The Restored King

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Garrick opened his eyes.

His head was pounding with a powerful headache and the front of his face felt swollen. He blinked a few times and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. Where am I? he wondered.

Hearing movement to the left, he turned his head to see an old man in robes. The man was standing beside a closed door that looked like it was made of gold, his arms crossed over his chest. His robes were white and trimmed in silver. Garrick squinted and thought the man was looking at him, but he wasn’t sure.

With great effort, he pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around the room. It was fairly large and had beds that were spaced evenly throughout. Garrick counted six in total, including his. The other beds were empty, their sheets pulled tightly in place and tucked under the edges. The walls appeared to be white marble striated with blue and black lines. Alternating triangular tiles of teal and blue created an interesting pattern on the floor.

Garrick reached up and began rubbing his temples with his index fingers, hoping it might help relieve his headache. It didn’t. The old man at the door hadn’t moved the entire time, though Garrick suspected the man was watching him like a hawk.

“Where am I?” Garrick finally asked. His voice sounded odd and nasally. Was his nose broken?

“The Temple of Zevea.” The old man’s response was so quiet, Garrick almost didn’t hear him.

“How … how did I get here?” he asked. Fear clenched his stomach. He tried to remember what might have happened, but it was a dark blur in the back of his mind. The old man didn’t answer. A few moments later, the door swung open and a familiar face greeted him. It was Kelvin. He was dressed like the old man in the same flowing robes.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Why am I here?” Garrick asked.

“I’ll explain on the way. Follow me.”

Garrick stood up on shaky legs. He hesitated, fearing his legs might give out on him. When they didn’t, he took a few steps. Satisfied, he walked out of the room and followed Kelvin. The man’s robes billowed around him as he walked at a brisk pace. Garrick kept up as best as he could. The hall they walked through was identical to the room he had just left. Every door they passed was gold and glinted in the strange light that came from spheres hanging at various intervals.

“How did we get here?” Garrick asked as they walked.

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“Well … it’s probably best that you don’t. I knocked you out.”

Garrick’s face scrunched in confusion. “Why?”

Kelvin cleared his throat. “I apologized before I did it, if that means anything to you. I didn’t mean to hit you as hard as I did, but I managed to break your nose.” They continued walking in silence before Kelvin spoke again. “There was an army of elves coming toward us. We had nowhere to go and you were ready to die fighting. I’m blessed by Zevea with a unique talent. I can … travel … far distances in mere moments.”

“What does that have to do with hitting me?”

“The power only works with one conscious person. It’s a blessing for those called to hunt down agents of Mordum. We can travel with someone, but they can’t be conscious.”

“Why not?” Garrick asked.

“It would kill them. We are not invincible with our armor, and I did not feel like dying. So, I took the only other option I could think of. And I brought us here.”

“Where is here, exactly?”

“The location of this temple is a closely guarded secret. I’m afraid I cannot tell you … my Lord.”

“I see.”

They stopped at the end of the hall in front of two tall golden doors. Garrick wondered if they were really made of gold. Kelvin easily pushed them open.

“Not real gold,” Garrick muttered to himself.

“It’s real gold,” Kelvin replied. “The gold is only a coating over the wood beneath. If they were full gold, I doubt I’d be able to budge them. Even with my armor.”

Garrick nodded in silent agreement and they stepped into the doorway. The room they entered was no differently designed than the hall or the previous room. Several robed priests stood guard along the walls that led toward a raised floor. In the center of the rise sat an unadorned throne. As they approached, Garrick could tell the chair was old. The wood was smooth from wear. It had a tall back and two armrests. It was lacquered and seemed to shine when the light hit it just right.

Sitting on the throne was a woman. As soon as Garrick noticed, his entire focus rested on her. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and he had seen many. Her hair was brown and spilled down over her shoulders, the ends reaching her waist. She sat straight with perfect posture, reminding Garrick of many of the nobles in his court.

Kelvin stopped right before the raised floor and bowed low. Not wanting to be rude, Garrick did the same. The faint smell of lavender reached his nose. His eyes met hers for long moments. Neither said anything. Garrick felt as though he could stare into her eyes forever and never grow weary of their green depths.

“King Garrick,” she finally greeted. “It is good to finally meet you face to face.”

“My Lady,” Garrick replied. “I would honor your name, but I do not know it.”

“You may call me Laracova,” she paused, “Prophet of Zevea.”

Garrick’s fear returned. Why would the rival Prophet of Mordum summon him? He glanced uneasily between Laracova and Kelvin. Nothing about their attitude or posture seemed hostile. Still, he had a bad feeling.

“How can I be of assistance to you?” he asked.

“Please, calm your emotions,” Laracova said. “I can sense your chaotic feelings and they are disturbing my calm. You have nothing to fear from me or anyone else here.”

Her tone did calm him somewhat. “My apologies,” he said. “I’m sure it is obvious whose mark I bear, though I do not follow his ways. I am curious to know why I am here.”

Laracova smiled at him disarmingly. “Kelvin did what he thought was the best course of action, given the situation. While I may disagree with him, the point is moot since you are already here within our walls. I did not ask him to bring you here,” she said. Leaning forward, she motioned him closer.

He took a few steps closer, but did not step onto the stairs that led up the platform.

“I want to be of service to you,” she said. “I know the peril your kingdom faces. The elves are a formidable enemy. I offer you the strength of our warrior priests.”

Garrick considered her words. “Why?” he finally asked.

“I have heard tale of your honor,” she answered, glancing briefly to Kelvin. “You care for your people as a good king should. I had my doubts about your intentions, especially when I learned you were one of Mordum’s servants.” She held up a hand to still his argument. “Yet Zevea has commanded me to assist you regarding this matter. While we may only see the outside of men, the gods see the inside.”

That truth resonated within him. “Indeed they do,” he said.

“Once the elves have been dealt with, my priests are to report to Oakhaven.”

“The capital of Oakvalor?” Garrick asked. “What’s in Oakhaven?”

Laracova stood from her throne and descended the steps. “Come, walk with me in the garden.”

She led the way out of the chamber, and Garrick fell into step beside her. Kelvin followed behind them, though he kept a respectful distance.

“What do you know of Mordum’s intent? Does that mark give you insight into his mind?”

“No,” Garrick said. “I have not received anything other than the armor and the blade.”

“A pity,” she said. “While the gods know the thoughts of men, they do not know the thoughts of gods. Zevea has told me that something is coming. Darkness. War.” The hall they walked through split to either side and she turned them to the right. A door, plain and unadorned, led them outside. Walking down a few flagstone steps, they entered the garden.

It was a large area built in terraces along the sloping face of a mountain. Garrick tried to guess their location by the landscape, but quickly gave up. The scenery was as foreign as the elves at his gates. Ornamental shrubs and ponds surrounded small tinkling fountains. Orchids and roses and trailing vines covered stone archways. Paths led between carefully carved hedges and into shady grottos. The garden, exceedingly beautiful, served several functional purposes as well. In the center of the top level, where they were standing, was a large ornamental pond. The aura of tranquility struck Garrick immediately. It was quiet except for the occasional chirping of a few multi-colored birds.

“This place is breathtaking,” Garrick said softly, fearing that his words might somehow impact the peace of the garden.

“Thank you,” Laracova said. “Its beauty is deceptive. This garden is a fortification. Tunnels run the length of each terrace, with grated openings in strategic locations. It allows us the advantage of being in all places at once.”

Garrick nodded, admiring the beauty of the garden as well as the hidden function of it. She must trust me, he thought. Why else would she share that secret?

She led them to the pond in the center. A few large coy fish swam lazily. A short pillar held a silver bowl atop it. Reaching into the bowl, Laracova grabbed a handful of bread crumbs and tossed them into pond. The fish fought each other for the pieces, disrupting the calm surface of the water.

“The pond reminds me of the world,” she said. “The surface is calm from the outside, but underneath there is turbulence. And every so often, that turbulence affects the surface. I think it is evident to all of us in faith, but the gods are at war. Mankind is about to be brought into the conflict, with or without our consent. Mordum seeks a mortal body to wage his war here among us.”

“I’ve heard the rumors,” Garrick acknowledged. “How much truth there is to them, I don’t know.”

“In every rumor, there is a seed of truth. Yet they are more than rumors, Lord Garrick. Even now, Mordum’s servants seek out the remains of his previous body. War is on the horizon. Where do you stand, I wonder?”

Garrick wondered that himself. He would do whatever he had to in order to protect his people. If Mordum’s plans included keeping Talvaard safe, then his lot was with the dark god. And if Mordum’s warpath were to consume his kingdom … Garrick paused the thought in his mind. Would he—could he—stand against Mordum? He bore the god’s mark, after all. And he has seen the Prophet take control of men with the mark, watched as men with no inhibitions killed and destroyed their own loved ones. He rubbed at the thin material that hid the mark.

“I will do what is right,” he finally answered.

Laracova stared at him with a piercing gaze. “I’m sure that you will. I have heard that you allied yourself with the prince of Oakvalor.”

“I have,” Garrick said. “His support was pivotal for my claim to the throne. As such, I am in debt to him.”

“Then you shall march to Oakhaven as well?”

Garrick looked at her, confused.

“One of Mordum’s servants currently sits on the throne in Oakhaven. From what my priests tell me, he has made it an all-important mission to bring Mordum into our plane of existence. He must be stopped. I hear that the prince you call your ally is on the path, ready to stand in the way of Mordum’s goals. He walks a dangerous road and there are few strong enough to offer him aide. So, I ask again. You shall march to Oakhaven?”

“I will do what I can to help,” Garrick answered evasively. “Right now, my sole concern is for the safety of my people. Once we drive the elves back, I can focus on helping others.”

“I understand,” Laracova said. “As I said, you have the support of my warriors. They are ready to travel when you are.”

“Thank you.” Garrick watched the fish cease their fighting. They resumed swimming, moving about the pond slowly.

Laracova gasped and clutched at her chest. Garrick reached for her as she collapsed, saving her from hitting her head on the ground.

“What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly.

Her face blanched in terror, then softened into sadness. “Something has happened,” she whispered.

“What? What is it?”

“Death, so much death.” Her eyes roamed back and forth, as though seeing something other than his face. Her eyes widened.

“Your people,” she gasped. “They are in danger!”

“No one loves a warrior until the enemy is at the gate.”

—Melchiades