The Ascent (Book 2) Page 2

  “They can see the Dryads,” Farouk reasoned.

  “Yes, indeed,” Jodocus replied. “And they have been known to fight alongside them if the need arises.”

  “I have no doubt the Dryads are formidable in battle,” Farouk remarked.

  Jodocus nodded, smiling. “Yes,” he said, “especially when they command the trees to attack their enemies.”

  Farouk began to respond, but was cut short by a wave of Jodocus’ hand. The Dryad had turned to the two of them as they were speaking, and was now headed in their direction. She walked toward them gracefully, her shimmering green form a mesmerizing dance of natural beauty.

  She approached Farouk, who stood frozen as she leaned in closer. “What is she doing?” he whispered, trembling.

  “Do not fear,” Jodocus replied. “She is only examining you. She wants to see what kind of man you are, and if she can trust you. She knows me, and is curious as to the nature of my new apprentice.”

  Farouk said nothing, but remained still as the Dryad reached her hand out to place it over his heart. She slowly moved her fingertips over his chest, tracing the designs on his robes. He felt her energy flowing through him as she touched him, feeling it permeate every corner of his soul. The Dryad’s energy seemed to meld with Farouk’s own, sharing in all of the experiences of his past life, delving deeper and deeper into his consciousness. Finally, her expression changed to one of great admiration. She then looked into his eyes and smiled.

  “She knows what kind of man you are,” Jodocus said. “She knows how you retained your honor even when in service to the darkness. She is impressed.”

  Farouk returned her smile as she slowly backed away. He watched her closely as she removed the shimmering cloth that wrapped her body and raise it above his head. The cloth drifted down over him, wrapping him in its warmth, and falling against his skin. Farouk’s heart raced, his body numb with the energy that the cloth imparted to him. It then disappeared into his skin, becoming a part of him. The Dryad smiled again, and slowly faded from sight.

  “What did she do?” Farouk asked.

  “She has given you a new power,” Jodocus said. “She believed that you were ready for it.”

  “What has she given me?”

  Jodocus laughed, patting Farouk on the back. “She has extended you the power to become one with the trees,” he said, “so you may be better protected from the enemy. It will greatly enhance your ability to become unseen in the forest. She must believe that you will have need of it in the future.”

  “How do I use this power?” Farouk asked.

  “You will use it the same way you use all of the powers you have gained. You need but focus and will it to happen.”

  Farouk nodded in understanding, realizing that using the powers of the Dragon and The Great Mother was as simple as having a thought. The process applied to everything, Jodocus had explained. Will it, and it will happen. All that is required is the strength to believe.

  It seemed simple enough.

  “Come now, Farouk,” Jodocus said. “There is much damage on the island that is ours to repair. The Dragon has given us these powers to maintain the balance of the island, and we must oblige him. It is time to begin your first communion. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, my friend,” Farouk replied, eager to begin his duties. “I am ready.”

  The Knights of the Dragon rode at full speed across the open valley. Eamon led the way, his sights set on the company of Jindala in the distance. The enemy numbered only fifty or so, with one man on horseback, and a handful of archers. They would be easy prey and only a small detour in their route.

  Having left the bulk of their army in Gaellos, the Knights and their Lord had headed south toward the coastal town of Bray. Along the way, Brynn had spotted the Jindala on the horizon and the chase was on. They had fled when they saw Eamon and the Knights charge them, but the distance between them was quickly narrowing.

  Realizing there was no escape; the Jindala had stopped running and arranged themselves in a wall formation. Their leader, an armored man of elegant dress, took his place at the front of their lines, awaiting the inevitable conflict. He held his sword out in front of him, and his right hand was in the air in a neutral gesture.

  His signal told Eamon that the company would not make the first move, but would await whatever outcome. Either the group was on a diplomatic mission—as it were—or was in the possession of a precious cargo. The Knights were eager to discover which.

  As they neared, Eamon slowed, motioning for the Knights to stop.

  “Why are we stopping?” Angen asked. “We could ride them down easily.”

  Eamon pointed toward the enemy company, showing the veteran soldier what he saw. Among the Jindala was a woman. Eamon had not seen her during the charge, but she was clearly there, in the center of the formation. The Jindala were protecting her.

  “I wonder who she is,” Brynn said as he saw the woman himself, “and why she is traveling with the Jindala.”

  Azim rode to the front, squinting to get a better look at the woman. He scowled when he made out her garments, red silk robes with golden adornments, a red and gold crown, and a veil that covered the lower half of her face. He knew those garments well.

  “A sorceress,” he spat, drawing his sword. “She is just as vile and unclean as the rest of them. Cut her down.”

  Eamon took another look, and then turned back to Azim. “Are you sure?” he asked. “We cannot make a mistake and kill an innocent woman.”

  “I am sure, my friend.” Azim replied. “A Jindala woman in these lands is only here for one purpose; to reinforce the soldiers with her magic. Besides, her robes are those of the Ka’ha’di, handmaidens of the Prophet. Were she not a sorceress, her presence would still be a threat.”

  “If she were an innocent woman,” Wrothgaar added, “she would likely be the one on the horse.”

  Eamon drew his sword. “Then she dies with them,” he said, riding closer to the enemy company.

  He closed the gap somewhat, pointing the Serpent’s Tongue at the leader in challenge. The leader slowly rode forward, prompting Eamon to meet him in the middle. Eamon obliged, closing the distance cautiously, urging the Knights to stay back until he charged. He gave Daryth and Brynn a quick glance before he picked up his pace, signaling them to be ready with their bows.

  The leader met him in the middle, his dark eyes piercing and cold underneath his gold and black helmet. He wore no faceplate as the other Jindala did, and his turban was red instead of black. The robes he wore were also of red silk, like the sorceress, and were trimmed in gold. Despite his elegant appearance, the sword he carried was that of a veteran warrior, decorative but highly functional. Strangely, the Serpent’s Tongue began to vibrate as he approached.

  “We have no quarrel with you, Prince Eamon,” the leader said in Eamon’s tongue. “We merely seek one of our own who has fled to the South. He is a criminal, and is armed and dangerous.”

  “Then he is my friend,” Eamon replied smugly. “This is my land, and you are not welcome here.”

  The leader laughed. “This is Queen Maebh’s land,” he said, “and she has signed a treaty. We are surely welcome here. You, however, are not. Your kingdom lies to the North. You are outnumbered, my friend, and outmatched. Leave now, and we will let you go in peace.”

  Eamon laughed. He turned away, nodding to Brynn and Daryth. Then, spinning his horse around, he thrust the Serpent’s Tongue into the leader’s gut, pulling himself closer to glare into the man’s eyes.

  “When you meet The Lifegiver,” he hissed, “tell him I’m coming for him.”

  Eamon withdrew his sword and raised it in the air as the man slumped and collapsed to the ground. “Attack!” he yelled, leading the charge into the Jindala ranks.

  Brynn and Daryth both fired, sending their arrows into the front line of spearmen as the Knights clashed with them. The Jindala dropped their spears as their comrades were knocked into the air.

  The sor
ceress immediately raised her clawed hands to cast a spell, her face a twisted mask of hate. Lightning sparked between her fingers, crackling in the air and running up and down her pale, bony arms. She growled as she finished her spell, sending a bolt of energy toward the Prince as he cut through the human barrier. Eamon thrust the Serpent’s Tongue out in front of him to block the spell. It bounced off harmlessly, discharging into the ground with a thundering clap.

  Frustrated, she reared back to cast another spell, her red silk robes billowing with the gathering of magic. Her face contorted as she uttered the words of the spell, and the dust began to blow around her. Then, an arrow struck her in the throat, silencing her and sending her back several steps. She angrily clawed at the shaft, choking and gagging in an attempt to breathe. Daryth fired a second arrow, catching her square in the forehead and silencing her for good. She fell to her knees, pitching forward into the dust.

  The Jindala, now alone and leaderless, raised their spears. The Knights charged again, their battle cries echoing in the ears of the frightened men as they thundered toward them. The ground shook as the Knights neared, causing some of the Jindala to drop their weapons and flee. The remaining spearmen were knocked aside as the horses clashed into their line, and the Knights rode through them, hacking their way to the rear and turning for another charge.

  Eamon urged the Knights forward, leading the way through the ranks with deadly strikes from the Serpent’s Tongue. The Knights followed, their weapons slashing and bloodied as they dodged the thicket of spears that were lined up before them. Brynn and Daryth shot from horseback, picking off the attacking spearmen and clearing the way for the charge. The Knights clashed with them again, taking down a dozen more with their second charge.

  Seeing their potential defeat, the Jindala began to retreat, dashing through the gaps between the Knights and tossing their weapons to the ground. Eamon called off his Knights, dismounting. He walked boldly before the assembly of surrendered men, looking them over and assessing their will to fight. Their faces conveyed their hopelessness, and the Prince sensed that they no longer had the stomach to continue their mission. They were spent.

  “Pick up your weapons,” he said, pointing the Serpent’s Tongue toward them. “Throw them in a pile beside me and do so with your armor as well.”

  The enemies complied, stripping themselves of their armor, and placing their weapons together near the Prince. They did so without a word, or any look of contempt. They seemed relieved that the fight was over. Soon, a pile of swords, spears, and armor lay near Eamon, and the men knelt defenseless before him.

  “To the North is the city of Gaellos,” he said. “We will march you there. You are to surrender to my army and remain until I return. Do you understand?”

  Those who understood the language of Eirenoch nodded and relayed the command to the rest of the men. Eamon commanded his Knights to guard them as he went to search the body of the leader. He was curious as to why the man’s presence had caused such a strange reaction in the Serpent’s Tongue.

  He did not see anything unusual, or feel his sword reacting, until he neared the man’s own sword, which had fallen a few feet away. It was a scimitar, similar to Azim’s, but was elegantly decorated in gold and ivory, and bore the symbol of a multi-armed goddess at its cross guard. He called to Azim to identify the symbol.

  Azim examined the blade thoroughly, recognizing the icon immediately. “It is Anyar,” he said, “a servant of Imbra. She gave birth to Sulemain, supposedly.”

  “I thought Sulemain was a man,” Eamon said.

  “He was,” Azim replied. “But it was unknown who gave birth to him. Our legends say that Anyar came to a righteous warrior in his sleep and asked him to father her child. When he was born, she left him with the man and he raised him. Sulemain later became a prophet in his adulthood, after a life of being what we call a Keynakin.”

  “What is a Keynakin?” Eamon inquired.

  “They were an order of divine warriors, like the Knights of the Dragon. They were the protectors of Khem, defending our kingdom from intruders. The Lifegiver murdered them when he came to power, telling us that they had broken their sacred vows. Perhaps this man was once one of them, but turned against his brothers to save his own life.”

  Eamon understood, realizing how important Sulemain was to Azim and his kin. He was still unsure, however, as to why his own sword seemed to react when in the scimitar’s vicinity.

  “Strange,” Eamon remarked. “This sword seems to hold some power related to the Serpent’s Tongue. My sword senses its presence.”

  “That is strange, indeed,” Azim said. “This may be Sulemain’s sword. That would mean it was forged by Imbra himself as your sword was forged by the Dragon.”

  “Then this is an important artifact to your people,” Eamon concluded, then handed the sword to Azim. “You should bear it, my friend.”

  Azim shook his head. “I cannot,” he said. “I am not worthy of bearing the Sword of Sulemain.”

  “You are far more worthy than its previous owner,” Eamon reminded him. “Even if he was once worthy, then by turning against his brothers, as you suggest, he did not deserve such an honor. It should be yours. Take it.”

  Azim stared at the scimitar with wonder, not sure whether wielding it would be his right. Reluctantly, he reached out to grasp its pommel. He felt the sword come to life as his fingers wrapped around it. It glowed with a bright blue light, having been awakened by the touch of a righteous man. He ran his fingers along the blade, sensing its warmth and life. Azim closed his eyes, feeling the weapon’s energy flow through him. It was a good feeling, and Azim was at one with the weapon.

  The sword had accepted him.

  “I will wield it,” he said, “if my Lord Imbra wills it.”

  “I believe he does,” Eamon said, clapping his friend on the back. “I know you will bear it with honor.”

  He then went to the rest of the Knights to gather them up. It was getting late, and the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky.

  “We will march these men to Gaellos,” he said, “then we continue to Bray.”

  Chapter Two

  One thousand commoners of Khem crowded the vault of The Lifegiver’s great pyramid, naked and pressed together like cows to the slaughter. They wept in terror, aware that this would be their last day on Earth, and many of them had succumbed to the point of falling to the floor. Around them, the Enkhatar stood, menacingly bearing their sharpened spears to keep the commoners at bay, poking and prodding at them to press them closer together.

  The Prophet looked on with pleasure, licking her lips in anticipation of The Lifegiver’s appearance. Though a vile and ghastly event was about to take place, the imminent screams of agony that would echo throughout the chamber filled her with excitement and lust. Such were her ways.

  She regarded the Enkhatar with discontent, as even she was uncomfortable with their presence. They were the creatures of nightmares; inhumanly tall, armored in brutal black iron plate that was adorned with spikes and blades, and they emanated an aura of absolute darkness that terrified those around them. They were The Lifegiver’s elite warriors, and their appearance alone signified the evil of which they were comprised.

  As the prophet glared at the terrified crowd, she reeled in delight at the pools and smears of blood and waste that littered the chamber’s floor. The stench filled the room, pushing the cruel Enkhatar into a fury of ecstasy. They growled in pleasure, delighting in the torture, and it greatly increased their ferocity. Such vile nature pleased the Prophet, and the terror the Enkhatar caused would only serve to enhance the effectiveness of the ritual that was about to take place.

  With a thunderous boom, the vaulted ceiling of the chamber suddenly shook. The Prophet knelt immediately, and the Enkhatar hissed as they did so as well. Metal ground against metal as the ceiling split into four sections and opened. Light spilled into the chamber, brighter than a thousand suns, and the people fell to their knees in horror.


  “Behold!” The Lifegiver’s voice boomed from above like a chorus of demons. “I have come to you, my children.”

  The Prophet watched as the people shielded their eyes from the intense light. Some of them crouched over in repentance, begging for mercy from The Lifegiver’s wrath.

  “I have called you all here as my servants,” he continued. “People across the sea continue to defy my word. They blaspheme against me by worshiping beasts and false Gods. I have driven these Gods away and sealed them in my Earthly prison, never to return. But their servants must be turned from their path.”

  The people wept, huddling together in terror. Their fate was sealed, and the realization fell upon them. They were doomed.

  “I will give you all the power to spread my word,” The Lifegiver continued. “You will show them the way or send their souls to rot with their masters. I have spoken.”

  The Prophet closed her eyes, feeling the power of The Lifegiver fill the chamber as the ritual began. The Enkhatar fell silent, their bodies still as statues. Suddenly, the light disappeared, replaced by an eerie red glow that imparted The Lifegiver’s wrath. Lightning shot down from above as the divine being lowered himself into the chamber, and the people screamed in terror at his appearance.

  He was darkness incarnate. Though vaguely human in shape, The Lifegiver was a mass of shadow and dark energy that swirled around with blinding speed, accompanied by the howling of a fierce ethereal wind. Wisps of darkness surrounded him, and his mass appeared as a man-shaped void that absorbed every ray of light around him.

  “Come to me, my children,” he growled, spreading his shadowy arms to absorb the life of his people.

  The crowd screamed in agony as their souls were forcefully ripped from their bodies. Their bones cracked and twisted, and their skin shriveled tightly around their broken limbs as they writhed in pain. The Enkhatar howled their enjoyment, reveling in the people’s anguish, and the Prophet howled with them. She watched as the commoners’ souls swirled around The Lifegiver’s form, disappearing into his darkness, never to return. As the last mass of living energy was absorbed, black energy began to leech from the growing darkness, striking out at the flailing bodies below. It swirled around each of them, penetrating their dying bodies.