Sword of Light (The Knights of the Golden Dragons - Book One) (25 page)

Fasurel's
initial fury diminished as he focused on the task at hand. There were too many
of them to take with only the three remaining warriors. He had to do something
and now was as good a time as any. The mountain man drew a great breath and let
out an inhuman bellow that dropped the ax from his hands even as the change
took his form. Claws suited to digging in solid rock replaced the ranger’s
hands as a third pair of legs sprouted from his waist, ripping through his
thick leathers. Thick scales sprouted from his skin to cover his form, as torn
bits of cloth and studded leather plates fell away from his body. An elongated
snout emerged to replace his mouth, filled with jagged teeth made for tearing.
He wore his animal form as well as he wore his own, and set his claws and jaws
to ripping the demon bloods apart with much more efficiency than his ax could
have accomplished.

Master
Stonecutter's call did not go unanswered. Several large lizards poured into the
clearing. The ranger wielding Lord Silverwing’s sword mimicked Fasurel's
example in part and raised her voice to the woodland creatures. Her night
piercing howl was answered in kind and a pack of wolves ran into the clearing,
joining the swelling number of lizards, to kill the despoilers that had come
into their homes. Before retrieving his bow, Lord Silverwing marveled for a
moment at the giant lizard Master Stonecutter had become. The master archer
delivered his arrows with vengeance. Once more the demon bloods felt his sting,
and the encampment lit brightly with those slain by the rapidly flying arrows.
The ferociousness of the animals within the area was matched by their
summoners. The demon bloods fell like wheat before the scythe. It soon became
clear that there would be no quarter given from either side. Withdrawal was not
in the creature's plans, and the demon blooded orcs that remained would not
escape, of that he was certain. Lord Silverwing turned to survey the landscape
after he had exhausted the silver tipped arrows in his quiver, leaving the
animals and the remaining ranger to destroy those that were left. The knight
sensed that there was other prey in need of his attention. Somewhere in the
darkness, a servant of these creatures' creator was present, and he intended to
find it.

A
leathery flapping of broad wings drew his eyes away from the violence. The prey
had been spotted, and Lord Silverwing fired two arrows into the night, catching
the strange creature unaware. The missiles pinned the imp to the tree where
only moments before it had hopped from one foot to the other, taking in the
chaos that littered the ground with bodies and blood. The creature tore its
sickly wings, trying to free itself, but it was too late. Another arrow from
its tormentor’s bow lodged in its chest, leaving it drawing ragged breaths as
the last of the demon blooded orcs were slain. Lord Silverwing moved to collect
his prize almost casually as the thing renewed its struggle to flee. Its
purpose here was complete. Its master knew the demon bloods had failed, but the
knight had one last message to share with the creature's keeper before he
killed it.

The
ranger’s grace was apparent to all who witnessed his ascent into the limbs of
the tree. Lord Silverwing's usual knightly bearing and restraint, always
evident to even casual observers among his new companions, disappeared, as he
violently ripped the wriggling form from the tree. The ranger looked deep into
the bulbous eyes of the imp as he pressed one hand against its body. He seemed
unaffected by the clawing members of the creature as he spoke in a voice little
more than a whisper. “Remember this face, Keeper. It will be the last thing you
know of this world or any other.” There was no warning as Silverwing formed his
free hand into a fist and slammed it into the center of the staring imp's eyes,
crushing its skull. The imp's body flinched reflexively with the force of the
blow and moved no more.

“Good
shot,” Fasurel's rough voice carried up from just below Silverwing at the base
of the tree, causing the knight to turn his head to look at him. “
Nothin
' like a good bone
crushin
'
ta vent
ya
angers.
If’n
ya
thinkin
'
ya
able, we got folks
needin
'
tendin
'
Jus' need a moment
meself
to get clothed an' I be
joinin
'
ya
wit' those
remainin
'.”

Lord
Silverwing noted the naked mountain man's makeshift loin cloth with
appreciation for his modesty. “I guess that change is a terror on your armor.”

“It
is but I keep spare bits in me pack. Jus' never know when you might need
a
extra pair a’ claws.” Fasurel
shrugged, turning toward his supplies.

The
sight that met Silverwing's eyes as the mountain man walked toward his
replacement armor brought a wave of laughter surging through him, almost
causing the knight to lose his footing on the branch where he was perched. A
plump, shining beacon reflected the dancing light from one of the nearby fires.
Fasurel responded to the laughter without turning as his exposed flesh adopted
a healthy red glow that Silverwing was certain matched the mountain man's face.
“
Wot
?
Ya
act like
ya
never seen a bare rear afore.
Getcha
out that tree an' tend to the others.” Silverwing did fall out of the tree
then, landing with a solid thump that drew a laugh in return from Fasurel.

The
healers among them, including Lord Silverwing, brought divine grace to bear,
healing the most grievously wounded. The remaining two mountain men and Fasurel
put their picks to work, digging a grave large enough to hold the rest of their
fallen friends. Lord Silverwing spoke brief prayers over the remains, imploring
the God of Light to recognize the sacrifice of each soul whose body was
committed to the earth, and guide them safely home. Stones were then placed
around the grave mound once the bodies were interred, each representing a
different divine power to honor the beliefs of the dead. Time was taken to
offer prayers individually and to let those who lived recover from the terrible
battle.

Later
the rangers and druids gathered in a loose circle near one of the central fires
of their encampment as Lord Silverwing took account of the ones who remained.
Master Stonecutter stood at the knight's side, once more wearing his sturdy
studded leather armor. “I am a stranger among you, though I have patrolled
woodlands of my own as many of you have for years. We were not prepared for
such tactics from these creatures. The deaths that this failure allowed weigh
on my soul alone. There were signs that I chose to ignore and I moved, with a
lack of faith in the abilities of you all assembled here, to engage the
creatures on my own. The mound where the dead now rest is testament to my lack
of faith and wisdom. I will carry on alone into the desolate peaks. No more of
you will be sacrificed for my folly. Collect your things and go home. Defend
your lands and know that the evil that took place here will be avenged.”

The
assembled rose as one, quietly forming a line with a space left in the middle,
and faced Lord Silverwing. Master Stonecutter moved to the space at the center
that had been left open for him. The rangers and druids bowed before each
dropped to one knee, except Fasurel, who rose from his bow to speak for the
group facing the knight. “
Ya
not be rid of us
tha
' simple. We knew what we were in
fer
when we came an' we will be
seein
’ it 'til the end.
Ya
can blame
yaself
if it ease
ya
mind, but we don’ see it
tha
’
way.
 
We saved who we could an’ those we
couldn
’ are at peace now.
 
More trouble
comin
’ so we
bes
take our rest an’ get ready to move fast in the
mornin
’” Fasurel waved away the others and moved to face
Silverwing, the boots of the two men nearly touching. The mountain man's tone
penetrated the knight’s heart with his next words. “
Ya
cannot be
blamin
'
yerself
for what happened as we
shoulda
all been more alert,
and we
coundn
' done no more good wit' us dying all
together here than we could
losin
' the ones that fell
with us apart. The dead would not have us
shamin
’
them by not
carryin
’ on wit'
ya
.
Go on and gather your arrows, as I think
ya
will need
every one before it is over.”

As
Fasurel finished speaking, Silverwing moved to the outer encampment where he
had loosed his first arrows, noting as he went that the wolves still patrolled
the forest. He could not help but wonder what his God intended for him, as he
filled his quiver with the blessed arrows once more.

***

           
The
passage opened abruptly into a vast cavern. Natural stone formations protruded
at random throughout the demon’s sanctuary. A throne that stretched toward the
roof of the cavern dominated the vast area, flanked on either side by a
bubbling crater nearly filled with lava. The boiling contents of the craters
provided the only light in the cavern. The rear portion of the throne was
capped with a ram’s head carved from a black shimmering stone. The eyes were
shaped with cut rubies and the fangs protruding from the ram’s jaw had been cut
from ivory. The beauty of the workmanship was lost in the evil images that
dominated the throne's arms and base. The arms were cut in images of carnal
violation. A Tharnorsa pinned a human female form to the arm of the throne on
the right. The demon’s fiery wings were drawn close to its sides and wrapped
around the form of his victim so that only her head was visible. The left arm
was a mirror image of the right with a succubus taking the Tharnorsa’s
position. The creature's leathery wings engulfed the human male below her, once
more leaving only the head exposed. The demonic heads each stared down toward
their respective victims with matching expressions that appeared to reflect
cruel ecstasy. The human countenances were arched backward as though their
abused forms sought to escape the gaze of their tormentors. The faces of the
possessed humans were the worst parts. They were locked in terror so complete
it had given way to numbness as their minds shattered.

           
Father
Tur'morival knelt before the giant throne where the Tharnorsa sat, never taking
his eyes away from the blackened hilt that lay at the demon’s right hand. The
hilt was decorated with intertwined dragons twisting around the handle, with
their long necks curving outward to form the branches of the guard. The
dragon's bodies were woven around nearly identical intricately cut crystals
forming the center of the grip. Claws appeared to suspend each crystal at the
top and bottom of the hilt. The crystals seemed to absorb the low light around
them, as if offended by the illumination. “Must you keep that artifact
exposed?” The demon's answer was immediate and the same as every time the two
communicated directly. Heat surged into the priest's mind with the demon's
ancient language, dark words blended into terrible images that would have
driven most mortals mad with the slightest exposure. Father Tur'morival twisted
his mouth in a rictus, enjoying the demon's mental touch.

           
It
pleases me to see fear in your eyes on these rare visits. So much power in a
mortal, and yet a broken sword's handle gives you pause. Yes, your fear tastes
rich and is so much more delicious than the meager offerings of the orcs.
As the demon touched deeply into his
mind, searching for anything to twist the will of the man, Father Tur'morival
pushed back.

           
The
priest took only a moment to enjoy the shudder that traveled through the
Tharnorsa's body before he spoke. “Do not toy with me, demon. I've no time to
trifle with you. There is much to be done before our guest arrives. Where is
Lord Silverwing now?”

           
The demon
answered, though his displeasure at being pushed by the priest was evident as
he leaned deeply forward. Father Tur'morival rose to his feet, taking a rapid
step back as the demon's head came level with his own. That the Tharnorsa had
taken the blackened hilt into his hand did not escape his attention. The
implied threat needed no words.
I do not know where they are now but he is
coming as we planned. That is enough to know. He will be surprised to see his
old friend again, though I doubt he will be as pleased as I. You have news as
well?

           
“Yes,
the child comes to us following in his mentor's footsteps. The assassins have
failed to take him once more. It seems the reach of the Black Hand may be great
but their fingers are cut away far too easily. I will have to deal with their
master sooner than I would have liked. Once the two knights are captured, we
will have little use for the killers.”