King Of The North (Book 3) (7 page)

Garret admired the beautiful blade that the Great Mother had given him. It was flawless; the handle was wrought in gold and platinum in the shape of a scorpion's tail, and its blade, curved and slightly wider at the tip, was etched with symbols of the Earth. It was perfectly balanced, lightweight, and its edge would never dull.

He tested its performance, taking different stances and practicing several attacks while standing in front of a wall of mirrors. He could see an infinite number of his own image, as the room he occupied was octagonal, and each wall was a mirror. He could view himself from any angle, see where his attacks and defenses were weakest, and he would be able to improve his technique.

He was dressed in only a pair of black trousers. The Great Mother had provided an entire ensemble of robes, leather armor, and other gear, but he felt more comfortable practicing in just his pants.

He remembered being older, but, somehow, his body had been improved, he noticed. His muscles were toned and tightly corded, and his heart beat strongly and slowly. He was, in effect, twenty years younger. Even his face, and his formerly graying hair, were youthful again. His long, smooth, light brown locks were back, and his eyes were bright and clear. He looked to be a man in his mid to late thirties; the height of physical perfection. With this new body, he could perform any task that was required of him.

Any task...

That was his question; what tasks did the Great Mother need him to perform? Obviously, as an assassin, his duty would be to kill. But, surely, the Great Mother had other ways of killing mortal men. Why did she need him?

Garret set his blade down on the table next to his clothes. He picked up the boots, admiring their craftsmanship. He slipped them on, feeling how supple and form fitting they were. As he buckled them, he noticed how quiet they were against the floor. With these boots, his stealth would be unmatchable. The tabard, which was a metallic mesh as flexible as cloth, was also perfectly fitted, silent, and well built. He slipped on the black tunic, tightened its leather belt, and donned the hooded cloak. He then slipped on the leather gloves that he had been provided. They, too, were form fitting, and felt as if he were wearing nothing on his hands.

Surely these vestments were enchanted, he thought. The Great Mother was powerful beyond belief, and Garret had no reason to think that she would provide him with anything less than divine equipment.

Garret
, she spoke.

"Yes, Great Mother?"

Are you ready?

Garret looked at himself in the mirror one more time, and strapped on his blade. "I am ready."

The mirrored walls raised, revealing a cavern lit by thousands of tiny points of light. Their presence cast a faint, blue hue to the oddly shaped, black stone walls. He stood in the center, looking around, contemplating his whereabouts.

You will be returned to the Earth. I will place you near your targets, and you will seek them out and eliminate them. I cannot kill them myself. For my only method of killing is through massive destructive forces. Do you understand?

"I do," he said, fully understanding her predicament now.

Your targets are traitors that have given their support to
The Lifegiver, or who stand in the way of insurrection. Do you understand?

"I do," he said again.

When you have eliminated your targets, call upon me, and I will return you to the garden to rest. Do you understand?

"I understand, and I am ready."

Your first mark is King Adolus of Thyre. He has allowed the Jindala into his kingdom and his tyranny prevents his armies from standing against them. They are ready to rebel, but they are leaderless. Adolus' son, Tregar, hides in the underground, awaiting his father's death. Once Adolus is dead, Tregar can rally his people to fight. Offer him any encouragement he needs to begin, but not until Adolus has been slain.

"Adolus will die," Garret assured the Great Mother. "And I will assist Tregar in whatever capacity presents itself."

Good luck, my child.

The light dimmed as the points slowly winked out. All but one. As Garret watched, the tiny point grew in size until it was as large as Garret himself. He moved closer, watching as the light itself opened and swirled like a vortex. In its center, he could see the side of a building. This was a gateway.

Keeping his eyes and ears sharp, and his hand on the pommel of his blade, he stepped through the gate.

Chapter Seven

The campfire had died down somewhat, prompting Farouk to throw a few more logs on top. The chill was beginning to close in around him, and the snow had already begun to fall in large, billowy flakes. By morning, it would be thick on the ground, and any hope of following a trail would be lost.

He shivered, rubbing his hands together and holding them over the fire. His fingers began to become numb, and his feet were feeling the bite as well. He sat down, scooting in closer to the fire, and wrapped his cloak around him tightly.

In the distance, wolves howled, sending their haunting voices through the wilderness like wailing spirits. The sound made Farouk uneasy, as he was alone and practically defenseless. Other than his magic, he had only his sword. And that would be useless against an entire pack of wolves. Even his magic would be difficult to use against such a force. The pack he had encountered the day before was small, only a half dozen or so in size, but this pack sounded larger. Larger and hungrier.

"Stop worrying," he said to himself. "Morning is almost here."

Taking his own advice, he lay down near the fire and bundled himself up in his cloaks. He felt safer knowing that he was half surrounded by the roots of a large, dead tree. The roots would shield most of his flank. He was on the protected side of the fire, and anything that wanted to get to him would have to pass over it. It seemed like a good idea.

His thoughts went over the landscape he had traveled earlier. He made mental notes of all the landmarks, the shapes of the forests, and the mountains he saw in the distance. He projected those thoughts to his map, and they were inscribed automatically as they always were at night. In the morning, he would look at his map and correct anything that did not translate properly. A map was useless unless it was accurate.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wolves. This time, the sound was closer, and seemed as if whatever pack was near was after something. The wolves were communicating their directions to each other, as far as he could tell, and there was also a man's voice. Concerned for the safety of the unknown man, he shot up, grabbing his staff and his sword. As an afterthought, he grabbed his pack as well, but abandoned his blankets and other gear.

He ran toward the sound, hoping to catch the man before the wolves did. He listened for the sounds again, hearing the wolves and their prey drawing closer with each second. The man's voice was deep and commanding, and seemed as if...

As if he were coming directly at Farouk!

Wolves burst through the underbrush. Large wolves. Twice as large as any he had ever seen. There were six of them, and they were heading straight for him. Behind them, they pulled a wooden sled, complete with antlers, leather sides, and a brutally-clad warrior who drove them on with a black leather whip.

Farouk dodged as they lunged at him. They snapped at the empty air, growling with hunger and rage. Their master cracked his whip, commanding them to turn around and attack again. Farouk wasted no time running away. With all of his strength, he leaped over fallen logs and stumps, scrambling to escape his pursuer. He was out of breath within minutes, yet knew he could not stop, or he would be dead. He ran with all his might, feeling the wolves snapping at his heels and growling like beasts from Hell.

Farouk's heart pounded rapidly, his body wracked with fatigue. He was not used to such activity, especially in the slippery snow. His only hope was to reach an area that was impassable to his pursuers.

Ahead and to the right, he spied a grove of small, tightly packed pine trees. He ran toward it, hoping they were close enough to prevent the sled from chasing him any further. He used his last ounce of strength to sprint the final few yards, collapsing to the ground within the grove. He was spent.

The wolves entered the grove, but stopped short when their master cracked his whip. They continued growling and snapping, angrily trying to bite at the Druid's legs as he scrambled to pull them out of the way.

Frustrated, the wolf master stepped off of his sled, grabbing a huge axe befitting for a giant of his size. Farouk gulped, knowing he would have to run again. Though the trees prevented the sled and its team from pursuing him any further, the hunter would easily be able to give chase.

The Druid stood, backing away as he watched the hunter push through the branches, uttering curses and knocking the saplings out of his way like twigs. Farouk turned and ran once more. He was thankful that he had grabbed his pack, as there was no way he would ever get back to his campsite and remain hidden from this giant hunter.

Though fatigued and on the verge of collapsing again, he ran at full speed. Despite the hunter's size, he kept up, shouting his curses in a language that even Farouk did not understand. The Druid weaved his way through the trees, avoiding the lower branches, hoping to lose his pursuer. But the hunter still came.

Desperate, and out of breath, Farouk finally reached the edge of the grove and backed away into the rock wall that lay behind him. The hunter slowed, bouncing his axe on one hand as he grinned and crept closer. Farouk dropped his pack, raising his staff and conjuring enough energy to cast a spell. Any spell.

"I do not know who you are," he said in the northern tongue. "But I do not mean you nor this land any harm. I am a Druid on a journey for the Great Mother."

The hunter ignored his words, and continued his approach. Farouk pointed his staff at the hunter's feet and released enough energy to create a fireball. The magic streaked downward, bursting at the hunter's feet with a deafening blast. The hunter was startled, and shielded his eyes from the flash of light. The spell did not appear to have done any damage.

But now the hunter was angry.

Farouk cast his staff aside and drew his sword, taking a cautious stance as the hunter circled him. The giant man's nostrils flared with rage and his breathing was as close to growling as one could get. Farouk breathed heavily with both fatigue and fear. He had never faced such a large opponent before, and this one was as large as they come.

The giant reared back his axe for a wild horizontal swing. As he attacked, the axe whistled through the air, impacting on the rock wall just as Farouk dodged. Splinters of stone exploded from the blow, and the loud clang of steel echoed through the forest. The giant reversed his attack, swinging backhanded. Farouk ducked and countered, slashing at the man's thigh. Curiously, his sword bounced off harmlessly.

Farouk back away again, fearful of the nature of his attacker. He had clearly struck the man's bare skin with his enchanted blade, yet not a single scratch was left. His fear grew as he contemplated his doom. If his blade could not harm the man, then there was no hope for victory.

Thinking quickly, he raced to retrieve his staff as the man attacked again. Farouk rolled out of the way, grabbing the staff in the same motion, as the axe split the frozen ground. The Druid stood as his attacker struggled to pull his axe free. He pointed his staff at the nearby trees, calling on the power of the Earth. He released his spell, sending an arc of green energy at the saplings. One by one they came to life, releasing their spirits to attack.

Farouk backed into the cliff side, willing his blending ability into being. He watched as the tree spirits surrounded the hunter, swirling around him as he swatted and cursed in his unknown tongue. The spirits tormented him, lashing him with their Earth magic, cutting into his skin. He growled with rage, glaring at the Druid with hatred. Farouk then realized that he was perfectly visible to the man, and that his blending magic had no effect.

Desperate to escape, he turned and began climbing. The top of the cliff was only twelve or so feet above him. Hand over hand he went, pulling himself up slowly with aching fingers, and weakened knees. Suddenly the axe impacted below him, shaking loose an avalanche of small stones. The Druid lost his grip.

Farouk landed on his back, stunned by the impact. He looked straight up as the giant hunter looked down at him smiling. He gulped in fear, watching the axe rise up for one final blow.

Farouk closed his eyes and accepted his fate.

"Asvelt!" a female voice screamed from nearby. Farouk opened his eyes, seeing the hunter turn and lower his axe.

"
Det är inte din måne! Gå tillbaka till din värld!"
the voice continued.

The Druid sat up, searching the area for the source of the voice. The hunter raised his axe in protest, threatening to return to Farouk to finish him off. Suddenly, a blast of light arced from the forest's edge, striking the hunter square in the chest. He howled in pain, lowering his axe and clutching his wound. Quickly, he fled, making haste back into the grove trees.

Farouk stood, waiting for his savior to appear. A woman stepped from out of the trees, accompanied by a white wolf. She wore brown leather and furs, and her headdress bore the antlers of an elk. Farouk, breathless and thankful, sat down on the nearest stone, relieved to be rid of his attacker.

The woman approached cautiously, her lupine companion leading the way. The wolf did not appear hostile, but came closer to Farouk and sniffed the air. The Druid held out his hand. The wolf sniffed it and seemed satisfied with Farouk's scent.

"Are you injured?" the woman asked.

Farouk shook his head. "No. Exhausted, but not injured."

"You have the skin of our enemy," she said. "But you are not dressed as such."

"I am a Druid," Farouk explained. "I serve the Great Mother and
The Dragon."

"The Dragon?" the woman asked. "Why are you here, then? This is the land of Kronos."

Farouk wrapped himself tightly in his cloak, suddenly colder now for some reason. "As I said, I serve the Great Mother. And as far as I know, she is everywhere."

The woman grinned, pulling back her hood. Farouk was stunned by her appearance. She was every bit as lovely as the Great Mother herself. Her hair was light blonde, nearly white, and her eyes were the blue-gray of an overcast sky. She was absolutely beautiful, and Farouk found it difficult to speak.

"My name is Silka," she said. "And this is Fenris. He is my familiar."

"Familiar?"

"My animal companion," she explained. "He protects me and acts as my conduit. I am a shaman in this land, and I commune with the Earth and the spirits."

Farouk held out his hand again, letting Fenris sniff it. He scratched the wolf behind the ear, and Fenris gladly accepted his affection.

"I am Farouk," he said. "And it seems we are kindred spirits, differing only in title."

Silka smiled. "It would seem so."

"Who was that hunter?" Farouk asked. "And why did my sword not harm him?"

"That was Asvelt, the Lord of the Hunt," Silka replied. "He is only to come out during the Hunter's Moon. This was not his night, as you can see by the moon. As for your sword? Asvelt is a god. Weapons are useless against him."

"Thank you for intervening," Farouk said, standing. "If not for you, he would have killed me."

"Perhaps," Silka chuckled. "Come now, my tribe is nearby. I offer you shelter in our mead hall."

Farouk nodded, fetching his pack and staff. "Shelter would be good," he said. "And food, if you have it."

"Of course," she said. "And mead, if you like that."

"I don't know what mead is," Farouk said. "But it sounds delicious."

Eogan's wound was deep and devastating. The Prophet looked upon him with both pity and revulsion as she comforted him. His right eye had been completely destroyed, and the facial bones cleft down to his lip. She had used all the power she had to heal him, repairing the bone, and rebuilding his skin, but the eye was gone forever. He would carry the resulting scar for the rest of his life.

Eogan's rage at being injured by such a petty thief was fierce. He vowed to destroy this thief if it cost him his life. He would make his attacker suffer, then disfigure him in such a fashion that no one would ever recognize him, not even the vile whore that killed his Captain, Kassir.

"They will be put to justice, my darling," The Prophet assured him. "And we will find your Rangers, wherever they may be."

"I care nothing for the Rangers!" Eogan hissed as he sat up. "They were nothing more than traitors. If they would betray their own, then I have no confidence they would be loyal to me. I want this band of thieves, and I want them dead."

He paced angrily around The Prophet's bed-chamber. She watched him sadly, feeling the pain of his disfigurement. She could not imagine receiving such a scar. Eogan's face had been perfect; youthful, smooth, and beautiful. Now, he was scarred, and horrifying. Nevertheless, he would be King of Eirenoch, and she would be his Queen.

If she could convince him to do his part.

"Darling," she said. "The Lifegiver can heal you if you please him. Look what he has done for me." She opened her robes, dropping them to the floor. Eogan smiled as he took in the sight of her body.

"I have done all that he has asked of me," he said, never taking his eyes off of her perfect form. "What is there left to do, other than defeat the Onyx Dragon and his Knights?"

The Prophet smiled, approaching him seductively. She ran her fingers down his cheek, stroking the scar that the thief's blade  had left. Eogan winced slightly as she touched him, and closed his eyes.