Sword of Light (The Knights of the Golden Dragons - Book One) (18 page)

           
Master
Stonecutter stepped forward to relate the discoveries of his people. He was a
short, sturdy man with long reddish hair drawn back in a rough braid. His face
was dominated by a broad, grizzly red beard touched with gray. Large, piercing,
ice blue eyes, clearly meant to see in the caves where light was sparse,
appeared to be protected by eyebrows that stuck out like ledges over them. He
surveyed the large crowd uncomfortably and then looked down at the handle of
the pickax on which he rested his hands, as if it would provide a better
audience.

           
"My
people have experienced loss of lives and territory in huge amounts since these
damned orc tribes started
unitin
’ under one banner. I
never seen them so organized. They are
usin
’ beasts
of burden that resemble our own companions, only a lot bigger and a lot meaner!
Instead of
jus
’
eatin
'
plants and small animals, these things are vicious meat eaters that'll turn on
their own wounded and would just as soon tear apart their orc masters. Only a
swift blow to
th
’ skull will take
th
’
fight out
un
th
’
creatures." Fasurel's eyes flashed as he brandished his pickax as if to
drive home his point.

           
"So
far
th
’ orcs that have taken over mines have stayed
up higher, and mostly to themselves, in
th
’
lesser-used tunnels. A few of my brave brothers and sisters who watched these
camps closely have survived to report. They've seen ore laden caravans
headin
' deeper into the mountains toward
th
’ volcanic craters, where we got
no interest in
goin
’. Our people explored them
sometime in
th
’ past, but they be too hot to mine.
They found giant lizards, hearty mosses, and smaller cave dwellers that fed on
th
’ mosses in some of
th
’ cooler caves.
Nothin
’ can
live up on those fiery peaks." Fasurel looked up and across the crowd as
he warmed to his subject, losing his shyness as he gave as much detail as he
could.

           
"Someone
or
somethin
' has found a way to breed a creature that
can endure
th
’ awful heat
and carry great loads." He spat on the ground and continued. "We
noticed that after some days
th
’
minin
’ camps held by
th
’
orcs stop
producin
’ and
th
’
caravans stopped as well.
Th
’ orcs must've found a
way to use
th
’ creatures to tunnel deeper into
th
’ mountains and make shafts
comin
'
out closer to where they be taken
th
’ ore, as we keep
seeing orc drivers and lizards
goin
' in while only
big
huntin
' and
raidin
'
parties are
comin
’ out. We tried to send in some
trackers to find out where they be
takin
'
th
’ ore but no one returned. We
figure, with as much time has passed, we have to count them among our
dead." Fasurel lowered his voice in obvious pain as he continued, "we
pray their end was swift and
th
’
Goddess showed them mercy in their
passin
'."

           
"We
been trying to take some of
th
’
orcs alive to question, but those damn lizards tear '
em
apart before we can get to '
em
. Soon as those lizards
get loose and fill their bellies, they take off. I thank
th
’
Goddess for that as their hides are so tough
nothin
’
gets through '
em
except for
th
’ sharpest
minin
’
picks!"

           
Suddenly
realizing he was the center of attention, Fasurel blushed and looked at his
feet again. "That's all I got." Master Stonecutter waved Mithirina
forward while he moved back near the others. His withdrawal demonstrated such
unexpected speed and agility that it drew a small ripple of laughter from the
crowd.

           
Mithirina
spoke almost immediately, as if to draw the attention from Fasurel, quieting
the crowd. "Many have died to gather the knowledge these people bring to
this gathering, and no doubt many more will sacrifice their lives before we are
prepared to face the unknown evil that has come to this world. It falls to the
protectors of man and beast alike to uncover the forces against which we stand.
The council of few becomes the trial of many, which is why we have gathered you
here. Drawn from different faiths, we must unite for the good of our lands and
the peoples we serve. Many of you have protected these lands as individuals.
That time is past. Before night comes, you will be brothers and sisters moving
as one and guarding each other as we decipher the mystery set before us. Master
Fasurel Stonecutter has spoken with many of you individually and chosen the
most seasoned and gifted to travel into the barren lands of his home. The
greatest responsibility will fall to this group of rangers and druids. We must
know what evil has been sown in the mountains, no matter what the cost."

***

The deep red stone glowed in the
Overseer's hand as he sat at his obsidian throne. He preferred the darkness of
the sanctuary to remain unbroken but there was no way to block the glow of the
orb when it was used. Tur'morival had sent the stone with the payment for
Silverwing's death and insisted on using it for contacting the Overseer. The
master of assassins could find no reason to deny the request at the time. The
direct communication simplified things for them both, and the contractor had
good reason for secreting himself far from prying eyes. The Overseer could
respect that.

           
His
assassins had failed to kill the ranger despite months of observation. The
Overseer was not used to failure. The fallen killers had displeased the master
before and had taken the responsibility for slaying Silverwing in an effort to
regain faith. Their heads should have been placed with the others in the main
Hall but the Overseer found pity for them and let them rot where they lay.
"Perhaps I am getting weary of the blood; time wears the soul even when
the body does not age," he mused in the deep quiet that surrounded him.

           
You would prefer to join the dust of your
mentor, Overseer? Death is only the beginning, and I am certain you know there
is a special place in the Hells for your eternity.
Tur'morival's contact
rang in his head like a bent chime, with warbling notes and a tinny, low
clanging that defied music.
We have known
each other a long time, brother, and it would sadden me to no longer have you
as counsel.

           
The
Overseer sensed no threat in the words that rang in his ears. Mocking words had
become little more than an expected greeting from the dark priest, and the
Overseer treated it as such. "You had some trouble acquiring the broken
blade from the boy I understand, and one of your trusted priests is dead. The
Order will no doubt be exposed. Why would you take such a chance?" The
Overseer awaited the demonologist's reply. Incautious words would tell him what
he needed to know.

           
Tread carefully, master assassin. You should
focus on the task set before you. The boy and Silverwing would be of no concern
to anyone if they were dead. I am willing to forget the failure, but I require
something in return.

           
"The
broken blade and the boy, no doubt. Do you care if he lives or dies? I doubt
you have much use for him, and the blade is easily taken from a corpse."

           
I want the boy alive and my reasons are my
own. I sense you’re not telling me something. Would you prefer I dig it out of
your mind?
As if to make the priest's point, the dark red stone warmed in
the Overseer's cold palm. The old killer tightened his grip in response.

           
"You
might find that more difficult than you think, Tur'morival. You would be unwise
to test the extent of my reach." The Overseer waited for the warming in
his palm to dissipate before continuing. "Good, I'm glad we understand
each other. It seems Lord Silverwing is coming to you. Do you want us to kill
him, or would you prefer the pleasure?"

           
Leave the old ranger to me and capture the boy.
Bring me that blade and do not underestimate Gregor. He will only grow
stronger.
The Overseer felt fear with the last thoughts and regretted he
could not see the priest's face.

           
"As
you wish, Tur'morival. We have already made preparations to take the boy, and I
will have my people move ahead. Still it is a shame not to just kill him."
The stone darkened in the Overseer's hand, plunging him into a comfortable
absence of light. His words echoed through the chamber, disturbing the quiet of
the tomb. "Pity we missed the first time."

***

           
Gregor took his gauntlets from his
hands, wishing to feel the warmth of the fire against his skin. A shroud of
thick clouds hid the light of the moon and stars. Gregor mused over the journey
to Zanthfar so far, remembering the morning after his vigil. The great feast of
the Temple of light had been filled to capacity with peasants and nobles alike
when Father Oregeth announced Gregor. It had been all the newly knighted young
man could do to not be overwhelmed. Applause and cheers had flooded the great
Hall, causing the walls to tremble with their force as the assembled raised
their voices in praise and hope. The streets had filled with those waiting to
catch a glimpse of the first knight to emerge from the Temple of Light in years
beyond recall, and Gregor had felt the touch of thousands of hands before
mounting the horse assigned for his journey. He had been glad to bring the
stallion to the road and begin moving toward Zanthfar; the air of the road hit
him like a much needed taste of freedom.

Only two days from Nactium, the horse
began to favor his left rear foot. Upon inspection Gregor discovered that he
had thrown a shoe, and unfortunately there was no blacksmith anywhere near.
However, there was an encampment of city militia nearby, and Gregor was able to
leave the horse in the care of a young man in the service of the city’s
patrols. The poor young man was ill-equipped for such duty and appeared to be
younger than Gregor. As the boy stared wide-eyed, listening intently to the
holy warrior’s instructions concerning the horse, Gregor had once more realized
the burden he carried. So many young men and women just like the boy before him
were conscripted into the militias across the lands to fight against forces
they could not possibly defeat. The boy's face swam up in the flames where
Gregor now warmed his hands, serving as an odd reminder of what was to come if
he failed. The people of the lands would be enveloped in chaos and death if
Gregor could not stop Tur'morival, of that he was certain.

           
Great guttural howls shattered his
thoughts. He reflexively secured his plated gauntlets and rose to his feet. He
drew his sword, noting that it was glowing with a steady luminescence. Gregor
turned away from the fire, forcing his eyes to adjust as he searched the
darkness within the trees surrounding him. There were shuffling noises from all
sides and he caught sight of small pairs of bloody glowing orbs that appeared
to be floating in the blackness. The strange apparitions winked out as quickly
as he spotted them only to reappear elsewhere. Gregor kept his back to the fire
until it was uncomfortably warm, hoping to force his attackers to come at him
from the front. Every nerve in his body screamed in alarm as he planted his
feet in a combat ready stance. As if in answer to the glow of the sword, a crimson
mist came into being and moved toward him from the trees. "Who walks these
woods? Show yourself!" Gregor kept his voice steady and his sword arm at
the ready though his mind filled with fear. The mist was not unfamiliar to him.
It was the same light that had surrounded Tur'morival when the priest had
presented himself in Gregor's dreams so long ago.

           
"Sheath your weapon, Master
Gregor. You will find little use for it against me." The voice emerged
from a robed figure clothed as Father Tur'morival had been in Gregor's dream.
The priest bore a staff like those possessed by the summoners from the arena
that emanated the light coloring the mist surrounding him. His voice was at
once mocking and respectful, and Gregor could sense no threat in it as the man
continued to speak. "You know why I have come. Give me the blade desired
by my master and we can return to him in peace. There will be no escape for you
this time, Knight." As if to demonstrate the truth of his words, several
large wolves emerged from the darkness near the figure.