Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (32 page)

Finally it was Bazdentanfel who spoke.  “I will not help.  I would rather aid Varg and his demons.  I lost two sons to men and my father died at the hands of the demented mage Amodeus, Slayer of Dragons.  I said I would never return to their world and I will not, unless it is to seek revenge.”

Others murmured agreement.  Uric knew that within minutes all would be lost; that none would come. “It is true, many of us have reason to hate humans.  I, too, have lost ancestors at their hands.  Yet there are many dragon friends among them.  Many of them cherish things of beauty as we do.  And love binds them in its purest forms, as we too love.  Can we let them die?  Are there none amongst them worth saving?  And what of the elves?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the black dragon, rising.  “They have tormented and hated our kind for eons.  Now they get their just reward.”

“Wait,” shouted Uric.  The assemblage stopped, some halfway up.   “Think what you are doing.  All life will die!  Are we as callous as the worst men?”

A faint murmur rustled through the assembly but none voiced support.

“If we turn our backs now, who will come to help us when Varg needs more victims to fuel his lust for death?  What will stop him from killing us, too?”

Again there were hushed whispers of agreement, nods of approval.

“I’ll stop him,” snapped Bazdentanfel.  “We are dragons, you know, not men.”  Bitter contempt resounded as he spat the last word.

With that, Bazdentanfel stretched, turned and stalked proudly from the chamber, Mizradefindis behind him.  About half the others filed out with them.  Those remaining whispered among themselves, the current of conversation running sympathetic to the old black dragon.

“It is as I feared,” said Uric softly, bending near his wife.  “Where has our sense of morality gone?”

“Taken by men’s magic,” she hissed. “Only you have seen good in their hearts.”

“Would you turn against them, too?”

“No, my husband, but I ask you not to think poorly of the others.”

Uric turned back to those still seated in the room.

“Who will follow me?” he asked.

Only his two sons spoke up, their voices brimming with an enthusiasm born of Uric’s many stories of the outer world, a world they’d longed to see but had been forbidden.

And then, hesitantly, Valmie added her voice to that of Uric’s sons.  And Ferthanzama, Valmie’s gold-scaled mother, nodded her ascent.

“It is but we six, then,” said Uric to those remaining.  “I had hoped for more.  What of you Veeverfisma?”  Uric pointed to an ancient red dragon, turned orange with age who sat near the plateau.

“No,” she shook her head.  “I am too old for it.”

“Are there no others?”

None answered.

“If that’s all the help I bring, so be it.  I hope it is enough.  We can’t wait any longer.  Follow me.”

Uric launched himself from the towering rock platform and soared straight across the vast chamber.  Folding his wings, he shot through the connecting tunnel and burst from the cave entrance into the bright blue sky like a golden streak.

The two large golden females followed.  Behind them came the three younger silver shapes, straining their wings to keep up.  When they reached the magical aura of the transfer zone they chanted the verse of passage like a choir on their best night.

Suddenly they were over a vast ocean, winging their way to the dark land mass ahead.  Swiftly Uric led them over the looming cliffs where waves burst on a jagged shoreline, across pine forests and sweeping meadows, until at last they settled in the center of the dazzling city of the High Elves.

It only took a few moments for a large crowd of elves to gather.  The young silver dragons were awed.  It was their first sight of creatures they’d only heard about in stories.  Immediately they started a buzz of childish small talk behind their parents’ backs.  Likewise, the elves gathered to admire the beauty and power of the dragons.  For many this was their first dragon sighting.

As the crowd milled around the huge reptiles, many of the elves hesitantly touched the great, scaled sides.  Uric sat motionless until he sighted Forest Lord Barkmar pushing his way through his massed cousins carrying a package wrapped in heavy cloth.  Behind Barkmar came several less enthusiastic, gray haired elders.

“Dragon King,” Barkmar addressed Uric.  “My cousins have reluctantly agreed to lend us their magical weaponry.  And they will lend us one company of their finest archers equipped with arrows of power.  That’s it.”

“You have done better than I, but no use quibbling.  While we talk, our enemy grows more numerous.”

“Yes.  Alnefer and the High Elf mage Hawthorne have already begun transfer of the equipment and archers.  I’ll return with you, if you don't mind.”

“My pleasure.  Climb aboard.”

The dark elf stepped on Uric’s forearm and then vaulted to a place upon his broad back and seated himself where he could hold onto a raised scale with one hand and cradle the bundled present with the other.  As Uric spread his wings to leave, the nearest silver-haired elf elder stepped forward.

“Lord Barkmar,” he said in a voice stronger than his frail, old body seemed capable of producing.  “Tell your Queen we will come to negotiate peace when this is done.  Perhaps the dark and fair skinned elves can overcome their differences.”

“I look forward to the meeting of our peoples,” said the Forest Lord, as his dragon mount leaped to the skies.

“Don’t forget the emperor’s gift,” yelled the High Elf leader at the departing silhouette.

The six mighty dragons soared gracefully into the cloud-flecked sky.

“What gift?” asked Uric, turning his head around on his long muscular neck so he could talk to his passenger face-to-face.

“This,” said Lord Barkmar, holding up a cloth-wrapped parcel. “It is Thantalmos.  Screaming Death.  Gift of the High Elves to the first Emperor, Kristoph.  Lost in the First Forest War when the elves fought the 7th Emperor, Maxidim, for control of the vast central forest before the High Elves moved north.  The High Elves vowed it would never fall into human hands again.  Now there is hope that peace will return between peoples, and this is a sign to the emperor that the High Elves are ready to pursue that peace.”

“I’ve heard the legend of Thantalmos, though that is one story from before my time.  I only hope Pris lives to regain his Empire so the hope planted this day will see fruit.”

The Dark Elf sat still for a moment, staring off into space, a blank look on his face.  “The same could be said of my people and my cousins,” he said.  “I also wish reason could overcome mindless hatred, ancient prejudice, but time will tell.”

They flew on, faster with each stroke of mighty wings.  The wind rushed past trying to blow the elf lord from Uric’s back but Lord Barkmar held tightly to the package even as he clung to Uric’s back. 

Chapter 43

W
hen Uric, Lord Barkmar and the dragons arrived at the Caverns of Darkness, they found an army camped in the surrounding foothills.  King Tirmus and his few surviving knights had arrived along with King Herzolt of Mulldain and his thousand-man army.  Their tents spread out around the cave mouth, their pennants flapping in the breeze.

The moment Uric touched down, an elf dashed up.  “Dragon King,” he said, “Sarona asks that you and Lord Barkmar join her in the War Hall for a meeting immediately.”

Uric transformed into the purple robed sage and the other dragons used their natural shape-changing talent to become men and women dressed in long robes.  The elves watched in silence, many of them old enough to remember when dragons were commonly seen doing just that.  Once changed, Uric followed Lord Barkmar to the War Hall while the others found an unobtrusive place to wait. By the time Uric and Barkmar got there, the hall was packed.  The lower level was jammed with lesser elfin nobles and unit commanders from the armies of men.  On the raised central section, Sarona stood at the head of the map table along with Abadis, both of the Kings, Gant, and a host of elfin lords and military commanders.

“Welcome, Dragon King,” said Sarona, catching sight of Uric.  “What news do you bring?”

“The high elves have promised to dispatch a company of their best archers under the command of the High Elf Lord Hawthorne to support our defense and they are willing to lend us what magical weapons they have.”

Lord Barkmar, still holding onto the package he’d brought with him spoke up.  “It is little enough, your majesty.  I did my best but our cousins are less than enthusiastic about helping us.”

“You did well, Lord Barkmar,” said the queen.  “See that the magical weapons are dispersed as evenly as possible between men and elves.”

“It won’t be enough,” said Uric.  “The creatures that Varg calls from his plane are impervious to normal weapons of any kind and some of the most powerful can only be harmed by weapons equally powerful. Any concerted attack by them will be our ruin.”

“What do you suggest?” asked Sarona.

Abadis leaned forward.  “Perhaps we should capture the Mountain Castle.  There are magic weapons in Barlon’s armory and I do not think there is a strong contingent guarding it.”

After a moment of whispers throughout the gathering, Queen Sarona stood.  “Then it shall be done.  Lord Barkmar, take the Forest Division and assist the armies of men to retake the Mountain Castle.  At the same time we need to defend Chamber Pass least our enemies overrun us on our side of the Monoliths.  Lord Malimir,” she said looking at an elf standing next to Lord Barkmar, “the Mountain Division will fortify and hold the pass along with the High Elfin archers. Lord Hawthorne will report to you.  You must hold Chamber Pass at all costs.”

“As you wish,” said Lord Malimir.

“Majesty,” said Uric.  “Dragons can open the gates to the Mountain Castle.”

“Yes, that would speed things and time is of the essence.  Go with Lord Barkmar and retrieve what magic weapons can be recovered as fast as possible.”

“If you have no task for me,” said Abadis, “I’ll track down the members of the Council of Five and bring them here. I think we will need all the support we can muster if we are going to close Varg’s portal.”

“Go with our blessings,” said the queen.  “King Tirmus and King Herzolt will remain here with me until you return.  Then we will plan our assault on Pogor and figure out how to close that portal.”

“I had planned to go with my army,” said King Herzolt.

“I also,” added King Tirmus.

“You have capable leaders who can handle the attack on the castle.  More important will be our quest to close that portal and for that we must be in total agreement.  I cannot plan such an operation without you.”

After a moment of strained silence, both kings nodded agreement. 

“If King Tirmus is in agreement, my eldest son, Prince Theodore, will command the combined armies of Mulldain and Netherdorf,” added King Herzolt.  “He is a capable leader and has lead my armies before in border clashes in the northern forests.”

“Agreed,” said King Tirmus.

“Then we are agreed,” said Sarona.  “Any questions?”

The room remained silent, everyone contemplating their assigned task. 

“Then be off,” she said and the meeting was over.

What magic weapons they had were distributed immediately following the meeting.  It didn’t take long.

By late afternoon the combined armies of Mulldain and Netherdorf were ready to begin the march to Barlon’s castle. Before the armies set off, Gant was called to a meeting with King Tirmus.  With a lump in his throat he entered the king’s tent and found it crowded with nobles and knights. Gant knew many of them including his Uncle Jarlz.

Sheepishly Gant approached the table set up near the back of the tent where King Tirmus huddled with his commanders.  The king looked up and spied Gant.

“Come on in,” he said, motioning Gant to the table.  “I’ve been waiting to see you.”

“If it’s about Wendler,” started Gant.

The king cut him off with a wave of his hand.  “Wendler and his father have shown their true colors.  You have committed no crime that I can see, and more so, have exhibited courage and duty that are befitting of knights.  Therefore, kneel, Gant of the Ironlimbs.”

Gant shivered, his stomach rolled over and he swallowed hard.  “Sire?”

“Kneel,” said the king and withdrew his sword.

Gant knelt, his heart pounding.

Touching Gant’s shoulder lightly with his sword, King Tirmus announced, “I dub thee, Sir Gant of the Ironlimbs, knight of the realm of Netherdorf.  Rise and be recognized.”

Gant managed to get up hardly aware of the cheers from those gathered in the tent.

“Further more,” continued the king, “I place you in command of the Knights of Netherdorf.”

To Gant’s surprise, the knights cheered and shouted, “Hail the Devonshield Champion.”

Uncle Jarlz approached Gant, a serious expression on his face.  He clapped Gant on the back and said, “Congratulations.  You’ve earned your place as knight and leader.  I’ll be proud to serve under you.”

Gant studied his uncle for a moment.  There was something different about him, something lost.  “You look sad.  What happened?”

“Not now,” said Jarlz, the melancholy in his eyes deepening. “We have more important things to do.  Someday I’ll tell you what I remember.  Maybe.”

It made Gant uncomfortable.  In an instant he’d gone from outlawed blacksmith’s son to knight and commander.  Even more bothersome was the fact that something had changed with his uncle.

Trumpets sounded assembly and Gant joined his new unit only to find Zandinar, Pris, Kalmine, Captain Hesh and his three soldiers waiting with the knights.

“Hey Gant, we’ve been assigned as your personal guards,” said Pris.  “This is going to be great.”

Captain Hesh frowned.  Kalmine nudged the emperor. Zandinar scowled.

“Probably not,” said Gant and surveyed his line of knights.

At that moment, Lord Barkmar approached Pris carrying the package he’d brought from the High Elves. 

“A gift for you,” said the elfin lord and handed the package to Pris.

Gant watched the boy’s eyes bulge as he unwrapped a magnificent sword recognizable to anyone who knew the legend of the sword of emperors.

"Wow.  Thantalmos,” exclaimed Pris, reverently cradling the sword in both hands.  “I can’t wait to get back to the capitol with this.”

“Time for that later,” said Kalmine and ushered the emperor to a waiting horse.

Gant could only shake his head.  He knew the legend of Thantalmos, sword of Emperors.  Only one man could hold it, the true emperor.  Pris! Noting the gleam in the emperor’s eye as he strapped on the sword Gant wondered what mischief the emperor planned.

And then, with high hopes, the armies moved out.  Gant’s squad of knights fell in behind Lord Barkmar and Prince Theodore.

By nightfall, they had barely gone five miles.  At dusk the foot-weary men set up camp. Strict discipline and a routine practiced many times made it a simple matter. The elves established perimeter guard positions and since they were still a long way from the Mountain Castle, campfires were lit to fight the chill night air. 

They pitched a headquarters tent and next to it set the banners of Mulldain, Netherdorf, Lord Barkmar and the Eastern Empire.  Uric and the accompanying dragons took human form and spent the night in camp, except for one who flew patrol over the camp in case any of the black flyers crossed the Monoliths.

After a short review of the plans for the next day, the command tent emptied.  As the meeting broke up Pris looked for a chance to talk to Uric or Lord Barkmar about the sword from the High Elves.  The Dragon King slipped away and spent the evening with his family. Lord Barkmar and Prince Theodore went to their tents immediately after the meeting and did not take visitors.

Gant alone stayed in the tent.  His new leadership position worried him.  It was one thing to be responsible for your own actions, another to have responsibility for others.  Between that and thoughts of the coming battle he knew he’d never sleep.  He went over the strategy.  The plan was simple enough.  Maybe that’s what bothered him.  It was too simple.  The dragons would crash the gates.  The army would pour in and overwhelm the defenders.

He, Zandinar and the Netherdorf Knights would lead the charge.  He wasn’t sure what he’d do with Pris.  He couldn’t have the emperor up front.

Gant studied the maps.  As the night dragged on, he thought more and more about their real foe waiting in Pogor.  What would it take to reach Pogor and close the gate? 

Shortly after mid-watch, a dark skinned elf runner entered the command tent.

“Where is Lord Barkmar?” he asked, looking around the tent.

“Gone to bed,” said Gant, looking up from the maps.  “What is it?”

“A spy.”

“In camp?”

“No, sir.”  Gant found it funny to hear the elf address him as “sir.”  “They got past the first two outposts.  I shot at him with my bow and he ran. We found two guards on the outer perimeter fast asleep.”

“How many intruders were there?”

“Only one as best I could tell.”

“Then I don’t think it’s too important.  A single spy who never even reached the camp’s interior can’t have done much harm.  By afternoon, our coming won’t be a secret anymore anyway.”

“Sir, you don’t understand.  Elves do
not
fall asleep on duty.  They’ve had a spell put on them.  There may be magic traps laid in our midst.”

Gant considered that possibility and decided at least some investigation was warranted.  “I’ll have Uric check,” he said.  “You may return to your post.  I’ll tell Lord Barkmar when he awakens.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The elf retired from the tent.  Gant hesitated a moment. Had he been too hasty?  Perhaps it was a harmless incident, perhaps not.  He’d get Uric to check for magical mischief and if anything was amiss, he’d find it.

Gant strode to the dragons’ tent, happy to have a simple problem to occupy his mind.  When he got there, he found Hamiz, one of Uric’s sons, preparing to take over aerial patrol.  Gant explained his dilemma and the silver dragon insisted on carrying out the investigation so his father could sleep.  Within minutes Hamiz was back, reporting that there were no magic traps anywhere in camp.

Relieved, Gant returned to the command tent.  Eventually he fell asleep in a chair.  In the morning, Gant woke sputtering, drenched in a cold splash of water.  He lurched awake ready to thrash someone. Pris stood alone in the tent, a smirk on his face. One look at Pris’ boyish face and Gant’s anger evaporated.  Gant laughed and wiped his face with his hands.  Pris laughed, too.  The emperor was a likeable rascal and Gant hoped nothing would happen to him before they returned to Malathon.

“What is with you and these practical jokes?” asked Gant, wiping off with a towel he found near the washbasin. 

“I’m just practicing my magic,” said Pris.  “Now come on, let’s get some breakfast before it’s all gone.”

Off they went to the mess tent where breakfast was being served by the experienced supply personnel from Mulldain who didn’t seem to mind the extra mouths.  An hour after sunrise, the army marched on through the mountains, winding their way between the steep, impassable crags.  The sun shone down through sparse white puffs scattered across the blue dome of the sky.  The air was cool and the column made good speed.