Sword of Light (The Knights of the Golden Dragons - Book One) (26 page)

           
You
will move your followers against him. Mortals have such short sight. He would
have been such a great ally, this Overseer, if you had allowed him free rein.

 
          
Tur'morival
contemplated
his answer before he spoke. “One who hungers so openly for power is never to be
trusted. Have your dealings with me taught you so little, demon? I would think
in your service to me you would have learned this much. Age has brought little
wisdom to the Overseer, and that will be his undoing. Do not allow your own
arrogance to be yours, Tharnorsa, as it was in the past. Faith is a powerful
weapon in the hands of these knights, and I would have preferred to remove
their weapons before bringing them here, but the failure of the assassins was
anticipated and I have prepared. You will do what you have promised, and
together we will destroy this world.” Father Tur’morival turned from the demon
to meet with his chosen of the Crimson Order. Lord Silverwing would arrive
soon, and this time there would be no mistakes.

           
The
Tharnorsa drew back into his throne, replacing the tainted hilt on the arm to
the right. As Father Tur'morival withdrew from the cavern, the demon took time
to reflect. He remembered the last time he and Lord Silverwing had met all too
well. The knight had dismissed him from the world despite the careful plans of
Father Tur'morival, a fledgling priest at the time, yet full of cunning even
then. The surge of divine power had left its marks on the demon from that
encounter, even as the Tharnorsa had reincorporated into the Abyss. The Unnamed
One had seen fit to allow the twin scars in the demon's great chest to remain.

           
The fall
of the Knights of the Golden Dragon would have been complete except for the
faith of Lord Silverwing. The Tharnorsa recalled his and Lord Silverwing's last
meeting with no pleasure. The other keepers of the light had fallen, leaving
only the archer to face him and the tainted knights that had served the demon
so many decades ago. The black servants had sacrificed themselves to the holy
warrior despite the demon's influence. What drove the fallen knights to do so
still troubled the demon, though in the end it made little difference. The
Tharnorsa understood nothing of honor and devotion, but he remembered pain
well. Lord Silverwing had drawn the strength of his God directly into his
blades, then driven both the illuminated blades into the demon's chest, taking
the demon completely unaware and thrusting it into throes of agony that
persisted even as his corporeal form in this mortal world disintegrated. The
demon remembered the last thought he had sent into the Knight's mind as the
tumbling blades of the holy warrior had flown toward him, ignited with golden
light.
Mere mortal, your God knows nothing of this place and you will not be
given the choice to serve me, as were your petty brethren. I will find much
pleasure in your torture before I
feed
slowly on your
flesss
...
  
and still the Tharnorsa felt the bite
of the twin blades buried deep into his chest. Yes, the Tharnorsa would take
great pleasure in fulfilling his promise when once more Lord Silverwing
appeared before him, returning the pain he had been caused tenfold.

           
Father Tur'morival was cunning for a mortal and possessed an evil
soul that nearly matched that of the demon before him. The priest had used the
fall of the Tharnorsa to his advantage. The demon's arrogance was outdone only
by his desire for revenge against the knight that had defeated him, leaving him
marred for eternity. Father Tur'morival had learned much from the Tharnorsa in
the time they had communicated before the demon chose to aid him. The Unnamed
One all the creatures of the Abyss served was remarkable in his cruelty and
desire for chaos, and the suffering the Tharnorsa had endured in the Abyss at
his Master’s hands had been without match. Father Tur’morival had found the demon
all too willing to return to this world when the priest had reached into the
swirling chaos, seeking the Master's scarred servant. Still the bargaining
between the Tharnorsa and the priest had been long, and the price of equality
with the entity had been dear for Father Tur'morival.

           
In
the end, the Tharnorsa had committed itself into the service of the Master of
the Order of the Crimson Night for the promise of revenge and the priest's aid
in bringing the Crimson Night itself to fruition. Father Tur'morival's use of
the demons against the Knights of Bella Grey had proven only a partial failure,
and had given the priest the last piece to controlling the greater demon
completely. He had summoned the demon, placing him directly into the Knight's
stronghold with instruction to destroy the only weapon that could stand against
him, but the demon had had other plans for his summoner at the time. The demon had
become aware of the depth of Father Tur'morival's connection to him too late,
and had been forced once more into the Abyss with only half his prize. Father
Tur'morival had withdrawn his power, and the Tharnorsa was once more left to
the tortures of its Master. The Unnamed One had given the demon reason to give
Father Tur'morival the last thing the priest needed. The Tharnorsa had
projected its true name into the priest with the hope it would destroy him, but
father Tur'morival's studies were not in vain and he was prepared. Taking
possession of the Tharnorsa’s soul had nearly killed the priest, channeling the
demon's full powers into the soul stone, but the sacrifice had been worth it.

           
Loss
of one's mortal flesh was a small price to pay for immortality when one's body
began to wither. Father Tur'morival had found his body diminishing despite the
strength of his increasing powers. Once he had taken control of the demon's
soul and the power of the pure evil it possessed, the priest had remade his
physical form. The thick scales that encased his weak true form gave him
physical protection well beyond those of any pure mortal. There would be little
challenge in undoing the young knight, despite what his visions had told him.
The priest was certain his destiny was his own to make, as he had done so many
times before.

           
Twelve
priests of the Crimson Night Order awaited their high priest's arrival and
knelt before his throne as Father Tur'morival took his seat. The seat of power
for the order was unremarkable except for the two giant statues of Tharnorsa
that flanked each side of the throne. Each obsidian figure held burning
braziers with outstretched arms, lighting the humble throne of the Master in a
wash of flickering light. Glimmering rubies that served as the eyes of the
creatures shimmered in the darkness at a height just outside the light of the
braziers' flames. The priests had learned quickly to remain at the farthest
edge of the circles of light the braziers cast. Their master was not known for
his patience with those that drew too near his seat of power. Marks burnt into
the floor near the throne were all that remained of any brought before the Master
after failing him. The inner circle had numbered many more priests in the past;
some that had thought there was folly in the Master's plans or had felt another
leader would better serve the Order. All these individuals, and those foolish
enough to support these misguided followers vying for power, had been drawn
from the Order and dealt with by the Father himself. No traitor left this
sanctuary.

           
Father
Tur'morival swiveled his hooded head to take in all the assembled priests. “The
time has come, brothers and sister of the faith. Our old friend comes to pay
his respects to our ally, and we want to make certain he makes it to the one
that dwells beneath without hindrance. Those of you that are coordinating the
welcome of Lord Silverwing will assemble your forces and take up the positions
outside the keep as planned.” Father Tur'morival centered his hooded visage on
the priests in front of him before continuing. “Lord Silverwing had a measure
of luck and evaded capture at the hands of our returning forces. His forces
have sustained a significant loss at the hands of the demon bloods and, though
the remaining protectors are stronger in spirit for their loss, we should have
little trouble dealing with the few that remain. Those of you not forming the
reception party will remain at the walls of the keep. Prepare the missile
troops at the walls to take Lord Silverwing at range, and alive. All his
companions are to be slain. If Lord Silverwing is killed, I will take great pleasure
in torturing the one responsible for the failure through several
lifetimes.
 
His soul is beyond my ability
to recall into this world, all of yours, however, are not. You would do well to
remember that and take the necessary precautions to ensure he is taken
alive.
 
Go to your appointed positions
now.”

           
The
priests rose as one, each in turn giving praise to their Master before leaving.
Father Tur'morival extended a single finger of shimmering scaled flesh from
beneath his robes, the deadly sharp claw at its tip reflecting the firelight
from above him. “Father Ragone, remain here with me. I would discuss a matter
of some importance with you before you go.”

           
Father
Ragone turned to face his Master once more, pulling back his crimson hood as he
did so. For twenty years, the priest had served Father Tur'morival. Father
Ragone was instrumental in the construction of the keep that served as
sanctuary for the Master, and he knew every inch of the stone that formed it.
His personal troops of demon bloods had created the throne room that served as
the Tharnorsa's quarters, and he had appeared before the demon many times in
Father Tur'morival's place. He had no reason to fear his Master, until the
other priests left the room.

           
Once
the two were alone in Tur'morival's chamber, the Master spoke. Father Ragone
was amazed at how Father Tur'morival could sentence someone to death without
even a minor change in tone or inflection. He had witnessed many such sentences
in his time with the Master, but only now could he understand the paralyzing
terror of being the victim of such a proclamation. “You serve two Masters,
Father Ragone, and though I have known this for quite some time, I no longer
have any use for your duplicity. Rest assured your years of faithful service
are to be rewarded, and I will lengthen your agony no more than necessary. If
you wish, feel free to charge this throne and perhaps I will kill you
immediately. The Overseer did well in his choice of spies, and I would be
interested in seeing just how strong one of the Black Hand really is. Do not
dismay. Your brothers and sisters will be destroyed soon. Rogue assassins are
trouble enough without a strong, organized band nipping at one's heels.” Father
Tur'morival seemed distracted as he brought his clawed hand from beneath his
sleeve and pressed it into the folds of his robes. Father Ragone wasted no
breath or movement as he closed the distance between himself and Father
Tur'morival. The Master rose so quickly he seemed to stand without actually
moving, as both his staff-wielding arm and the arm that had disappeared beneath
his robes came out in front of him. Father Tur'morival held his staff in his
right hand and a smooth dark-red orb roughly the size of a fist in his
outstretched left hand. The two items, staff and crimson orb, glowed brightly
in the light of the flames, though the orb seemed to magnify the intensity of
the light it reflected.
 
Father Ragone
came to an abrupt stop, staring at the orb, as blood began to trickle from his
eyes and ears. The doomed priest tried to speak, but no words escaped him.

           
Father
Tur'morival smiled appreciatively. “Well done.
 
You at least make an attempt at self-preservation, unlike the one who
gave you over to me so long ago.
 
Do you
know that I placed your Master in his current position before your mother had
given life to you? He has grown bold, but not wise. You would think one hundred
years in service to me would make him smarter. You have the benefit of my
personal touch on the way to oblivion; he will die in his sleep at the hand of
his finest blade. I hope that brings you some measure of peace. Unfortunately,
the entertainment I arranged for this evening has been delayed, so your
suffering will have to suffice.” Father Tur'morival found his victim's screams
very satisfying for the time it took the burning to burst from within him and
ignite his body.

15

Preparations

           
Tana's
hunting party was gathered in the druid grove near Zanthfar. Gregor spoke with
Mithrina nearby, gathering what news he could of Lord Silverwing and the group
he had led into the mountains. “He would have made it deep into the lower
mountains by now, Lord Lightsword, and should easily make his way to the source
of the taint soon. Master Stonecutter knows the mountains as well as I know
these lands, and the rangers and druids in Lord Silverwing's party were the
best of those that gathered here.”