Onyx Dragon (Book 1) (17 page)

Garret sounded his horn in three short blasts. A second later, Eamon could see the glint of steel in the distance; showing that Kuros understood.

“Sound the horn again on my signal,” Eamon said.

Eamon breathed deep as the seemingly endless horde of Jindala began to empty into the crag basin. The anticipation was overwhelming, quickening his heart, and threatening to take his breath away.

“I have faith in you, Eamon,” he heard Garret say behind him.

The Prince sighed, accepting Garret’s compliment, but still feeling apprehensive and unsure of his abilities. He raised his hand in the air, waiting for the moment to signal the attack. When the time was right, he clenched his fist, and Garret sounded the final horn.

Arrows darkened the sky, casting a great shadow over the Jindala army. The soldiers knelt, taking cover behind their shields as death rained down. Dozens of them fell with the first volley. Behind the lines, the leaders urged them on, taking shelter behind their own men.

“Again!” Kuros shouted to his rangers. “Take out their archers.”

Arrows flew again, striking the rear of the lines. The Jindala archers struggled to fire back and take cover at the same time, their arrows flying wildly and striking randomly along the crag wall.

Kuros assessed the damage among the enemy. Many of them had fallen, only to be replaced by more behind them. His major concern, however, were the figures at the front of the line. Their golden robes and veiled faces were strange and mysterious, and they seemed to show no fear of arrows.

“Fire at the front lines,” Kuros commanded.

Another volley sailed into the air, striking the golden robed soldiers. Though Kuros could clearly see the arrows striking their targets, they seemed to do no harm.

“They’re oblivious to pain, it seems,” Daryth remarked.

Kuros drew his own bow, taking aim at the closest golden robed warrior. He let his arrow fly, and watched as it struck the man’s head. The arrow went clear through, coming out the other side. The man remained unfazed for a moment, then began to stumble, finally falling to the ground.

“Oblivious to pain,” Kuros agreed, “but not to death. Aim for their heads.”

Daryth and the others concentrated their fire on the front lines, each aiming for the warriors’ heads. The enemies fell one by one, yet still marched on, completely unaware or uncaring of their own fallen comrades.

When the Jindala had passed beyond range and settled into siege formation in front of the city gates, Kuros commanded the rangers to return to the castle. The height and shape of the crags between their current location and the city walls would not allow them to reposition and attack again. They would join their comrades on the city walls and continue the fight from there.

For the time being, the Jindala army halted their march and stood silent just one hundred yards from the gates. Not a sound was heard as the two armies faced one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

The silence was deafening.

“What are they doing?” Wrothgaar asked.

“Perhaps they plan to send a negotiator.” Garret suggested.

“It’s a little late for negotiations,” Eamon said. “We’ve already made our position clear.”

Wrothgaar chuckled, bouncing his axe on his free hand. As the three of them stared out over the massive horde, a single silken robed figure made its way through the ranks. The figure’s robes were red, and gleamed in the evening sunlight, appearing like flame. It moved smoothly, barely touching the men it passed as it made its way forward. When it reached the front line of the horde, the golden robed soldiers parted to let it through.

“Perhaps Garret was right,” Eamon joked. “That looks like a negotiator to me.”

The figure walked the distance to the gates alone, never breaking its
stride, or hesitating for a moment in uncertainty or fear. Whoever or whatever it was had a purpose, and was determined to achieve it, regardless of the danger.

Eamon saw Brynn glance back at him questioningly. He held up his bow as if to ask whether he should fire. Eamon shook his head and held up his hand. Brynn nodded and returned to watching the strange figure as it neared shouting distance.

“You stand at the gates of Morduin!” Eamon shouted. “You have invaded my Kingdom, murdered my subjects, and attacked my cities. Turn around and leave this place or you and every man that stands with you will die.”

The figure said nothing, but stood motionless as its red robes blew in the wind. Eamon turned to Garret.

“Do you know who or what this person may be?” he asked.

Garret shook his head. “I have never seen any person of status among their culture wear these types of robes. Negotiators typically wear white. It’s a somewhat non-threatening color. Red...well, we know what red means.”

The Prince turned back to the figure below. It was still unmoving, standing like a blood colored sentinel in the mist.

“State your business!” Eamon shouted again.

The figure moved, finally, turning its cowled head upward.

“You are not the ruler of this Kingdom,” the figure hissed, strangely audible from this distance. “I will speak only to the Queen.”

“The Queen does not wish to speak to you,” Eamon replied. “You are to leave immediately. You will be allowed to go peacefully if you do so now.”

The figure laughed, its voice becoming deeper and more demonic with each passing second, echoing like hundreds of voices speaking at once.

“The Queen has no choice. She will submit to me or your Kingdom will be destroyed. The Southern Kingdom belongs to us now, and yours will follow. Submit, and you will be spared. Resist and your people will suffer. The choice is hers.”

“I speak for the Queen, and my people,” Eamon answered. “We will not submit. Go now.”

“As you wish.” The figure said, raising its arms into a conjuring position. Suddenly, its outstretched palms threw waves of energy toward the city gates. The entire wall shook and vibrated as if a massive object had impacted it.

Men scattered and shouted, struggling to escape the invisible waves that shot from the figure’s hands. Eamon looked for Brynn, who had dropped his bow and was, himself, hanging on to the wall for support. Erenoth had his bow drawn, ready to fire.

“Take him down, Erenoth!” Eamon called to him.

Erenoth fired. The arrow streaked toward the conjurer with a lightning-like flash, striking it mid chest. The arrow exploded with the Dragon’s energy, tearing the red robes to shreds and sending their wearer back and onto the ground.

“Attack!” Eamon shouted, commanding all of the archers on the wall to begin firing on the amassed army.

Arrows filled the sky again, raining down on the enemy by the hundreds. Erenoth’s bow sang as well, sending streaks of draconian magic at the enemy soldiers. The Jindala, ignoring their falling comrades, marched ahead, their own archers returning fire.

Below, Eamon could see the now injured figure stand and resume its assault. It was definitely a human figure, male, and sickly white. He was emaciated and gangly, with crooked arms, fingers, and with a ghastly, mask-like face.

The walls shook again with the sorcerer’s force. He conjured the impacting energy again and again, tirelessly throwing his power at the crumbling gates.

Erenoth concentrated his fire on the man, sending his gleaming arrows down like lightning. But the man was now impervious to the attacks, the arrows bouncing off him like harmless sticks.

“He has some kind of shield!” Erenoth shouted. “I’m going in.”

The Priest tucked away his bow and drew his twin swords, jumping off the edge of the wall.

“Wait!” Eamon called after him. “Damn it!”

Erenoth landed in front of the stranger, seeing his contorted face as he cast spell after spell against the gates. The structure was beginning to give, bricks cracking, wood splintering. Erenoth poised himself in a crouch, jumping up and spinning in the air toward the attacker.

The man directed his energy bursts toward Erenoth as the Priest spun toward him, his blades flashing in the sun. Erenoth was slowed, but his attack met its target. His blades sliced into the man’s flesh, lacerating the pale, sickly skin.

Foul blood sprayed from the wounds and the man groaned with pain. Erenoth attacked again, this time sweeping his blades side to side in tandem. The blows landed one after another, slicing through bone and flesh.

But the man continued to attack, screaming furiously as he was cut to pieces. He threw the invisible energy at Erenoth, knocking the Priest back several yards. Erenoth shrugged off the attack, going in for another spin strike. This time he transformed in
midair, catching the pale man with his dragon claws and pinning him to the ground.

“You will submit!” the man gasped, choking on his own blood as Erenoth’s claws tore into his flesh. The dragon reared back his head, gathering his breath for flame. He let loose the fiery blast inches from the man’s face. The flames incinerated his head, peeling back the skin and charring the bone. As the man screamed in agony, Erenoth felt his skull explode with the heat.

The Priest stopped his attack, crawling backward to assess the damage. The man lay headless and smoking in the grass, unmoving and lifeless.

Erenoth looked to the rest of the army that was now firing arrows up into the walls. In front, the golden robed men were now firing as well, sending magical arrows toward him. Erenoth growled at his attackers, and charged.

Jodocus watched as the rangers moved along the crags to circle the city to the West. Among them, he saw the young lieutenant Daryth following his Captain faithfully. He was an excellent warrior, Jodocus knew, and would serve the crown well.

Daryth would be Jodocus’ next choice.

The druid turned to an oak tree that grew near the crags; a mighty, ancient one that was full of life energy and power. Placing his hand upon the tree, he casually pulled a branch from it, bending it into the shape of a bow. From the ground, he withdrew a gleaming thread of Earth energy and used it to string the bow.

Jodocus gripped the weapon tightly and concentrated his power into his hands. He willed a portion of his own soul into the bow, and watched as the power of nature was absorbed by the white wood. It glowed with a life of its own as the energy filled its length.

It was a beautiful weapon, worthy of even the proudest and noblest of warriors, and its power would dispel even the most negative of energies. Daryth would be its first bearer, and wield it against the evil that threatened to destroy Eirenoch. The druid had chosen him as protector of the Spirit of the Land.

All that was left was for the Onyx Dragon to choose him as well.

As the rangers passed through the forest near Morduin’s Western entrance, Daryth spotted the beautiful oaken bow leaning against the rocks. He approached it, ignoring his comrades passing by around him.

It was a work of art, carved out of a single piece of oak that was engraved with images of dryads and other tree spirits. He pulled back the string, feeling the bow charge with the natural energy of the Earth. It was perfectly balanced, had a perfect draw, and its string was unlike anything the ranger had ever seen. Upon its surface was the ranger’s own name, carved in ancient runes.

“What is this?” Daryth asked the empty air.

He held the bow close to his body, glancing around to see if whoever left it was still present. He saw no one other than his company.

Dropping his own bow, he strapped his new weapon to his back and joined his companions as they made their way into the city’s caverns.

The Druaga had surrounded Farouk’s camp by nightfall. Now, as they watched the company standing in formation, they were puzzled as to why the men were behaving so strangely. The two men in the lead were talking amongst themselves while the rest of the men waited.

The Druaga leader crept closer to the two men, straining to listen to their conversation. He understood the words clearly, as even the language of the strangers was known to him.

“We must rid ourselves of the men still loyal to the Lifegiver,” the older one said. “We will not be welcome at Morduin until we do so.”

“Despite my lack of faith,” the other said, “I still feel guilty. My men trust me, and I have given them my love as their leader.”

“And they have disobeyed your orders repeatedly, brutally carrying out the Lifegiver’s commands despite your wish for them to be lenient. This false God cares nothing for men, only his own power. They follow him because they are hungry for power as well. But they will receive eternal damnation for their sins.”

The younger man nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, they are evil at heart, like the rest. The men who feel as we do must be freed. We cannot leave them behind.”

The older man turned to the formation standing in front of him. The men looked on, awaiting orders. The Druaga crept closer to them, waiting to see what would happen next. The older man looked displeased, but the Druaga could sense that it was a ruse.

“There is one among you,” the leader began, “who has admitted to blasphemy!”