The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) Page 2

  "Stop! Be still!" Grimwold shouted. His voice boomed like thunder and seventy men went rigid at the command.

  The power flowed from Lethos to Grimwold. They were a Dyad, a bonded pair of Manifested. Lethos was a Cohort, the one who collected magical radiance from the world and funneled it to the Prime, Grimwold. Each Dyad had its own powers. Grimwold had the power to dominate a man's will, and could do so on a frightening scale. He could hold hundreds of men under his sway and they would be powerless to escape his will.

  Even Grimwold's men, at least seventy of his own warriors, stopped at his command. The field had gone from a riot of noise to utter silence. Only the creak of loosening bowstrings made any sound. With a single word, the enemy threat was nullified.

  Lethos stepped back from the closest archer, a young man with a thin beard and red cheeks. His eyes were wide with the shock he must have experienced at losing his own will. Lethos had a mind to shove the man over or at least flip off his leather cap. Yet he decided he would join Grimwold's side. His role in the power was decidedly undramatic, merely being a conduit, but at least he could stand next to his broad-shouldered friend and look menacing.

  "Lay down your shields and your weapons," Grimwold ordered. Lethos skirted the block of enemies as they lowered their swords. Some struggled, and Lethos saw them shivering to resist. Yet he felt the chain between his head and Grimwold's pulse as he devoured more power. At the same time, Lethos recognized the tickle of absorbing fresh power from the world. It was a gentle sensation, like being showered with rose petals over his head and shoulders.

  Grimwold gave him a brief smile as he surveyed the surrendering enemies. The warriors at his back made him seem even more grand than he actually was. The men were not necessary for Grimwold, the war chief of Reifell. Unless invaders attacked by the hundreds, Grimwold would dominate all of them into submission. Still, he had arrived as if expecting a traditional battle. He wore a newly forged chain shirt over an all-black outfit. His gray cloak was held together with a gold pin in the shape of an eagle, a tribute to Kafara and Turo who favored that form. His sword, however, still remained sheathed at his side.

  "Good job keeping them distracted," Grimwold said, folding his massive arms as he watched the last of the enemy break down and drop his weapon. Lethos felt the power spiraling away into Grimwold as he drew closer.

  "All part of a carefully considered plan," Lethos said, his voice still short from his sprinting.

  Grimwold's warriors laughed and taunted the toothless enemies. The invaders' faces were tight with hate and flushed red. The whites of their eyes stood out in stark contrast to their grimy skin. One consequence of Grimwold's power was any of his victims would possess an irrational hatred of him if left alive after the domination. Lethos swallowed hard at the thought of killing all these defenseless men, or worse yet, compelling them to take their own lives.

  "Now what to do with the lot of you," Grimwold said. Becoming war chief had suited him. After the battle of Norddalr, Grimwold had been awarded leadership of the island of Reifell, being named its war chief by High King Eldegris. Grimwold stood with folded arms, considering each man as he walked along their front line. None of the enemy would look at him. Lethos knew all too well how horrifying Grimwold's eyes appeared while using his powers. They became the eyes of a mad, dominating god that bored into your own.

  "You're not going to kill them like this?" Lethos asked. Several of Grimwold's warriors laughed and begged to be allowed to start the blood flowing.

  "And why not?" Grimwold stopped in front of one man, a reedy fellow with a grizzled beard and greasy hair spilling from beneath a leather cap. "You came here with murder in your heart. Why should I let you live?"

  Lethos cringed as the man spit in Grimwold's face. He had to credit these barbarians for their pride and fearlessness, no matter how foolish. Grimwold rubbed his face with the back of his arm. Lethos felt the chain of power pull tighter between him and Grimwold.

  "On your knees," Grimwold said, and the man crashed to the grass. "Put your dagger to your neck."

  The man obeyed as swift as taking orders from the High King. His eyes, however, were nearly popped from his head and veins stood out on his temples. The others around him, still frozen from Grimwold's command, glanced sideways at their suicidal companion.

  "I could make you saw your own throat open for the sunbirds," Grimwold said, crouching down beside the man. He held the enemy's glare as the knife quivered at his throat. Grimwold popped upright again. "I could make all of you do the same. Instead, you have found me full of mercy. You were defeated the very day you decided to attack my island. Do you not know who is master here? Has not my fame preceded me far enough that only a fool would raid my people? All of you should have known better."

  Grimwold gave a dramatic flip of his hand and released the enemy from his grip. The man fell back exhausted and began to sob. Lethos glanced aside, feeling dirty for his part in this humiliation. A fair fight would have been one thing, but this felt like kicking around a gang of children. Still, if Grimwold had not been here, much more blood would have been shed and possibly much worse.

  "I command all of you to leave Reifell and never return, never send anyone to return in your place, and never raise your swords against me again." Grimwold held his hands up as if his power flowed from them. Yet Lethos knew it was his words and the invisible chains that Grimwold claimed he felt shooting from his forehead to everyone under his command.

  The enemies all turned and began to walk away. Grimwold's men gave a collective sigh and shouted taunts. Lethos gave his own sigh, for he still expected Grimwold to fall back into his baser instincts. There had been a day when his power was known as the dead man's tide. He would compel warriors forward to surrender themselves to a gory execution, turning a battle into mass murder. This was a credible step toward decency that Lethos was glad for.

  Then the ice flowed down his back again. His head tingled. He shouted his warning before he understood it himself.

  "Grimwold, get down!"

  Across the field one man, the young archer with the red cheeks, stood stock straight with his bow extended. The bowstring snapped and the arrow flew. Lethos saw it all as clearly as if it had been no more than a pantomime. The gray feathers on the arrow shaft fluttered as it sped across the distance to Grimwold. The head was not iron but stone, carved into a sharp point. Grimwold began to drop, but was too slow.

  The arrow plunged through his mail as if he had been wearing a cloth imitation. The shaft sank halfway into his chest, and Lethos experienced a hot flash of pain in the same place. It was a numb agony, as if a war hammer had collided with his breast bone.

  Grimwold fell back like a tree, crashed into the grass and bounced. Lethos collapsed to his knees, holding his chest and gasping for breath. The connections of power snapped and he suddenly felt as cold as death. His mind screamed Grimwold's name, and nothing returned.

  The retreating warriors spun around and the look of murder in their eyes told Lethos all he needed. After all, there would be bloodshed and worse to come this day.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Syrus the Silver stood on the threshold of the temple to his goddess, Fieyar. He was her last worshiper, at least as far as he knew. No one in all the islands paid her the respect she was due. Instead people prayed to more practical gods like Danir the First Father, Miljnr the god of war and storms, or the Great Shark who ruled the lives of those daring the wide oceans. When High King Eldegris had asked Syrus to build a temple to the goddess of duty, he could not believe it. Yet a year later and he was standing within its cool confines, the heavy scent of fish oil lamps filling his nose.

  The temple was not as grand as he had intended. Rebuilding after Norddalr's destruction in the great war had been overshadowed by the constant demand for laborers and supplies redirected to other villages on the island. In the end, Syrus had built most of the temple himself and had been grateful for whatever assistance he had received. Most people grumble
d that the temple should have been raised in the Great Shark's name, for he had appeared directly to defend Valahur. Syrus took issue with that thought. First, the Great Shark cared not one whit for worship of any sort. Second, the appearance of the Great Shark had been a trick of the Manifested Dyad, Kafara and Turo. It gave the people great hope to see a god fight on their behalf, but in the end it had not been real. Even if Syrus was not a worshiper of the Great Shark, he had still been deflated to learn the truth from Lethos. The world needed its gods, and they hardly ever spoke to their worshipers.

  Standing at the threshold, he felt the cool breeze at his back and the warm heat of a hearth fire at his face. The inside of the temple was a dark mahogany, lit only by lamps and the small hearth. The altar to Fieyar dominated the single-room structure, where a silver bowl sat in front of a wooden statue of the goddess. It was a highly stylized carving of a woman holding a law staff in one hand and raising the other palm out. Syrus had overheard a worker refer to the statue as a seal in a wig. Some people had no taste.

  Outside, the ocean roared below the cliffs where the temple had been built. From here he could see the stone fortress of Norddalr, the real hall where Eldegris ruled. The old one of wood had collapsed in the great war, a death trap for invaders. Some of its timbers had been salvaged to create this temple. A narrow pass led to the stone fortress and a series of stone walls curtained the main buildings from threat. Syrus had spent many curious afternoons examining its construction, for how such a thing was built defied his knowledge. How could stones be lifted so high without the aid of magic? His High King seemed to know, but was reluctant to say.

  He was preparing to go draw water, hefting a bucket from beside a barrel at the door, when he saw warriors treading the path that had been worn into the rocky earth. Three of them hiked the path, using their spears like walking sticks while their black shields swung on their arms. They were the High King's personal guards, the reserved and quiet men who seemed to know only discipline and obedience. They were as unlike any son of Valahur as Syrus had ever known. If any men should love Fieyar, the goddess of duty, it should be these. Yet they never visited him at his temple.

  "Welcome to the temple of Fieyar," Syrus said, his voice rich and deep. His smooth voice was why men called him the Silver, for it was as pleasant to hear as the chime of a silver bell. "Do you come with word from the High King?"

  The first of the three, a square-faced man with clear blue eyes and golden hair, nodded and leaned on his spear. "We do. He asks you attend him in his hall at once."

  Syrus nodded, ran one hand over his freshly shaved head and considered changing from his gray shirt and wool pants. "Then I shall go to him at once. First allow me to change into something more befitting an audience with the king."

  "We've no time for that," said the leader. "You are to attend him at once. His orders were clear."

  Syrus blinked at the leader, then nodded and fetched his bucket. "I will bring this to fill on the return home."

  "Leave it," the leader said. He firmly grabbed Syrus's arm but gently led him forward. "If you still need water after you meet with the king, we will have a slave fetch it for you."

  His curiosity piqued, Syrus acquiesced to the leader's guidance. He followed them down from the cliff faces toward the stone fortress. He cast a gaze back at his temple, a dark shape against gray clouds. He experienced a surge of pride knowing he had built a place to preserve his goddess. In time, he considered it might grow and prosper and bring new worshipers. For now, it was an ever-lightening rectangle against the sky.

  Inside the eponymous fortress Norddalr, Syrus followed his escorts through the stone halls. Though he lived on the island and gladly served Eldegris, he had seldom entered the fortress after the war of the trolls. The arched ceilings and hints of ancient designs fascinated him. As he ambled down a hall softened with a brown carpet, he tried to slow down to study the walls. His escorts, however, had little patience and clucked at him to hurry. At last, he came not to the High King's audience chamber, but instead a library.

  A library! Syrus's eyes glossed past Eldegris standing at the center to the dozens of books and scrolls filling the room. The scent of old leather and dust sent his heart racing. Had he known such a place existed here, he would have begged Eldegris on hands and knees to be allowed even a single hour in this room. His eyes grew hot at the thought of all the knowledge being wasted between covers or wrapped in old parchments.

  The leader of the escort cleared his throat, and Syrus recovered his manners. His face grew warm as he went to his knee before High King Eldegris. "Your highness, how may I serve?"

  "Stand," Eldegris said. "You men leave us and close the door. Send in my son when at last he chooses to answer my summons."

  Syrus rose, his face growing hotter at the apparent irritation in Eldegris's voice. The High King stood behind a table with a large map unfolded before it. Out of courtesy Syrus avoided looking at it, but the old brown lines seemed to outline what appeared to be the islands of both Valahur and Avadur. Eldegris himself was a statuesque man with grizzled brown hair framing a long face etched with deep lines. A circlet of gold rested easily on his head, yet his brow was furrowed. Jewels sparked from the rings on his fingers as he motioned Syrus to approach.

  "Be at ease, noble friend. I have been remiss in visiting you at the new temple. How I wish for simpler days and more hours to add to each."

  "A fair wish. One both king and commoner hold, I suspect." Syrus inclined his head. He was still uncertain how to behave before a High King. His experience had been all with war chiefs, who valued bluster and strength over manners. Eldegris smiled easily, but it was fleeting. He wore simple clothes of fine cloth, dyed blue and embroidered with yellow patterns of fish. Syrus could not help but stare at the pattern, and the High King cleared his throat to draw back Syrus's attention.

  "You may wonder at the urgency of your summons. Before my son arrives, allow me explain all that I may say." He paused and regarded Syrus with cool, sea green eyes. Syrus again bowed, unsure of what else was appropriate. Eldegris tapped a gnarled finger on the map before him.

  "I have a mission for you, something only a man of your intelligence can accomplish. This is a map of Valahur and Avadur as they were known in times long ago. I found this map in these archives only recently, kept hidden for time out of memory."

  Syrus leaned over the map, eager to drink in the details. None of the ancients of Valahur or Avadur were literate beyond runic carvings on stones. A map was an unprecedented discovery that renewed the pounding of his heart. The brown ink lines delineated islands and borders that had long ago vanished. Writing in runes lined the sides, though these were not the runes of modern days. Eldegris's knobby finger broke into his vision, pointing at a starred location on the map.

  "Here is Raffheim, Avadur's equal to Norddalr in ancient times. If you follow this line, you will see it leads to another location marked very close to Raffheim."

  "Yes, but what do these runes say? Thal? Sal? The forms are somehow wrong."

  "Tsaldalr, the Hall of Tsal," Eldegris tapped the mark. "Do you understand the significance?"

  "I must confess ignorance, my king." Syrus did not claim to know all the history of his homeland, but few knew more than him. If he had to concede ignorance, at least it was to the High King.

  "The Tsal are the First People." The words seemed to echo in the room, though the hundreds of books deadened every sound. Syrus met Eldegris's steady gaze and understanding bloomed.

  "This is where Amator drew his knowledge of blood magic and created his trolls. The Hall of the First People. It must be filled with ancient knowledge."

  "And more ancient threats. From where did Amator mine his black stone? Where the stone came from is a question that must be answered. What if more were found? What if whatever informed Amator remains for a new enemy to unearth? Such potentials tucked right under the noses of our Avadurian enemies. Whatever is there must either be brought to light or sealed
in darkness forever. I need someone who can tell me what is the right path. Someone who can go in my place."

  Syrus blinked, the heat on his face draining away. "You should ask Grimwold and Lethos. They both have magical powers. Or better, Kafara and Turo."

  Eldegris already shook his head, waving one jeweled hand in dismissal. "Grimwold's powers are young and better suited to war. Besides, he cannot abandon his role as war chief. Kafara and Turo, well, I do not trust them. They may have aided us, but they are too foreign and too ambitious for this. I suspect both already know of Tsaldalr's existence, in any case. They represent a power you do not understand, and I cannot trust them. But you, Syrus, have intellect and drive. Your travels with Grimwold last year prove you are capable of handling the enemy. You will seek for answers and unearth the truth. And your oath to duty and service assures me you will not betray our people no matter what you find."

  Before Syrus could speak, a knock came from the door, and then it opened to allow a young man inside. He was no more than twenty years, with pale gold hair and piercing eyes, and a thin beard barely covering his jaw. The king's son, Thorgis, gave Syrus a passing glance and gave a perfunctory bow to Eldegris. "You summoned me, Father?"

  "I did." Beyond those two words, Eldegris's tone also said he had been displeased at the wait and was irritated at his son's flippancy. Syrus stepped from between the two royals and averted his eyes in embarrassment, scratching the back of his shaved head. Eldegris stepped to the corner of the room, where he picked up a sheathed longsword and laid it on the table. The sheath was leather-wrapped wood, unadorned and well worn. The hilt that capped it was covered with a bold relief of a dragon along the cross guard. Syrus's eyes widened as he recognized it.

  "This is my sword," Eldegris said. "You will take it."

  The words hung in the air, Thorgis and Syrus both staring down at the sword. It was no ordinary blade, but a magical weapon that had not only helped Eldegris to this throne but had been instrumental in the destruction of both the Avadurian blood sorcerer Amator and the mist realms demon that had possessed Grimwold's sister, Morvana. Without this blade, Valahur might have been destroyed.