Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga) (29 page)

The eclipse was short lived as in the midst of Aga's leap the dragon collided with the elemental, causing a magnificent explosion of fire and stone. The super-charged dragon blasted into the elemental with the force of a hundred thousand cannon balls and the heat of all the hells. Aga’s head burst apart, raining boulders in every direction, and Aga’s body was enveloped in such intense dragon fire that it crystallized into a floating island of obsidian, but even so, it was not enough to stop the momentum built up by the elemental's jump.

The dragon vaporized, and didn't get another chance to be recalled. It was defeated, and therefore sent back into its gemstone just before an island of hot, black glass and stone preceded to pummel down over its master and the diamond.

The defeat of his dragon hit Baylor with such force that he nearly didn't have the wits to understand what was happening, and barely let out a scream before he was crushed.

King Shomnor galloped alongside Colonel Jacob on his silver mare, followed by over a thousand of Somerlund's soldiers. They pushed their horses hard through the woods, only to reach the battle well after the magnificent collision between Aga and the dragon. The scene that they found waiting in the smoldering aftermath left the king speechless. After the impact, the black cloud of obsidian fell to the earth and cracked open into five, towering peaks.

The giant shards all leaned towards Somerlund, which only amplified their eerie feel. The new, small mountain range lined up in a crescent, so that from the highest tower in the city it looked as though Somerlund might have emerged from a giant, black egg. From a distance, King Shomnor thought it was beautiful, but the beauty was lost once he was face to face with the ugliness waiting at the foot of the glass spectacle.

Beneath the shards, the forest opened up to an ashen wasteland. The trees that were left were reduced to smoldering stumps of cinder, leaking the thick grey smoke that hung in the air throughout the area. As the soldiers marched onward, every few seconds a slight breeze would clear enough of the smoke for them to see that the ground was littered with death. Once there, the soldiers drudged on slowly, with their weapons drawn in fear of what might still be looming in the smoke.

Although instead of a dragon, all they encountered was the survivors from General Stark’s battalion. They were huddled against a great tree that had been cracked in half, some silent, some delusional with shock. There were only eight in the huddle. They were alive, but not a single one had escaped injury. The healthiest of these soldiers lost a hand, and he was using his good hand to assist his brothers.

A flock of healers that came with the king's entourage swarmed over them, while Colonel Jacob sent a large contingent of his men to spread out and smite any lingering flames as well as search for any other survivors. Another group of scouts were soon sent, with great apprehension, to ride for Loyola and investigate the dwarves dwelling.

In short time the search for life proved fruitless, so instead they began to round up the slain soldiers. It was the first step in the tedious task of burying them in a mass grave. The colonel didn’t want to bury the veterans so disgracefully, but it was on the king’s orders.

“We can have a mass funeral later, if that pleases everyone,” announced the king.

Under normal circumstances the fallen soldiers would receive proper funerals in the city amongst their respective families and church. But today the number of dead didn’t fall within the parameters of normal, and neither did the condition of the bodies. While the king respected that a funeral was a soldier’s right, he strongly felt that displaying their mutilated bodies would’ve dealt more damage than healing. Even a proper mass funeral would have to be planned much later in the future, when the grounds became more bearable. The king knew the smell of war, how it would not clear for weeks, and the sour stench of burning flesh and horsehide clung fast to the forest here, and it invaded the nostrils.

The rescue work went on for hours, as King Shomnor, repulsed by the odor, remained at the edge of the site watching the colonel bark out commands. He had no desire to participate in the work, until an excited group of men caught his attention.

They shuffled towards the king’s tent carrying a stretcher that was surrounded by healers busy at work. Their body language spoke volumes of the importance of their cargo. In between the hustling healers, the king caught a glint of light that reflected off the armor clad body lying on the stretcher and he became excited. It was a body in golden armor, and before anyone announced the discovery the king was already down from his saddle, briskly making his way to the stretcher.

The king pushed aside three of the healers that were tending to the general with one rough shove, frantic to reach his side. Across the stretcher was another three healers trying to free Stark from his armor. Sir Williamdale’s armor looked much the same as it did when it was first discovered by Shomnath in the Evernight. Blood stained, battered, but gleaming beautifully.

“What have you done to yourself this time Dugan?” said Shomnor.

If the general felt the humor he didn’t, or couldn’t, show any sign of acknowledgement. At the moment the only movement from him was in his eyes, which glared at Shomnor. The king inspected his commander’s body and immediately noticed that his left arm, the only arm not covered by the magnificent armor, was missing from just beneath the shoulder. The healers had wrapped the wound as tight as they could, but the bandages were already soaked through with blood. Shomnor would not let his pain show. He swallowed hard and bent over to whisper in his old friend’s ear.

“You will be celebrated, my friend," said the king. "My last friend.”

Again, there was no response, but this time the general turned his head away, and simply shut his eyes.

“You keep him alive,” growled the king. When he stepped back from the stretcher the healers went right back to work on the general like pidgins on crumbs. Colonel Jacob stood fast by the king.

“What’s left to do?” asked the king.

“Not much," admitted the colonel. Most of the survivors aren’t much better off than the general. The only thing we’ve confirmed from their rambling is that they were locked in battle with a demon.”

“Interesting," said Shomnor, his arms spread out wide. "But where is this demon now? If it did all of this, where has it run off to?”

“I don’t know your highness, and neither do any of the survivors. One soldier said the monster bested the battalion handily, and as it was about to finish them off it simply flew away."

"Flew away?" said Shomnor.

"Yes, and then there was an explosion, before a thunderous quake,” said colonel Jacob.

Shomnor lifted a brow to the colonel, not satisfied with the answer. He wanted to hear that he was right about the dwarves.

“Yes, yes, I already know about the explosion," smirked Shomnor. "Everyone from here to the giant’s kingdom heard the blasted explosion," he added.

"Yes, your highness."

"So how can they not know more than we?” Shomnor looked out at the carnage. “There must be someone who knows what went on here.”

“I’ll continue to question the soldiers as they are healed, your highness,” Colonel Jacob offered.

“That’s not good enough,” said Shomnor. “We’re wasting precious time. I don’t care about the soldiers, I just want the bloody diamond. After the bodies are buried I want every last man searching for the stone.”

“With all due respect your highness, we should be heading back to defend the city.”

“Due respect bids me your silent obedience, colonel,” said the king with finality as he pointed at the mounting pile of bodies. “I want whatever is capable of doing this, and I have a feeling that it might still be nearby.”

“Yes, your highness.” It was all the colonel could say, before turning to give the new directive to his men.

Then, as the colonel went on with his work, a small voice broke through the menagerie.

“My king! My king!” called the voice.

Shomnor scanned the area to find found Londo hurrying towards him, wearing an expression the king had learned to read well over the years. The expression said,
I need to tell you something, and not only can't it wait, but I will most assuredly interrupt anything you might be doing
.

“What of Berwyn?” Shomnor asked, beating his loyal aid to the punch.

“Nothing, sire. Nothing at all is left of the town,” said his personal guard. "It has been razed.

Shomnor whispered a curse to the gods, but wasn’t emotionally devastated by the news. Berwyn wasn’t one of his moneymakers. No real taxes lost there.

“And the dwarven stronghold?”

“We haven’t gotten word from our scouts yet," admitted Londo. "But no good news is expected.”

“Then why do you bother me?” snapped the king.

“We found more survivors by the rubble, some of them badly injured.”

“And?”

“And, your highness,” Londo continued. “Your son is among them.”

Londo didn’t wait for a reaction, he simply turned and lead the way. He walked with his chest out and his chin held high, happy to be the only bearer of good news on this horrid day.

King Shomnor was forced to follow on foot. The horses were so freaked from the smell of burning flesh in the air, that they had to be tethered. This prompted eight royal guards to surround the king, positioning into a tight formation. They cocooned him with four men to his front and four to his rear, followed by sixteen more. The king didn’t care for the crowd, but the convoy was protocol in hostile environments, demon or no demon.

During the stroll, the guards formed so tightly against him that if he stopped walking he would be whisked away at the mercy of his human bubble. The king’s only view was of the soldiers in front of him, leaving him clueless for much of the hike, but from looking up through the burnt and broken remaining Brownstone trees he could tell that they were nearing “the black forest.” It was the name that the soldiers gave to the giant shards of obsidian.

The king decided it was an apt name, because the nearer to the dark, glass towers that they got, the more the shine faded from everyone’s armor, as if the obsidian towers were drinking light from the the sky. Even the jewels on his rings lost their luster here. When the guards finally stopped, they were covered in the eerie luminescence that was cast down from the tall shards. Although they were nearly black in shade, the hue given off was a dark, sickly green. He felt like they were walking into a strange, organic cathedral.

Without a word, the soldiers spread apart their formation into two flanking rows beside the king, leaving him a wide path to a surprising view. Baymar was down on his knees several paces away. A smirk slashed across Shomnor’s mouth as he walked forward, searching for a witty remark for his old friend, but his smile vanished when he got close enough to see the four bodies lined up before the cleric.

Shoulder to shoulder, Rolo, Kala, Pall, and Shomnath lay with their feet pointed away from Baymar, cast from neck to feet in iridescent cloth. They were bundled snuggly, with their hands crossed at their chests. It looked as though Baymar received aid from a giant spider.

The king dropped to his knees beside Baymar.

“I should have known his friends would get him into trouble," he said. "Now look at them. Will they live?”

The cleric remained submerged in his meditation, and didn't respond.

“Can you hear me Baymar?” said Shomnor.

Again, no answer.

“Well, if you can hear me, I don’t care if you can’t save the others," Shomnor said. "I want you to stop wasting your power on them, and just make sure my son is okay. Please. He is the prince, after all. Do you hear me Baymar?”

If Baymar was listening, he didn't acknowledge it.

“All these years, and you still refuse to speak to me?” Shomnor said, and then he rose to his feet and glared down at Baymar.

“She’s dead!" screamed Shomnor. "You lost a sister! Well I lost my wife! She was my everything! Do you hear me?”

Again, silence.

When the king felt the eyes of the colonel and his men, he regained his composure the best he could, and then stomped away. The king’s guard scrambled ridiculously after him, trying to catch up and get into proper formation.

“Londo,” the king called back, just before starting the trek back to his tent.

"Yes, your highness?" said Londo.

“Stay here, and wait on Lord Baymar."

"Lord Baymar?" said Londo.

"Yes. Get my brother-in-law anything he needs,” said the king.

“He’s awake, your highness.”

Of all the words Shomnath expected to hear when he got to heaven, those were not at the top of the list.

To begin with, in his heaven he assumed there wouldn’t be kings, servants, or any type of hierarchy for that matter. Just a lot of free spirits, with nothing better to do than enjoy a good laugh about how ridiculously serious everyone had taken their lives, when all the while they should have been busy cherishing their time with one another.

“Good. Just in time to enjoy the victory.”

Now he was absolutely sure this wasn’t heaven. He didn’t think the people in charge of running the establishment would admit his father. He thought he heard the word victory, and then pondered whether this might actually be a dream.

“A most excellent victory indeed, my king.” No. That kind of ass kissing only happened in his reality.

Shomnath opened his eyes, but stayed still, staring at the intricate folds in the red and gold curtains hanging across the room. The curtains were cracked open, letting in just enough light to make his head pound. He recognized the window immediately, as it was his. All of what had transpired in the forest ended in haze. One moment Aga was about to stomp down on Baymar, and then the next moment he was back in the luxurious comfort of his bedroom. I’d rather be dead, he thought.

He did his best to ignore the two shadowy figures at the foot of his bed. Shomnath recognized one of the voices. It was his father. His voice was tuned specifically for pulling the nerves running down the prince’s back, regardless of the words being spoken.

Even from the corner of his eye, he knew that the ridiculously shiny, plush attired person next to the king could only be Archbishop Alexander, or the royal jester as Shomnath liked to call him. It wasn’t because he felt Alexander’s job was to entertain the king, but rather because he always dressed like a royal clown. The costumes are part of what gave Shomnath a bad taste for religion early in his life, until he was traveled enough to see that not all religious leaders paraded around looking like porcelain peacocks. Still, he couldn't understand why appearance would be so important to a god. He finally concluded that the costumes were probably a matter of Alexander’s own issues, rather than anything else.

“Where are my friends?” Shomnath said, trying hard not to face his father.

It had been this way between he and his father for years, since Shomnath turned twelve, when the king first tried to force Shomnath into taking over the throne. His father was fixated on the idea of retiring from his duties, but Shomnath was adamant against the idea, and the argument became heated.

Shomnath could match his father’s temper with his tongue, and did just that, mouthing off until the king struck him down hard with the butt of his scepter. His mother wouldn't stand for it and rushed to her boy’s defense, but the king repeated the same blow to her, striking her on her temple and sending her down in a heap. The queen went down at a bad angle, violently cracking her forehead against the steps to the throne, and she died then and there.

Shomnor was lost in madness, and banished Shomnath from the city for a month, forbidding him from even attending his mother’s funeral. “Shame births blame,” his mother used to say, and true to fashion Shomnor would forever blame Shomnath for his wife’s death.

Shomnath took to the forest, scared, angry, and alone. He could have traversed the surrounding villages, demanding shelter from his small folk, after all he was the prince, but at the time he was too young to understand that power, and commanding was never a natural behavior for him. To add to difficulties, the month that he was locked out of the castle was the first time that he’d ever been without the help of servants. It was terrible, but only at first, because it was during this time that he met Pall and Kala.

“I asked about my friends,” said Shomnath.

“Well, he doesn’t seem very happy to see us, does he Alexander? You'd think he would be grateful, considering the trouble he was in when I arrived,” said his father.

“No, he doesn’t seem very happy at all your highness,” replied the Archbishop.

“Maybe he’d be happier if the battle was lost? Maybe if I’d left him to die in the forest?”

"It would have been a tragedy, your highness."

“I don’t believe you," said Shomnath. "You’re lying.”

“Oh no?" laughed his father. "Look around boy. You’re back in your bed. How do you suppose that you got here?”

Shomnath scooted to the top of his bed, until his back was propped against his headboard. He couldn’t explain how he’d ended up back in the castle, but it was equally difficult to accept what his father was saying. He was wearing his politician grin. The citizens might be fooled in believing in his sincerity, but Shomnath knew better.

“Where are my friends?” he asked again, although this time with more force, and his father's smile faded.

“They’re alive," he said. "Aren’t they Alexander?”

“Yes my lord.”

“And it's quite remarkable how quickly the elf and the dwarf healed. If they were human,” pondered the king.

“I’m sure the outcome would have been quite different your highness," answered Alexander.

The only thing worse than being spoken about in the third person, was being patronized in the third person. Although it was nice to know that his friends were still alive. Still, Shomnath knew that his father was hiding something.

“What about Rolo?” said Shomnath.

“Ah yes. Your… brute. He was in worse shape than the others,” his father said, and nearly sincerely.

“And?” Shomnath was finally losing his patience.

“And… he will survive. Although…” Shomnor looked up into space, as though having difficulty with his memory. “Let’s just say he hasn’t come around yet. I afforded him one of my healers to monitor his condition.”

“Afforded,” repeated Shomnath. He felt flushed with anger, hardly able to believe that he shared blood with this man. Shomnath wasn’t overly worried about Baymar. After all that he’d seen from the older man in their short time together, he assumed the crafty wizard found his way well out of harm’s reach.

The aching in Shomnath's skull was beginning to lessen now, and he was tired of sitting prisoner to his bed. If nothing else, if he could get to his feet then he could at least turn away from his father. Shomnath slid his legs off the side of his mattress then, and strained to sit upright on his own. His head swooned, and although the tips of his toes were grazing the floor, the floor surface seemed so far from him. Then, like a boat from dock, he gently shoved off from the bed.

Once his feet were firmly planted onto the cold, stone floor, he noticed a slight rumbling. Then, as his senses began to clear, he realized that the whole castle was gently vibrating. Images of a giant, angry earth elemental put him on the defense, but his father chuckled.

“Do you hear them?” said his father.

Shomnath heard him, but didn’t understand.

“They cheer for you,” his father said, and the king's voice echoed through the chamber, as well as Shomnath's mind.

Blank faced, Shomnath shifted all his weight onto his legs, leaving his bed and launching into his first few wobbly steps towards his window.

“They cheer for the king,” his father said.

One. Two. After three cautious steps Shomnath was at the window, gripping fistfuls of curtain. He whipped the drapes apart in one jerk, and the iron rings slid down the curtain rod fluidly as rays of sunlight fell into the room. The rings slithering down the curtain rod sang like the sheathing of a giant sword. It may as well have been a sword aimed for the prince's gut, for his stomach twisted into a tight knot from the sight that waited behind the curtain.

Several stories below, and extending out into the extremities of the city, were an ocean of Somerlund’s citizens engaged in deep festivity. The sun forced Shomnath to cup a hand above his eyes in order to focus, just in time to see the ripple effect opening his window had caused. Whispers started like a rogue wind, billowing through the crowd and displayed by waves of nodding heads and pointing fingers.

“It’s him,” whispered the wind.

In no time at all, thousands of faces gazed up at the south tower's window. Every citizen of Somerlund knew that it was the window to Shomnath’s room, and the pattern of look, point, and whisper, repeated over and over, until the entire crowd seemed to be looking up at him.

For a brief moment the whispers faded into silence, and then the castle was rocked by cheer.

“All hail the king!" they cheered madly. "All hail King Shomnath!”

Shomnath staggered back a step from the window, shocked by the crowd. They were cheering for him. Why were they calling him the king? Women, children, even elderly folks strutting canes, everyone filled the streets of Somerlund locked in a frenzy of celebration.

Shomnath snatched the curtain and whipped them closed. His hands were shaking. He stood there and absorbed the applause for a few moments, incase he might have been mistaken about the whole ordeal, before turning to face his father. He wasn’t mistaken about the people’s words, which were still going on outside, and his father's smile was deep and true. Alexander had cowered to the entrance of the room, suddenly eager to leave, and for the first time Shomnath noticed that Londo had been standing in the doorway.

“The victory has forged your destiny,” said his father.

“What do you mean?” said Shomnath.

“They cheer for Shomnath," he answered. "The mighty dragon slayer.”

“No.”

“They cheer for the new king.”

“No.”

“They cheer for Somerlund!”

“But I didn’t slay the dragon!” Shomnath said. Shomnath stumbled back to his bed, but the solace of the mattress was no longer there. He tried standing again, but gave up the effort and exhaled a long, tired breath.

“It’s already written, King Shomnath, that you did just that,” said his father, and then Shomnor turned for the door, walking tall in triumph. The bishop was already gone.

“I won’t let you shape history with lies!” called Shomnath.

This made the king pause for a moment.

“If you want to change history, go right ahead and do so. It is a king's right after all,” he laughed.

Once his father disappeared into the hallway, Londo stepped into his room and shut the door.

Shomnath’s world was lost to him. He felt utterly broken, and for a moment he thought he knew how Horace felt when Baylor shattered the Archmage's frozen body. He felt frozen now. Frozen in time. He looked around his room for comfort, but his eyes kept ending on his new security guard, Londo.

He wanted to lash out at his father’s crony at first, but Londo’s eyes told a story of pity that he didn’t expect, an understanding developed from taking the king’s boot for so long.

“Is it necessary for you to stay in my room?” Shomnath said.

“Don’t make this hard, my prince. You know that I'm following your father's orders. He's instructed me to shadow you, and so I must, regardless of what room you’re in.”

Shomnath knew the inevitable answer, but thought he might at least try to play nice. Unfortunately for Londo, it was common knowledge among the castle’s servants that the stoic soldier had one blazing weakness, the kind that came in a bottle, and no one in the castle knew more secrets than Shomnath.

“Alright, I won’t give you a hard time. But... since you’re here, can you help me out with something?”

“Help?” said Londo. “Help with what?”

“For starters, you can fill me in on everything I’ve missed so far, starting with my friends.”

Londo loosened slightly, but stood resolute. Scenarios ran through his mind as he contemplated what information the king wouldn't want shared with his son.

“I promise, I won’t give you any problems,” Shomnath added, and this time the prince flashed him an innocent smile.

“That isn't everything," said Londo. "You're tricking me. What else do you want?”

Shomnath smiled and tilted his head to the side, mimicking a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

“You’re to fast for me Londo," laughed Shomnath, and he slapped his leg. "You’re right. There is something else I want.”

“And that is, my prince?” Londo said cautiously.

“Well, I’m happy to hear my friends are okay, and now I’m in the mood to celebrate!”

Celebrate? Londo said, and Shomnath noticed Londo's left hand shake.

“You're too weak to leave your room, my prince.” Londo's halfhearted excuse told Shomnath everything he needed to know.

“Oh, I don’t want to leave this room," laughed Shomnath. "We have everything we need here, in my armoire.”

Londo was already focused on the far corner of the room, where the large, dark armoire seemed to be looking back at him. He didn’t realize that the prince slipped the word “we” into the situation.

“In the armoire?” Londo whispered.

“I have a stash of cherry cactus stash in there," smiled Shomnath.

“Ch-cherry cactus?” Londo began to shuffle ever so slightly from side to side.

"I've never even seen the stuff before," exclaimed the soldier.