Path of Dragons Book 13: Chapter 70: Insolence

Book 13: Chapter 70: Insolence

A subtly sweet sll wafted through the thin slits in Obrahim’s helt, tainted only by the tallic scent of the corrosive sea behind him. He glanced up at the enormous monunt of stone, studying it with a curious eye. The thing was built to resemble a primitive arch, with every inch of the support pillars covered in carvings ant to depict writhing vines. When he looked at the dark stone, he could almost see them move.

The crowning lintel was decorated with a single, blazing glyph, though it was one Obrahim could not identify. Not surprising, given that his background lay in combat, rather than the study of runecraft. Still, as a demi-god, he could feel its power like a comforting cloud.

And it was only one of many. Nearby, he could see another, with a line of identical trilithons trailing off into the distance on either side.

He glanced at the other mbers of the Erald Guard as they crested the cliff’s summit. The distance between the edge of the edifice and that first, three-hundred-foot-tall monunt was barely more than thirty feet, and the aura it emitted didn’t dissipate until well past the drop. So, each soldier very nearly stumbled imdiately upon climbing to their feet.

So had Obrahim.

He’d spent most of his life in Ithalon, where the atmosphere was blessedly clear of corruption. However, he’d never before realized just how sterile the air truly was. Only now, when he breathed in the sweet sll of life, did he recognize the lack of so epheral quality he couldn’t define.

Turning his attention to the landscape, he saw that it was little different from what they’d left behind when they’d set sail across the Restless Sea. Just an endless expanse of rocky ground, with mountains looming in the distance.

However, here and there, small, scrubby bushes had erged. Even in the harsh wind whipping its way across the scoured terrain, the tiny plants held firm.

“Get up,” he growled to one of the nearby scouts, who’d taken a seat on a rock.

No. That was no rock. It was a piece of wood. A root.

The scout did as he was ordered, then asked, “What is going on? What is this place?”

“A trap of so sort,” Obrahim stated firmly. “Gather a squad and do your job. I want to know what’s coming before the Synod steps foot on this cursed ground.”

“It doesn’t feel cursed…”

Obrahim felt certain he hadn’t been ant to hear that last grumbled complaint, so, in the interest of maintaining morale, he ignored it. Instead, he kept his attention on the disembarking army as they filed forth from the ships.

The trip across the Restless Sea had been anything but pleasant, and it had taken far longer than he had been led to expect. Spending months in the hold as the ships climbed those mountainous waves, only to rapidly descend, over and over again, had truly taken every ounce of willpower he possessed. If he’d been capable of leaving, he would have.

Yet, there was nowhere to go.

They had been trapped, at the rcy of those sneering Sailors who were, for so reason, allowed to thumb their noses at their betters. Obrahim suppressed a shudder as he rembered the most deford among them. Only his rage managed to disperse his disgust.

But it was impotent.

The Sailors were protected by their agreent with the Synod. The Erald Tyrant himself had negotiated the deal, and no one in the army would go against him. Not if they wanted to keep their lives.

Obrahim was no different, so he swallowed his pride and pushed past his desire to turn his vengeance upon those horrible n and won.

As they disembarked, the soldiers were incredibly wobbly, which told Obrahim that they wouldn’t soon be on their way. They needed at least a day or two to readjust to solid land. With that in mind, he ordered camp to be struck.

The soldiers all set to the task with gratitude and efficiency, though there was enough sloppiness to elicit more than a few words of derision from Obrahim. In the end, it took nearly an hour to erect the tents.

As Obrahim looked across the camp, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of appreciation for the order laid out before him. The tents had been arrayed in neat lines, with the command structure standing at the center.

Of course, that layout was sullied by the presence of eight larger tents, each one gaudy in their differences. Those were the intended quarters of the mbers of the Synod. Each tent was at least thirty feet tall and large enough to house a hundred n. From experience, Obrahim knew that they held fine furniture and hosted enough anities to make any campaigning soldier gape in awe.

The tents themselves were decorated according to their owner’s tastes. Searathe’s tent was made of so silvery material that reflected the surroundings – fitting for a woman who went by the title of the Mirror Saint. By comparison, Vaedren’s tent looked sparse, with its pure white material that seed to fade into the background.

The Bloomless Sovereign’s quarters looked like it was made of woven leaves, while Tessarion’s and Orvelis’ tents looked like they were in a competition of gaudiness. Daelith’s tent was tall and black, looking like a silk tower that jutted more than a hundred feet into the sky.

anwhile, Lurien’s tent was blood red and surrounded by torches that filled the air with black smoke.

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And then there was Vhalor’s tent.

It looked like a castle made of pure erald, and if Obrahim hadn’t seen it erected over the past hour, he would have thought it a permanent installation.

Only when the camp was established did the Synod itself make an appearance. All eight mbers – minus the new Hollow Voice, who’d remained behind in Ithalon – held themselves with unerring – but earned -arrogance. They blazed with the power of demi-gods, and even if Obrahim felt confident that he could rival a few of them in sheer levels, he knew better than to think himself their equals.

They were as close to deities as Gorveth could support. They stood guard against the world’s ruin.

The mbers of the Synod spoke to no subordinates. Nor did they tarry before entering their tents. Still, the entire camp held its breath until they were out of sight. Once they were safely separated from the rank and file, the soldiers sprang back to life. A whisper of conversation soon beca the normal din that hung over any group of people. Fires sprang up, and n and won quietly celebrated their freedom from the ships’ holds that had been their prisons for months.

For his part, Obrahim stood watch. He needed no rest. He was stiff, but his iron-tier body could quickly recover from anything the world could throw at him. So it happened that he was the first person to see the approaching figure.

He narrowed his eyes.

“What is that?” he asked a nearby sentry.

Ethera swirled as the woman used so sort of ability, presumably one ant to enhance her vision. Then, she said, “It’s a man. He appears to be a beggar of so sort.”

Obrahim ordered, “Go inform the others. Now.”

One of the other guards raced across the camp, his armor clanking as he sprinted toward the command tent. In turn, they would get word to the Synod. anwhile, Obrahim readied himself for battle. After spending months aboard the ship with nothing to fight, he was a little rusty. However, he was in good condition. Any lingering wounds he’d picked up during the previous journey had long since healed.

He was ready.

He stepped forward to await the approaching man. Within a couple of minutes, the camp had co alive. Hundreds of soldiers sprang into motion, strapping armor on and gathering weapons. A few had already responded to the call.

The man’s gait didn’t change even as more soldiers arrived to stand before him. Instead, he seed entirely unhurried and completely uncaring for the force arrayed against him.

Even from miles away, Obrahim could see that sothing was different about him. He could feel it in every step the man took, in his unperturbed deanor. No man could approach the bulk of the Erald Guard without feeling an ounce of fear. But apparently, this man did.

What was even more disturbing was that he wore little more than rags. His clothes were simple, like what a peasant would wear. Wild hair and an untad beard. And he was entirely unard.

He wasn’t even wearing any shoes.

When he stopped a couple hundred yards away from the recently gathered line of soldiers, Obrahim couldn’t miss the glint of erald encircling his arms. Or the subtle glow of his eyes, visible even from so far away.

Suddenly, Obrahim sensed a presence at his back.

“You will co with ,” ca a mild voice as Obrahim felt a hand settle onto his shoulder.

Obrahim swallowed hard.

It wasn’t the first ti the Erald Tyrant had spoken to him, but it still hit him like a physical blow. He stood a little straighter. His jaw set itself a little firr. He needed to be his best.

“Yes, sir,” he barked, grateful that his voice hadn’t wavered.

Without further hesitation, Vhalor strode forward. Obrahim followed a step behind him. When they were just out of earshot of the line of soldiers, the Erald Tyrant stated, “We do not want a battle. The other mbers of the Synod are not prepared to fight. Do not provoke this man.”

Obrahim conveyed his agreent, but in the back of his mind, he wondered why Vhalor would be so cautious. It was just one man, after all. As odd as he was, there was no way that he could stand against soone like Vhalor.

But it was not up to Obrahim to question his commander. He was there to obey and to support – an aim he intended to accomplish to the best of his ability.

As they drew closer, more details about the man beca apparent. The green glint Obrahim had seen before turned out to be so sort of scale-like tattoos that circled the man’s exposed forearms and peeked free of the collar of his shirt. Similar patterns erged from the hem of his pants, which ended at mid-calf.

But Obrahim was far more focused on the man’s eyes.

They shone with a subtle light that drew his attention in a way that nothing else could. In those twin orbs was a level of power Obrahim could scarcely comprehend. Though, when he focused on them, they looked little different than normal eyes.

It left him feeling entirely disconcerted.

That feeling was further supported by the aura of power surrounding the man. It was obvious that he was a demi-god, and not a weak one, either.

For the first ti since he chose his class, Obrahim regretted not picking one with an inspection skill. He desperately wanted to know more about the figure.

Finally, they reached him.

For a mont, Vhalor stared at the man, who stared back in turn. And to Obrahim, it was like two bonfires warring for prominence.

“I realized sothing just now,” the man said, his voice pleasant and unconcerned.

“What is that?” asked Vhalor, his own tone conversational.

“You’re a pretender,” he stated. Then, he gestured toward Vhalor. Obrahim flinched, but no threat presented itself. “That whole get-up. Erald. Do you even know the significance of it? What it represents? I do, and I have to say, you fall very short of what it ans.”

Obrahim gritted his teeth.

Sohow, the man knew, and he turned his focus in Obrahim’s direction. “No need to respond. The Erald Tyrant can speak for himself. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“What do you an?” asked Vhalor, ignoring the previous statent directed at Obrahim. “What does Erald represent to you?”

“Nature. The World Tree. Life. Pick one. Or take all three and a few more. Either way, you fall well short of the ideals represented in that simple word. It’s not a gem. It’s not even about mind cultivation. And I think you know that.”

“Who are you?”

“Soone who earned the label.”

“What is your na? And why do you oppose us?”

“Oppose you? I’m just here for a little chat. This is my continent,” he said. “I don’t mind company. I really don’t. But sothing tells you’re here to make trouble. I won’t allow that. So, here’s the deal. Turn back and get on your boats and head back to Ithalon. In the anti, I’ll continue with my work to save your planet. You included.”

“How?”

“Not really here to answer questions.”

“We have an army. You are only one man.”

“Doesn’t seem fair, does it? But I think you’ll hold your own. For a while, at least.”

Vhalor’s face remained concealed behind his erald armor, and his body language gave no hints as to his reaction. But Obrahim knew the Erald Tyrant must be seething.

“You do not dictate to .”

The man shrugged. “Seems that I do. Whether or not you heed my warning is up to you, though. I’ll leave you to decide. But if you keep coming…well, let’s just say you won’t enjoy our next eting.”

With that, he turned away.

Vhalor just watched.

When the man was more than a hundred yards away, his imagine blurred. In less than a second, he beca a winged beast and took to the skies.

It was the sa one that had attacked Ithalon so many years ago. They had just t Ko’rien’s killer.