King Of The North (Book 3) (22 page)

“We could never have defeated such an enemy without your help,” Bradan replied. “We thank you.”

“Take care of your people, Bradan,” Erenoth continued. “Bring us anyone who was wounded. We will do what we can to heal them and prevent the curse from spreading.”

“What were those creatures?” Bradan asked.

“They were wights, created by The Lifegiver. Not those of legend, but equally dangerous.”

Bradan sheathed his sword, hanging his head in sorrow. “Several of my men were bitten,” he said. “A few of them were killed.”

“The dead have been spared this fate,” Erenoth assured him. “They died with honor, and will stay that way.”

“What of the wounded?” Bradan wondered. “You can prevent them from turning?”

Erenoth nodded. “The Dragon’s power is great,” he replied. “The curse can be lifted if we treat before sunup.”

“Very well,” Bradan replied. “I will have them brought to the town hall. You can help them there.”

With that, the Captain turned to rejoin his men. Khalid eyed Erenoth with doubt, knowing full well the nature of the undead.

“Can we really heal them?” he asked.

“With our efforts combined, we can prevent the curse from taking them,” Erenoth replied. “Then, we must meet Eamon as soon as possible.”

“Agreed. Let us begin.”

Aeli felt uneasy when she noticed the increasingly dry landscape. The farther south she and Jodocus traveled, the less alive and lush the vegetation seemed. Even the sky was dulling as they traveled, going from bright blue to a pale grey. Jodocus, though silent, noticed as well. His demeanor was morose and worrisome.

“I don’t understand why we can’t just teleport,” Aeli said. “We could investigate much quicker.”

Jodocus turned to look up at his apprentice. “We are not entirely sure where we are going,” he replied. “But it seems that whatever we are looking for is getting closer. The land has lost much life, and it is only getting worse.”

“Can we restore some life as we travel?”

“It would be a waste of power,” Jodocus explained, shaking his head. “Until this presence is removed, our efforts would be in vain. It would simply reabsorb any life we gave back to the land.”

“I can feel the imbalance,” Aeli said. “It sickens me, as it does the land. We must find the source as soon as possible, before too much damage is done.”

Jodocus stopped, staring at Aeli’s pack. “Hmmm,” he grunted. “Perhaps Belo could be of some assistance.”

“Ah, yes,” Aeli replied, her eyes lighting up as she unbuckled her pack. “Belo?”

The little homunculus popped its head out of the pack, looking up at Aeli before buzzing upward. “We need your help, my friend,” Aeli said. Belo buzzed excitedly.

“Find the source of the withering,” she instructed. “Then return to me. Do not go too near. Just close enough to identify the presence. Then, return to me.”

Belo buzzed again, then hovered in front of Jodocus’ face for a moment before quickly buzzing away to the southeast.

“We should follow him,” Jodocus said, smiling finally. “He can, apparently, feel the source better than we can.”

“He is more attuned to the land than we are,” Aeli said. “He comes from it.”

“So do I, Aeli,” Jodocus replied. “And, like him, I will return to it one day.”

The two resumed their journey, hiking quietly through the withering wilderness. Somewhere, to the southeast, lay their target. And if Jodocus was correct, it would be somewhere near the forests outside the mines. There, deep in the shadowy depths of the trees, lay one of the most fertile areas of the island. It was a wellspring of life from which Jodocus himself had arisen. It was the conduit from which
The Dragon’s very soul fed the land. The source of all life force on Eirenoch.

If it were destroyed, then
The Dragon himself would die.

Chapter Sixteen

There was nothing more delicious than a nice, frothy mug of dark ale, Garret thought. This particular mug was no exception. It was nutty, crisp, and pleasing to the palette. In Moravia, all of the ale was exquisite, but the dark varieties were the assassin’s favorite.

He was enjoying the libation in a quiet corner of a tavern known as
Du Garten,
which, in the local language, simply meant “The Garden.” It was a well-kept pub filled with respectable, hard-working laborers from the nearby lumber mill. It was Garret’s kind of place; mostly quiet, clean, and with a fragrant fog of pipe smoke.

The Great Mother had told him that his next two targets would be here soon. They were the bureaucrats that ran the local Body of Commerce, a union of foreign-owned businesses that fed on the handouts of
The Lifegiver’s Sultans. Their presence was a bane to the local customs, as all of the money that was earned for the land of Moravia went straight into the Sultans coffers, with a little falling into the pockets of the two men he now sought.

Removing them was the only way to cut off
The Lifegiver’s influence.

“How are you, sir?” a serving girl asked him as she stopped at his table.

“I am fine, thank you.”

“Would you like another?”

Garret finished the last few gulps, sliding the empty mug to the edge of the table. “Yes, please,” he said. “Same mug.”

The girl gathered up his mug, and made a quick wipe of the table before gliding away to the bar. Garret leaned back, resting his right arm over the back of his bench. He looked around at the patrons, noting the inner turmoil they failed to mask. Though smiling and cheerful on the outside, the assassin knew that they were angry and resentful on the inside. Their hard work never paid off for them anymore, and they were on the verge of giving up, it seemed.

Just as the serving girl brought back his mug, two richly-dressed men entered the tavern. They immediately drew indifferent stares from the men that occupied the tables, followed by a silence that was almost deafening.

“Ah!” one of them exclaimed. “It is good to see such hard-working men relaxing and enjoying themselves.”

The patrons were silent for a moment before going back to their conversations. Garret chuckled to himself, knowing the hatred that was festering in the hearts of those laborers.

“Barkeep,” the other said. “We’ll have a bottle of your finest red wine, and a rack of that delicious lamb. Back table please.”

The bartender nodded expressionlessly, and watched the two men with fiery eyes as they made their way to the back of the tavern. When they had seated themselves, he went into the kitchen to inform the cook of their order and, presumably, to spit in their wine.

Garret took a large gulp of his ale, then reached into his pack to fish around for the weapons he would use for this assassination. He withdrew two small stilettos, each capable of being fastened to his wrists, and flipped into his sleeves after use. It would be an easy double kill, but he would have to wait until the men went outside. If he killed them in the tavern, then one or more of the patrons, and possibly the bartender, would be blamed. He would have to kill them in public.

Or would he?

As he picked up his mug again, the door of the tavern opened up to reveal three Jindala guards who had been outside earlier. Now, as they stood in the doorway, it seemed they were looking for someone.

The two bureaucrats watched them as they looked around, muttering to each other in hushed tones. When the Jindala appeared to have confirmed their charge was not in the tavern, they left, prompting the two men to follow them outside.

Garret stood, as well, leaving a pile of coins on the table and making his way to the door. He nodded politely to the bartender, who watched him go with curiosity.

Outside, the two men caught up to the guards and began speaking to them in their language. There was no hostility between them, only a brief exchange before the two men departed to return to the tavern. Garret readied his weapons as he prepared to walk between them. Now was the time.

With his head hung low and hidden in his cowl, he roughly bumped into both men, pushing in between them in a rude fashion. “Pardon me,” he said, feigning drunkenness.

The two men turned around together. “Watch where you’re going, scum!” one of them hissed. Garret smiled and turned, stumbling toward them like a drunken patron.

“Forgive me, sirs,” he said, striking out with both arms. His wrist blades punched through the tough leather of the men’s tunics, and they both gasped as their hearts were pierced. Looking around to make sure he was definitely seen, Garret withdrew the stilettos and threw back his cowl.

The two men collapsed, prompting the nearby Jindala guards to rush to the scene. Garret leaped away, grasping a support beam that held up the tavern’s canopy, and swung himself up onto the low roof.

“Stop!” he heard the Jindala shout.

Garret climbed up the building’s wooden buttress to the highest rooftop, hand over hand like a monkey. Within seconds, he was safely away.

Laughing, he looked to the sky, silently letting the Great Mother know that he had accomplished his mission. As he waited, he saw several guards jumping across the rooftops to intercept him. He, however, was not worried. Even if they caught up to him, he could easily dispatch them.

He was definitely up to the task, but it would be unnecessary. Before the Jindala could get any closer, the portal opened before him. He gave the rushing guards a quick wave before leaping into the vortex to disappear before their eyes.

Another successful mission was now behind him.

Morduin was quiet when Maedoc returned. It was late at night, and a thick fog hung low over the city and its surrounding areas. The seer stood at the opening of the cul-de-sac that housed the tombs of the past kings, remembering his sister, and the heartbreaking ceremony that marked her interment.

He had come here only because Traegus had told him too. The Lich had foreseen some kind of danger to Siobhan’s tomb, and urged Maedoc to be present in order to protect her body.

The seer realized that it was not her body that needed protection. It was her sword.

Maedoc knew of the Enkhatar, and why they were here in Eirenoch. They were not here to strengthen the Jindala presence, nor to have any dealings with Eirenoch’s people in any fashion. They were here to gather weapons of power, and to return them to The Lifegiver. Siobhan’s sword, he realized, was one of those weapons. Called Daer-Goroth by the ancient sages, the sword was once borne by King Daegoth I during his reign over Eirenoch. It was his grandson, the first Onyx Dragon and second to bear his name, that carried the blade on his journey to Dol Drakkar.

Though Daegoth II was given the Serpent’s Tongue, he bore Daer-Goroth as well, using both blades at once during battle. He did so to accentuate his power, as the ancient sword had been forged in the fires of the Earth by the Druaga. It had been blessed by their magic, and forged with their ancient secrets of metallurgy.

That is why the Enkhatar now stood around the cul-de-sac at this very moment.

Maedoc had felt their presence as his mind wandered to times past. They were here to defile the Queen’s tomb, and he was here to protect it. Resolved to do battle with the dark Knights, he stepped forward into the necropolis, offering no sign of his fear.

He stopped in the center, near the altar, and turned to face the opening. He stood motionless, going through many spells in his mind. He would be prepared when they showed themselves, and would not hesitate to unleash all of his power upon them. He could feel the beginnings of his spell building on his fingertips, and the power that was collecting there was overwhelming. It would take all of his will to avoid unleashing it before the time was right.

He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and waited in anticipation.

The fog slowly rolled into the necropolis, billowing like a massive army of ghosts that charged toward him in slow motion. Maedoc’s heart quickened, and his breath came in shallow gasps. He was terrified, but he would stand his ground and protect the Queen’s tomb at all costs.

As the fog filled the hollows, it faded into a deep black, signaling the coming of its dark passengers. They slowly rose from the blackness, dark as night themselves. They exuded darkness, and an odd, purplish light that caused the surrounding stone to glow. They were creatures of unlight, and the very embodiment of evil.

“You will not defile the tombs of my ancestors,” Maedoc warned them, his voice steady and commanding.

“Stand aside, seer,” came a whispering voice in reply. “We have no quarrel with you.”

Maedoc swallowed in fear. The Enkhatar’s voice was a terrifying timbre that made his blood run cold. It was a whispering cacophony of tortured souls crying out in pain. Souls that were trapped in the vile creature’s unearthly armor. Nevertheless, the seer stood his ground.

“You have no claim to anything that is in the Queen’s possession,” Maedoc continued. “Nor in the possession of our line of kings. Leave now, and never return.”

The laughter of the Enkhatar echoed throughout the necropolis. It, too, was terrifying. “Fool!” the creature hissed. “Your life is now forfeit.”

Maedoc let loose his spell. A disk of powerful, bursting energy sped away from his body, smashing against the armored creatures and knocking them against the walls. Their screeches of anger stung his ears as he broke into a run for the exit. He cast down four orbs of magic that erupted behind him. They burst into life, forming a group of phantasmal warriors that covered his escape.

He turned back after exiting the necropolis, seeing his ethereal guardians battling against the dark Knights. They were quick, powerful, and driven by divine energy. Maedoc took several steps back, raising his arms into the air to cast his final spell.

“Rise!” he shouted. “Rise and protect this place from evil.”

As he spoke the words, columns of rock slowly rose from the walls of the necropolis, shaking the ground with their movement. The sound was deafening, even more so than the shrieks of the embattled Enkhatar.

“Rise!” Maedoc continued, thrusting his hands upward to command the energies of the Earth.

The columns burst upward, curving at the top to meet in the middle above the center of the hollow. The columns would form the supports of a magical dome, and its formation would cause the Enkhatar to flee, or be trapped forever within its indestructible walls.

Maedoc watched the entrance, seeing the glowing, magical warriors fighting fiercely against the Enkhatar. Their power was great, and the dark creatures were unable to destroy them. They sensed Maedoc’s plans, however, seeing the columns rise around them. With shrieks of frustration, the Enkhatar summoned their fog once more, and faded into the ground.

The phantasmal warriors stopped, standing in formation in front of the line of tombs. They would remain there forever as the Guardians of the Afterlife. Maedoc would seal them up in the dome, and the entire necropolis would be secure until the end of time, never to be entered again.

It was a small price to pay.

Maedoc continued the spell, extending the dome far into the Earth to prevent any entry from underneath. When the columns had formed the skeletal dome shape, he summoned the curved walls that would form the dome itself. The stone seemed to roll into place, forming a perfectly circular barrier that encapsulated the necropolis in a giant, stone orb.

The deed was done. The Queen’s body was safe, and the Enkhatar had been thwarted. They would not return, he knew. There was no longer any reason for them to attempt entry into Siobhan’s tomb. He had won.

Breathless, Maedoc teleported to his tower to rest. When the final battle for Eirenoch began, he would need all of his strength.

“From thieves to Rangers,” Adder muttered as he, Jhayla, and the newly assembled company of Rangers crept through the forest near Gaellos. “I hope they live up to their predecessors’ reputation.”

“Don’t worry,” Jhayla assured him. “You chose well. The best archers, trackers, and swordsmen in the guild are now under our command. They won’t disappoint the King.”

“I hope not,” Adder whispered.

The company went quickly but silently through the forest, taking a curved route along the coast to arrive at Faerbane unseen. It was the best route to do so, as the forests along the coast were mostly wild, and out of the way of most of the area’s towns and villages. The only signs of civilization they would encounter would be the trading outpost near Faillaigh and the Inn that lay along the road.

Jhayla stopped suddenly, putting her hand in the air to signal a stop. Adder crept up next to her to scan the area before them.

“The forest is dying,” Jhayla said. “I’ve noticed that all of the life in the forest has been drained. It’s getting worse as we near Faillaigh.”

“I would assume it is because of the Defilers,” Adder said. “There would be many of them in Faerbane.”

“True,” she agreed. “But this is too much devastation for even a Defiler to cause.”

Adder nodded. She was right. The amount of death he saw was greater than what he had witnessed before. Something other than a Defiler had passed this way, and had left desolation in its wake.