King Of The North (Book 3) (23 page)

“I don’t like this at all,” Adder remarked. “At this rate of devastation, the center of it should be somewhere near the mines.”

“Should we investigate?”

“I don’t think so,” Adder replied. “Not unless we are ordered to. If a creature exists that can cause this kind of damage, we are in no position to fight it.”

“Agreed,” Jhayla said.

Adder turned and signaled the Rangers to continue on. They would await the Onyx Dragon outside Faerbane as planned, and join the battle when the time was right.

Still, the prospect of yet another monstrosity on the island sent chills up Adder’s spine. If this battle was going to happen, he hoped it would be soon.

Chapter Seventeen

Berg av Hel was a small valley formed by the collapse of an ancient volcano. The Temple of Kronos had been built there thousands of years ago, sheltered from the outside world by the jagged peaks that surrounded it. The rubble of the ruined caldera was the perfect, secluded spot for the Firstborn to make his home. Though the temple itself was in ruin, its basic structure and surrounding grounds were still recognizable as a paradise in the middle of a frozen wasteland.

Farouk instantly felt that paradise when he arrived.

It was cold, as he knew it would be, but the natural walls shielded the temple grounds from the freezing winds outside and cast an eerie silence in the entire valley. The only sign of winter was the slight snowfall, which was made up of large clusters of snow flakes that fell slowly through the still air. All in all, it was a peaceful scene, tranquil and relaxing.

“Berg av Hel,” Farouk said out loud. “Mountains of Hell. Not very accurate, I would say.”

Chuckling to himself at the ironic name, he stepped forward to make his way to the temple. His foot went right through the ice and he suddenly found himself falling.

Farouk fell stoically, accepting the fact that he was now sliding down an ice floe after smashing his face into the ice. Down he went, faster and faster, until the light that shined through the ice began to fade. He attempted to lay flat to minimize his chaotic tumbling, spreading his arms out to his side holding his legs stiff. Still, the darkness unnerved him and he eventually fell into a panic.

Then, almost as soon as it began, his downward slide ended. He crashed into a firm wall of snow at the end of the slide. The area was dimly lit, quite obviously by some form of magical blue light, and the air was a comfortable temperature.

Farouk lay still for a moment, waiting to feel the pain from any injuries the fall may have caused. When he decided he was alright, he sat up. Several feet away, his staff was sticking out of the snow, head first. He pulled it out, inspecting it for any damage as well. Though unbroken, the gem that had been wrapped in the root ball at its head was missing.

“Damn it,” he cursed.

He was upset at the loss of the gem, but soon realized that the gem was symbolic anyway. His true power was within himself, and he did not need a gem to store the energy that he wielded. Still, the empty orb of roots looked bare. He reached into his tunic and felt for his amulet. Perhaps the gem within it would fit.

It was worth a try.

He pulled off the golden trinket, holding it up to the staff and comparing the size of the gem with the empty cavity. Though the gem was too small, he knew the power in the staff’s wood would accommodate it. It happened once, it could happen again.

Straining against the gold of the amulet’s setting, he bent the prongs as far as he could. The gem popped out and he caught it with a smile. The gem was warm, as he would expect, considering its contents. The Defiler was still in there, he knew, and now it would take its place at the end of a Druid’s staff.

As he held the gem near the root ball, the fibers opened to allow him to place it inside. It immediately closed, and the fibers wrapped themselves around the gem, securing it tightly. Farouk chuckled, slowly standing to get his bearings and assess his situation.

He had landed in a hallway carved into the ice. The hole through which he fell was one that he had made himself when he plunged down the icy slide. How he had managed to fall such a distance without being injured was beyond his understanding.

He looked in both directions, seeing that the path to the right sloped slightly upward. The path to the left was level, and darker, but seemed like the more logical direction to take. He needed to go downward, after all, not upward, and the left path may eventually descend. He began to follow it, keeping one hand against the smooth wall to avoid slipping on the icy floor.

He studied the ice as he traversed the corridor, noting the presence of stones, limb fragments, and even the occasional green leaf encased within the ice. He concluded that the ice was glacial, and had slowly overtaken the temple over the millennia. That meant that any portions of the temple underneath the ice may have been displaced, or even destroyed. It also meant that the tunnel had been carved out recently, as he did not sense a great age within the ice itself.

Two explanations were possible, Farouk thought; either the temple was still active and its priests had maintained an access tunnel for thousands of years, or someone or something had recently discovered the ruins and had excavated it.

Either way, he concluded, when he entered the temple, he would most likely not be alone.

The corridor eventually opened up into  a large chamber. It too was carved out of the ice. Its walls were smooth and geometrically perfect, as if cut by something other than hand tools. Some other force had been put to work, he reasoned.

At the far end of the chamber, across a freely flowing, shallow stream, was the main wall of the temple. It was white and nearly featureless, other than the bevels that surrounded the frame of a large metal door. Farouk approached it, stepping over the tiny stream, and felt its surface. It was smooth and warm and vibrated with a strange frequency that Farouk had never felt before. Whatever the door was made of came from elsewhere.

Considering what he had learned about dimensions and demi-planes, this was to be expected.

He studied the door closely, noting several hand shaped depressions that would accommodate small, three-fingered hands. He knew of only one species with hands like that: the Druaga. But why would the Druaga be here? And what did they have to do with Kronos, or the Northlands in general?

Confused, he wondered how he would gain entry. The door, though man-sized, was quite obviously meant for only the Druaga to open. He was a man; a full-sized man with man-sized hands.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “This is not correct.”

Farouk held his hands out before him, palms up, looking down at their size and shape. He moved his middle and ring fingers together, giving them the appearance of a single appendage. Then, he focused his thoughts on becoming three-fingered. He watched as the two fingers on each hand melded together to form a single finger. He laughed, amused that such a simple concept could achieve potentially powerful results.

See what you wish, not what you expect.

He concentrated further, shrinking his hands down to Druaga size. It was simple, straightforward, and easy to achieve. Though it was comical to see tiny hands on man-sized arms, Farouk knew that it would work. He turned his tiny hands toward the door, and placed them in the depressions that were closest together. He pushed, feeling the material of the door mold into the shape of his palms. He heard a deafening click as some mechanism within was activated, and stepped back.

The door slowly moved back about two feet, then split in the middle. Either half slid to its side, revealing a dimly lit corridor behind it. Farouk smiled, pleased that the trick had worked. He willed his hands back to their normal size and configuration, grabbed his gear, and stepped inside.

The corridor was warm, constructed of the same white stone as the outer walls, and nearly featureless. The air had a pleasant, sweet smell, he noticed, as if incense were burning somewhere within. There were no sounds other than a low rumbling, and there was no flickering in the light. The illumination was consistent as far down the corridor as he could see, and not a single source of that light was apparent.

He continued down the corridor, noting that it was gradually growing wider. It remained featureless, however, and made the journey somewhat interesting, but he pressed on. Eventually he reached a wide stairwell that seemed to still be part of the same solid structure as the walls. It, too, was featureless and white. The stairs, he noticed, were small. Druaga-sized, he realized. Whether the main temple was man-sized or not, he could not guess, but the way he had come was quite obviously meant for the Druaga.

Shrugging, he descended the stairway carefully. The steps were awkward, and he nearly lost his footing several times, but he managed to reach the problem without any accidents. What he saw when arrived shocked him.

The stairwell opened into a giant chamber, complete with white geometric constructs that seemed suspended in midair. There were cubes, spheres, pyramids, cylinders, and cones. They were large and dominated the open area above. Among them were smaller, but more complicated shapes. There were tori, rombi, quatrofoils, dodecahedrons, and a number of shapes he did not recognize. Why these objects were here, he did not know.

As he stood mesmerized by the shapes above, he heard shuffling in the chamber ahead. He slowly ran his gaze down along the chamber walls to look across the other side. There, upon a large pedestal, sat an ornate white throne. Around it, facing him, were several small, white-robed figures. Seven of them in all.

Druaga. White Druaga.

Farouk stepped forward, fearless, staring at the tiny creatures in awe. Though he had met Druaga before, he had never guessed that they existed in different varieties. They were scaled and reptilian like those in Eirenoch, but with large black eyes that contrasted strangely with their pale white skin.

When he came close enough, he stopped and dropped to one knee. The Druaga leader, calm and welcoming, stepped forward. If the Druaga were all connected telepathically as the ones on Eirenoch were, Farouk thought, then this group would know who he was, and possibly why he was here. He was correct.

Greetings, Farouk. Kronos welcomes you.

The body of Thorgil rested atop the funeral pyre that the Northmen had built. It was placed on a narrow, rocky ridge that was just large enough for Cannuck, Silka, and a few other Northmen to gather around. Below them, the remainder of the Northern army watched.

Cannuck, though not visibly grief stricken, felt the stinging loss of his eldest son on the inside. His heart was broken, and his mind was filled with memories of Thorgil’s childhood and his passage into manhood. Silka held her King’s hand to comfort him. She knew that he felt an indescribable sense of loss, and hoped her presence might offer him some comfort.

“He was a fine man, Jarl.” Silka offered. “And a brave warrior. He will be welcomed in Valhalla.”

Cannuck nodded his agreement, speaking softly. “He will,” he said. “Thorgil died as his fathers died; in battle, protecting his land and his people. I look upon him now with great pride. He was my son, and I am happy to see him enter the Halls of the Brave, where his soul will go on forever.”

He was silent then, grasping Silka’s hand tightly as he choked back the tears that threatened to burst forth. Silka looked up at him with sympathy, her eyes conveying her love for her King.

“I would be proud to have my son call you his mentor,” she said. “I would have it no other way.”

“I will teach him our ways as best I can,” Cannuck replied. “As his King, I will impart to him all of my knowledge of the blade. But you must teach him everything you know. He will be a great sage to our people; a teacher and mentor.”

“I offer my Jarl the honor of naming him.”

Cannuck turned to her, gazing into her blue eyes. “If that be the case,” he said. “Then he shall be called Tyr, after my grandfather.”

“He is Tyr, then.” Silka replied.

Cannuck turned to his comrades, who stood ready with a blazing torch. The Jarl took the torch and held it high, turning to face his warriors below.

“Behold the light of paradise!” he shouted. The warriors below held up their weapons. “With this light, I release my son from his earthly form, that his soul may enter Valhalla and join his fathers and brothers!”

The warriors growled their approval, pumping their weapons in the air. Cannuck continued.

“Prepare the gates, o keeper!” he shouted into the sky. “For your newest warrior is coming!”

The warriors released a furious growl, signaling the keeper of Valhalla’s gates that Thorgil was on his way. The sound was pleasing to the Jarl’s ears, as well as those of Silka. Thorgil was honored, and he would now take his place with Kruum and his host of warriors.

“Kronos!” Cannuck shouted, lowering the torch to set Thorgil’s pyre ablaze. The Jarl stepped back to rejoin Silka, handing the torch back to the warrior at his side.

“Come now,” He said. “We march south to whatever lies there. Our lands must be cleansed of this menace, and I will hunt them down to the very last. This war now begins for the Sons of Kronos.”

Though his body sat upon the ivory-colored, throne in Kronos’ ruined temple, Farouk’s consciousness awoke in a strange version of the same chamber. He sat upon a throne that was nearly identical to the one in the real world, but was made of granite. The entire chamber surrounding it was of the same material; a mirror image of the temple’s real chamber, but in dull, gray stone.

In the center of this chamber, however, was a large pit dug into the stone floor. Farouk stood, gathering his staff, and stepped down from the throne’s dais. He approached the pit, kicking the scraps of crumbled stone out of the way as he made his way to the edge.

Down the pit, he saw, was the figure of a large man in shackles that glowed with dark magic. He was asleep, or in some kind of trance, Farouk saw, as his eyes were closed and his face was expressionless.