The Golden Wings

                   

The Golden Wings

The sharp blade of sword sliced through flesh and left trail of blood across the tiled floor and gray stone of wall.

“That’s the last of them.”

Arndenon jerked around to the voice, heaving from the excitement of the kill, the ambush by the yellow robed priests of Durmar. He stared at Shalena, the sorceress who came from the northern woods of Etian. A woman cold when she needed to be and loving when she wanted, trained in spell and sword, she gave up the comforts of palace life to be an adventurer for thrills and coin. He grinned at her, but frowned as movement took his gaze away.

“Then we need to move before the rest of the priests discover we are here,” Marharcon said, walked from the back of the room and stuck the blade of his long knife down into the throat of a priest lying on the floor. “And to make sure these wretches are dead so they cannot warn their brethren.”

Marharcon moved to the next priest and stabbed him as well. No one stopped the fighter, spoke against the cruelty of what he did or replicated the act to insure the dead were dead. They appeared to have little desire to challenge the fighter who stood hulking like a tree and with a long hair, black, mangy beard, appeared and fought like an animal from the depths of the underworld. He wielded a spiked club because liked the sound of wood crushing bone and flesh and carried the long knife only to finish off the men and beasts he left wounded and dying in his wake.

Well placed off to the side, near the wall and the entrance to the room, the twins Tereus and Thasus stood observant, more diligent to the priests the doorway could bring—after exchanging words that each were well to the other. They had grown from farmers on their father’s meager parcel of land, but leaned to be hunters on the grasslands of Perdia. They tracked the herds of wild Grizzlebacks, Veralins and hairy Orntworns that grazed and stampeded the land, and honed their bow skills by arrowing down horn beaked Passals, white winged Liggins and black banded Gargrits in the sky.

After their father died and their mother married a man that others said killed her when she was found dead, the twins left the village and their step-father dead with an arrow between the eyes and never returned.

To the right of the twins, the occultist Ealagis stood with a disapproving expression to her face. She came from the lower regions of Tharadin, a swamp infested land where outsiders visited to die—from the varied carnivores that would surprise and take the unsuspecting travelers into the murky waters as a meal. Young and beautiful with an elongated face, high cheek bones and black, blue streaked, braided hair down to her waist, Ealagis wore dark brown leather armor with a red, half-stripe down the left side of her pant leg. She fought with a long knife—and in her opposite arm, wore a band shield that kept her hand free to cast spells to her defense or harm to those she battled.

Ahead of the girl, the young man, Dyonasin, carried a metal tipped, straight staff as a weapon. A blond haired disciple, he had a few skills, a quick learner, but kept pace more as a hindrance in a fight. He wore the pale blue tunic of an apprentice priest from the Yorron Order. The youth seemed to be of good character, medium height, adequately fed, but naïve to the world and its ways—and to love as well. Dyonasin took an instant liking to Ealagis and in a bumbling sort of way, drew her attention enough to where she kissed him but no one knew whether she did so out of sympathy for him or just as a tease.

On the floor, among the dead priests, one of three who had died for a dream; lay Arxquinas, killed by a sword to his back. The thief used his enthusiasm, personable nature to lure the others into the quest for the treasure of coin and jewels he had not lived to see.

The last of the group, the person who started the adventure, Kurdren, the priest, of the same order as his disciple, Dyonasin, stood with his sword already put away and sniffing at the air like smelling for food that could not be seen. He spoke few words and prayed even less, kept a dark demeanor that matched the black robe he wore—and seemed incessant of reaching the temple to all other matters of life. The priest eyed the five openings into the room, beyond the one they entered through, faced one of the six walls, grunted; motioned with a hand that everyone saw as being for his disciple then moved to leave.

Taking his gaze from Shalena, Arndenon stabbed out with a hand, caught the priest by the arm and pulled him to a stop. “You said there would only be a handful of priests guarding the relic.”

Kurdren looked at the dead. “They appear to be a handful.”

“Tell that to the thief and the others who died. They might forgive your estimates of the priests who killed them.”

“This is a good time to consider the worth of this quest to their lives,” Shalena said, bitter. “Or ours.”

Kurdren looked over his shoulder. “The relic at the end of this temple is worth a world of lives,” he grinned. “And yours.”

Ealagis pointed with her long knife. “Does that include yours as well, priest?”

“For those who know of the relic’s power,” Kurdren answered. “It is worth more than my, any man or woman’s life.”

“Then we should leave the relic here,” Arndenon said. “It appears the priests have no hurry to use it.”

“Fool,” Kurdren whipped back. “The priests have yet to unlock the secrets of the relic. Once they have, they will release a devastation you could not even begin to imagine.”

“I am willing to take the chance the priests will not.”

“What of the treasure?” Kurdren pleaded, having turned to face the others. “If you leave now, you will never have the chance for it again.”

Arndenon tapped the priest on the leg with the flat of his sword blade. “I wonder if you are concerned more for us reaching the treasure or yours in acquiring the relic.”

The whack of wood against stone erupted into the chamber. “It does not matter about the treasure or even if there is one. What matters is the fight.” Marharcon grinned evilly. “And crushing the heads of the men and beasts we fight against.”

“Do we go on?” Thasus asked from the back of the room.

“We must,” Dyonasin answered. “It is the gods’ will,” eyes danced frantically around. “We are ordained to save the relic from the servants of evil.”

“Your student has learned well from you to say the words you speak, priest.”

“I spoke the words of truth from the beginning,” Kurdren said. “The boy speaks from his heart to what you all know must be done for the salvation of this world.”

“Your truth,” Arndenon drew the priest back. “Your words that are not enough to move us to our deaths.”

“I say we go on,” Marharcon pointed with his club. “We came to fight, so let us find someone to kill.”

“You will have your fight,” Kurdren spoke in warning. “Whether we go for the relic or back the way we came.”

“He makes sense,” Ealagis agreed. “Even though we do not like what he told us.”

Arndenon glanced over his shoulder, looked at the passageway the priest intended to travel then to where they came from. “That is what bothers me. There could be more priests waiting for us no matter what direction we go.”

“If we stay here,” Shalena dipped her hands towards the floor. “It is certain the priests will come again to find us.”

“Perhaps in greater numbers than before,” spoke Tereus.

“Do not fear,” Marharcon gestured at the dead. “If the priests come to fight, they will not be more than a handful for us to deal with.”

“You make a joke of this, warrior, and I do not have time to be made fun of.” Kurdren turned at the waste. “Dyonasin, to me.” He spun around. “We are going for the relic. If you wish to leave as cowards then do so with my blessing. But do not try to stop me or I will bring the wrath of the gods down upon your wretched soul,” he scowled. “All of your souls.”

By the last of the priest’s words, the disciple had reached Kurdren, who grimaced then walked away—towards and through the opening he had planned to exit the room before.

“Let him go,” Marharcon flicked a hand at the departing priest and disciple. “Better he should die than any of us. No one will miss him.”

“What of the relic?” Ealagis asked. “What if it is true?”

“Do we follow him?” Shalena pointed towards the way out. “Before they move out of sight?”

Arndenon had no answer to the questions, but heard no better responses from any of the others with him. Nearly unnoticed in the back of the room, Thasus nodded at Treseus and they moved forward with solemn expressions, glanced at the men and women they passed.

Treseus stopped, shrugged to no provocation. “We came for a treasure, so we might as well take it.” He walked away, followed Thasus out of the room.

Marharcon grinned, glanced around. “There will be more to die in this temple. Maybe the priests, maybe us…but I would not want to miss all the fun.”

Ealagis came next, after Marharcon left and smiled to her beauty—enchanting. “Someone has to look after the boy,” she nodded forward. “The fighter will get himself killed if I am not there to protect him.”

Arndenon pushed out a silent laugh, but knew no words would keep her from leaving. Nodding, he felled his gaze as the occultist left him. In a moment, another after that, he took his gaze at Shalena and gave her a half-smile. “It seems the others have decided our lives for us.”

The sorceress drew near, embraced out with a hand—squeezed affectionately. “We are warriors. What else can we do but fight?”

“We can keep the others alive,” answered Arndenon. Pulling free of Shalena’s hand, he turned and crossed the room to the doorway. Entering, continuing along the dim corridor, through an evanescent light just bright enough to see the walls, floor and ceiling—the steps that led down to another corridor. After a distance, he came to another chamber that had split off from several others.

The sparkle of light from the heaps of coins and jewels filled the air. The sight of the treasure was enchanting and oddly mesmerized by the wealth and glitter, Arndenon grinned haughtily, scooped up a handful of coins and jewels then marveled at their beauty. They appeared too good to be true and held him like a spell.

“The gods be praised,” Marharcon laughed. “I am the richest man in the world.”

“We are the richest brothers,” Thasus said, took Tereus’ hand in a clasp of victory. “And we will live as kings for the rest of our lives.”

The voices cascaded into Arndenon’s ears, and as Ealagis swooned over the servants she would have, the lavish gowns she would buy, he never heard the priest or disciple revel in the treasure they had found. Turning into the room, Arndenon eyed the two as they moved through the shadows—a darkness that faded with the brightening light lamps that seemed aware of their presence. The two holy men walked around a stone altar at the center of the room, the religious ornaments upon it, and continued towards a raised platform where they moved up its steps. As they climbed, an object appeared at the platform’s top—a pair of wings made of gold.

“Wait,” Arndenon yelled, dropped the coins and jewels and raised his sword to the pair. “What have you found?”

Kurdren grinned weakly through the light radiating from the small light globe at the base of the stand that held the golden wings aloft. “This is the relic I spoke of. They are the Wings of Sadrinal and will save the world from destruction.”

“Keep your hands free of those wings, priest,” Marharcon ordered, his attention drawn to Kurdren like Shalena, Ealagis, Thasus and Tereus by the flurry of words thrown into the air. “We do not want you doing anything you would live to regret.”

“Do?” Kurdren spoke with innocence. “I intended to do nothing with them…not without your permission.”

“That is why you went on without us,” Arndenon gestured.

“And without telling us, what you have found or what you would do with it,” Tereus added.

“There is nothing to tell,” Kurdren replied, pointed. “You have your treasure and I have found mine.”

“Wait,” Shalena broke into the discussion. “You said the Wings of Sadrinal. I remember hearing the wings allow a person wearing them to speak to the gods.”

“That does not sound all that powerful a relic to me,” Marharcon grunted.

“I heard the wings will let a person fly like a bird,” Thasus sailed his hand through the air. “There he could attack like a bird.”

“If those wings will make him a bird then I will be a fish to swim in the sea.”

Arndenon grinned to the fighter’s words then turned back to see how the priest had moved on the platform to stand in front of the wings—where they made him appear to be wearing them. “I told you not to move, priest.”

“You,” Kurdren pointed with a finger. “You no longer control me, warrior. The relic is mine and none of you will have it.”

“You will not have it,” Arndenon warned the priest. “Not as long as we are here.”

“You will not stop me.”

“We will,” Thasus raised an arrow strung bow at the priest.

Suddenly, the grinding thump of wood against stone pierced the air in ominous repetition.

“Look out!” Arndenon cried as hidden panels across the ceiling slid open and the Durmar priests dropped to the floor.

Thasus killed the first of the priests with an arrow to the heart.

“The door!” yelled Arndenon, blocked the sword strike from a Durmar priest then kicked him away.

A roar of voice from Marharcon filled the room and he swung his club and spun in a circle. The surge of weapon struck a priest who rushed forward, knocked him away, then as Marharcon came around, he swung down and crushed the head of another priest in his way. “Who’s next?” he cursed, a haughty smile to his face.

“Dalu Tanu,” Ealagis shouted, called her magic forth to a bluish-white ethereal beast on the inner side of the door. The hulking creature ripped at the priests who surged through the doorway, cutting those it reached like blades of grass with its claws. With the beast in place, Ealagis surged back to the fight with the other priests in the room.

“Geraphau,” Shalena yelled, cast a spell and sent choking vines at three onrushing priests. She caught one and felled him to the floor, but the other priests sounded with their own magic, forced fireballs ahead of them. “Look out,” she dove under the rocketing flames then surged forward at the men who came at her.

Near the wall, Arndenon slashed away a priest, cut the man open across the chest then carried his sword up to block a second man’s weapon at him—heaved them back. He spun from the down strike of a third priest’s mace then faced the second man who charged and struck with his sword. Arndenon ducked under the weapon and slashed a superficial wound to the priest’s back then turned and brought his blades of his swords up to the body of the third man he spun into.

Through rapid beats of heart, over the shoulder of the dead priest, Arndenon eyed the altar, Kurdren nearly having put the golden wings on—the disciple helping him complete the task. With the word of triumphant, the Yorron priest cinched the straps of the wings tight and a brilliant spark of light burst into the room.

Opening his eyes, dazed with pockets of pain to his body, Arndenon found himself on his back, his friends and their enemy all on the floor. He remembered how the blast of light had thrown him from his feet. Pushing the dead Durmar priest from atop his body, Arndenon took his swords ad slowly rose to his feet, staggered over to the sorceress. “You are alive?”

“I am,” Marharcon rubbed the back of his head. “Who did this?”

“I did,” Kurdren spoke, in a triumphant voice. “Me and no other.”

Helping Shalena up, seeing Marharcon move to his feet, the twins helping one another to stance, Ealagis risen to a knee, her magical beast gone, and the disorientated Durmar priests stirring but in appearance of the fight gone from their blood, Arndenon turned back to the altar.

“You,” Kurdern laughed. “You think these wings are for decoration, would allow me to speak to the gods or even fly through the air like a bird? Fools,” he cursed. “These wings will take me to the heavens where I will become a god.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Arndenon called, glanced away to see Marharcon, Ealagis, Shalena, Thasus, Tereus on foot, with their weapons readied. Even the Durmar priests held attention towards the platform. Seeming forgotten of all others in the room, Dyonasin acted uncertain what to do. “Your story of the wings is only a legend. They will not take you anywhere.”

The Yorron priest smiled, upturned his hands and tilted his head to look up in a posture of piety. Like some vision of a miracle, the ceiling above the platform faded in a white light and the priest rose into the air.

“By the gods,” Marharcon muttered. “The wretch spoke the truth.”

The priest rose higher then stopped as his gaze came down. “Now, witness my triumph and glory.”

“No,” Dyonasin yelled, scurried to his feet. “You cannot go. You said the wings would bring peace to the world. You would end the hunger of my people.”

“You have mistaken, boy. He lied to us to have the wings for himself.”

“And he used us to be a god to his own glory.” Marharcon finished.

“No,” Dyonasin yelled again. He suddenly pulled out a hidden dagger, stabbed its blade into the thigh of the priest’s left leg.

“Wretch,” Kurdren screamed, grabbed the boy with his hands and jerked him up from the floor. “You will pay for your lack of faith.”

The priest opened his mouth and caused a purplish light to flow from the boy to him. Dyonasin went pale, shrank in size as the essence of life drained from his body.

Arndenon flailed with anger at the sight—the life of an innocent being taken. “Kurdren,” he yelled, ripped a knife from his belt and hurled it at the priest.

The knife soared across the room, nearly reached the priest when he snatched it from the air. Kurdren flung the knife away just as Thasus raised his bow and fired an arrow from it. Tereus launched an arrow as quick that zipped through the air, but the priest dropped the disciple and caught both projectiles then snapped them in two with his hands.

“Crepaur Taul,” Ealagis yelled, swept her hands over her head. A huge, ethereal swamp worm erupted from the floor in front of the priest, struck out with its claws.

The priest jabbed with the flat of his hands that flared with yellow light and evaporated the worm out of existence, sucked its magic into his body.

“What the….” Arndenon muttered, as the creature vanished in an instant.

The priest showed the same disbelief to what happened, as the others in the room had. With his hands still the glow of yellow, the priest brought them up to view as the disciple lay crumpled on the steps before him.

“The power is within me,” Kurdren announced, raised his hands over his head. “I do not need to go to the gods. I am a god.”

“Chokee,” One of the Durmar priests shouted then surged towards the platform with others following him.

Seizing the moment, Arndenon threw himself into a run with the fighter behind him, as the twins fired more arrows, Shalena and Ealagis called their magic.

“Hold!”

Instantly, Arndenon froze to a stop by a spell he could not resist or overcome. Around the room, his friends, the Durmar priests had succumbed to the same magic and could not move.

“You thought to destroy me,” Kurdren cursed. “But now, I will destroy you.”

Through the priest’s words, the wings he wore changed from the color of gold to red in a wave of light. The whitish glow faded from the ceiling and the platform, the floor around the structure blazed in red, brightened in the shade of blood.

Kurdren drew back his hands. “What is happening?”

“I am free,” Marharcon cursed.

The words tore into Arndenon’s ears and in the instant of realization, the thought of the boy, he surged towards the altar. “Get out,” he waved at his friends to flee, but continued to the platform, threw himself at Dyonasin and caught the boy as the platform and the floor beneath it disappeared.

A gasp of pain came from Arndenon when the boy jerked to a stop from falling. On the edge of the hole, lying on the floor with his arms stretched downward, he kept hold of Dyonasin, strained to keep the boy aloft.

“No, I am to be a god.”

Arndenon looked up to the words and as he did, in a flash of reddish light, Kurdren was hurled into the hole was gone from sight. “Dyonasin,” he called to the boy, tried to wake him. “You have to help me save you.”

“The underworld,” muttered Marharcon. “To all the wretched souls….”

“Quit looking and help me,” Arndenon shouted, having looked to find the fighter beside him, gazing into the hole.

“Quick,” Shalena pointed. “A soul-sucker is rising for the boy and us. Pael-larek,” She cast her magic into the hole.

The soul-sucker passed through the magic like it never existed, continued upward.

“Look,” Marharcon gasped as the spirit drew closer. “It’s the priest. He’s become a creature of the deep.”

“Help me,” Arndenon cursed, then pulled on the boy, jerked him, himself out of the hole after the fighter took hold of Dyonasin and yanked him upward like a leaf from the ground.

Collapsed to the floor, barely an instant after having brought the boy into the room, Arndenon felt the disciple pulled off of him as the voices of the others filled his ears.

“Put him down here.”

“Cee-shat meeladar….”

“Therna dip au-u….”

Arndenon got up, found the fighter, sorceress, occultist clustered around the boy, the twins standing not far behind them and the floor and platform returned—the reddish glow of light dissipated into nothingness. “Can you save him?”

“He cannot be saved,” answered Shalena.

Arndenon whipped around to the Durmar priests who watched with seeming indifference to what had happened. “You can save him.”

“It is not our concern,” one of the priests answered.

“The wings have returned.”

The call of voice from Tereus took Arndenon back to the platform. The golden wings were atop it as if never having been away.

“The boy is nearly gone,” Marharcon said. “Only the gods can help him now.”

“That’s it,” gasped Arndenon, went down to the boy and picked him up. Then through the voices of the others calling out their concerns of that he intended to do, Arndenon carried the disciple to the top of the platform. “Marharcon, get up here.”

“What for?” the fighter moved up the steps.

“Hold him.” Arndenon shoved the boy into the fighter’s grasp, but did not release Dyonasin—forced them both over to the wings. “Keep him there while I strap him in.”

“What are you doing?” Ealagis raced halfway up the stairs—stopped.

“I am trying to save him,” Arndenon tightened a strap around the boy to hold the wings to him.

“You could kill him. You saw what happened to Kurdren.”

Fastening the last strap, Arndenon pulled back from the boy, took hold of the fighter’s arm, gave him a tug and nodded for Marharcon to follow. He faced the occultist. “If we do nothing, the boy is dead.”

“It is hope or desperation that justifies what you do?” Thasus asked.

“My hope is that the wings take him to the gods who will save him.”

“If they do not?” asked Shalena.

“The boy will be no worse off than he is now.”

“I think we should try,” Marharcon grinned.

“It is not your life you play with,” Ealagis objected.

“Look,” Tereus called, pointed.

Above, a whitish light formed on the ceiling like it had before. Marveling at the radiance, the hole that opened to the heavens, Arndenon stared, was taken by another light. The wings brightened in golden color just before they and the disciple flashed upward in a rush of light. In an instant, the hole closed, the whitish light disappeared, and through the semi-darkness, the golden wings returned to their stand.

“Where is the boy?” Thasus demanded.

“With the gods,” answered Arndenon, gestured upward.

“The boy is better there than here,” Marharcon said, pointed. “Or down below us.”

“Dyonasin could be nowhere better than here with us,” Ealagis spoke, glared.

“What do we do now?”

“We can leave,” Arndenon answered Tereus, looked at Shalena. He gestured then turned for the stairs, but went no further to the sight of the Durmar priests. They stood with their weapons readied for a fight.

“They will not harm you.”

Whipping around with an absent gasp of voice, Arndenon stared, couldn’t believe his eyes to the white being before him. “Dyonasin? It is you?”

The ethereal spirit smiled. “You saved me.”

Not knowing how to respond, wondering if he had really helped the boy, Arndenon offered a slight gesture of hand and shook his head in objection.

The spirit extended his hand, smiled like before. “This is the Knife of Devotion. It will always be at your side to protect you.”

Humbled by the gift he felt undeserved, Arndenon thought to refuse the offering, yet his hand went out and took the weapon—drew it back from Dyonasin’s grasp. The knife felt as light as a feather, was intricately carved and as white as the spirit—and was his that he threw at the priest in the effort to free the boy from Kurdren.

“We helped,” Marharcon confessed. “We did.”

“The treasure is there to take for your courage here.” Dyonasin pointed. “Take all you can carry and go.”

Marharcon raised his hand in question. “To what good if the priests keep us from taking it?”

“Then we will meet again.”

“Wait,” Arndenon reached to stop the spirit, but greeted a burst of light that dazed and blinded him.

A gasp of voice tore Arndenon’s eyes open to what seemed only a fraction of time, to find himself, the others and their horses in a grassy clearing near a lake and bounded by trees.

“What happened?” Marharcon rubbed his head.

“Where are we?” Thasus asked, sat up.

“We are at our old campsite,” Tereus answered. “The temple is two days ride from here.”

“How did we get here?” Shalena asked.

“The boy must have put us here,” answered Ealagis.

“Dyonasin did not possess any magic,” Shalena objected.

“Unless he is a god now,” Tereus shrugged, grinned.

“It does not matter how we got here, only that we are,” Thasus spoke. “Besides, there is the treasure that is ours for the taking.”

With the others, Arndenon saw the pile of coins and gems that could only have come from the temple.

“Praise the boy,” Marharcon gloated. “He has sent us away with the priests’ treasure.”

“It is not their entire treasure,” Arndenon corrected him. “But it is enough for us to carry.”

“It is good enough for me,” Marharcon smiled. “Come on,” dropping his club, he moved to the treasure, quickly followed by the twins and the occultists.

Through the excitement of the others over the coins and jewels, being taken from the temple with their lives, Arndenon thought of Dyonasin, gazed at the knife the boy gave him, still disbelieving he deserved it. And he wondered what the boy meant when he said they would meet again.

“You okay?”

Arndenon lowered the knife, smiled at the sorceress. “I just thought how fortunate we were to get out to the temple alive.”

Shalena extended her hand in comforting touch. “You need not worry. Dyonasin will be well with the gods.”

“I know,” Arndenon shook his head. “Come on, we have a treasure to gather.” With a smile, he led the sorceress towards the treasure, knowing that for the moment, the gems and coins, the company of his friends were enough to appease him until the next quest came to take him.