway usually did, with the lot of them running away into the sunset, laughing at the new stories they gained. This time, the adrenaline rush didn’t mask the effects of his wounds. The griffins slashed his unarmored arm several times, and the cuts burned. It was excruciating, and Rolo’s condition seemed to amplify the pain. For the first time in many years, the prince of Somerlund prayed to whatever god might be listening.

“Quiet,” Baymar said through clenched teeth, half ordering and half begging as his hand emerged from his bag. He was holding a long glass flask that was taller than the bag by twice. Without word, he dropped to his knees and waved the corked top at Shomnath, too weak to open it himself. On cue, Shomnath snatched the cork with such gusto it nearly whipped the flask from Baymar’s hands. In the background, Kala began to cough.

“She’s coming around,” announced Pall.

Baymar nodded in response. He knew from a brief inspection earlier that she wasn't as bad off as Rolo. His main concern for her was whether her mind would come out unscathed after being whipped unconscious so violently. No magic he knew could unscramble a brain. A brain, regardless of race, was just too complicated of an organ. Kala's awakening brought a bit of relief to Shomnath, but it quickly faded when he saw the concerned look on Baymar’s face.

Beads of sweat appeared across the cleric's brow from heavy concentration as he pushed on through his own anguish. He poured the blue liquid from the flask over Rolo’s face and wounds while whispering under his breath. Shomnath didn't recognize the language behind the incantation, but he didn’t care. He was hypnotized by the way the liquid magically washed away all the blood, along with the cuts it flowed from.

“You saved him,” said the prince.

“No, not yet. Surface wounds are the easiest,” answered Baymar. He paused from his chant and placed the flask to the side. “I still have to address the blood loss,” he said with much less confidence, which Shomnath sharply detected.

The cleric continued with his spell, only now he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and placed both palms onto Rolo’s chest. After several moments and so faint that Shomnath almost didn’t catch it, the same blue light that the cleric brought forth in Aga’s healing emitted from somewhere within the giant’s ribcage. The light pulsed very slowly, intensifying only slightly with each beat. Shomnath grew nervous and impatient, curious as to why the cleric didn’t just conjure out the light with a clap like earlier. Now it came slow and tedious, as though it drew every ounce of will from the old man.

Just as Shomnath began to word his frustration, the light suddenly intensified. His eyes widened as Rolo’s chest went transparent, bearing his organs as if his skin and ribcage had turned to glass. The light of life was pulsing with the giant's heart, intensifying in light as well as reaching out from the main arteries a little more with each contraction, until it eventually ran down his hands and legs.

With each beat, the sound of the pulsing also grew, until the forest around them was filled with the murmur of Rolo’s heart. This went on for a short while, constantly shifting tempos from a weak and choppy flutter to a loud, pounding fury. Although the big man’s mouth never moved, Shomnath thought he heard Rolo scream.

Then the healing light slowly faded away, along with the sound of the beating, and Baymar slumped back against a tree. Thoroughly fatigued, he poured a portion of what was left of the bottle over his head and wounds, before passing it to the prince urging him to do the same. Baymar blacked out into sleep just then, still sitting up against the tree. Shomnath looked at Pall, who returned his concerned gaze, but remained silent.

Nearly an hour passed before Baymar dreamily opened his eyes. As his wits came back to him he noticed Kala now fully awake sitting across from him. She’d awoken in time to witness the end of his session with Rolo. She sat there holding her ribs, unable to find the strength to ask what she desperately needed to know. She glanced over to the side, leading Baymar’s eyes to Rolo. The giant was still lying down, only now he was clean and his head was propped on a pillow of her bundled cloak.

“He will live,” whispered Baymar. The young Elvin girl's eyes filled with tears. Pall held her and gently guided her back down to rest by the fire.

“Ye did good, wizard,” said Pall.

“Cleric,” Rolo weakly grumbled, although without stirring, surprising them all. "He's a cleric now," the giant added, bringing them to a hearty, painful laugh.

"Well," Baymar said. "It would appear that I've been called out of retirement, so wizard, or cleric, both are appropriate."

"Idiot'll be appropriate, if ye wear that griffin feather hat again," said Pall, and they all broke into another round of painful laughter.

On the beach, just a short distance from the tree line, Shomnath heard the laughter and whispered his thanks to the gods. Though not particularly religious he was the first person to admit his good luck in life had to be more than mere coincidence.

He had been standing there watching Aga, once more reduced to a lonely hill by the shore. Only this time, the elemental didn’t pull its newly healed leg in like the other three. It was comical to see the single limb extending outward, and he could imagine someone mistaking it for a beached whale from a distance. That someone would get the surprise of their life if they attempted to salvage some of the blubber. The thought brought on a chuckle. He had to smile at how hasty he was to rush into the strange cave. He turned back to the wood grinning like a child fresh out of mischief.

“The sun’s setting, and I think we'd all agree to setting up camp to rest," announced Shomnath as he walked into the small grove. "The battleground is only a couple hours hike from hear, so we can continue in the morning," added the prince. Shomnath was extremely pleased with the group's lightened mood, but was shocked when Baymar stood in protest.

“Unfortunately, that's not an option. I have to get the séance going tonight,” said Baymar. After he spoke he wavered and grasped onto a tree, still obviously off balance.

“Don’t be ridiculous," laughed Shomnath. "You’ve more than proven yourself today. Besides, we all need the rest.”

“Proven myself?” scoffed Baymar. “I have lived twice your life boy, and proved myself before you were born. If we don't go tonight we waste a full day. I can only call Ambrosia in the mid of night, when the spirit realm is listening.”

Upon hearing those last words, Pall looked over his shoulder into the trees. The sun had already begun to set and it was quickly becoming dark. Shomnath paused in thought, but couldn’t argue Baymar’s point if he wanted to. The prince knew nothing of spirits aside from campfire stories. Nonetheless, they couldn't afford to lose another day.

“Then we go right now. Just the two of us,” agreed Shomnath, before turning to Pall. “You’ll wait here with these two, they need the rest most of all.”

“We can’t let ye…” Pall started to protest, but was cut short.

“Don’t worry my friend, I’ve explored this wood since my teen years, and I know it like the back of my hand. Trust me, most of the legends about this wood are nothing more than fairy tales, meant to keep children from wandering too far.”

“Most?” asked the dwarf, brow furrowed.

“Except the ones about people vanishing into thin air, those are true,” smiled Shomnath.

Pall wasn’t happy with the answer joke or not, but looking at Kala and Rolo’s present condition was all the convincing he needed. Rolo was awake, but still made no effort to rise, while Kala kept one arm cradled over her bruised ribs.

“All right, but don’t dilly dally,” said Pall. He cringed, hardly believing that the words came from his lips. Kala didn’t attempt to hide her smirk.

“If their conditions turn for the worse, have them drink this,” said Baymar, handing Pall two small vials that he pulled from his bottomless bag. They were filled with the same blue liquid the cleric had used earlier on Rolo. Pall hesitantly pocketed the vials, and gave Shomnath a helpless look. He was the only one who’d left the battle of the griffins unscathed, and felt more than a little guilty.

“We’ll be fine,” assured Shomnath as he started walking, motioning for Baymar to follow. “You just protect our friends!” he hollered.

“We should be back before the morn,” added Baymar.

“What do ye mean,
should be
?” asked the dwarf.

“I mean what it means," teased Baymar. "And keep watch for the spirits, they may be attracted to the smell of all the blood,” he added, then vanished into the woods behind the prince.

“Oh yeah?" called Pall. "I hope ye aint wearing any other stupid clothes, like a dragon skin belt, ye crazy wizard!” Pall shook his fist in the air, but his friends were already gone. Then, realizing darkness was creeping over the forest, the paranoid dwarf hurriedly searched for firewood, all the while looking over his shoulder for spirits.

Shomnath and Baymar found the ancient battleground after a couple of hours, just as Shomnath predicted, although the sun's light had long faded from the sky. One moment, the two of them were pushing through waves of prickly grass and thorny brush, and then the next moment they were in a dead zone, which aside from the random weed was void of any vegetation.

Nothing thrived in the area, whether bush or tree, and a backdrop of stars and the moon made up the ceiling of the barren alcove. The cleric noticed at once that the air here was thick with an underlying scent of sulfur. Although they were out in the middle of a forest, the smell triggered memories of his laboratory. Specifically, the memory of how his lab smelled after he worked on explosives.

Baymar sat to rest on a nearby stump as Shomnath became animated, much like a toddler explaining his toy room. The prince quickly walked to and fro narrating the ancient fight, each time pausing to sweep his torch out and aim a beaming smile at the cleric. He illuminated combinations of fallen tree, molten rock, skeletal remains and rusted armor with sweeps of his torch. It was a historical panoramic, recounting the story of a ferocious battle. The show climaxed when Shomnath brought light onto the skeletal remains of the dragon, which Baymar mistook for a group of sharp rocks.

This drew Baymar from his seat, now feeling nearly as giddy as Shomnath looked. Baymar practically floated towards the bones while the prince puffed his chest out with pride.

“I thought you’d like this,” said Shomnath.

“I have only read stories, but this, this is truly breathtaking,” Baymar said and he ran his fingers over the dragon’s cheekbone. “They were such magnificent creatures.”

The dragon bones were in excellent condition. From nose to tail, the skeleton stretched at least fifty yards long, yet it was the pose that struck Baymar as peculiar. Usually the remains of any slain animal would be on its side in a fetal or defensive state, but it seemed as though the beast simply sat down for a rest with its chin on its paws and never got back up.

“This is where I found the armor,” claimed Shomnath, snapping Baymar from his daydream. He was standing several yards from the dragon’s giant skull, next to an old rotted tree stump.

“Sir Williamdale’s remains were the only one's brought back to Somerlund for proper burial," said Shomnath. "I brought my father’s investigators here when I first discovered the area, and I can assure you that aside from observation and note taking, the area is still completely unbothered, with everything in its original place.”

Shomnath continued walking around, pointing here and there, boasting upon how intimately he knew the area and each detail, but Baymar was already ignoring him. The wizard had developed a talent for shutting out the world. Instead of listening to the proud history lesson, he sat down and immediately began pulling items out from his bag.