Avenger, page 16
part #2 of Swords and Skulls Series
“Time to die...” came the disembodied, almost hypnotic voice. “Our knowledge is too advanced for you. On your journey of life let you plod in an endless cycle of war, strife and grief until ultimate awakening dawns.”
Maybe he was some great lord or magician, who knew? Vetra stood spellbound. The knowledge of such things was beyond him, and lost in the gulfs of time.
“Dead brothers. Rise again!” Like a thunderclap the voice came over the sunburnt plain. The speech was lost in sand, air and cloud and the last dragon lord’s murmurs washed over the shallow valley to end in a final command:
“Rise brothers, rise!”
And the dragon skeletons came to life, bones clattering together in an animated collective, tinkling like a thousand sinister wind chimes. An army of them creaked to life, rippling to unnatural form by some unseen magic the dragon-lord wielded after many ages of rest. The dragons’ fierce sun-bleached skulls tilted skyward, seeing a firmament not witnessed for a thousand years; then their necks swivelled to assess the fleeing remnants of the Behundrian army through their empty eye sockets.
A horrific murmur rose through the Behundrian’s ranks. Skeletal dragons vaulted the rocky moulder of their ancient death beds, springing after routed soldiers who ran in sheer terror. Ageless, undead creatures of bone and teeth rent flesh and crushed skulls, tails sweeping, snouts ramming, soldiers’ armour and weapons proving impotent.
These enchanted spectres then took to the air, bony wings spread like monstrous bats, flapping at air that should not keep them afloat, and soared low and high, searching for enemies to kill. As they swooped and dove like merciless raptors, they slaughtered in numbers the invaders to their sanctuary.
From his majestic perch the Dragon lord watched all this with no apparent emotion. Perhaps the briefest flicker of understanding fled across that imperturbable face, that the doom claiming these warriors sprang from the same source governing his own demise aeons ago.
When the shimmering lord had seen enough, his eyes glowed once more and his pulsing vision sent out the signal to the megaliths on the hill. The animus left the dragons, and like one they fell, their bones scattering like broken twigs over the dismal, corpse-strewn plain. There came a hail of bone on the last scrambling men, crushed and hammered to pulp beneath a storm of undead remains.
Vetra and his company watched aghast.
Satisfied at the death and destruction, the dragon lord walked on solemn feet back to the open slab and Vetra and his ragged fellows drew back with awe and apprehension. Under the natural light of day, the dragon being was a complete replica of one of the old, carven lords of the elder age. The perfect folds of the flesh on his face and naked shoulders and thighs glistened in the sunlight and burned pits in Vetra’s memory: the chilling dragon’s mane of scales and his corselet of fur, and the clawed feet.
There was no place to run so Vetra clutched his sword, ready to fight or die. “Kill us, if you must, fiend,” he murmured. Muscles taut, he shouldered Jhara out of harm’s way and faced the menace. Pulsing with instinctive self preservation, Jhara uttered a soft sob. Lehundr gazed in trance-like stupor while the Thrules shrank back, expecting instant death, swallowing dry lumps in their throats, bowing their heads in reverent terror.
The apparition briefly studied the defenders, though those seconds seemed to last a hundred years. Then its kohl-shadowed eyes gave them a blinking appraisal and shimmered back into its watery, mystical form. Like a column of liquid nothingness, it coursed wraith-like back through the black gap and the sad, shrieking cries of the doomed Behundrians trapped below rang out like a gallow-man’s song. To a man, their white eyes blazing in desolation, they tumbled back before the unfathomable terror that was the dragon lord of Naklion, and the heavy slab slid back and closed with crushing finality forever.
The Thrules shuddered and shrank back. Jhara gave an exhausted moan of relief. “Am I in a dream, or in one of Dergath’s afterlives?”
Vetra gave a grim laugh. He sheathed his sword and faced the Thrules. “So, your dragon lord crawls back in his hole with his riches. Who would have believed it?”
“You should pray to your Dergath that you still guard your head,” came Aus’s retort, which Dunon and Lehundr endorsed with nods and hoarse “hear, hear’s”.
“Let us count our blessings then and be gone from this sorrowful place,” murmured the half Thrule.
White-faced, they all threaded their way down the side of the mesa, squinting under the unforgiving sun.
Thrule reinforcements were making their way from the north, hundreds of them streaming down like ants from the hillside with rune-scribed boomerangs on their backs as they surveyed the dead. The broken bodies lay strewn from rim to rim in the valley, amongst the ruined columns and the toppled masonry and the bleached, lifeless bones of the old dragon lord empire. Vultures had already started to gnaw, hunched about the crumpled shapes in the sand, tearing chunks of flesh in red beaks.
Vetra stared dazedly at the dragon temple—an old, silent mausoleum, its facade of stone glimmering in strange, inexplicable mystery. Regal and austere, it stood towering over the dragon lord’s last stronghold and the insignificant band of survivors with an ancient, ominous grandeur.
The dragon claw was gone. Gefzad, Nhfer, Samos and Sebju amongst others had perished. The great gate was closed, doubtless never to be opened again. The Behundrians were trapped within, like the last unfortunate invaders from bygone days. A chill ran through Vetra’s body as he envisaged the horror they must face at the claws and spewing acid of the guardians.
He scratched his head as new questions arose. Macemas had spared them, for reasons which were not quite clear. Was it not by his hands, and his companions, that they had spilled blood on sacred soil? A foul taste fluttered at the back of his throat as he eyed those who lay in mangled heaps before the dragon door, buzzing with flies.
He stepped back with a grim shudder, shaking his head, a hollow feeling in his chest.
His limbs and torso tingled with a dozen cuts. He limped over to where Jhara slumped in an untidy sprawl with others on the steps. Her bare arms and cheeks were dust-caked and smeared with blood; her leather pants were torn, her hair tousled like a drunken doxy’s yet she grinned with a lively gleam in her eyes. She had escaped mostly unharmed as had Lehundr, who had a cloth circling his brow and a splint wrapped around his arm, which was either sprained or broken.
The Thrules rounded up the surviving Behundrians to take as prisoners; they helped bury the dead and gave treatment to those Thrules who were injured.
The leader of the arriving company, Arast, approached and addressed the bedraggled group of survivors, “Hail, battleworn. By Zeldra and Dergath! A war of wars you have fought here. I was loath to drive my men faster, lest their hearts give out on them. Pity we could not lend aid. Where is Nhfer?”
“Dead,” mumbled Dunon. “Sebju is slain too.”
“These are ill tidings!” he cried. He hung his head and wide fingers played idly over the double falchions at his belt. He was a broad and heavy-limbed man for a Thrule and he rubbed his chin with a sweaty hand. “Nhfer summoned us on the magic horn, and we came as quickly as we could.”
“Though tardily,” Zren pointed out.
The leader flourished a sword. “It is as it is, boy! Men on foot can only travel so fast.”
“The last dragon lord has come and gone,” announced Dunon with a weary groan, “and will likely never appear again.”
The Thrule’s eyes glinted. “Macemas, the damned? At this forsaken place? It can’t be. Tell me about it!”
Dunon told the tale, motioning to the great dragon fort behind him and tracing measurements in the air describing the size of the guardians. Several of Arast’s men gathered to listen spellbound and Lehundr eagerly took up the tale. Vetra and Jhara added their parts when the leader pressed for details. Aus and Zren picked up the story at certain key moments.
After the tale had been told, the chief eyed them with amazement and returned to the battlefield with his men to oversee the cleanup, still shaking his head in awe.
Vetra sighed and turned to face Dunon: “The Behundrians will come searching this place to carve out the jewels when news of the interior reaches Dragonskull.”
The Thrule uttered a hollow laugh. “They can try, but the dragons will defy them even in death. You saw what happened to Cthan and his villains.”
Vetra shrugged. He could not refute the fact. “That will not stop their thirst for Thrule blood.”
Dunon squinted at the dragon fort whose timeless presence had persisted throughout onslaught after onslaught. “The dragons of all beings realized that water was the most precious resource in the lands. More valuable than gold. Or all the jewels of the world. That’s why they built this impregnable sanctuary rich with water and gems. They celebrated beauty and life, and presented it in monumental grandeur in the greatest hot spring in all of Behundria and Sahir. They saw the evil that rubies and emeralds and the like wreaked on the greedy hearts of men and grew wary of its lures and perils, and thus hid them away. As the spirit of Macemas pointed out, men like Cthan have still not learned the primal truth.”
Zren shook his head in contempt. “The dragon lords are dead, old man, as are all the marshals of Dragonskull, as we all should be. ‘’Tis a flaming miracle we are standing here right now.”
Vetra snorted his agreement. “It’s some part of a greater design, which only Dergath knows.”
Aus, bursting to get something off his chest, offered an egg-sized garnet to the blood-stained mercenary. “I nabbed it on the way out. You deserve it, I think.”
Vetra shook his shaggy head. “The treasure belongs to the dragon lords, not I, at worst the Thrules. Keep it!” He caught the look of painful disapproval etched on Jhara’s face.
Dunon shook his head with a laugh. “The bulk of jewels will stay with the dragon lords behind that impregnable wall.”
Aus’s eyes dropped. “I don’t feel right to keep it, Dunon. Cthan learned the error of his ways, when he attempted to steal the mystical eye of the master dragon lord for himself. I have a feeling some doom will come of this.” He cast his eyes to the sand.
“Maybe,” said Dunon. “You did what you did, perhaps no more than what a nobler man would have done.”
“What will you do?” Vetra asked Dunon.
“For now, the captive Behundrians will take the place of the bullocks at Sunswatch and draw water for the Thrules.”
“They will rise up,” Vetra muttered. “Reinforcements will ride across the desert, ferret you out.”
“Let them—we will be ready.”
Aus flourished a hand. “We will be ready! We will fight until the end of time. We may die and flee to the hills, but until then, we will continue our vendetta—or retreat north, living in yurts, not the sheltered sacred caves of Zabenzar. We have the map, the garment and a glimpse of the old treasures of the dragon-lords. Their secrets, we know now to be real. The fact that we are alive, tells us much, that the dragon lords are our allies.”
Vetra stared and rubbed his chin in admiration for these brave nomads whom he could not help but think were a trifle mad. “Then Dergath be with you!” He laid a hand on Aus’s shoulder and gave Dunon a friendly gesture which the Thrules gratefully returned.
With a crinkly eye, Aus pursed his lips. “It’ll be sad to see you go, outlander. As far as men go, you’re a deserving one.”
Dunon murmured his agreement. Zren made no effort to control his grimace and stalked off with cursing grumbles.
“Let us clean up this mess and go,” mumbled Aus. “We have many weapons to forge and plans to make. Send riders to the hills on foot to Hruen! Call the other Thrule clans from the north! They will be needing to come down and help us for the aid we have given them in the past. We have offered them sheep for slaughter and supplies when they have had need of it.”
The Thrules turned their ponies to the eastern road, but Lehundr hung back from the milling group, pulling at his blood-flecked beard.
“What’s wrong, half Thrule?” Vetra inquired with a wry grunt. “Will you not come back with us to Dragonskull, or do you hanker for another shower of dragon bones falling from the sky?”
Lehundr shook his head. His brow creased with warring thoughts. “I grow weary of rogues and swindlers in that dusty town. Cthan has fallen, and an inevitable new order will arise, but the trader’s post will decline back into its old habits, I fear. I will head north, my friend, to Vespia, that spire-ridden capital of Sahir. From there? Who knows? A fresh start and a chance to buy some fortune.” He scrutinized the mercenary whom he had come to know as a friend. “And you, Vetra? Will you seek more bloody misadventures?”
Jhara broke in sourly, “Aye, will you go with this vagabond and seek out your death?”
Vetra thought for some time, his brows lifting at Jhara’s comment, then his gaze drifted to the red glow of the setting sun. “I will take you as far as Dragonskull, Jhara, but no farther, nor will I tarry there. I must return west—to Lausern, the pits and scum dives of Lvendar.”
Jhara’s lips parted in a desolate look. Her eyes dilated and her lips quivered in despair. “Take me with you,” she pleaded.
His eyes passed over her sleek, muscular lines. Keen approval showed in his gaze, but in a brief glimmer of foresight he glimpsed a foul scene: her flesh bloodied and torn during one of his bloody, underground campaigns. “As tempting as it, girl, I fear not.” At the look of her crestfallen expression, he added, “The dark places I go are no place for you, as fierce as you are. You’re young, inexperienced, have many adventures before you, and many fair men to meet. Maybe you’ll take a fancy to one of these hot-headed Thrules.” His eyes strayed to a group of hill Thrules digging amongst the wreckage where Zren stood motioning in heated argument.
She looked away, her sour expression saying all. “They’re too short.”
Vetra laughed, but quickly stifled his amusement. “Continue your sword practices, Jhara. Find yourself a good teacher, as rare as they are in this world. Dergath’s cats, woman, with your skill, you could teach the art yourself!” He paused, shifted, his sweat-draped leather under his mail shirt becoming an uncomfortable burden. “Maybe that headstrong Thrule, Zren, will make a decent swordsman himself one day. He flails like a fish and blunders like a newborn ox, but somehow I see potential in him. You could teach him. Show him how to move and feint. Your zeal and restlessness reminds me of myself in my younger years.”
She beamed at the roundabout praise, and a glimpse of the old Jhara came reaching once more in her eyes. There was comfort and protection in the mercenary’s gaze, along with the ever-present lure of high adventure, but also the keen promise of death.
“Go then, Vetra. I see where your heart lies. Bloody quests, fighting for the underdog, killing for hire, nothing permanent or satisfying there for me, likely the thrill of a long line of paramours to go along with life on the road. I will remember you, if that means anything. If you remember anything of me, think of a woman who wanted to be at your side, enjoy our trysts, fighting as an equal. It seems you have much to do. Go! I will not hold you back. Nor will I go back with you to Dragonskull—others will make the journey and I will go with them. Return to Dragonskull one day, if you wish. I pray that our paths meet again.”
Vetra hesitated, then collected himself, his mouth carved in a crooked grin. “Until our paths meet again then.” He tipped his head and walked off. Dergath, but the ways of women were inscrutable.
* * *
So Vetra turned to the dusty road south, but an afterthought struck him, and he halted and turned back to seek out the tearful young woman. The weight of something familiar jingled in his pocket. The others had left, and she was alone on the steps, sitting chin in hands, in despondent self pity. Vetra approached, put on his most amiable face. “Here are three diamonds and rubies that came to me in the dragon temple. They came from about the stony neck of one of the dragon lords.” He pushed them into her hand. “Take them and buy you and your brother freedom from the streets of Dragonskull.”
An expression of wonder softened her gaze. “You don’t want them?”
“I’ve enough good fortune to last a lifetime.” He clapped a hand on his sword, calmly remembering all the death that stalked him through the years, a silent partner treading in his shadow.
She mumbled a dry response. “Nine lives of it. If I could count the times I thought you were dead back in that cavern.” Her features frowned and a faraway look clouded her eyes. “Should I be worried about curses and the like cast on these gems?” She flashed them a glance. “Aus seemed serious about that and I heard you agree with him.”
Vetra shrugged. “The jewels fell from the dragon lord statue’s garland. I see it as an offering he gifted me with, rather than a theft. The spirit of the lord gave them of his own free will. Otherwise I wouldn’t have felt compelled to snatch them, and would probably have died back in that dim chamber. It would have been my tomb as well.”
Her lips slackened in a grin. “Then go with my blessing, and I thank you. Be gone, mercenary, before I tear up!...a warrior should not cry on a day of victory and good fortune, should she?”
He took her in his arms and her forced veneer peeled away. Her breathless sobs poured out against his chest; her hot breath stormed on his neck, and Vetra, for all his faults in the arena of love, drank in this woman’s passion like a stag at the lake, an antidote to the grim business of his trade.
“Come on, Dragonskull’s a long ways away!”
VALLEY OF THE GODS
I
“Hold off, Balir. There’s no way we’re getting this thing past the bend.” Vetravincus halted, his muscles straining, staring ahead down the narrow moonlit ledge where the priest had disappeared. A sheer drop at his side into the canyon below made him wary of his every step.
“It’s as heavy as iron,” grumbled Balir, his black curls matted in sweat, his swarthy features chased in a grimace. He struggled with the large, unwieldy seashell, all coral-rose and white, that held some mysterious idol, a winged creature of jade coveted by the wizard Caglios. “I curse that priest, Iokru, for funnelling us down these wretched paths.”
