Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (26 page)

Jarrod had fallen to his knees and lost his stomach when they stepped out of the gateway. A’lan stood patting the lad on the back as he continued to retch. Max forced himself forward, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeved arm to hold the stench at bay. A sensation in the back of his mind, the Eye, beckoned him.

During the jump to Kirvin he had collapsed when the Eye released a massive wave of power. The Keeper had cast a death spell. Max was sure of it.

The world lacked color with Tobias gone. His hearty laugh and genuine friendship would be missed. Regaining his composure, Max had steeled himself from the emotions welling up inside him. Then just as they were about to make the final jump from Kirvin he felt someone link to him through the Eye. Confused, Max made the jump with no idea what to expect.

In the center of the Heart, Tobias and Magdalene lay beside each other, their faces peaceful as if they were in deep slumber. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees, unable to hold back the sorrow any longer. He wailed at the sky, out of anger, out of deepest loss. Racked with uncontrollable weeping, he fell on his face, clawing at the ground. He should never have let Tobias travel home without him. Political matters had pulled him back to Shaladon early. Trite, worthless matters by comparison now. Max had suggested Tobias return by teleport with him, but the king said it was important to ride with his men. Max berated himself; he should have dealt with the matters at the Keep and returned to Tobias. If he had, then Jerrod would have been there to teleport the king to safety. He should have been here. It was his fault, all his fault. He rolled on his back, tears streaming down his face, and howled once more like a tormented beast.

Max stood before a lone window, its frame curving to a point near the ceiling. The morning sun flooded through in beams of red and orange light.

Slightly bewildered, he looked around at the shelves of books lining the walls. He recognized his study at the wizard’s keep in Dalarhan, but he wasn’t quite sure how he got there. He had the oddest feeling he should be somewhere else, but he could not say where. Shaking off the feeling, he looked back down at the people going about their business in the courtyard. Quickly his thoughts returned to the rather peculiar events in Keen.

***

Pitch blackness pressed in on Jorgen. He could not even see his fingers wriggling in front of his face. He pulled some tinder and a wadded piece of char cloth from his tinderbox and piled it on the floor. With just a few strikes of flint on steel, he had a small fire burning, enough light to glimpse a torch hanging on the wall. Lighting the torch from his small fire, he stamped out the char cloth.

The circular chamber was small, five paces at most, with a narrow passageway his only exit. The corridor expanded as he crept along its smooth wall. Thirty paces from the portal room a faint glow illuminated the way ahead.

A man let out a tormented yell followed by women laughing. Malevolence tainted their laughter, hideous in its high pitch as they reveled in the man’s sorrow. Tossing the torch aside, he proceeded toward the light.

At the mouth of the passageway, he watched two women dancing around Max. The older witch had hair streaked with as much grey as black and a sharp nose. The other woman was in her middle years with long brown hair.

Max appeared anguished, looking at the ground around him. Turning every direction, seeing whatever horrors the witches dredged up in his mind. With the howl of a man who had lost all hope he collapsed to the floor, his body wracked in uncontrollable sobs.

“My lord,” Max wailed, “I failed you. Have mercy, I failed you.”

The grey haired witch was ten paces away. With their attention on Max, he could dispatch her quickly. Maybe he could get the younger one before she recovered from the shock of seeing her sister killed.

He charged the old witch, the ten pace gap feeling much longer than it should. Jorgen gripped his axe with both hands, raising it over his head and brining it down in a killing stroke. The witch’s body turned to vapor as the axe fell and Jorgen stumbled, his momentum sending him to the floor.

A malicious cackle echoed off the walls. “You mii-isssed,” she said in a sing-song voice.

Jorgen turned and found both witches blocking the passage.

“I don’t know how you found this place,” the older witch said, dragging out her words, “but you’re a fool to be here.”

“My pardon ladies, but I believe your guest is ready to leave.”

“Oooo! A brazen fool you are,” the older witch said, rubbing her hands together with wicked glee. “I like that.”

“Is it just you,” Jorgen replied, looking around, “or can we expect more? Personally, I don’t think I can handle a worse sight.”

The older witch transformed into a beautiful blonde woman, her low cut white dress revealing a flawless bosom. “Is this more to your liking?” Her voice matched the lustful look in her eyes.

Jorgen smiled. “I’m a paladin, witch. My mind is not so easily corrupted.”

The lust slid from her face. “And cocky. Fine, have it your way.” She extended her hand, a fireball erupting from her palm.

Jorgen stood his ground, not even raising his arm to shield his face. Five feet from him, the fireball fell apart, tongues of fire darting in all directions and vanishing.

The witch stood there, disbelief covering her face.

One side of Jorgen’s mouth slid upward in a sly smile.

Her face turned red and she screamed, launching a volley of fireballs at him.

He ignored the searing heat washing over him as each fireball dissipated. “Your magic won’t save you.”

She glared back. “Can you control Air?”

“Of course not.”

“Then catch.” She waved her hand at the ceiling in a slicing motion, cutting stalactites from their moors.

Jorgen rolled away, quick reflexes propelling him left and right as he dodged the shower of stalactites and falling debris. He rolled to a crouch, about to throw his axe, but had to dive away from another stalactite. Coming up from the dive, his back to the witch, he spun and threw his axe sidearm. If only it could pass through the shower of debris. If only an instant’s glimpse was enough for an accurate throw. If only.

An ear-splitting shriek echoed off the walls of the cavern.

Jorgen came up from his roll and saw his axe embedded in the wall, the witch’s head sat atop it for a moment before sliding off.

The younger brunette woman stared at the corpse, hands covering her mouth. Slowly, her gaze turned on him, fury and hatred burned in her hazel eyes. She lowered her hands to her sides, fingers twitched like she wanted to wield magic, but she pulled twin daggers from her belt instead.

Smooth as silk, her voice belied the hatred in her eyes. “Will you fight me in honest battle?”

Jorgen drew his knives. “Is there any other kind?”

The corners of her lips inched upward in a devious smile. Yelling, she dove at him, one blade barred before her, the other held behind for a second strike. Just as she reached him, he felt a sting across his lower back. He rolled away, wincing at the movement. Somehow she had moved behind him instantly. The cut burned, blood wetting his shirt. Her blades must be magic forged to cut through his mail.

Her wicked laugh taunted him. “Silly man. Did you think I would be so easy?”

She stood six feet away, the wicked sneer marring her beauty, then he saw two of her. Her form six feet away remained solid, but another wispy image of her swept past him. Jorgen spun too late, a slash burned his thigh and another grazed his forearm causing him to drop one of his knives. He staggered away retreating from her.

“Your mind is not so strong,” she jeered. “You killed my sweet Lauren. For that you will die slowly, one cut at a time.”

Jorgen backed up to the wall. If she wanted to attack, it would have to come from the front.

That devious smile dropped ever so slightly from her face.

He glimpsed a shadow of movement out the corner of his eye. Battle-hardened instincts saved him as he turned his shoulders and leaned away from the movement. Sparks flew from the witch’s blade striking stone where he had been. The image of herself with the devious smile still stood ten feet away, yet she was mere inches from him too, enraged her strike had failed. He punched her in the face, but she recoiled quick as a snake before he could get a slash in.

The blood pouring from her nose made her look all the more malevolent. Wiping fingers across her face, she blinked away the tears and looked at the crimson on her fingers like it was foreign. Her scream pierced the cavern as she sent a wave of Air at him. Stone shattered and crumbled except for a five-foot area around him.

“Temper, temper,” Jorgen quipped.

The wicked smile no longer decorated her face. She charged in again, lightning quick strikes he barely managed to deflect. His single blade and forearm bracer against her two knives kept him on the defensive and he knew he couldn’t keep up for long. He tried to move near his battle axe, but she blocked the way, wicked sneer back on her face.

“I don’t think so,” she hissed.

An instant too late he saw her wispy image. He deflected the first blade, but the second drove home into his side just below the ribs. She squealed with glee as he staggered away from her clutching the knife hilt. The cavern grew blurry.

Forgive me, Meshema Donai. I have failed you.

She moved in for the kill slashing with her other blade. Leaning away from her, side muscles screaming with pain, the blade missed his face by a hair. Both hands moved in harmony, the right catching her wrist to stop her backswing, the left punching her in the nose. Stunned, she was like clay in his hands. In one quick motion, Jorgen turned her wrist in a painful angle and took her knife. Her eyes went wide realizing where the blade was an instant before Jorgen drove it through her throat.

Staggering back from her, he willed himself not to fall as she crumpled to the floor. He took two steps toward Max before his knees gave out, barely managing to fall on his good side and protect his wound. Pushing himself toward Max, he let out a yell as the knife shifted ever so slightly in his side. The wizard still lay balled up on the floor weeping. If he could just rouse Max, if he could just shake him, bring him back to reality.
So many ifs
, Jorgen thought as his strength gave out completely mere feet from Max.

Lying on the cold stone floor, he noted its hardness on his back and the fetid stench of the cavern. His eyes drooped for a moment, but he forced them open again. How many times had he courted death, like a coy lover who relished in stringing him along? He had grown accustomed to surviving, grown overconfident. His mind was not impervious though he had walked in thinking so.

His eyelids slowly closed. When did they become so heavy? Thoughts of his father drifted along the blackness of his fading consciousness. He would cross the veil into Elysian and be with him soon. A pang of anxiety struck him. Would his father be proud? He would have liked to follow his father’s footsteps and command the Lion’s Fist. Crossing paths with Michael had put the fancy in his mind. Still, it had been a pleasant notion to entertain. At least the witches were dead. Max would eventually wake from his nightmare and return to help Michael.

It was enough
, he thought. He had served faithfully.
It was enough.

C
HAPTER
25

On Their Own

Three days. Three days since Jorgen sent them scurrying out of the forest. Three days of incessant rain chilling them to the bone, making every step miserable.

Michael refused to slow down, though, afraid if he stopped the nightmares would catch up. He hated himself, though. What kind of hero turned tail and left Jorgen to rescue Max alone? The farther he walked, the more he disputed Jorgen’s logic, cursing the fear that caused him to give in and run. His brooding had seeped into the others, making their moods as sour as the weather.

The forest gave way to rolling hills that quickly turned steeper as they entered the Chelean Mountains with its towering summits disappearing above the rain laden clouds.

High into the mountains they trekked as the air turned colder and snow crunched under their boots. On their second day in the mountains, their trek ended at a rockslide blocking the pass. Forced to backtrack, they found a narrow path barely fit for the mountain goats. The path led them almost due west, but Michael believed it would take a southward turn. The roar of rapids became louder, reverberating off the rocky walls and then the path ended at a six-foot wide ledge. Scowling, Michael looked down at the Kisenar River frothy white with rapids, raging against sheer cliff walls. The drop alone would kill a man. Slowly he turned his head upward, looking at the peaks towering above them, then his gaze settled on Garen.

Garen held his hands out in resignation. It had been his idea to take the path in the first place. “Want to backtrack?”

It wasn’t fair to be angry with Garen. Michael knew it, but he was simply mad; bloody obstacles and bloody chasms were not tolerable. Michael shook his head and growled.

There was nothing to be done about it, though. Even if they backtracked, there was no guarantee they would find a better route. Jerking his head in the direction of the ledge, Michael led the way, staying close to the mountain wall.

Rounding a jagged bend, they spied a rope bridge made from twin ropes thick as a man’s forearm with wooden slats lashed between them and handrails a little more than waist high.

“I don’t get it?” Garen asked, inspecting the moorings wrapped around massive boulders. “Who builds a rope bridge in the middle of the mountains?”

“No idea,” Michael replied. The ropes showed age, but the bridge still looked sturdy enough for use. How long ago had it been built? The moorings and handrails felt waxy. Treating the ropes against the weather would give them longer life but they would still need to be tended. The question was: who tended them?