Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) (19 page)

      A recessed opening was cut into the smooth polished stone, the floor dusty but free of grohlm scat directly in front of the tall opening. Brandon stepped closer to the door and touched it, laying his open hand against the surface. It was made to look like age darkened wood, with a scorched black handle and matching black scroll-work etched around the frame. There was a carving in the center of the door of a moon and stars, glowing to match the light above. Though the surface looked like wood, it was cold and metallic under Brandon’s hand.

      Brandon didn’t need to try the old fashioned handle to know that the door would not open. Nor did her need the voice of the god inside his skull to tell him, though it did.

      Wrong door.
Rok said, the glow inside Brandon's head intensifying.
Keep going.

      Brandon passed the moon door by, continuing down the next set of stairs. Taking the steps two at a time, Brandon continued his descent into the bowels of the broken tower. He passed at least a half a dozen doors, each carved with different but no less obscure images, before Rok's voice stopped him, saying.
Prepare yourself, Bran. You are nearing the gateway
.

      Brandon slowed as he landed on the next platform, holding his blades low, and ran headlong into a pack of wolves. There were 8 wolves in the pack guarding the doorway, some stood at ease near the lower stairs, while the others crouched and leaned at different points of the chamber. Each was dressed in various pieces of armor and held either bastard swords or long curved daggers.

      Brandon stumbled as he hit the ground, startling two wolves that were crouched near the ramp’s entrance. They gave startled yips when Brandon appeared, spinning and trying to bring their weapons up. Brandon struck them down in two moves, unsheathing and cutting in one breath, and they hit the filthy floor in 4 pieces. The blood churned the filth on the floor into a gory swamp underfoot. The surviving wolves scattered, barking and cursing in growling voices that were all too human, and tried to flank him on each side. They tried to attack the way that real wolves would in the wild, trying to surround their prey to nip at the flank and find weak points, but the chamber wasn’t big enough for it to be effective.

      Brandon didn't allow them to set the pace of the fight, launching into a fierce assault that caused them to fall back in sudden fear. Throwing himself at the wolves, he danced underneath their slashing blades and cut the legs off of one wolf and sliced open the belly of another. Its insides spilled out onto the ground and the wolf thrashed and died while Brandon moved on to his next opponent. Bouncing up onto his toes, he whirled his swords over and around his head and snapped the heads off of two more wolves before he stopped moving. The remaining 2 wolves fell back, circling around him. They held their weapons low and ready, their muzzles wrinkled and snarling as they stared at him. Sidestepping around dead and dying wolves, Brandon moved closer to the gateway. The door was closed. There was a scattering of raindrops carved on the face of this door, glowing softly.

      It would have to be rain. Watching the amber eyes of the remaining wolves, Brandon stopped moving and set his feet. Lowering his blood stained swords, he cocked his head and spoke. His voice was low and deadly. "Let's go."

      Snarling, the wolves hurled themselves at him. Their blades cut through the air with a hiss, almost black in the darkness of the caves, but none so much as touched him. Brandon moved among the wolves, the emptiness of his mind complete, except for the soft glow of the stone. With each movement, his swords bit into flesh and bone. Every blow was a killing stroke, none of his movements wasted, and the rain began to fall again, this time made of blood instead of water. Brandon bathed in it, cutting down his enemies with surgical precision. When the last wolf's head was tumbling into the darkness, Brandon stopped moving.

      He stood in front of the door, the blades at his sides dripping black and stinking blood. He could hear more grohlm moving his way. They were coming from above and below. After cleaning and sheathing his swords, Brandon stepped toward the door. He placed his hand on the black knob and paused. Examining the door in the darkness, he placed his other hand on the symbol, pressing his palm against glowing raindrops. Closely studying the door, he tried to see any way that it might have been booby trapped or tampered with. It was old fashioned, with a large keyhole and heavy medieval looking hinges. Brandon was tempted to peek into the hole, but the image of a narrow blade piercing his eyeball and punching through the back of his head came to his mind. The door looked safe enough, though, and he knew that any traps were more likely to be magical in nature than mechanical. He knew what he had to do.

      The knob was slightly warm under his fingers, tingling as if building up a charge of static electricity. He took a deep breath then turned the knob and opened the door.

      Gerrick charged through the darkness, cutting a grim and gruesome path through the horde of grohlm standing between him and the center of the strange clearing. He could just make out the remains of a broken tower up ahead. Above him, the grohlm were leaping at him with no regard for the bloody death that awaited them. They were trying to wear him down by throwing themselves at him indiscriminately, totally heedless of their losses. It was an old tactic, used by every army that ever picked up a sword or lance or rifle.

      And it was working.

      The tower knight was drenched in blood, his arms soaked up to the elbow, and he could taste the blood in the air. His arms grew heavier with every swing of his sword and the back of his shoulder burned where a grohlm's blade had bitten through his armor. He had reached the place where the helmet’s GPS had lost track of Brandon without finding any dead grohlm or even much sign of the boy’s passing.

      The grohlm had let him pass by without attacking. They wanted him to reach the gateway in one piece, all part of some twisted design. They served their master’s will in both worlds.

      Gerrick twisted, knocking back a snarling hound, and stabbed a crow in the heart. Moving as fast as he dared, he reached the broken tower and threw himself down the stairs, killing grohlm as fast as they appeared. 20 years before, when he and Stephen first arrived on this plain, leaving behind their old world and everything else they knew, Gerrick woke up on his back, lying in a small clearing, surrounded by trees and shattered bodies. There had been no gateway or doors bridging the gap between the worlds. All he remembered of the journey was the coldness of water surrounding him and the pain he felt upon awakening.

      Taking a deep breath, Gerrick backed down the stairs, working his sword like a butcher as he met wave after wave of grohlm. They dropped down into the tower in pursuit of him, hooting and screaming as they came. Gerrick fought on, throwing everything he had into holding them back and said a silent prayer for Brandon. If the boy fell now, he would die without ever knowing the truth. Gerrick couldn't allow that to happen.

Chapter 19

      Brandon stood on the cusp of the open doorway for a long time, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Below him, stretched out for as far as he could see, was an endless void. An abyss, much like how he pictured the emptiness inside his mind during combat, except there was no soft glow from the ancient god nestled in the far corner of his mind.

      It wasn't until he moved forward, leaning out into the darkness, that Brandon saw the first needles of light, twinkling far below him. How far away, he couldn't guess. It could have been miles? Or feet? They might have been stars? Or the glint of a thousand eyes?

      But Brandon knew better.

      They were campfires. Hundreds, thousands of them, spread out over miles and miles of nothingness. Brandon leaned further out, narrowing his eyes, and tried to make out the shadowy things moving slowly around the flickering flames. He heard the ring of steel on steel, as forge fires flared and hammers rang against heated blades. Howling at the night, grohlm fought and snarled around thousands of fires, a writhing sea of death and despair. If this was an army, it was the largest that Brandon had ever seen.

     
They ready for war.
Rok said to him from the void, the glow inside his mind expanding and contracting with every word, like breath.
The gateway can only be opened for a short time. That is why they haven't flooded your world like a plague. I can feel the gateway becoming more unstable, even as we stand here. Becoming less. Can you not feel it?

      Brandon could. The magic surrounding the door tingled against his skin, causing goose bumps to run up and down his arms and the hairs to stand on the back of his neck. He pulled back from the doorway and thought back at Rok.
Why is the opening so high? How do the grohlm get through?

      The tower fell. You saw that.
Rok said.
But the gateways between worlds cannot be destroyed as easily as all that. With the right magic and a steady hand, the doorways can be still be opened. And the Usurper is a powerful sorcerer. It is within his abilities to open the gateway, if only for a short time. Though It taxes his strength and his army grows slowly. Already, he has sent more grohlm into your world than you can conceive of. And he hasn’t finished
.

     
That's why he hasn't come through, himself, isn't it?
Brandon thought at Rok. He let the thought ring inside his head for a moment before following it with.
He has to be the last one through the gateway, or else he risks losing his army?

      Rok's laughter was like soft thunder inside his head. The god said.
You're smart, Merryweather. That's why I chose you. That's exactly why he hasn't come through. In the land of your fathers, the Usurper's power is very nearly infinite. But in your world, the gods are not as powerless as in the old. He would have to build his strength all over again. Something that would be impossible to do with you and your uncle hunting him.

     
That’s why he sent the grohlm after us. Why he created the Curse to destroy my family. To stop us standing in the way of him conquering this world
. Brandon thought. Below, he saw a change in the pattern of lights. Swelling in size, a pair of them moved toward the open doorway. Brandon stumbled back a step, drawing his swords, and stared. A pair of wicked glowing eyes flared at Brandon from the other side of the doorway. Inky blackness, darker than the night beyond it, created a shapeless halo around the presence staring back at him. Brandon felt his body go cold all over and Rok went silent inside his skull.

      The presence spoke, its voice cold and hollow on the other side of the doorway. Brandon didn't have to be told to know that it was the voice of his enemy. The voice of the Usurper, mocking and victorious. "Welcome home, Bran."

      Before Brandon could react, something big slammed into his back, sending him hurtling toward the open door and the waiting presence. Trying to keep his balance, Brandon spun and found himself face to face with a bull grohlm. Snorting and slobbering, the bull wrapped its massive arms around Brandon's body and carried him through the doorway. The door snapped closed behind them as they fell, vanishing from sight as Brandon and the bull dropped toward the ground below. Fighting against the bull's massive arms, Brandon smashed his elbow into the side of the bull's neck. Once. Twice. Three times. The third blow knocked its head sideways, causing it to loosen its grip.

      Twisting in its arms, Brandon put the bull between himself and the ground, stabbing it through the neck and chest with both of his swords. At the same time, his brain screamed at him that this was no dream. He was through the gateway and home was now only a distant memory. The wind screamed in his ears as they fell, buffeting his face and arms, and Brandon's stomach tried to claw its way up his throat.

      The drop lasted only heartbeats but felt like an eternity. They didn't hit the ground. Instead, they landed on a group of grohlm, crushing the monsters beneath their combined weight. The bull twitched, the bloodied tips of a pair of lances jutting from its still chest. Brandon yanked his swords free and rolled off of the corpse and stood, facing the horde surrounding him. Coughing and retching, fighting for his breath, Brandon was overwhelmed by a nightmare of sights and smells. Howls and roars from the monstrous army. Screams from some unknowable victim being cut apart. Perhaps for some horrible cook pot, hung low over one of the countless fires he’d seen from the doorway above.

      The stench of smoke and excrement mixed with the sweat and stink of thousands of animal bodies to create a miasma of gut wrenching nastiness. The grohlm pressed into an impossible mass moving around them like an ocean of gnashing teeth and glittering eyes.

      The grohlm surged around him, screaming and chittering as they fell back. Most panicked and fled, unsure of what was happening. Others held their weapons in clenched fists and paws. Growling and spitting curses at Brandon as they moved in, they brandished their weapons and made ready to attack. Brandon prepared himself, bracing his feet in the dusty broken soil and holding his swords low and ready. He kept the emptiness wrapped around his mind, the soft glow of Rok's presence reassuring him as he prepared to fight for his life.

      Before the grohlm could rush forward, a voice rose in the darkness, cutting through the din. "STOP."

      The grohlm froze, uncertainty filling the thousands of eyes that glowed in the flickering light of the campfires. Brandon stood his ground as the grohlm in front of him began to shift and move, parting to reveal a tall figure. The Usurper stood before him, a golden god in his shining armor, his lips quirked into a friendly smile behind the gaping maw of his helm. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t booming or rasping. Nothing magical or supernatural about it at all. It was just a man’s voice. "I’m very pleased to finally meet face to face, Bran. I’ve watched you for so long, I feel as if we’re family.” His voice was all syrupy goodness wrapped in the condescending tones of victory.

      “You killed my family.” Brandon said, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming it.

      “Indeed I did.” He said, his voice going all thoughtful. “Some with my own hands. Those that I could catch.” His smile widened. “Tell me, Bran, in all of your anger and pain and teenage angst, did it ever occur to you to wonder why?”

      “It doesn’t matter.” Brandon said. “Because soon you’ll be dead. And so will I.”

      The Usurper laughed. “You are a delightful lad, Bran. I think we’re going to be great friends.” Gesturing at a pair of nearby grohlm, he said. “Take the young king to someplace comfortable. I shall be along shortly.” He turned away, dismissing Brandon as if he was suddenly beneath his notice. A buzzing fly to be swatted at his leisure.

      The stone tucked inside his arm guard went ice cold against his skin, feeding him strength, and Brandon attacked. The grohlm’s surprise at his sudden charge only lasted as long as it took him to snuff out their miserable little lives. The first, a stag, gave a startled grunt as Brandon smashed his fist into its armored chest plate, warping the hammered steel and crushing the rib cage beneath. The blow sent it flying backwards, blood spraying from its startled mouth as it crashed into the mass of grohlm.

      While the stag was still in the air, Brandon snapped the second grohlm’s neck with an elbow strike and kicked another in the face, shattering its jaw. Kardas was no fool. He was moving before Brandon finished killing the stag, falling back and shouting at his honor guard. “Stop the fool! Take him alive, if you can, but if he lays one finger on your master, the grave worms will feast on your cubs!”

      Brandon followed on Kardas’ heels, losing himself to the fury pounding through him from the stone and killing the grohlm that dared attempt stopping him. Nothing would stand between him and his vengeance. Not the grohlm. Not the Curse. Nothing.

      “You were foolish to come here, boy.” Kardas called as he ran, hiding behind his army. “There is no vengeance here. Not for you or your father. All you shall find here is death."

      Brandon didn't say anything. Blood misted the air as he slashed and carved a path through the howling beasts. The ground was muddy with black blood and spilled grohlm guts. Holding his swords tightly, he clenched his jaw and listened for any sound from the god sitting inside his skull. But Rok was silent. The soft glow of his presence was still there though, devouring all of Brandon's fear and anger until all that was left was the emptiness. His mind empty and his face devoid of expression, Brandon met their charge and paid them blood for blood.

      Wiping blood from the visor of his helmet, Gerrick stood in front of the closed doorway, staring hard at the raindrops carved into the ancient wood. Around him,  the dead grohlm were a silent testament of Brandon’s passing. Running his gloved hand over the raindrops, Gerrick felt an emotion he thought long removed from his being.

      Fear.

      Brandon was gone. The door was closed and the knob wouldn't turn when he tried it. Nor did the door budge an inch when he planted his shoulder to it and tried to smash it open. It was as solid as the smooth stone walls surrounding it. No amount of battering would open it.

      He had arrived too late. Far too late. Gerrick didn't know why Brandon chose to enter the gateway, or even if he went in himself. He could have been carried through by surviving grohlm. Or by Kardas, himself. Revenge was powerful motivation, Gerrick knew. Powerful enough to make a boy do something foolish. But if Brandon went through the doorway, he was probably already dead. Or soon would be.

      Gerrick listened to the grohlm, pouring down the steps above him, and slowly knelt in front of the closed door. He had failed. He had failed his king and he had failed his only friend, the closest thing he'd had to true family.

      He had failed his mission.

      A sound made him look up. Standing nearby, watching him, was a figure cloaked in shadow. As Gerrick stood, easing his wounded shoulder, the figure stepped closer and the shadows fell away from its hidden face. Gerrick gave a weary shake of his head and said. “You’re too late. He’s already gone.”

      Sha'ha'Zel met the gaze of the Tower Knight and said nothing. His cloak rustled and moved, as if from a non-existent breeze, and his 4 arms came out. Each of his fists clutched a wickedly curved blade etched with glowing red runes. Lifting each of the curved blades up to touch the black skin of his face, the Curse’s cracked and blackened lips twisted into an ugly smile and he took a slow step toward Gerrick.

      The Tower Knight held his sword low and waited for death to strike first.

      Brandon ducked under a swinging axe, stabbing the bear that wielded it in the stomach, twisting the blade as he tore it free. Roaring, the bear fell backwards, its insides spilling out onto the ground. Arms and legs flailing, it hit its back and was instantly covered by a dozen other grohlm. Snapping and barking, the other grohlm ate the bear's steaming guts even as it bellowed its final dying roar. Brandon kept moving, leaping over the dead bear and its devourers, and chased the Usurper further into the army of grohlm. He barely slowed as he cut through the screaming monsters, blood and entrails flying, trying to keep the Usurper in sight as he followed.

      The grohlm parted like the red sea for their leader, closing up ranks behind him as soon as he passed and forcing Brandon to fight every step of the way. But Brandon didn't mind. He felt no annoyance or fear. The anger gripping him earlier was gone, replaced by calm determination. Silent as he was, Rok kept Brandon's mind empty and focused, letting him become one with the battle raging on all sides. He slid around every sword thrust and ax swing, carving a gory path to his target.

      The Usurper laughed as he fled. Calling out, he egged Brandon on, hoping to stoke passions that were gone, replaced by a granite vault inside his mind. "Come, Storm King. Are you so eager to join your father?" The man, or sorcerer, or whatever he was, sounded amused. He laughed and shouted. "He died on his knees, you know. Like a pig. As will you. No matter what hidden strengths you might have, you are still just a foolish boy. A boy lost in a playground of my own creation."

      Brandon ignored him, chopping his way through a dog face and splattering blood and brain matter across his face and chest. He felt like he was hewing wood, chopping down malformed and stunted trees. Only these trees bled thick black blood and screamed when his blades bit deep.