Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

Instantly Uric assessed the situation.  The guards were valiantly defending the entrance to the escape tunnel.  The enemy was just as determined to gain it.  How they knew where the tunnel was hinted at the depth of the treason. Uric guessed that the king had fled.  And if they were to have any hope for the future, the king must not be captured.

Uric turned his attention to the intruders.  The ceiling was too low to change into his real form and burn the lot of them, so instead, Uric recited the first verse of the spell that called lightning.  A fuzziness buzzed in the air.  Uric selected a target and unleashed a blue-white bolt that sizzled from his fingertip to metal armor.  The metal heated like an oven.  In a split second the man's blood boiled and he exploded.  Most of his nose and pieces of skin shot out through the open faceplate.

Still holding back a reservoir of energy, Uric selected a second target, then a third and fourth before the full potential of the spell was drained.  The remaining soldiers fell back, fear in their faces, their discipline shattered.

Rallied, the castle guards pressed their advantage and forced the insurgents into the kitchen.  Uric turned his attention to the battle sounds coming from the courtyard, confident that the king would escape.  He rushed through the halls to the main doors, anxious to join the king's troops outside.  He slid back the bolt, yanked open the right-hand door and charged onto the stoop.  Immediately he was seized by the titanic forces of Razgoth’s spell.   A magical sphere surrounded him, inside which time ceased.  And then, as time stopped, Uric’s body writhed under the magic, forced to revert to its true shape. Within minutes, instead of the robed sage, there stood a massive, gold-scaled dragon. For Uric, the world slowed to a timeless creep.  He could neither move, nor fight the power that gripped him. His thoughts ceased.  He became a gigantic reptilian statue.

The men in the courtyard froze in terror as the huge lizard formed in front of them.  Silence settled over the battlefield.

Barlon’s men regrouped first.  They fell on the king's troops relentlessly, driving them back into a corner where the last one died defending the castle.

The noise of battle wafted away.  Barlon looked around, anxious to claim the Kingdom.  One of his soldiers came out through the main doors, slipped gingerly past the frozen dragon blocking his way, and approached Barlon.

“My Lord,” he said now at attention, “the castle is ours.”

“And the king?”

Hesitation.  “Escaped.”

“You failed!”  Barren waved the subordinate away.  With the king alive, there would be trouble from the populace.  “Captain,” he called to the nearest officer.  “Take your brigade to scour the hills.  Any men you suspect are fleeing this castle kill them and return with their heads.  Hurry!”

The captain wheeled his horse, shouted to his men and within minutes they were gone.

“It won't matter,” whispered General Ecker from his horse beside Barlon. 

Barlon ignored him and glared at Uric. So Razgoth was right. The magic worked.  Still, it was hard not to feel a glimmer of fear with the dragon towering over them, and though trapped in time, hatred burned fiercely in those vertical pupils.  Barlon broke the stare, and turned to Razgoth.

“How do we get him to my castle?”

“The entire entryway stone must be raised with the dragon on it and the whole thing transported.  The moment Uric is removed from the circle, he will return to life.”

“You have made the preparations?”

Before the wizard could answer, a messenger in purple armor galloped into the courtyard, his horse's hooves reverberating hollowly as he crossed the plank drawbridge.

“My Lord,” said the messenger as he neared Barlon.

“Speak.”

“Lom sends word.  The prisoners are ready for travel.  All are accounted for.”

“Then begin the march.  I will follow soon.”

Barlon turned back to Razgoth, but the middle-aged wizard was already directing a massive frame of timbers and pulleys up to the doorstep.   Teams of heavy draft horses strained to pull the monstrous contraption to the door.  More teams waited their turn in harness. Men with huge, stone cutting tools joined the work site.

Barlon said to General Ecker.  “The castle is yours.  Enjoy it.  Send two messengers a day so I know how you fare.  I will send word for you to join me when we are ready to attack the West.”

The gray haired veteran smiled.  “Thank you.  I think I will enjoy a castle of my own.”

Barlon shouted to Razgoth, trying to be heard over the din of iron biting stone.  “See you at the castle.  I'm returning with Lom and his knights.”

“Yes, yes,” said Razgoth, waving Barlon off without turning.  “I'll be there soon enough.”

“Sire,” came a call from the kitchen entrance.

Barlon saw Sir Jarlz walking toward him.  Instinctively Barlon's hand was on his sword.  He steeled himself, not ready to trust in magic.

“My Lord,” said Sir Jarlz.  “Wait.  I'll ride with you.”

Within minutes, Jarlz was mounted on an impressive chestnut warhorse, and when the conquerors headed back to the Mountain Castle, Sir Jarlz rode with them.

Before long they caught up with Lom's prison column.  The 75 knights in their purple armor rode guard on half a dozen ox-drawn wagons.  Barlon eagerly eyed the craftsmen through the bars of the stout wagons.  A good day, he thought.  Even the family members had been captured.  So much easier to deal with the craftsmen when he could threaten their families.  And the troops hadn’t gotten out of hand.  The rape and slaughter of innocents never entered his mind.

Chapter 18

D
alphnia peered around the trunk of an aspen toward the dark opening to Egog’s lair.  She was tall and wiry. Her long brown hair floated in a gentle breeze like a halo around her head.  She licked her sensuous lips and sighed.  It was late and still there was no sign of the man who was supposed to be in that cave. 

Maybe the trees were wrong.  Maybe there was no one.  And yet trees did not make up stories.  Knowing Dalphnia sought a new mate the aspens had sent word from one tree to another.  The leaves whispered of a young traveler who had entered the beast’s cave with a sword of power and magical armor.  Quickly that message reached Dalphnia’s forest. She loved her forest and the trees loved her. They convinced Dalphnia to leave the safety of her forest and journey to the aspen grove.  She had been without a husband for some time and thoughts of a suitable candidate made her heart seethe with dreams of a new romance, her kind of romance. 

Finally, under the twinkling stars, Dalphnia saw a hunched form crawl from the cave, struggling to put one hand in front of the other.  Her strange, brown eyes could see as well during the darkest night as they could in broad daylight and as she watched, the figure stopped.

For a long moment, she waited.  The air sighed a funeral dirge.  Dalphnia sprang forward, like a lioness after an antelope.  In an instant she was beside the fallen figure.  If this man could survive a fight with the monster in that cave, then surely he was intended to be her next husband.

She knelt beside him and touched his silvery armor.  It resonated with a magic power that brought back memories of great wizards, of a past she had nearly forgotten. Even as she watched, the punctures in the armor healed.  No one alive could make such armor and Dalphnia wondered how this man came to have it. 

Gently she rolled him over.  He groaned softly.  Good, she thought, he’s alive.  Now, if I can only get him back to my wood, I can save him.  And he's mine!  She slid one hand under his head and the other under his legs.  Expecting the armor to be heavy, she braced herself, and then heaved upward, practically leaping off the ground.  The armor was as light as a feather, and though the man was heavily muscled, she lifted him easily.  Her lithe frame held a magical strength that was a part of who she was, a magic of her own.

“Hold on precious man,” she whispered and started across the meadow, vaulting the stream and dashing back through the aspens.  “It won't take long and I'll have you home.”

Instead of following the road, Dalphnia turned between the rolling hills into the deepest forest.  She ran like a deer, as if unburdened, following animal trails through the forest.  A few times the man in her arms sighed and twisted weakly against her grip.

Within a half hour they reached the huge ancient oak that held her tree house. A spiral staircase of intertwining roots and limbs twisted one over the other around the trunk.  She carried the man up the stairs into the main room, which was nothing more than a myriad of intertwined limbs.  The roof was a layer of leaves overlapped so tightly no rain could enter.  She crossed the main room and went into a side room.  Here she laid her precious burden on a bed formed by more thick branches with a fluffy leaf mattress.

It took her a few minutes to remove the armor.  She tossed it on the floor.  Now she examined the wounds left by Egog’s slimy, poisonous teeth.  She knew it was the poison that was killing Gant, not the actual punctures.

Dalphnia dashed back down the staircase, and ran through her garden until she found the herbs and roots she needed: crown root, sage flower, heart leaf, link wort, and feather thorn.  Some were to counteract the poison.  Some were for her own special potion, the one that captured the hearts of her husbands.  Some of her husbands had to be tricked into drinking the potion.  Others had been oh so willing.  This time there would be no resistance and once the potion did the initial work, her own hypnotic talents would hold this man to her for a lifetime; his lifetime that is.  Yes, she would save this man, save him for herself.

As soon as she’d collected everything she needed, she dashed back up into the tree house.  A splash of water, some magical fire to heat the brew, and then to his bedside where she forced the dark liquid down his throat.  He gagged and tried to push her away but she was too strong.

She studied his youthful face.  He was beautiful.  Finally she had a new companion, her sixth husband.  She leaned over and gently kissed his forehead.  A smile crossed her face.  She backed up a step and sat on the bent limb that served as a chair.

Now she only had to wait.  By morning, he would wake up.  He would be hurting but the poison would be neutralized and the minute he woke and saw Dalphnia sitting there, his heart would belong to her. Maybe he would live a hundred years with her, others had.  She looked forward to a future filled with love.

Chapter 19

B
arlon paced around his chambers, his black mane sticking out wildly in all directions.  Crisp fall winds cried at the shuttered windows, flapping the heavy tapestries hung to keep out the cold.  Papers and maps cluttered the single large table; battle plans that went unused.  The stools around the table were empty except for one.  Razgoth sat pensively scratching the light colored stubble on his chin, listening to the thump of Barlon’s heavy boots on the oak planking.  The Mountain Lord, as Barlon demanded to be called, paused at the end of each leg, looked at the wizard, hesitated, and then resumed his march.

Things had gone smoothly except for the king’s escape. Now, everything hinged on one insignificant blacksmith who refused to forge the links for the amulet’s necklace chain. Without the chain, they could not make the medallion and without the medallion Barlon could not summon Varg.  Without the demon prince, Barlon could do nothing. Despite torturing the fool and his wife, despite the whip and hot irons, despite Barlon’s best efforts to
make
him do it, he refused.  Meanwhile the Alliance of Western Kingdoms pompously thumbed their noses at the insignificant Mountain King. Barlon would show them.

Time was slipping away.  Even with the medallion, Varg could only be summoned on a night of darkness; when both moons were missing from the sky.  If Barlon wasn’t ready before the next such night, he would have to wait almost two years.

Enough was enough.  He stopped pacing.  Razgoth looked up.

“My smith will make the necklace chain,” said Barlon.

“He's not as good.”

“Why do we need a blacksmith to make the chain anyway?  Why not the jeweler?”

“This is no flimsy gold chain to dazzle the ladies.  This needs to be strong enough to withstand the pressures that the magic will impose.  It must be seamless with hefty links.  It’ll take a talented blacksmith.  Yours isn’t as good as the smith from Netherdorf.”

“Good enough.  The chain lends little to the magic.”

“But any weak link may give Varg an escape point.”

“I'll take the chance.”

“As you wish,” said Razgoth, then muttered, “We
all
take the risk.”

“See to it.”

“And the smith from Netherdorf?”

“Kill him.”

Razgoth left the room and Barlon walked to the table.  He rearranged the maps, examined his strategy and contemplated the defeat of those who had shamed him in the past.  It seemed like only yesterday that he had been the commander of the former Mountain King’s troops.  That king, Micus, had assigned him the mission of capturing the western slopes from the tribesmen who swore allegiance to the Western Kings.  It had been a hard-fought campaign and the troops under Barlon’s superior guidance were on the verge of winning.

Victory!  That’s what should have happened.  Instead, on the verge of glory, based only on reports that the Western Kings were massing their armies to counterattack, weak-willed King Micus gave up. Literally he begged the Western Kings for peace.  The fool was replaced by Governor Sabbius and Barlon was discharged from service in disgrace. It was humiliating.  The memory burned in his heart.  Barlon could not allow his reputation to remain soiled.  So Barlon had secretly gathered support from disenchanted military leaders and had eliminated the puppet governor. 

Barlon had himself installed as the new king and now he controlled the Mountain Kingdom.  Still, he knew he could have won that day,
knew
it.  He’d been betrayed by a cowardly king. Barlon would never trust anyone again.  Let others beware.

#

Razgoth went immediately to the smithy to fetch Barlon’s blacksmith.  He didn’t like it.  Barlon took Varg much too lightly, and now he wanted to have a lesser man fashion the necklace chain.  It invited disaster.  He’d take care of the Netherdorf smith later.  Right now, there were more important things.

Razgoth led Barlon’s smith down to the castle dungeon.  In the first basement, a special forge and workshop had been constructed.  On one side was a huge room whose roof was a massive set of doors that opened up into the courtyard.  In that room sat Uric’s motionless statue trapped in a magic sphere where time stood still. The great dragon’s head gazed out through glassy eyes into the workshop where Razgoth led the blacksmith.

Otherwise the place was empty.  On the walls sticks with magic light spells cast on them bathed the workshop in a brilliant glare.  On the tables lay gems and lumps of precious metals ready for final assembly.  The preparations for the amulet had been completed as far as possible without the chain.  The jeweler, goldsmith and other craftsmen had been more than helpful.  Now Razgoth showed the blacksmith his task.  The thick-armed man looked up once at the massive dragon’s head, gulped back his fear, and set to work.

Slowly, the chains took shape.  Here and there, Razgoth made suggestions, minor improvements, not based on knowledge of the forge, but on his knowledge of the magical requirements that would pose unusual strains on these chains.

#

Two days later, the chains were ready and the other craftsmen assembled.  Barlon met Razgoth in the dungeon ready to complete the amulet.

“Please,” Razgoth said to Barlon, “you must stand around the corner, out of Uric’s sight.  I will create an illusion that looks exactly like you to fool him. Uric must not see two images or he will realize that he’s being tricked.”

“But I won't be able to see.”

“There'll be nothing to see if you do not.”

“Very well,” said the Mountain King and stepped back out of sight.

Razgoth glared at his team.  “Ready?”

They nodded.  None spoke.  Fear held their tongues.

“Make no mistakes,” warned the wizard, and turned toward the shimmering sphere that held Uric captive in stasis.

Razgoth waved his hands, sprinkled some dust and quoted the verse for the spell that could create an illusion of life.  The falling dust particles stopped in midair, congealing into a life-like Barlon Gorth. He followed that with another spell that would allow the illusion to speak when the time came. 

Now, Razgoth's face darkened, carefully he quoted the verse and gestures that controlled time.  Ever so slowly he evoked a weak spot in the sphere surrounding Uric.  The weakness grew until it opened a hole exposing Uric’s head.  Razgoth allowed the weakness to spread back along the dragon’s neck until breath again flared Uric’s nostrils.

“You may surrender,” said the illusion. “We will not harm you.”

In Uric’s mind he was still on the castle steps with the battle for Netherdorf Castle raging in front of him.  The images that remained in his mind were of his enemy killing King Tirmus’ troops.  Before Uric could detect the illusion, a torrent of fire surged from Uric’s mouth destroying the image of Barlon Gorth.  Hotter than any mortal forge, the rushing flames flew past the illusion and struck the waiting metals on the stone table.  The instant the metals softened, Razgoth reversed his incantation and the sphere of timelessness reformed around Uric.  Once again time ceased for the dragon.

Razgoth turned away from Uric.  The craftsmen were busy making the amulet.  Fear slowed them and their fingers shook.

“Faster idiots.  This trick will only work once. The amulet must be complete before the metals cool.”

To speed them Razgoth rattled off a simple verse and tiny sparks appeared to tickle the hesitant craftsmen. They worked feverishly, disregarding the intense heat that burned careless fingers.  Soon the gleaming product of their labors lay cooling on the blackened stone table.

It was large, half the size of a kitchen plate, and wrought with such intricate detail that it seemed alive.  At the center was an ugly, semi-human caricature, four armed with claws instead of hands, and a face that swept upward and backward from the cheekbones into what seemed like miniature wings for ears.  Around this miniature metallic beast was a twisting, interwoven myriad of inseparable, golden metal threads.  Jewels encircled the rim, and they too seemed to be connected magically to the net of metal threads.  The amulet seemed to be alive and the pattern ever-changing.  The monster inside the woven net appeared to rip away at the mesh while the threads constantly reformed to block escape.  And yet, if you looked away from the amulet and then looked back nothing had changed.

Barlon came out of his hiding place and stood beside his wizard.  Side-by-side they admired the handiwork.

“Guards,” commanded Barlon. “Take them back to their cells.”

“But you said we'd go free,” managed the jeweler before he was knocked to the ground.

“First we must see if your work was successful.”

Barlon laughed as they dragged the helpless craftsmen from the workshop.  His plan was unfolding perfectly.  Doomsday would soon be upon his enemies.

“And now we are ready to summon Varg,” said Barlon.

Razgoth gave him a sour look.  “I have to complete the magic of the amulet.  Ten days, maybe more.  Then we must wait for the Night of Darkness.”

“Yes, I know.” Furrows of concentration wrinkled Barlon's forehead.  “I'll be in the war room.”

Barlon left the wizard to his task, hating delay, yet happy to be close to action again.  Soon they would summon Varg and his invincible army would march.  The three Western Kingdoms were doomed.