The Crowned (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga, Book 6) (5 page)

“I am happy to see you as well, Borrik.”

“Master, I feared…” Borrik began.

“Yes, Borrik, I know. All that needs to be said for now is
that I was gone, and now I am back. But we should really discuss more important
matters.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Borrik responded, half growling the words.

“How was she taken, Borrik?”

“I don’t know, Master. I failed you.”

“Not yet you haven’t. She is alive.”

“Then we should go and rescue her,” Borrik replied quickly,
happy for redemption. “With your wings we could go to her and return very
quickly.”

“No, Borrik, I am forbidden to leave until this war is
finished. Ishanya bids me see this through before I can leave Valdadore. But
you…” Seth began.

“Simply command me, and I will see it done,” Borrik said,
his muscles flexing.

The look upon the wolf man’s face and body, with his tense
muscles, reminded Seth of a guard dog, awaiting the command to attack. It
really wasn’t that far from the truth.

“OK, Borrik, go rescue my wife. She has already passed West
gate and is being carried away very quickly to the west. I last felt her little
more than an hour ago. You know how much this means to me. Do whatever you
must.”

“As you wish,” the giant alpha wolf replied. Bending low
once more, he sprang into the air with one monstrous lunge. Flapping his taut
leather wings rapidly, he began circling up through the air currents until he
found a suitable avenue amongst the winds. Seth watched him go, knowing Borrik
would not return without Sara. So loyal was his creation that he would rather
die than fail his master. Seth wished he could go with him, and knew that
Borrik would come in handy in the days to come. He hoped the trip was a swift
one. Turning, Seth looked out across the wall seeking Jonas, the next wolf in
command. As the sun broke the horizon he spotted the one he sought and,
shouting for him to follow, Seth jumped off the wall, into the city. Spreading
his wings he glided slowly down to the streets below, where he waited for Jonas
to join him. It was time to make some plans, and of course more troops as well.

* * * * *

The first night passed without incident, and for that Zorbin
was happy. Scouts had indicated crossing several sets of peculiar tracks
including those of giants, dire wolf, and even some the dwarves did not
recognize, though they compared them to those belonging to large mountain
lions. As it was, nothing came of any of the tracks, and the Dwarven army
marched on into the morning, stopping briefly for food before resuming once
more.

Zorbin found it peculiar that he felt at home, here amongst
his kin, marching off to war. Yet he was homesick as well. He missed the city,
the castle, and his friend the king. His life was changing fast, but so too was
the world. Kingdoms were colliding, the blessed of the gods growing stronger
and stronger, and at the current rate who knew what Thurr would look like for
the next generation? His people were not adapted for such rapid change. Having
lived underground for as long as their histories were recorded, the dwarves and
their culture had not changed in centuries. They kept tabs on their neighbors,
and had the occasional oddity, like Zorbin, who brought back news of other
nations, but for the most part they were cut off from the world. Zorbin knew
that, in order to survive, the dwarves would need to adapt in the years to
come. Too much was changing to exclude them. He hoped that this show of support
to the kingdom of Valdadore would be the first step of many that would lead his
people into a new era of cooperation with the other races. An era that they
would not only survive, but thrive in.

Reaching up to scratch Xanth behind his ear, Zorbin looked
up to the sun to calculate the time. As his eyes scanned skyward he noted from
his higher position upon a mount, a large plume of smoke in the distance. Rising
into the sky, the dark column then was caught upon the wind and carried away
from the dwarves.

The possibilities flooded his mind as he turned to his
companion.

“Linaya,” he said, gaining her attention. “Do ye see that
smoke in the distance?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“Be there a town in that direction?” Zorbin asked, and
waited patiently as she thought.

“I think Smirole is off that way, but with nothing to get my
bearings, and my limited knowledge of the area, I have no way of being
certain.”

“That be enough for me, m’lady. Now if you’ll excuse me a
moment,” Zorbin said, before leaning forward in his saddle.

Without more than a thought Xanth leapt forward into a dead
run, carrying Zorbin as if he weighed nothing at all. Veering left, they moved
to circumvent the army before veering to the right again. Running parallel to
the army, they reached the front after several minutes and sought out the
familiar face of Gumbi, head war counselor to the newly crowned king of the
dwarves.

“Gumbi, my friend,” Zorbin began. “There is smoke off our
course to the north a bit, and a lot of it. Methinks a human town called
Smirole may be in danger. We need be alterin’ course and see if we can help. There
may be survivors if somethin’s gone amiss.”

“I’ll bring this consideration to the king’s ears,” Gumbi
replied, and strode off across the front line of the marching Dwarven ranks.

Zorbin watched him go. He watched the exchange between Gumbi
and the king. A moment later and the king nodded. Watching still, Zorbin witnessed
as Gumbi produced a small horn from a pouch upon his side and, raising it to
his lips, three short blasts followed by one long one pierced the air over the
thunderous pounding of Dwarven boots. With perfect precision the entire army
altered course in the span of one footstep, each singular soldier turning
slightly left of their current route. In a few short hours they would know the
truth of what was causing the smoke.

Pleased, Zorbin leaned in his saddle once again and Xanth
also altered his direction, and slowing they watched as the army marched past
before once again joining Linaya.

“Getting what you wanted?” Linaya asked in response to
Zorbin’s smile when he returned.

“Aye. It be hard to tell a fella no when he made you the
king,” he replied with a wink.

In the heavens, Gorandor growled at his brethren, his anger
apparent from his every motion. Though they all had felt the changes of late,
it was Gorandor who had called the meeting. It was he who had pieced together
what it was that was transpiring. It was he, the god of honor and valor, who
showed them the error in their ways.

“Time has been altered. The fate and destiny of Thurr has
been tangled,” he began, slamming one massive fist into his open hand. “We
cannot continue reacting to what is occurring in the world we made. We must
stop the change before it is beyond our power.”

“We done that once before, if ye remember,” replied Ximlin,
the Dwarven god who now appeared as one of his stout followers. “Ishanya
learned nothing from her punishment but
more
hate and
more
greed.”

Gorandor watched as the other ethereal heads nodded in
agreement, and resumed his pacing. It was true what Ximlin said, but if they
did not act soon, they would be too weak to retaliate.

“Then we try something new.”

“And what does the mighty Gorandor suggest?” asked Lorentia,
the goddess of nurturing and healing.

“What do we know about what she has changed and what she
plans?” Gorandor asked the gathering.

“She has created her own champion and made him an
abomination,” offered one of the many gods.

“She altered the tapestry of fate, opening us all up to
dangers,” added another.

“She seeks to gather followers from all the races,” added a
third. “Though I doubt the elves will follow, nor the dwarves if they still
recall her history.”

Gorandor listened to each of his kind. They all had a
different perspective, each having learned different traits from the peoples
they had once inhabited. They spoke of the winged beast the abomination had
created. They spoke of the abomination’s lover and wife. They fleshed out every
detail of the happenings upon Thurr that had any connection with the strand
that served as the abomination’s fate. And there were multitudes of connections
to discuss. They spoke of subtle influences and alterations they could make
that would not disrupt time and destiny, simply guide it.

In mere hours upon Thurr the gods managed years of careful
planning, coming to several logical and carefully constructed decisions.

“We shall see if we are right,” said Valenore, the druidic
god of creation. “I will intervene and see if it goes unnoticed. But I dare not
remove the blight the abomination planted within my followers. Ishanya would be
sure to notice.”

“Fair,” Gorandor agreed. “See to the plague, then. If we
cannot dismantle her plan without danger, then we shall make it impossible for
her to control.”

Nods again filled the gathering, and then all were gone. Gorandor
stared out across the tapestry that intertwined time, fate, and destiny, and
watched as tiny possibilities already began to weave themselves into threads
that created events. Just their decision to act was having a positive effect on
the outcome, though it was only a chance, and a miniscule one at that.

As possibilities were not a constant, the tapestry had
frayed endings. Looking across the expanse of time Gorandor saw infinite
possibilities, but paid special attention to three. Free will of their
creations made any of them a possible outcome, but these three were at present
the most likely to occur.

In the first and most likely occurrence, Ishanya was
victorious in her plan and eventually Gorandor and his brethren all succumbed
to her. Beyond that he could not see, as in that possibility he no longer
existed.

The next that troubled him was a possibility where Ishanya
was again defeated, and this time it was she who came to an end. Looking beyond
her demise, fate hinted that another of the gods would take her place as a
usurper to their equal and combined efforts.

The third and final possibility simply ended. Whether the
meaning was that Thurr itself came to an end, Gorandor could not be sure. All
he knew for certain was that the most common thread shared amongst all three
possibilities was the life of the abomination himself.

Looking then to Thurr, the world he helped create and bring
life to, he peered down through space and time at what he thought was his best
chance for survival. This thread was nearly lost to fate, having unraveled to
the point of breakage, but still Gorandor had faith that it could be restored. Even
now, nearly completely severed, Gorandor’s hope endured, and the god vowed not
to give up.

Curious once more, he then turned his attention to see how
Valonore fared in his intervention.

* * * * *

Sara sat with her eyes closed, her head tipped back against
the bars. Day had come long ago and the sun shone so brightly this day, off of
newly fallen snow, that it pained her eyes even through the crimson glass
panels in her helm. She still grew stronger by the second, but even now was
incapable of bending the thick steel bars.

The cart her cage inhabited moved ever westward, the driver
not even stopping to relieve himself. Had it not been for the sound of his
heart beating in his chest she would have sworn the man was dead on more than
one occasion. But no, the bastard lived.

The terrain had turned from hills to plains and back again
throughout the previous night and the morning. Now it felt as if they slowly
climbed upwards, the air carrying more chill with every hour. Sara, however,
was relieved to see that not far ahead they would be entering a forest. She
would much prefer the dark shadows over the sharp piercing pains she got
whenever she opened her eyes out in the open.

A quarter of an hour later the trail they followed turned
into the trees. Though many of the trees had lost their leaves, a good
percentage were pines and other evergreens that did wonders at blocking the
sun.

Sara was relieved when the constant pain vanished, and
changing her position she sat upon her knees to better get a lay of the land. Ahead,
just as before the forest, it was apparent that they were indeed climbing, and
the trail they followed was well worn by the recent passage of Sigrant’s army,
supplies, and war machines. A few miles ahead it appeared that the trail
turned, but other than that she could find nothing of interest to make note of.

The miles passed and just as Sara had believed, the driver
led the steeds and the cart around a sharp bend in the trail, and immediately
the scenery changed. Here the trail narrowed uncomfortably, the boughs of the
trees interlocking overhead to cut out the vast majority of the light. The
driver slowed the steeds as the cart began to buck and jump, as it bounced over
great roots that crossed the path.

Where moments before the path was clear and showed obvious
signs of Sigrant’s army’s recent passage, this portion of the trail looked
ancient and unused.

Rounding another bend, the trail narrowed once more, causing
branches and the trunks of trees to scrape the sides of the cart and bash and
clang off the bars of Sara’s cage. Hitting a root the entire cart bounced, and
Sara was thrown against the bars causing her armor to clank as she sucked in a
quick breath, having been caught off guard. The driver looked back at her and
smiled wickedly, amused by her uncomfortable ride. Another root and again the
cart bounced. This time her cage shifted slightly. Noting the change, Sara
moved to the front of the cage, hoping it would slide forward once again.

She waited only moments before they rode over a particularly
rough patch in the road. Her cage bounced and slid again towards the front of
the cart and Sara shoved her arm between the bars, her fingertips brushing the
driver’s cloak. Another bump and he was inches away again. Sara sighed in
defeat.