Shadow Of The Mountain (21 page)

The remaining two were wide-eyed with shock, yet still moved to obey the order.

Argos took a single step back and dropped the club. He reached over his shoulder for the double-edged axe and it slid out from his back, so sharp it hummed in the air. The warrior stood still with the axe at his side, watching the remaining men on their feet.

Argos said nothing, and he didn’t have to. His gaze froze them.

Seconds crawled by, drawn out to torturous lengths. Then fat Jago moved, turning and running. The other followed suit, and soon all that remained were the unconscious leader and the skinny man with the broken jaw who now merely sat on the ground.

Natalia watched the two men flee to the chained gate. The first man was up, over, and gone as if he were on fire. Jago struggled for a moment before flipping himself over the top to land hard on the other side. He rose and limped out of sight.

“You ruined my face,” the skinny one called out with difficulty at their feet.

The bloody looter brought his hands up protectively as Argos knelt down close. Natalia and Karin stood in silence as Argos showed the man his blood-spattered reflection in the polished axe head. The weapon was a smaller version of what many warriors carry into battle, with twin blades that curved up to points like the steel wings of a butterfly and a sharp spike between.

“I think you look gorgeous,” the young warrior spoke. “Now, where is it you and these other troublemakers are from? Your accents are foreign.”

“We are from Galla,” the man spat. “Where is your army now, boy?”

Argos rose to stand over the thin looter. His weapon seemed to beg for the man’s life.

“Make it quick,” the man said, raising his head. “I wasn’t always as you see here.”

Argos lifted the axe and stared at his own reflection. Natalia could see he was seriously entertaining the idea of spilling the man’s lifeblood to the grass. Then he looked into the pale faces of the women next to him. He carefully slid the weapon into the leather carrier at his back.

“How many came in with you?”

“Eight thousand to Stonewall,” the bleeding man said. “Three to the capital. We waited at the edge of the forest and came just as word of your army’s defeat reached the city.” He spat out more blood.

“We would have fared better had our allies been there to march with us. That’s eleven thousand men who could’ve--”

“Allies?” snorted the Gallan with a derisive laugh, cut short by a cringe of pain. “We were never allies, boy. If you ever get the chance to grow old, you’ll learn that you can‘t rely on anyone but yourself. The Volrathi have come and they’re tipping the scales. Fighting them is pointless, but joining them?” He tenderly touched his bleeding lips. “Joining them is the only answer now. Galla will be great once more.” Argos bent down and retrieved Natalia’s gold pouch.

“Your home is lost and you don’t even realize it,” he said, tossing her the purse. “And if this house goes up in flame, I will hunt you down and ruin the rest of your face.”

Argos snatched up his club and left the skinny man with his still unconscious leader.

Natalia and Karin followed the young warrior to the main gate. The women climbed first before Argos hauled himself over, dropping down to land next to them. The light would be gone in an hour and the high walls of the Baelik house offered little protection when you were on the other side of them.

***

“Sometime you must tell us what that was all about,” Natalia told the young warrior as they moved north down a deserted street.

“What do you mean?” Argos asked innocently.

“Why are there men from Galla in the city?” Karin interjected. “And how did that club smash against your arm and not even hurt you?”

“The men from Galla are here through treachery,” he said, slowly leaning past a corner, scanning the next street for signs of danger. “As our allies their army was supposed to be at Goridai but they left Healianos outnumbered. Hurandor, too. There was no way our force could have defeated the Volrathi alone. Now it appears the Gallans are reaping the benefits of an undefended city.” He waved the women onto the next street and they moved swiftly, staying close to the walls.

“We were betrayed,” he continued, stopping at the next intersection. “And as for the smashed club…” Argos drew up the green sleeve of his left arm, revealing the severed wrist wrapped in leather, and a forearm encased in thick sections of overlapping iron plates bound tight with leather straps.

“The hand is gone but the arm is still useful,” he spoke, pulling the sleeve back down.

There was a body lying on the side of the next street. It was a young woman, stabbed to death, with a red puddle around her half-naked torso.

Argos halted them, seeming to think things over.

“The closest city gate is a good trek distant, and the stables will likely be watched,” he told them. “The enemy already has the city. We’ll have to make it to the forest on foot.”

Karin and Natalia cast worried glances at each other, but said nothing. The nearest city wall was still a mile north. They’d have to hurry to make it out before nightfall.

Chapter 12

“So what did the egg do?” Tenlon wondered.

“It planted an idea in the dreams of the Danaki mystics. A dream so perfect and obvious, it seemed to be the only answer. The mystics were to hatch the egg themselves and train the dragon within to destroy Kra-and.

“The mystic labored over the egg for days, smothering it with terrible spells they had never before had the power or knowledge to learn. Not knowing the spells were planted in their dreams from the dragon egg, they merely thought their skills were improving on their own. Their confidence grew as the egg spoiled their dreams with dark magic, which they, in turn, used on the egg.

“The little dragon inside was elated. The minds of man were so easy to corrupt. Its time of incubation was near completion and the dragon inside was far different than the one found deep in the desert.

“On the night of the great storm, five mystics were deep below the city. They stood in a room with walls covered in blood. Human sacrifices had been made in the name of Kra-and’s egg. As the city high above them was pounded by rain, the egg began to hatch, and the five mystics stood around it in wonder, as expectant fathers might. Proud, nervous, excited.

“Slowly, a crack appeared in the shell. It widened and split apart. A peculiar liquid poured onto the table and a small, wet dragon stretched its body for the first time…”

“What did it look like?”

“It was a black dragon,” the man said. “A black dragon with wings.”

The dream faded as Tenlon’s eyes blinked against the light streaming in through the curtained window above his bed. For long moments he stared at an old ceiling of rosewood beams that rested above. As his vision adjusted to the bright morning, he noticed cobwebs that hung amidst the supporting lumber and dust mites clinging to the high corners. It was nothing a quick broom couldn’t fix, and this new room was far nicer than their previous one.

They had found the Lonely Fox last night after climbing from the window of their room in the Crimson Stag. The Fox was like many establishments in Ebnan: a tavern for the drinkers and rooms for the travelers, albeit of slightly finer quality.

His bed was exquisitely comfortable, making him feel like he was swamped in a bushel of warm cotton, though that was likely just the result of his previous night’s near-death state of exhaustion. Regardless, it was the finest sleep he’d had in ages, heavy and relaxing.

He closed his eyes and ran through the memories of their arrival.

The Lonely Fox was a small building, two stories tall and of solid brick and timber construction. Its entrance faced a street called Sharpless, while tight alleyways that were more like corridors flanked its sides. The back end of the building opened up to a narrow street running behind other places of business, a dusty avenue barely wide enough for a wagon to pull through.

There were twelve rooms available on the second floor and Desik paid extra for the last one on the left, which had a window facing the alley. The Fox’s dining area boasted six round tables and six booths, with several long benches and a few dozen stools milling about. A long bar hugged the eastern wall to face the entrance so an obese bartender and his skeletal wife could see everyone who came and went. Swinging doors behind the bar led to what could only be a kitchen or storage area.

It hadn’t been crowded when they had entered the previous evening, and Tenlon wasn’t sure if it ever was. The tavern was nice inside and the prices were high. Not a place for thieves and mercenaries.

After securing the room, Desik had ordered them both thick steaks with fried eggs and wild mushrooms, two loaves of black bread with sweet butter, and several jugs of cool water to wash it all down. A fire was built in the cast-iron stove next to the door, even though the room didn’t need it. Tenlon figured they had both had enough of the quiet and cold nights on the road. There was just something about a blaze that was comforting: the soft smolder of warmth, the hiss and snap of burning wood, its need for attention and care. A fire was always soothing, like a thoughtful and silent companion, an old friend you’d known since your earliest days. It seemed to settle the room and relax their spirits.

When they had finished eating, the tavern keeper’s wife had removed the plates and at Desik’s request came back with a flagon of red wine and a single goblet. After this, they were left alone the remainder of the night.

As Tenlon had drifted off to sleep in his bed, his last sight had been of Desik sipping wine in front of the glowing fire. The warrior’s unsheathed sword leaned against the high-backed chair of worn leather he sat in, his free hand resting gently on the pommel. Tenlon could not say if the man had slept.

Letting out a great yawn, he sat up, reaching for a pitcher of water on a small table between their beds. Instantly he felt his aching muscles scream for a return to the soft mattress. His legs and back felt like he’d been trampled by an ox.

Desik was next to his bed on his knees, his back to Tenlon. Stripped to the waist, their swords and knives were laid out on the sheets before him and he was counting the remainder of his coins. The old bandages he’d had on during the ride were gone, and though his lacerations looked raw and angry against a collection of already-healed scars, the wounds appeared to be cleaned, stitched, and on the mend.

Tenlon looked at the mass of tattoos that covered Desik’s right arm, reaching across his muscled shoulder and upper back like colorful ivy. He’d never seen such work before and was impressed by the craftsmanship. The artwork looked to be a blend of dark foliage interwoven with pockets of dragon scales that glowed with color: sharp reds and blues, rich silver and gold, and deep curls of bronze that peeked out from beneath twisting patterns of green.

It was crisp and mesmerizing, and a little frightening at the same time, like battle armor that couldn’t be removed.

“Water will help with the soreness,” Desik said without turning.

Tenlon proceeded to drink three goblets before lying back down.

“Can we sleep for another day?”

“There are a few things we need to get in order,” Desik answered. “But I think we should be off the trail for a little while, at least. We have some time before meeting your friends.” Tenlon rose from bed and stretched, his bones cracking and muscles tightening.

“I smell horrendous.”

“The both of us could use a good bath.”

“I’ll not argue with that.”

Desik took out a small whetstone from a folded pocket behind one of his boots and started sliding it against a dagger. The steady scraping sound filled the room.

Tenlon fell to all fours and pulled the leather bag out from underneath his bed. Hauling it up onto his mattress, he untied the straps and looked within.

The artifact stared back at him.

It was he and Desik now, just the two of them. If the Volrathi ever knew what they carried—the power and potential threat it posed—they would be hunted to the distant corners of the known world, or beyond. There would be nowhere for them to hide and their deaths would most certainly be sealed.

Whatever happened going forward, wherever this frightening road led them, they would be going there together. And that meant sharing the burden. All of it.

With a deep breath, Tenlon reached into the bag and carefully placed his hands upon the object, removing it slowly. Heat pulsed from it and it glowed the dim-gold of smooth and perfect armor. The armor of a king.

Desik paused his sharpening but didn’t turn around.

The warrior could sense it, too: the power, the magic, the absolute weight of it pulled you closer. It made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end and mouth go dry. It quickened your pulse the way a wild and dangerous animal might if it just walked by you, like a gray bear that could kill you with one swipe of its claws but couldn’t even be bothered to glance in your direction.

That’s how the object made you feel: insignificant, just a child trying to grasp the origin of the stars and sun. Beautiful, distant, and older than time itself. Some mysteries were never fully understood, their secrets never revealed, yet they still existed. To Tenlon, that was magic. The glittering sliver-white jewels of the night sky, the vast depths of the open seas, the great mountain ranges—all were sparked to life without our watching eyes and would continue to exist long after we’ve gone. They were far older than man, and far greater than any of his accomplishments or ambitions. It was proof that there had been fantastic energy in this realm long before man ever walked it.

The object carried this energy, this power, within its core, within its very beating heart. Its magic was from long ago, in its purest form, and like the mountains and the stars this magic was strong.