The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) (3 page)

Standing at the threshold, he felt the cool breeze at his back and the warm heat of a hearth fire at his face. The inside of the temple was a dark mahogany, lit only by lamps and the small hearth. The altar to Fieyar dominated the single-room structure, where a silver bowl sat in front of a wooden statue of the goddess. It was a highly stylized carving of a woman holding a law staff in one hand and raising the other palm out. Syrus had overheard a worker refer to the statue as a seal in a wig. Some people had no taste.

Outside, the ocean roared below the cliffs where the temple had been built. From here he could see the stone fortress of Norddalr, the real hall where Eldegris ruled. The old one of wood had collapsed in the great war, a death trap for invaders. Some of its timbers had been salvaged to create this temple. A narrow pass led to the stone fortress and a series of stone walls curtained the main buildings from threat. Syrus had spent many curious afternoons examining its construction, for how such a thing was built defied his knowledge. How could stones be lifted so high without the aid of magic? His High King seemed to know, but was reluctant to say.

He was preparing to go draw water, hefting a bucket from beside a barrel at the door, when he saw warriors treading the path that had been worn into the rocky earth. Three of them hiked the path, using their spears like walking sticks while their black shields swung on their arms. They were the High King's personal guards, the reserved and quiet men who seemed to know only discipline and obedience. They were as unlike any son of Valahur as Syrus had ever known. If any men should love Fieyar, the goddess of duty, it should be these. Yet they never visited him at his temple.

"Welcome to the temple of Fieyar," Syrus said, his voice rich and deep. His smooth voice was why men called him the Silver, for it was as pleasant to hear as the chime of a silver bell. "Do you come with word from the High King?"

The first of the three, a square-faced man with clear blue eyes and golden hair, nodded and leaned on his spear. "We do. He asks you attend him in his hall at once."

Syrus nodded, ran one hand over his freshly shaved head and considered changing from his gray shirt and wool pants. "Then I shall go to him at once. First allow me to change into something more befitting an audience with the king."

"We've no time for that," said the leader. "You are to attend him at once. His orders were clear."

Syrus blinked at the leader, then nodded and fetched his bucket. "I will bring this to fill on the return home."

"Leave it," the leader said. He firmly grabbed Syrus's arm but gently led him forward. "If you still need water after you meet with the king, we will have a slave fetch it for you."

His curiosity piqued, Syrus acquiesced to the leader's guidance. He followed them down from the cliff faces toward the stone fortress. He cast a gaze back at his temple, a dark shape against gray clouds. He experienced a surge of pride knowing he had built a place to preserve his goddess. In time, he considered it might grow and prosper and bring new worshipers. For now, it was an ever-lightening rectangle against the sky.

Inside the eponymous fortress Norddalr, Syrus followed his escorts through the stone halls. Though he lived on the island and gladly served Eldegris, he had seldom entered the fortress after the war of the trolls. The arched ceilings and hints of ancient designs fascinated him. As he ambled down a hall softened with a brown carpet, he tried to slow down to study the walls. His escorts, however, had little patience and clucked at him to hurry. At last, he came not to the High King's audience chamber, but instead a library.

A library! Syrus's eyes glossed past Eldegris standing at the center to the dozens of books and scrolls filling the room. The scent of old leather and dust sent his heart racing. Had he known such a place existed here, he would have begged Eldegris on hands and knees to be allowed even a single hour in this room. His eyes grew hot at the thought of all the knowledge being wasted between covers or wrapped in old parchments.

The leader of the escort cleared his throat, and Syrus recovered his manners. His face grew warm as he went to his knee before High King Eldegris. "Your highness, how may I serve?"

"Stand," Eldegris said. "You men leave us and close the door. Send in my son when at last he chooses to answer my summons."

Syrus rose, his face growing hotter at the apparent irritation in Eldegris's voice. The High King stood behind a table with a large map unfolded before it. Out of courtesy Syrus avoided looking at it, but the old brown lines seemed to outline what appeared to be the islands of both Valahur and Avadur. Eldegris himself was a statuesque man with grizzled brown hair framing a long face etched with deep lines. A circlet of gold rested easily on his head, yet his brow was furrowed. Jewels sparked from the rings on his fingers as he motioned Syrus to approach.

"Be at ease, noble friend. I have been remiss in visiting you at the new temple. How I wish for simpler days and more hours to add to each."

"A fair wish. One both king and commoner hold, I suspect." Syrus inclined his head. He was still uncertain how to behave before a High King. His experience had been all with war chiefs, who valued bluster and strength over manners. Eldegris smiled easily, but it was fleeting. He wore simple clothes of fine cloth, dyed blue and embroidered with yellow patterns of fish. Syrus could not help but stare at the pattern, and the High King cleared his throat to draw back Syrus's attention.

"You may wonder at the urgency of your summons. Before my son arrives, allow me explain all that I may say." He paused and regarded Syrus with cool, sea green eyes. Syrus again bowed, unsure of what else was appropriate. Eldegris tapped a gnarled finger on the map before him.

"I have a mission for you, something only a man of your intelligence can accomplish. This is a map of Valahur and Avadur as they were known in times long ago. I found this map in these archives only recently, kept hidden for time out of memory."

Syrus leaned over the map, eager to drink in the details. None of the ancients of Valahur or Avadur were literate beyond runic carvings on stones. A map was an unprecedented discovery that renewed the pounding of his heart. The brown ink lines delineated islands and borders that had long ago vanished. Writing in runes lined the sides, though these were not the runes of modern days. Eldegris's knobby finger broke into his vision, pointing at a starred location on the map.

"Here is Raffheim, Avadur's equal to Norddalr in ancient times. If you follow this line, you will see it leads to another location marked very close to Raffheim."

"Yes, but what do these runes say? Thal? Sal? The forms are somehow wrong."

"Tsaldalr, the Hall of Tsal," Eldegris tapped the mark. "Do you understand the significance?"

"I must confess ignorance, my king." Syrus did not claim to know all the history of his homeland, but few knew more than him. If he had to concede ignorance, at least it was to the High King.

"The Tsal are the First People." The words seemed to echo in the room, though the hundreds of books deadened every sound. Syrus met Eldegris's steady gaze and understanding bloomed.

"This is where Amator drew his knowledge of blood magic and created his trolls. The Hall of the First People. It must be filled with ancient knowledge."

"And more ancient threats. From where did Amator mine his black stone? Where the stone came from is a question that must be answered. What if more were found? What if whatever informed Amator remains for a new enemy to unearth? Such potentials tucked right under the noses of our Avadurian enemies. Whatever is there must either be brought to light or sealed in darkness forever. I need someone who can tell me what is the right path. Someone who can go in my place."

Syrus blinked, the heat on his face draining away. "You should ask Grimwold and Lethos. They both have magical powers. Or better, Kafara and Turo."

Eldegris already shook his head, waving one jeweled hand in dismissal. "Grimwold's powers are young and better suited to war. Besides, he cannot abandon his role as war chief. Kafara and Turo, well, I do not trust them. They may have aided us, but they are too foreign and too ambitious for this. I suspect both already know of Tsaldalr's existence, in any case. They represent a power you do not understand, and I cannot trust them. But you, Syrus, have intellect and drive. Your travels with Grimwold last year prove you are capable of handling the enemy. You will seek for answers and unearth the truth. And your oath to duty and service assures me you will not betray our people no matter what you find."

Before Syrus could speak, a knock came from the door, and then it opened to allow a young man inside. He was no more than twenty years, with pale gold hair and piercing eyes, and a thin beard barely covering his jaw. The king's son, Thorgis, gave Syrus a passing glance and gave a perfunctory bow to Eldegris. "You summoned me, Father?"

"I did." Beyond those two words, Eldegris's tone also said he had been displeased at the wait and was irritated at his son's flippancy. Syrus stepped from between the two royals and averted his eyes in embarrassment, scratching the back of his shaved head. Eldegris stepped to the corner of the room, where he picked up a sheathed longsword and laid it on the table. The sheath was leather-wrapped wood, unadorned and well worn. The hilt that capped it was covered with a bold relief of a dragon along the cross guard. Syrus's eyes widened as he recognized it.

"This is my sword," Eldegris said. "You will take it."

The words hung in the air, Thorgis and Syrus both staring down at the sword. It was no ordinary blade, but a magical weapon that had not only helped Eldegris to this throne but had been instrumental in the destruction of both the Avadurian blood sorcerer Amator and the mist realms demon that had possessed Grimwold's sister, Morvana. Without this blade, Valahur might have been destroyed.

"Why?" was all Thorgis asked, and was also the same question Syrus wanted to ask but dared not. He felt like an intruder on a personal conversation he did not understand.

"Because it is time for you to have it. I am sending you into danger. Here is the man I spoke to you about. You will recognize him, I am sure. You will travel together to Raffheim and Tsaldalr, a place filled with mortal enemies and worse. You will guard Syrus while he works to discover what he is able."

Both Thorgis and Syrus stared at Eldegris who did not waver at their quizzical expressions. Thorgis touched the blade as if it would bite him. "Why me? Why this blade? Will it even accept me?"

"The answers are unimportant, and that you obey your High King is all I require." Eldegris nudged the sword toward his son. "Do not draw this blade unless you must. Once drawn it will serve you as it has me. In time, you will understand the duty that comes with possessing such a weapon. For now, you should only call upon it if you need its strength. I pray you will not."

Syrus felt more and more like a man listening beyond the door to a private conversation. Thorgis seemed on the verge of tears as he picked up the sheathed sword, caressing the plain leather with his free hand.

"You must leave immediately. There is little time to waste, for I fear that whatever is in Tsaldalr has been left alone too long. A ship is prepared and well provisioned. Avadur may be defeated, but they still have teeth enough to protect their homes. You will seem as invaders to them. I will trust the two of you to find a way to Tsaldalr and enter it undetected."

"My king," Syrus said, lowering his head. "There must be another purpose in sending just the two of us into what would seem a deadly situation. With all honor and respect, my king, is there more you have not told me?"

His heart raced at the boldness of his question, but he felt his life was at risk. Certainly Tsaldalr could not be invaded, so infiltration made sense, but the Avadurians must have secured it for themselves by now. He raised his eyes to Eldegris's and found them sparkling with sad humor.

"What I have not told you fills all the books in this room. You must have faith that I am doing what is best for Valahur. In time, I believe you will understand. For now, I ask for your obedience to my will."

Syrus swallowed, his disquiet unassuaged. His smile trembled as he bowed again. "As you command, my king. As a faithful servant of Fieyar and the High King, I will fulfill my duty."

Eldegris smiled. "Good, for you are leaving before the sun sets. I will have all you require prepared for your departure."

Syrus glanced at Thorgis, who stared in awe at the sword resting on his palms. Something bigger than what Syrus understood was taking place, and it was Eldegris's unspoken command that he should determine what it is on his own. If that sword was involved, he feared what it indicated. For whatever it had been forged to defeat was a power not of this world. Syrus bowed again, for once unable to find words.

CHAPTER FOUR

All around Lethos the clash of battle raged. It was a unique song: the clatter of sword on sword, the thud of ax on shield, and the crunch and snap of mail giving way. Men screamed and fell, one right beside Lethos with his eyeball hanging from its socket and a gash that opened his cheek to expose bloody teeth. Another crumpled into a pile, failing to hold his guts in as the intestines spilled over his arms. Lethos tasted the acid at the back of his throat and turned away from the carnage.

He hovered over Grimwold, slapping his friend's waxen face. "Come on, wake up. It's just an arrow sticking out of your chest. About a hair's breadth from your heart. No big problem for a war chief like you. Get up."

The icy finger running along Lethos's back reminded him that he was relying on his echo power of prediction. He knew he was ignored for now, and that the man who had shot the arrow that felled Grimwold was dead. The warriors cursing and shrieking all around him had fallen to their work with gusto, and their first targets had been the dozen archers.