The Restored King (The Fallen King Chronicles Book 4) Page 15

  He grimaced. He had seen battle before and had even killed. And despite his loyal devotion to the god of the dead, he found that he just couldn’t stomach the sounds of the dying. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of his own impermanence. He knew then, in that very moment, that he was afraid to die.

  Adamar shook his head to clear his mind. There would be time to think of such things, but it was not now. The enemy was almost to the formation of priests and then the battle would be on in full force.

  He imagined what the priests might be feeling. Their hearts pounding, adrenaline coursing through their veins. They stood foot to foot, packed tightly together, with not much room to maneuver. The less space between them, the less of a chance a horseman had to get through. Seconds felt like eternity. And then the army washed up against the line priests. The noise and commotion was loud and rumbling. Adamar stood straight-backed, his chin high. He turned his gaze away from the clashing armies and up to the sky above them. It was dull and gray.

  An explosion rocked the ground outside the city. Both sides were thrown into silence. Adamar used the spyglass to see what was happening. Some sort of magical blast had killed hundreds of his priests and soldiers. Their bodies lie smoldering on the field.

  The smoke cleared to reveal two forms, both clothed in white robes. Their faces shined brilliantly and Adamar had to look away, lest he be blinded.

  “Wizards,” he growled under his breath.

  “No,” a voice beside him said. It startled Adamar and he turned to see Aramis beside him. His hand went to the pommel of his sword, but Aramis raised his hand and Adamar was paralyzed. He couldn’t even move his eyes.

  Aramis looked to him and Adamar knew that it was not his brother inside the body. Not anymore.

  “They are not wizards,” the undead voice said. “They are gods.”

  Had Adamar been in control of his body, he would have given his lord an incredulous look.

  “It is time, though I am not ready,” Aramis said. He lowered his hand and Adamar’s paralysis faded. He fell to his knees.

  “My Lord Mordum,” he said in a trembling voice. “Grant me the blessing of your Mark. I beg you.”

  Aramis, or Mordum as he had become, looked down at Adamar. “I do not have the strength to spare,” he answered. “Rise, and tell me what is happening now. These eyes are not like my own.”

  Adamar rose and looked out at the battle. The priests in the rear echelons were already streaming back through the city gates. Many had no idea where they were going, only that they wanted to be far away from the blood and the death.

  “My—your,” he quickly corrected himself, “priests are fleeing. They are retreating through the gates. Our enemy has routed us!”

  “They need a leader,” Mordum said calmly. He looked at Adamar and began to whisper words his mortal ears could not hear, then he pointed to where the priests were fleeing. Adamar’s body rose into the air and flew over the castle walls towards the battle.

  Adamar felt his stomach do strange things as the wind clawed at him. The clouds parted. A mote of sunlight fell from the heavens and touched him as he descended onto the battle field.

  “To me!” he shouted. “Rally to me!”

  He blazed as if dipped in flame, lit from above with the light. His shout brought the fleeing priests and soldiers to a halt. They looked to see where the call came from and saw Adamar outlined in flame, blazing like a beacon fire. Mordum’s servants halted in their mad dash, looking up, dazzled.

  “To me!” Adamar yelled again.

  The soldiers hesitated, then one ran to him. Another followed and another, glad to have purpose and direction once again.

  “Get into formation!” he ordered.

  The soldiers and priests came running back, bringing their weapons to bear and lining back up. Adamar felt glorious. Mordum had used him to stop the retreat. All the men’s eyes were on him now. Now who is important? He cried at them in his mind. I am!

  “Charge!” he screamed.

  His army charged forth, clashing into the ranks of their enemy. He stood still as they flowed around him, watching the death and destruction that ensued. The air begun to buzz. Adamar looked up to see a wave of arrows, hundreds of them, flying toward his position. His eyes widened in terror. He looked back to Mordum, issuing a silent prayer for protection. Yet his lord was nowhere to be seen.

  The arrows rained down around him. The feathered shafts struck through visors of helmed soldiers or took them in the throat. More arrows flew, more bodies fell. The panic-stricken soldiers and priests faltered, halted, trying to discover the location of this new enemy. More arrows hummed through the air. Men screamed and fell. The dying were starting to pile up like hideous cordwood in the cut, forming a blood-soaked barricade.

  Adamar cursed as the enemy crashed through his forces. He ripped one of the arrows from a fallen soldier and eyed the feathers. The colors were familiar. And etched into the wood was the symbol he least wanted to see: a phoenix bursting from a pile of ashes. The symbol of Talvaard.

  The ground trembled beneath his feet. He spun around and spotted the source. One of the golems was coming straight for him. He turned to run, overcome with fear. And then something hit him in the left eye. His mind screamed that he needed to run, but his body screamed in agony and would not obey. His right eye barely recognized the feathered shaft that was lodged in the left before he had the sensation of falling. He crashed to the ground on his back, his head striking something hard. He told himself that should have hurt, yet he felt nothing.

  The golem came into his blurred view. His eye was welling uncontrollably with tears. He tried to blink them away and only felt the right side of his face. What’s happening to me?! his mind screamed. His heart was pounding furiously against his chest and his ears were ringing. He watched as the golem lifted its leg to step on him. He was powerless to move.

  A wave of heat washed over him as a blinding streak of light struck the golem in the side of its head. The stone creature turned to face a new attacker and Adamar lay there, giving silent thanks to whoever had just saved his life. He knew he couldn’t stay where he was, yet his body refused to cooperate with his commands. He didn’t know how much time passed as he struggled to roll onto his side, but eventually he managed to do so.

  He lay there, expended, watching the battle continue to unfold. It was hard to tell who was winning. The bodies of both sides littered his view. He tried to get up, but he was dizzy and couldn’t keep his balance.

  So, he crawled. It was arduous and tiring. His hands touched blood and dismembered limbs, yet he struggled on. He didn’t know where he should go. Nowhere was safe. Mordum had abandoned him. Everything had fallen apart so quickly. Every so often, his arms faltered and he lowered himself to the ground. He had to turn his head to keep the arrow from lodging any further into his skull.

  Though he wanted to give in many times, he continued onward.

  “Power, like disease, corrupts even the most pious of men.”

  —Aramis

  CHAPTER fourteen

  The combined forces of Keswick and Talvaard pushed Mordum’s forces into the city. With the gods Zevea and Tael leading the charge, the priests of Mordum fell to blade and magic alike. The army pushed its way into the main courtyard of the castle. Standing there, alone, was a man.

  Zevea and Tael closed in, approaching cautiously. Though it was Aramis’s body, they knew who really stood before them.

  “So, we finally meet in the flesh,” Zevea said.

  “Why have you come here?” Mordum asked.

  “You know why,” Tael answered. “What you are doing is forbidden.”

  “Yet here you both are, in mortal bodies as I am.”

  “This is different,” Zevea said. “We have left our celestial home to stop you.”

  “My power is greater than yours, and grows by the minute,” Mordum laughed. “Kill my servants as you will. Even in death, they still serve me.”

  “We will cr
ush you,” Tael said. “We should have killed you when you were weakened after your first attempt to take this world for yourself.”

  “You couldn’t kill me before, and you can’t kill me now.”

  The gods eyed each other in silence. Tael was the first move. He charged Mordum, swinging a large battleax in an ‘X’ pattern. Mordum stood still until Tael was a few feet away, then dove down and rolled, coming up behind Tael and slashing him across the back with his onyx blade. Mordum immediately turned to meet Zevea’s attack. She wielded a metal staff and struck at his head.

  Mordum easily deflected her attempt and spun towards her, slashing a long gash down her arm. She cried out in pain, something foreign to her, and brought her staff around to block Mordum’s second strike. Her wound was deep and she was bleeding profusely. The arm was almost useless.

  Tael tackled Mordum and the two went crashing to the ground. They wrestled and rolled around, fighting furiously. Zevea wanted to strike Mordum with her staff, but the two were rolling around too much for her to risk hitting Tael.

  A thunderous blast rattled the ground. Zevea struggled to see what was happening. Tael stood up, a smile upon his face. “We are vic—” bloody spittle flew from his mouth and he staggered before falling to his knees. A look of surprise spread across his face as his hand touched the mortal wound in his chest.

  Zevea felt fear for the first time. She watched as Mordum rose and calmly walked to Tael, easily swinging his blade and removing Tael’s head. Blood spurt and the head tumbled to the ground, followed by his headless body. Zevea screamed. First her sister, and now Tael. Mordum, she knew, would never be satisfied.

  She tried to grip her staff in both hands, but her cut arm was numb. She backed up slowly as Mordum came towards her.

  A flash of silver caught her attention and she saw Melchiades rushing Mordum. It was suicidal.

  Mordum turned and met the priest with a flourish of his sword. Their blades clashed together and sparks flew.

  “Leave Aramis’s body, now!” Mel yelled at him.

  Mordum laughed as he parried Mel’s strikes. “This body is mine now. Aramis is gone.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Mel growled. He fought furiously, trying every maneuver he knew to get close to Mordum, but the god was too quick.

  “Are you really going to kill Aramis?” Mordum taunted.

  “You said he was gone,” Mel cried.

  “Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn’t. I suppose you will never know.”

  Mel knew that Mordum was trying to confuse him. He believed Aramis was alive. Somewhere deep inside, he was sure, Mordum held his friend’s soul prisoner. He tried to keep his mind focused on the battle, but he kept thinking to what Aramis had told him. Mordum could not be defeated by sheer force or a killing blow. There were specifics. And unfortunately, Aramis had only divulged some of the details. He was already tired. His muscles screamed at him, burning intensely. He couldn’t keep up the fight. And this time, there would be no welcoming goddess to give him his life back.

  Mordum rushed him, trying to end the fight quickly. Mel blocked the god’s charge with his shoulder and his armor cracked from the blow. From his peripheral, he saw Zevea flinch as if in pain. Could she feel what was happening to his armor?

  The courtyard began to fill with soldiers. Mel tried to keep his attention on Mordum, but he did notice Garrick. Where did the man’s loyalties truly lie? he wondered.

  His answer came quickly as Garrick joined the fray. His black armor and sword glinted faintly in the dull light of the sun. He attacked Mordum.

  The god turned angrily towards Garrick and without a word or movement, Garrick cried out in agony and collapsed to the ground, clutching his chest.

  “How dare you?” Mordum thundered. His voice echoed off the castle walls of the courtyard, deep and booming.

  Mel saw an opening and charged Mordum, stabbing his blade into the god’s side, between his ribs. Mordum turned and punched Mel in the side of his face, sending him reeling. He lost his grip on his sword and fell hard onto his back. Mordum towered over him, raising his own sword for the killing blow.

  An arrow slammed into the side of Mordum’s head, exploding with magical sparks. Both Mel and the god turned to see Lynessa, the Lady of Keswick. She stood a few feet away, holding a bow. She was surrounded by several priests in gleaming silver armor. Mel recognized them as Zevea’s servants. Lynessa nocked another arrow and drew the string back, pointing it at Mordum.

  “Release Aramis,” she said.

  Mordum laughed.

  “Your army has been routed and you are outnumbered. God or not, I like my odds better than yours.”

  “Foolish mortals!” Mordum bellowed. “I am God of the Dead! I cannot die!”

  The gray clouds above began to darken. The wind picked up. Lightning flickered in the growing darkness above them and thunder filled the air.

  Mel knew that if they didn’t kill Mordum now, he would come back again. He would continue to bring death and destruction upon the people. He looked to Zevea.

  She was pale and weak. He could sense that she was dying, could feel it in his armor. It wouldn’t be long before his tie to her power was severed and he would be without his armor and blade.

  The dagger … her voiced filled his mind, weak and barely a whisper.

  Dagger?

  The one I gave to Aramis. It is more than it seems … it can kill him.

  Mel looked at Aramis’s body and saw it sheathed at his waist. How could a rusty old dagger kill a god?

  Trust me, she bade him.

  Mel looked to Lynessa and gave her a hand signal. He didn’t know if she saw it or not, but there was nothing else to be done. He pushed himself onto his feet and reached for the dagger. Mordum began to turn and face him, but another of Lynessa’s explosive arrows struck him in the chest. The concussive force threatened to push Mel backwards, but he dug his boots into the dirt for leverage and forced himself forward. He snatched the blade from Aramis’s belt and jabbed the rusty dagger into Mordum’s chest, his aim true.

  The blade pierced his heart.

  The hilt of the dagger became red-hot and burned Mel’s hand. He cried out and let go of the blade in shock. His armor began to dissipate, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Mordum. The dagger glowed with a blinding white light, piercing the darkness within Aramis’s body. The blackness in his friend’s eyes dimmed, slowly returning to their natural color.

  Aramis’s mouth opened in a silent scream and the black cloud that was Mordum rushed out, disintegrating into the air. Aramis’s body collapsed lifelessly to the ground. The dagger’s glow dimmed and then faded entirely.

  Mel rushed to his fallen friend and pulled the dagger out. Aramis was pale and didn’t appear to be breathing.

  “No,” he whispered over and over. “Please, no.” Tears stung his eyes. Had he killed his friend by killing Mordum? He looked to Zevea. Her body lay not far, but she was faintly moving.

  Come … she called out to him.

  Overcome with grief, he could barely comprehend the word. He forced himself to move and went to her. He wiped his tears. The life was quickly fading from her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  You … can … save him.

  “How?” Mel cried. “Please, tell me how!”

  Zevea closed her eyes. Come near …

  Mel lowered his head to her, inches from her face. She opened her mouth and breathed out a golden wisp of air. He gasped when he saw it, and the wisp flew into his mouth. He was filled with a tremendous power.

  Breath into …

  And then her presence was gone.

  Mel stood there, not sure what she intended to say. Panic filled him. She said he could save Aramis, but he didn’t know what she was going to say. He fell to his knees at Aramis’s side, tears streaming down his face. He turned his friend’s face to face him and stared into his lifeless eyes. Agony wrenched his heart. He began to sob uncontrollably. He placed his head on hi
s friend’s shoulder. He would have prayed, but he knew there were no gods left to hear him. Lynessa knelt on the other side of Aramis and Mel saw that she too was crying.

  Mel raised his head, looking at her. “Why?” he cried. The golden wisp flew out of his mouth. Lynessa’s façade of strength broke and she shook her head.

  “I—”

  The wisp flew into her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise. She had felt the power, Mel knew. She looked down at Aramis and shook her head again. Leaning down, she pressed her lips against Aramis’s in a soft kiss. As she exhaled over him, the wisp slipped out of her mouth and into Aramis’s.

  Mel saw it and wondered what it could mean. Time passed and Mel dared not move lest he miss something. Lynessa eventually rose to her feet and walked away. Garrick knelt beside Mel and placed his hand on his shoulder.

  “We should probably move his body,” Garrick suggested quietly. “He paid the ultimate sacrifice. We should honor him for that.”

  Mel ignored him. Eventually Garrick left, too.

  I should never have left him, Mel grieved in his mind. I should have followed him. Even though Adamar tricked him, I should never have let him out of my sight.

  And then he thought he saw Aramis’s chest rise. It was almost imperceptible, and Mel doubted whether he actually saw it. Then his chest rose and fell. Mel wiped his eyes, wanting to be sure of what he saw.

  He wasn’t seeing things! Aramis was breathing.

  “He’s alive!” Mel cried out. “He’s breathing! Someone help me!”

  Garrick and Lynessa rushed to help, followed by others. They lifted him gently and carried him inside the castle. Mel led them to Aramis’s room and they laid him on the bed. Lynessa ordered everyone to leave except Garrick and Mel. The three of them took turns watching him while the other two dozed off.

  Three days passed uneventfully.

  “I’m afraid I must go,” Garrick said on the third day, breaking the long silence. “I don’t want to, but my duties cannot be ignored much longer.”