Guardians of the Sword

GUARDIANS OF THE SWORD

Raiders of the Dawn Book II

by M. Benjamin Woodall

London’s Emo Kid Publishing

Marietta, GA

© 2017, M. Benjamin Woodall

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, without the written permission from its publisher or author.

The characters portrayed are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

CONTENTS

Prelude

Mysteries of Mist

Kingdom of Fools

A Close Call with Death

The Return of the Raiders

Legends

The Wild Hunt

The Scent of Evil

Flight into Darkness

Caught at the Core

Embracing the Hero

Lost in the Plains of Solitude

Arthur’s Keep

The Messenger of Fire

Return to Westmoor

Through the Maze of Courage

Dawn to a New Adventure

Prelude

In the shadows along the cold stone wall, around the corner from the secret chamber, I set the nock of arrow against string with my right hand. Holding the worn grip and yew wood arm of my bow tightly with my left, I listen…

Charmit! one of the winged beasts calls.

Later! growls the other.

Charmit, you only captured three?

What do you mean—only three?

Four were seen entering the cave. One, a Deforian from the Garden Realm.

Then what are you waiting for? the Gargoyle's voice burns. Find him!

I turn and creep almost to the edge of the stone corridor on my left, the blue light of day striking the wall on the right. Krevetat be with me. I will not again lie to Morgana to save your worthless hide.

What did you say, Horgog?! I gave you an order!

I located them. I estimated their actions. You did nothing. I should be of higher rank!

Charmit laughs. You are the fool! Stretching, flapping, like the wings of a bat. Rumbling, rustling, thumping against stone—lashing, thumping of meat against meat. One of the Gargoyles grunts fast of breath.

I step around the corner, aiming arrow at Horgog and Charmit, wrestling on the floor before the glistening stone of power on the pedestal. Tom falls back into a shaft of magical light, dropping the Royal Scepter. The Scepter rings out against stone. The light is gone… and so is Tom!

The Gargoyles rise, staring at the crystalline stone as its sparkling surface fades. They and the two other winged beasts before the tall window openings are too stunned to notice me. A breeze blows from the distant mountain peaks outside, up the mountain side and into the chamber. John and the king are backed against the near wall.

The stone of Rehnoch! Charmit charges.

John runs to the stone pedestal and swipes up the Royal Scepter. Charmit steps back, drawing his sword. In a courageous yelp, John swings the Scepter against the stone. The crystal surface shatters as if made of sand, bursting in a flash of flame and wind. The Gargoyles stumble. Charmit spreads his wings.

I fire an arrow. It bounces off Charmit's chest armor. Arrow from quiver, stretch against string, I fire at Horgog, hitting him in the shoulder as he turns. He drops.

The two Gargoyles before the windows draw swords. Arrow to bowstring, thwish. Arrow to bowstring, thwish. Both, I hit in the neck—both fall.

Charmit glares at me, frozen for one second, the beast's eyes impaling. He runs for a window, leaps, and flies off.

Horgog stands, limps. Arrow to bowstring, thwish. The Gargoyle swings his sword, knocking the arrow. John swipes the Scepter toward his head. Wing spreads into John, knocking him away. Arrow to bowstring. Horgog leaps toward the window over the fallen beasts. Thwish. The arrow clamors off the floor. Horgog escapes out the window, flying off.

The king walks to John's side as I go to one of the tall openings, watching the Gargoyles soar away into the distance toward the mountain peaks. John steps beside me, and I look up at his wearied countenance. He is scratched and bloodied between his neck and shoulder. The king walks between us. Why did you destroy the stone? he asks John. Now you're stranded on Angoll.

Maybe not, John answers, still looking off at the distant mountain peaks. The beasts are gone. Those guys sailed here from Earth. The Raiders of the Dawn. Maybe there's another way. He looks down at the king, faking a smile, and hands His Majesty the Royal Scepter. Here you go, buddy.

Sire, I inject, we must start off for the Garden Realm at once, before the Gargoyles return.

No way! John exclaims. No way I'm going back there.

Then you can leave on your own.

I'm not leaving John, the king insists. He has no place to go.

Except finding those other humans, John says.

Except that.

You must return, Sire, I plead. We need you. Angoll needs you.

What about that sword? the king suggests. The Sword, Kretna, used to defeat Morgana. He moves to the Rune-like letter etchings on the wall opposite the window openings. John and I follow. The king points to the hieroglyphic picture of a human with sword pointed at a dragon. Astoria said one of the Raiders was a hero who helped defeat Morgana. The king points to the Angollian nearby. I approach. This says a warrior with the Sword of Truth did.

That's right! John says. We have to find it. The Sword. Does it say where it is?

The king reads on. I do so also, and as soon as I see mention of the Swamps of Mist, I grievously turn. It's at the center of the Swamps of Mist! The king declares in shocking glee.

No, Sire— I start.

Great! John happily cries. Where we were going anyway!

Sire, after our return, you can send a scout party.

Jed, John says, you have no sense of adventure.

He's right, follows the king. You don't. We're going. And when the king says we're going, we're going.

I sigh.

Mysteries of Mist

At long last we come to the edge of the great swamp, the mountains looming on the horizon behind us. Below our feet grows the greenest grass on Angoll. The warm rays of the bright, summer sun shine on us through the blue sky above. But ten penses before us the ground is sodden with water and slime. A threatening cloud looms before us—like a wraith of Valoid, its smoky fingers reaching out from between the branches of seemingly dead trees to drag us away from the land of the living.

I shift the weight of the quiver about my tired shoulder. It must be Haughatha, maybe even Ludden's Day. Ludden's Day. By the Krevetat, the thought of it makes me smile. Ludden's Day, I say out loud. How I wish I were back in the Garden Realm. The sounds of the Gwiganet, the smell of fresh toad-berry pie on the flame... I sigh in pleasantness.

Do you think it's really Ludden's Day already? the king asks. We have been away for a long time.

Too long.

What's that? asks John, scratching his beard—a beard which has come into fullness in the last couple weeks. The thought of hair on the face unsettles me. A holiday?

The first day of harvest, replies the king. He removes his backpack and opens it to pull out a rolled parchment map. In Delcori it's not highly regarded, but down in Bardington they have a feast that sometimes lasts for days. He throws the backpack over his shoulders and opens the map.

Oh, man, I think I just heard my stomach growl.

Our supplies are dangerously low. We need to head south.

No, the king insists, turning up from his map. We go in.

Sire, the Raiders, the humans, were sighted south of the Swamps. It would be wise to seek them out first. We may be able to trade with them, before we look for the Sword.

On my map, there is a patch of fertile land maybe half a day's travel east, he says, rolling up the map and slipping it into his backpack, stretching almost to the center of the Swamps of Mist where the Sword is.

Sire, your maps have proven to be very unreliable.

He's got a point there, buddy, comments John.

Say what you want about my maps, snaps the king as he turns, but they got us safely to the Griffin's. And they're all we have!

They also led us into a bramble of buttersnatches, I add.

That was fun, says John.

Well, the king says we go in. So, we go! And without another glance, the king proudly walks forward toward the mists.

Tell me, John begins, turning down to me. "In all your stories, has anybody gone in there and come out again?"

I've heard of one. The bravest hero Deforia could find was sent by the king into the mists. And he returned the most cowardly heart in all of Angoll.

Oh, man. That sucks.

I watch ahead as the king steps over an exposed tree root in the muddy rushes and is engulfed in the haze. What are you waiting for?! he calls. Let's go!

They say it's haunted, I say.

Well, replies John. I guess it's now or never. He hurries ahead. I follow, and soon my feet trudge through the wet muck.

Hours we march, listless and barren of breath as the thick fog feels like water in my lungs. John and I walk nearly abreast, and the king leads from just a couple penses ahead, although even at that distance his form is not clear. My sweat trickles over my skin as a wet coat of arms. No breezes, no movement of air. In fact, no sounds are heard but the splashing of our feet underneath. The heat—is unbearable. Yet the king manages somehow to prance along in his unyielding, gleeful stride.

We climb over a cracked, hollowed-out root of a nearby swamp tree, brushing past its low hanging limbs, onto a bit of drier ground covered by moss. Sire! I call out. Sire!

What is it now? he says as he stops and turns.

We gather together. Do you even know what direction we're headed in?

East—I think.

I think we're going south, blurts John, after going around that lake a mile back.

Then why didn't you say something? I ask, getting a little frustrated but forcing myself to stay calm.

I don't know.

Then what do you recommend doing?

I think we should try to turn around and find our way out of this accursed Swamp, I say. Before it's too late.

I guess Jed's right, John adds.

The king sighs, his complexion fading.

We turn. A slimy form rises from the murky water beside us. I swing around to see a large frog-like creature, a wallowbit, splash forward in the mists behind John. I grab my last arrow, ready the bow. The king draws his sword. Watch out! he calls.

John jumps back, draws his own sword.

From the creature's mouth lashes out a long tongue like a vine. Its end grabs the king's sword from his hand. John's sword slices it in two. What's left of it snaps back into the creature's mouth. It wails.

I fire an arrow, hitting it in the eye. It falls back lifeless into the water.