The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3)

  Contents

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Dedication

  THE WORLD OF LAVERIA

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  AFTERWORD

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  GLOSSARY

  THE WORLD OF LAVERIA

  WESTERN LAVERIA

  EASTERN LAVERIA

  SOUTHERN LAVERIA

  A WORD OF THANKS

  Copyright © 2016 by Lee H. Haywood

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Story Consultant and Editor: Kerry Haywood

  Proofing: Sean Aiken, Kelly Beahan, Ryan Haywood, Andrew Pratt, and Nadim Shehab

  First Published 2016

  ISBN 978-0-9970810-4-6

  www.leehhaywood.com

  To Kerry,

  the weaver of

  my life’s great

  fortune.

  THE WORLD OF LAVERIA

  CHAPTER

  I

  WRAITH

  Desperous sat beside the twin ivory doors of the Guardian’s tower, absentmindedly rubbing his hand over the heavy scar on his forearm. Just a few hours earlier it had been an open wound. The magic that sustained him was also healing his body. It was a dark reminder of his curse. He fixed his gaze upon the blood smear that marked the spot where his life had ended. He exhaled slowly, wondering to himself if he needed to breathe at all. He doubted it.

  The truth was, he had felt devoid of all senses since Ivatelo brought him back. Neither hunger nor cold, happiness nor anger. It was all replaced by a staid dullness that seemed to fog all the sensations one might associate with life. Even his memories felt distant. He struggled to conjure the image of his family, but all he saw were unsteady figures and clouded faces. He felt a gnawing inclination that he had been robbed of something sacred, an innate birthright that mortals forgot they possessed.

  He vaguely remembered his last moments of life. The pain of the dragon’s teeth had been faint; he had hardly noticed them. What he really remembered was the frigid press of hard stone against the flesh of his back as the last ounce of life leaked from his body. It was a slow, creeping sensation that filtered through his limbs and quickened in his core. He turned rigid and became inseparable from the ground.

  With his last ounce of strength Desperous had turned his eyes to the sun, foolishly thinking he might thaw himself. The light dimmed and his flesh wicked away, leaving behind strands of silk, fine as gossamer, fashioned in the likeness of his physical frame. From the core of the sun came a brilliant ray of light. It pierced him, intense and pure, and for a moment he felt warmth pulsating through his frame. It coursed to his very soul, and suddenly he saw the great web in its entirety. A million strands of light, all spanning from the central core. He gave this vision a name. The One Soul, from which all the Sundered Souls originated. He closed his eyes, embracing the end, embracing the warmth.

  Then the rupture came. The ray shrank behind a pall of blackness. The light tumbled away, like shards of a broken mirror. His foundation shuddered, and his soul, once boundless, became knotted and confined. He was suffocating and vomited blood.

  Cold was the last sensation he remembered experiencing. But as time progressed, he became more certain it was something else entirely. He had experienced the pure absence of anything. What he had mistaken for cold was, in fact, absolute numbness.

  He looked away from the blood splatter that marked the end of his old life, shifting his eyes to Bently. The forlorn man sat fetal upon the temple steps, his knees pressed to his chest, his head encased in his hands. Desperous couldn’t hate the man for what he had done; Bently had acted out of necessity for the cause. Yet Desperous couldn’t thank him either. Death is a gift. No, a right, he corrected himself, and now I am left with nothing.

  There was a soft pad of feet nearby. Desperous turned to discover Camara emerging through the darkness. She was in the guise of an elf, draped in a silken white robe. She showed no signs of her previous injuries, her features once again pristine and beautiful. A mask, Desperous reminded himself. Always a mask.

  “Greetings, young one,” called out the dragoness.

  “It‘s good to see you looking stronger,” said Desperous, displaying a false optimism.

  “The Guardian’s magic is powerful,” answered Camara. “He healed me well.”

  Bently shifted uneasily beside him. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about,” chimed the man, speaking for the first time all night. His eyes were rheumy and burning. “The Guardian, he seems weakened in his current state. He hardly resembles the fabled gods of old.”

  Camara nodded, and the faint hint of exasperation showed on her face. “While the Guardian will never die from age, he is fallible. But it is not due to the wrathful whip of time that strikes across his back. Each one of us possesses an energy within our body. Set somewhere between our soul and our physical self, it acts as an unseen force. The Guardians harvest their strength from this. Yet this energy must be given willingly by the people, in the calls of prayer and in the halls of temples. Otherwise, it is impossible for the deities to tap these wells of power.”

  Desperous silently wondered if this was the strand of light he had seen when he was passing over. He touched his hand to the precise spot on his chest where he had felt the raging light. He barely felt the press of his own fingers.

  Camara gestured over her shoulder toward the temple. Dawn had come, and the temple was dimly wreathed in white. “Yansarian has been made weak from his time in stasis. His name has nearly been lost; the masses no longer pay homage.”

  All hope vanished from Bently’s eyes. “The Yanish Brothers have long paid tribute,” said Bently, almost despondently. “Do you tell me now that their worship was not enough? Has all of this been in vain?”

  Camara placed a comforting hand upon the man’s shoulder. “It is not so simple, Bently.” Her face fell into darkness. “Perhaps in time Yansarian will regain his strength, but it may not be as soon as you’d like, or as soon as we need. You will have to leave Coralan without him. If the Creators are good, he will follow when he is ready.”

  Desperous shook his head in disbelief. “Are we to leave Yansarian here so that he might tinker with this weapon in private?” He was unable to hide the crossness in his voice.

  “You mean the island? You are wrong to call it a weapon, but it is true, what the Guardians have built here is a great peril to the world. But think of it as a bow without an arrow. Until the Orb is within Yansarian’s possession there is no danger of him using the power of Coralan.”

  Desperou
s curled his lip scornfully. “We have only been able to keep the Orb safe because we do not face a god. What if Yansarian demands the stone? We will not be able to resist him. And if he possesses it, can we trust him not to use it against us?”

  “One evil at a time! That is all that we have the strength to contest.” Camara’s demeanor softened. “You are not as I remembered, Desperous, son of Nochman. There is fear where there once was none. There is dread where there once was faith. You haven’t the luxury to be overburdened by your own tragedy, young prince, for too much still rides upon your shoulders. Too much still hangs in the balance.” She set her gaze steadfast into his eyes, pressing deep within his soul. “If the power of the gods fails us, this heavy burden will surely fall upon the hearts of mortals.”

  “My mortality has been lost,” said Desperous. He looked away, unable to face her gaze.

  Camara placed a comforting hand on Desperous’s cheek and guided his eyes back to her own. For a brief second he imagined he felt the warm hint of her touch. “Who better to lead the people than one who has nothing else.” She reached into her pocket and produced a small blue jewel on a chain. She offered it to Desperous.

  Desperous collected the small token and turned it over in his hand. It was simple, with no identifying marks.

  “It has been a guiding light in my times of need. It has been a source of strength when I was weak.” She reached forward and closed his hand around it. “I bestow it upon you, son of Nochman, for where I go I will no longer need it.”

  Desperous was stricken for a moment as he eyed what lay in his grasp. The stone felt warm while all else was numb. He looked up and made as to inquire further, but the dragoness was already slipping away, now only a shimmering spot in the darkness.

  CHAPTER

  II

  THE RIVER DEEP

  Dolum did not fare well over the waning hours of darkness prior to dawn. He spent much of the night curled like a cat beside the campfire. Sleep came in uneasy bursts, clouded and twisted by nightmarish images. The dragon’s gaping maw, Desperous’s torn and bleeding body, the accusative finger pointing squarely at the dwarf.

  Dolum jerked up from his stoop, gasping for breath. Despite the cold, he was sweating heavily. Desperous had laid down his life for Dolum. He had sacrificed everything. Dolum shifted his gaze to Desperous’s silhouetted figure. The elf was not well.

  Desperous sat upon his cobblestone perch, rocking slowly as if to an unheard melody. His eyes were cast toward the fire. They never moved, yet were always churning. In his grasp, he continuously rolled a gemstone on its axis, fiddling with it almost longingly as he rubbed his fingers over its milky blue surface.

  Dolum could watch no more and looked away, pulling his woolen blanket high around his face. He shivered quietly, trying to ignore the craven instincts of his heart.

  Over the course of the night, the courtyard had slowly filled with the ranks of the lumani army. There were nearly as many women as men. The soldiers were garbed in wool cloaks dyed the color of blood. They carried all the trappings of war: longbows, quivers full of arrows, bundles of spears, tower shields and bucklers, and more honed steel than Dolum had ever seen. The sun crested the horizon, setting the host of lumani in glittering light. The gathering began to stir like a hornet’s nest. Bows were strung, blades were sharpened, armor was fastened and fitted. They would soon depart.

  The chill slowly wicked from Dolum’s bones, and he rose from his stoop, feeling foolish that he was hiding his face while everyone else made ready for war.

  Ivatelo emerged through the lumani ranks, his cloak trailing in his wake like the billowing wings of some spectral beast. Dolum found he no longer feared the magic. The taint of Ivatelo’s tie to the Wyrm was buried beneath so many layers of intrigue Dolum hardly considered it the magic’s defining characteristic. The truth was, Ivatelo was vexing, pitiable in some ways, damnable in others.

  The magic cleared his throat to draw the party’s attention. “Kylick has requested our audience. The Guardian has ordered her to see us through the pass.”

  “What of Dain Camara?” asked Dolum. “Will she not be accompanying us?

  “No,” called Ivatelo over his shoulder as he began to leave. “She will stay at the Guardian’s side and do what she can to prepare him for the forthcoming battle.”

  “The forthcoming battle,” repeated Dolum to himself. He mulled the prospect of more fighting. Battle had proven precisely as terrible as he imagined it would be. He didn’t wish to partake in another.

  Without comment, both Bently and Desperous rose to their feet and followed after the magic. Dolum lingered behind and watched them go. The necromancer had destroyed each of the three men before him. Dolum could only wonder when his own dire fate would come due.

  The party caught up with Kylick as she began to lead the lumani forces from the citadel. She stopped beside one of the Guardian statues that flanked the shattered archway, placing her hand upon the beaked snout. “Teci pasio osario op re tec,” muttered Kylick in the arcane tongue of the gods. The other lumani nodded in satisfaction. She led them on to the great plain beyond.

  The rolling green fields that had been so vibrant the day before had inexplicably been reduced to dry, brittle stalks. Dolum clutched up a handful and crushed them in his palms. “How can the carrions bring such a plight upon the land?”

  “It’s not the carrions doing this,” answered Ivatelo. “The Guardian’s energy maintained this island paradise. Now he is desperate for strength and will collect what he can from the land.”

  They set out from the citadel toward a lone tower that stood near the edge of the island. It was carved of the same stone as the central complex and resembled a white tusk amongst a sea of brown. Dolum had little doubt that this structure and the citadel were adjoined somewhere deep underground.

  Dolum found himself dumbfounded when they finally reached the tower. The tower lay in the center of a lake, its foundation plunging into the inky darkness of the water. There was no bridge spanning the distance, only a sheet of perfectly placid water. It all felt unnatural. A steady wind blew from the eastern cliff, yet the water was a sheet of glass; the tower’s image stood perfectly mirrored against its surface.

  Dolum lifted a stone and motioned to hurl it into the pool — a ripple working its way across the surface might help break the feeling in Dolum’s gut that none of this was real. Kylick halted his arm.

  “No,” said the lumani.

  Dolum stuck his hands in his pockets where they could do no harm.

  Kylick walked to the edge of the water and began to carefully examine the waterfront. Finally satisfied with what she saw, she confidently strode onto the pool of water. Instead of sinking, as Dolum had expected, she walked across the mirrored surface as if it were made of ice. Dolum gawked at the spectacle. Surely there was a walkway just below the surface of the water. He squinted his eyes, tilting his head this way and that. He didn’t see a submerged platform.

  Turning to the congregation, she belted out her order. “Follow my path to the step,” said Kylick, her face grave. “The slightest divergence will send you straight to the bottom.”

  “But surely we could swim back to the path,” said Dolum.

  “Jump in and give it a try,” replied Kylick dryly.

  “I don’t think I would do that,” whispered Bently as he walked past the dwarf and made for the point where Kylick stepped from dry land.

  “Yansarian has granted her the sight of the gods,” said Ivatelo coming up alongside the dwarf. “Only she knows the way.”

  Dolum was confident the magic was right, and followed Kylick’s orders as best he could. The path curved through the lake like an invisible maze. Looking down with each step, Dolum did his best to precisely emulate the priestess. She led the way effortlessly, guiding them as if she could see the path as clear as day. Yet to Dolum, he was walking blind. No matter how hard he came down with his foot, never did a ripple appear. All he could see was his own gawking r
eflection staring back.

  They arrived to the tower after meandering over much of the lake’s surface. The entrance portal was deep set, graven with the visages of long dead gods and the entwined bodies of serpents. No evil spirits here, thought Dolum, grateful that the sneering face of Paseran was nowhere to be seen in the carving.

  Kylick struggled to pull open the iron-studded door, clearly straining against an invisible force. As the door parted with the jamb, the air began to howl, and a torrent of wind rushed inward, the strength of which knocked Dolum off balance. Desperous’s steady hands saved him from falling backward into the pool of water. He thanked the elf meekly and quickly entered the structure, hoping not to further humiliate himself.

  Kylick pulled an oil lantern free from a sconce beside the door and coaxed it to life with a piece of flint. Yellow light filled the cylindrical structure, revealing a dark twisting stairwell that bore into the stone floor. Beckoning them into the abyss like a will-o’-the-wisp was a line of green stones. They ran in a diving spiral, following the course of the stairwell. Dolum immediately recognized the cryptic lights as luminaries, the same stones that were used in abundance to light New Halgath. Without a word, Kylick led them winding into the earth.

  The journey was monotonous. The lantern snaked before them, while everything else was bathed in green. For a long time no one talked. The plop of dripping water and the pad of footfalls were all Dolum had to accompany his thoughts. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer.

  “Pardon my interruption,” said Dolum in a voice that seemed much too loud for the space. “But pray tell me, where exactly are we off to?”

  “The River Deep,” answered Ivatelo to his rear.

  Dolum shuddered. He had forgotten the magic was there.

  “Everyone keeps mentioning this River Deep, but what is it?” pressed Bently, who was immediately before Dolum. The man’s wide shoulders scraped against the walls of the stairwell.