Prince of Lies - James Lowder [136]
From atop a high tower, Gwydion watched the sun rise in an azure sky over the peaceful city ofSuzail. He hadn't slept well the night before, but such were the burdens of his title. In the streets below, merchants threw open their shops to the women and men out to buy their day's supplies. Soldiers, Purple Dragons from his old regiment, patrolled the crowded alleyways, though their presence wasn't really needed, not since Gwydion had become monarch of the rich and expansive kingdom. Children filled the parks and boulevards with their happy cries, their shouted games – until the shadow passed over the sun.
Dendar filled the sky, her dark scales turning the day to night. She rose, bloated with the world's nightmares, and swallowed the sun. The laughter and bustling cheer of the city turned to screams of terror. The cool spring breezes became the chill of eternal winter. Ice covered the harbor, splintering the ships like tinder. It spread over the land. Gwydion tried to shout a warning, but it was no use; the men and women and children were overcome, dark shapes trapped in the blanket of silver-white ice.
As the killing frost scaled the high tower walls, Gwydion heard Dendar laugh, her sibilant voice carried on the wind blowing over the dead world. "The last nightmare to feed me was yours…"
Gwydion trembled like a frightened child, but the phantasms could not loosen his grip upon Titanslayer. Horrible though they were, the terrors belonged to other men and women.
The Night Serpent writhed in pain as the magic from the enchanted blade seeped into her jaw. She howled again, vomiting up more nightmares. Visions of living dead men and knife-wielding lunatics, utter isolation and sweaty, crushing mobs swirled around the knight. But like their brethren, these silent phantasms failed to weaken Gwydion's resolve.
Finally Dendar drew forth a particular haunting, an unremembered nightmare that had plagued Gwydion often during his mortal life. Unlike the other visions, this one moved with purpose from its prison in the Serpent's gut. It slithered, base and familiar, straight toward the bight, and the other horrors parted for it like timid schoolchildren before a well-respected master.
The night-terror drove its grimy fingers into Gwydion's heart. And from the instant the haunt insinuated itself into his flesh, his life-grip on the sword began to slip.
The dirt road known as theGolden Waystretched out before and behind Gwydion. To either side of the trade road, the once-beautiful countryside lay burned and lifeless, the crops and villages trodden under by the hearty ponies of the Tuigan barbarians. Scavengers – both human and bestial – picked through the rubble, looking for some morsel of food to sustain them on the blasted plain.
A small party of the nomad horsemen clustered on a ridge up ahead, watching for the vanguard of King Azoun's ragged Army of theAlliance. Gwydion smiled and crouched lower in the gully. They hadn't seen him yet. Good. He'd be able to run back and warn the king before the army stumbled into an ambush.
As the young scout turned, he heard a shout. He glanced back to see the three Tuigans kick their mounts into a gallop. Short bows drawn, firing even as their horses flew over the uneven hillocks, the barbarians came.
Gwydion's heart began to flutter, almost in time with the thundering hoofbeats. Escape seemed unlikely, but then, everyone had bet against him in those races on the Promenade, when he outran the horses from Lord Harcourt's cavalry unit. You're Gwydion the Quick, he reminded himself. Now's your chance to prove it.
Gwydion sprang forward, but his legs had suddenly gone numb from the knees down. He fell onto his chest.
A few Tuigan arrows hit the ground around