Age of the Gods: The Complete, twelve novel, fantasy series (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga) (100 page)

Sara’s helm was altered slightly as well to cover more of the back of her neck, and while Seth was at it, he took up a sheet of the crimson glass. Using the power contained within himself, Seth bent the magic to his will and watched as the sheet of glass in his hand began to ripple and become less solid. Imperfections and bubbles within the glass were expelled as it seemed to roll and gather into a thick mass within the Death Mage’s palm. Then, as if of its own accord, the ball of seemingly molten glass stretched in two directions, tearing itself in perfect halves. Each half then squirmed and twisted within Seth’s hand becoming smaller and darker in color as the glass was compressed magically. Finally Seth reached his hand containing the small glass balls into the helm. As Sara watched, these glass balls rolled themselves into the openings designed for her eyes. The blood-colored spheres sat upon the empty rims of the eye portals in the helm, appearing to be two sightless eyes staring back at those in the room. Then, as Seth shifted his focus, both the steel of the helm and the compressed glass began to undulate, both contracting and expanding. Seconds later, where the two balls of crimson glass had previously hovered in empty sockets, now thick, red lenses  filled the voids in the helm, making the piece of armor look like some sort of disembodied demonic head.

With the physical alterations completed to the armor, Seth took a moment to inspect his work and found it required nothing further. Not wanting anyone to witness the process of imbuing the armor with magical properties, besides himself and his wife, Seth dismissed Jonas once again and sent the man to stand in the hall. Seth then picked up the bundle of weapons that had been delivered for Sara. Together they appraised the weapons, and after several moments Sara picked the four that she felt were the most suitable. In reality the four weapons were actually two pairs, the first of which were a pair of long, wicked daggers, nearly the length of short swords. They were made of blackened steel, completely bare of adornment. Both blades were incredibly light, incredibly sharp, and tempered to be hard enough to pierce moderately thick steel armor. The second pair of weapons were a foreign design to Seth. Of course he was no expert, but these were unlike anything he had ever seen before. For the most part, the design of each blade was simple. In fact, the weapons reminded Seth of a sword blade where the handle was attached near one end to intersect the blade like a T. The user would hold the handle in their fist, and when punching, a short blade of about six inches protruded out from the heel of the hand, sharpened along both edges and ending at a point. The opposite end of the blade ran parallel to the user’s forearm, and was sharpened along the outside edge. This blade also tapered to a point. Overall it was an odd weapon in Seth’s opinion, but he imagined that in the right hands they would be more than adequate.

Neither pair of weapons took much modifying except for adjusting the size and length of the handles, as all of the weapons appeared to be designed to be wielded by large men, instead of small women. This work completed, Seth prepared himself mentally for the real task at hand, and recalled all the different symbols he had used earlier in the day. Then he sat in one of the chairs surrounding the table to provide himself with a more stable platform to handle the tiny strands of magical power. Thus prepared, Seth set about his task of creating the first of Valdadore’s most fearsome warriors, backed by magics forgotten by the present world.

Garret and his knights left the castle complex atop their great white steeds. Each of them was armed and armored, though Garret did not anticipate any trouble. However, he would rather have his equipment and not need it, than need his equipment and not have it. Garret led his men from the castle, his first destination being Blacksmith Row which was in a portion of the city that clung to the inner side of the city’s main defensive wall. In order to pull off the task he had in mind, Garret had seen two options. The first required hundreds, if not thousands of men; the second required himself and the majority of his fabled knights. Either group could accomplish the job, but the main armies needed to stay at the city as long as possible in order to re-equip themselves with their new gear and train to use it properly. Already tasks had been assigned throughout the city. The blacksmiths worked to create spear heads and shields of a design previously foreign to them. The army was building fortifications and traps around the city, and pitching in to help set up temporary forges and stables, and tents, canopies, and corrals were being erected. Trees were also being cut down where available to haul back to the city for use in spear making.

Riders had been sent to every corner of Valdadore to call to arms warriors of the past and future. Already the nearest of these began to trickle into the city from the surrounding villages and towns. Stores of grain, salt and livestock were being pulled from communities far and wide in preparation for a siege. Scouts had been sent west in an attempt to ascertain more details of the opposing force, though no word had yet returned. Linaya and Zorbin already raced east to Boulder Gate, the dwarven stronghold, to beg assistance from the humans’ once allies. Seth prepared his men to lead an attack on their enemy in an attempt to stall their forces. The Death Mage was also instrumental in readying the army with their new weapons, and their training.

The world as Garret knew it was a maelstrom of organized chaos, but there was little more he could do at present that his council could not do in his absence. Leaving the castle complex behind, he led his men through the streets at an easy pace. Today the threat of war was apparent around every turn. Everyone within the city geared up as best as they were able, each of them lending a hand where needed. These were a people who understood the predicament facing them. These were a people who knew they could rely on their king, and one another, to see them through anything that fate threw at them. Garret’s people were a determined lot, and for that the young king was grateful.

The closer to the outer wall Garret and his men rode, the thicker the crowds in the streets became. Near an hour into crossing the city, the streets had become so congested that the people here could not properly clear a path for their young king and his mighty knights. Progress became increasingly slow with each passing moment. Even the well-trained mounts of the king and his knights seemed to begin to lose patience as their progress slowed. Garret knew there was no time to be lost but there was no way of avoiding it. It was at about this time that Garret would later recall having seen an assassin in employ to King Sigrant for the first time.

As Garret was forced yet again to stop his horse from trampling someone nearly underfoot, he glanced about, looking for another less crowded route to take. Seeing none, Garret swung around in his saddle to look in the opposite direction, when something rare in Valdadore caught his eye. Across the street from he and his men rode a man upon a mount that was black as night. The stallion was of impressive build, nearly equal in size to that of the very creature that Garret himself rode. Any normal horse would either be panicking in such a congested street, or bewildered and difficult to control, yet the man upon the great black beast held the reigns to his mount gingerly, allowing the stallion to choose its pace and direction through the crowd at its own discretion. Garret noted the rider wore all black as well, a perfect complement to his mount. Though something about him seemed out of place, Garret thought nothing of it, even when Horace called to him and the man in black’s eyes opened wide.

“Your majesty!” Horace shouted. “This way! Over here. The main streets are too congested; let’s take the side streets.”

Garret turned to see in which direction Horace pointed. Agreeing with him, Garret slowly managed to turn his mount about, and followed his knights down the narrow side road. Horace had been correct in his thinking, and keeping to the smaller, less-traveled roads made for a significantly less stressful ride for both the riders and their mounts.

A quarter of an hour later, Garret and his men finally reached the outer wall of the city and with it Blacksmith Row. Here forges burned white hot while apprentices pumped billows, and men hammered heated steel upon anvils with great mallets. Sharpening wheels spun everywhere as blades, arrowheads and now spearheads were being sharpened to perfection. Garret had no need of such blades, however, and peered past the tables of weapons and armor on display to the more common tools of men stacked in corners or tossed in piles nearly out of sight. Within moments, the young king personally approached the thatch-covered lean-to of one particular blacksmith. The middle-aged man did not hesitate to stop work upon his current creation to see to the king immediately. Even those this far from the castle proper already knew the face of their new young king. Garret watched as the man quickly approached and gave him a filthy smile where more than a single tooth was missing.

“What can I do ye for, yer majesty?” the blacksmith asked.

“I need a dozen of your largest shovels,” Garret answered, and enjoyed the look that came across the man’s face.

“Shovels, ye says?” the blacksmith repeated, his hearing obviously deteriorated from the constant banging of his trade.

“Yes!” Garret nearly shouted, and just for emphasis he nodded as well.

“And what else will ye need?” the man asked, hoping to better his reputation by providing his king with a weapon.

“That is all for now,” Garret replied. “Send one of your boys to the castle for your pay,” he added.

“Pay?” The blacksmith questioned. “No needs fer that, yer majesty, might not even live ta spend it! Word is we need these here shields, like we be needin’ air. I’ll not be sparing one of my boys fer collecting pay if I’m to make enough shields to be sure he lives.”

“Very well, then,” Garret responded, thinking to reward the man in another way. “In that case, get me the shovels and I would have you craft my own personal shield. No need for a notch in that one.” He added.

The blacksmith nodded his understanding with another disgusting smile before he strode away. A moment later the blacksmith and one of his apprentices, probably a son or nephew, returned each with a half a dozen shovels. Handing their wares over to the king and his knights, the blacksmith and his boy quickly returned to their duties, a new and important task at hand. Garret and each of the five knights who accompanied him, tied a pair of shovels to their saddles before remounting and heading for the nearest city gate. Unfortunately the nearest one was the eastern gate, and Garret and his men needed to head west. Skirting around the city heading north, Garret took the lead as his knights fell in behind him, none of them aware of his plan nor his destination.

As Garret rounded the-north eastern corner of the city, he slowed to allow his knights to ride to each side of his mount.

“Time is everything at present!” Garret shouted to his men over the thundering of their mounts’ hooves. “We go to buy more time, but we need to travel with all haste. Horace, you will have to catch up when you can as you are our eyes.”

With that proclamation, Garret prayed silently to Gorandor and focusing the immediate rush of power within him, he ignored the pleasure coursing through his veins as he and his horse began to shimmer. With a concussive boom, Garret and his mount exploded in size, Garret becoming the color of polished steel. Within seconds four more concussive booms sounded from behind Garret as all but one of his knights followed his lead, and size-shifted to try and match his pace.

Though it was an uncommon sight, those guards and archers upon the city walls of Valdadore knew what it was they saw as the ground began to shake beneath the giant hooves of Gorandor’s champions. Cheers erupted from atop each wall and tower, every soldier and mage believing that the king and his knights went to strike fear into the hearts of their approaching foe. For what could be mightier than five massive men, each upon a steed thirty feet or taller? It was an impressive and inspiring sight to witness firsthand, and Garret realized how it must look to his people. Inwardly he found it disappointing though amusing that instead of striking fear into their enemies, they would instead be digging a great big hole. It was a task that in most kingdoms, ruled by most races, would be done by slaves. Here in Valdadore, however, it was the king who did the digging.

* * * * *

Mordal sat upon his black stallion taking his time amongst the crowd. Slowly and inevitably he rode towards the castle compound, his primary task predominant in his mind. Having gleaned all the information he could from the common folk who drank too much to keep their mouths shut, Mordal felt it was time to prepare for his mission. His exit strategy had already changed a half a dozen times due to the various routes he had planned becoming one by one too crammed with people to navigate. Thus his latest and hopefully final plan consisted of roof running nearly the entire city. He had mapped out the course he would take, having already adjusted his route to incorporate buildings that would make jumping the distances in between the easiest. It was not a direct route by any standard, but if his plan was completely successful he would not be leaving hastily in any case.

Stopped in his slow trek towards the castle by the unending crowd in the streets, Mordal sat back in his saddle, allowing the stallion to lead himself. Mordal looked around for anything of interest that might distract him for a moment, but found nothing readily available to steal of any worth. Truthfully, he had spent an hour earlier in the day steadily pick-pocketing those milling around in the crowded streets of the city just to pass time. It was not a fruitless endeavor either. He had made more coin off the common people in the streets in a single hour than a pickpocket in his own kingdom could make in a month. The wealth of this small nation was appalling. Mordal could not believe how much coin a common housewife carried upon her person.

These were Mordal’s musings as he noticed the group of highly polished knights riding towards him on their magnificent war horses. Nonchalantly Mordal observed the knights’ approach as any other bystander might. He witnessed as they began to become irritated at their increasingly slower pace, and also as their war horses appeared to become impatient too. Slowly but surely Mordal’s mount picked its way through the crowd, growing ever nearer the knights who attempted in vain to move in the opposite direction towards the assassin. It was not until the first of the knights was directly across the street that Mordal discovered his error when another knight called out to their leader.

“Your majesty!” a red-haired knight shouted from the crowd behind their lead man.

That was when Mordal realized that the King of Valdadore sat upon his horse not twenty feet away. Mordal watched as the young king with chestnut hair and brown eyes turned his steed slowly to go back the way he came. It would be an easy task to fell the king himself this very moment, though escaping with his life would be difficult. Mordal quickly went through his options. He could fell the king and disappear into the crowd, abandoning his mount and the saddlebag filled with coin. But leaving good money to his enemies simply would not do. Or he could kill the king, abandon his mount and climb to the roof tops with the saddlebag, though this strategy left him without a mount. Mordal even thought of shadowing the king until a moment of opportunity revealed itself, allowing him both a quick kill and a clean escape. However, what dissuaded Mordal from this train of thought was the money. The money he might not receive if he killed the King of Valdadore.  Although the young king would be a great target for such an experienced assassin, the man was not his mission.

Even though this one single death could possibly be the most important to King Sigrant’s cause, it was not in Mordal’s orders to kill the young king. Sigrant wanted this war for one reason or another. It was true, the battle would be a short one, but none the less, King Sigrant wanted to anger the young king of Valdadore, scare him perhaps, before he destroyed him. Thus Mordal’s orders did not mention killing the king at all. However, they did mention killing members of his family or close personal friends. Fortunately for Mordal, several wagging tongues the night previous had provided him with a shortlist of just such people currently within the city. Lady Linaya for one sounded like a perfect target. Who better to strike down than the king’s love interest? A young woman who roamed the castle at night where witnesses were few? Or perhaps the king’s mage brother, stories of whom revealed that he had nearly died a few weeks ago at another battle. Surely a weakened or injured mage would be little trouble, especially if the tale of him walking with his eyes closed, apparently recently blind, were true. Also the mage’s young wife, a petite thing named Sara, who pranced about in armor. Mordal had heard that she had recently taken a grievous injury. She was so badly maimed and ashamed of her appearance that she no longer walked about in the daylight, only at night, unless her face was completely covered. It was a very short shortlist, it was true, but would provide enough targets that one of them would slip up and come within Mordal’s path. He only needed one of them, but if they were each such easy prey as he expected, he might kill all three for sport.