Delver Magic II: Throne of Vengeance, Jeff Inlo [graded readers .TXT] 📗

Ruins - destroyed buildings, crumbled roads, crushed carts, and ransacked stores - this was the sight which welcomed Ryson upon his arrival at Connel. Smoke still plumed from burnt out homes. Rubble waited in every alley. Bridges spilled over the water in tattered shreds. For every building that stood unscathed, another three lay in devastation. What was left of this city was nothing like the Connel that Ryson remembered.

It had been over a season since he walked these streets. Once he made his commitment to Linda and to Burbon, Connel was no longer his home. Yet, he could not avoid the pain of seeing this destruction. Though he had left it, Connel still represented a part of his life. To see it in ruins was to see his memories crushed.

Ryson walked slowly through the debris. While disbelief weighed upon his shoulders, little else served as an obstacle. Most of the main streets were cleared. The shredded remains of broken stands and merchant carts were simply pushed aside, mixed with the waste of crumbled walls and store-fronts. This meager attempt of cleanup did little to diminish the picture of utter chaos. He walked like a mindless zombie, captivated and discouraged by this grievous spectacle.

He was not alone. Shock gripped the stragglers on the streets. He assumed them to be residents burned out of their homes. They walked in the same daze, staring vacantly, moving with no destination, many just walked past him without notice as if he was just another lamp post.

Soldiers also stalked the streets. They, however, moved in large groups, much larger than normal patrols. In walking a mere five blocks, he encountered three separate groups of heavily armed men. Some expressed fear, some anger, but they obviously did not see Ryson as a threat. They ignored the delver, treated him as just another homeless castaway.

One word burned in his mind, one word held the answer to all of this.

“Dwarves,” Ryson cursed.

Just as Burbon had been attacked so too was Connel, but obviously with a greater force. Ryson could only wonder as to how many dwarves comprised the assault. Obviously many. This much destruction could not have been carried out by a mere few dozen. Ryson was well aware of Connel’s armed strength. The city housed thousands of soldiers, and many delver scouts as well. For the dwarves to wreak this much havoc, they must have sent at least a thousand warriors. The fighting, the slaughter, it must have been beyond brutal.

Fighting these horrific images, Ryson moved onward. He sought the Church of Godson and the reader Matthew. This was the reason he came to Connel. He found himself walking faster and faster as panic crept over him. He worried over the well-being of the reader. He imagined the church destroyed, the reader mortally wounded in the rubble. He tried to cast away these apprehensions. He failed. Over and over, his imagination played out the worst possible scenarios.

Worse, he considered why Connel was attacked. Burbon and Connel, the elf camp, even the algors; these were the targets of the dwarf attacks. Why? The answer haunted him. He was considered an enemy to the dwarves, just like the elves and the algors. Yave would seek him out. She would order the attack of his home just as she ordered the attack of Lief and Holli’s camp. Burbon was his new home, Connel was his old. He had brought this upon these people. He had brought this devastation. The thought crashed upon him. Everything that happened here was because of him.

Though he found the strength to momentarily press aside his guilt, he cold not cast away his fear for the safety of the reader. If Yave ordered attacks upon those remotely connected to Tun’s death, then certainly Matthew was a potential target. It was at Connel’s Church of Godson where those who would assault Sanctum first met. Matthew, though he did not enter Sanctum, played a major role. He might indeed have been a target himself. Ryson was certain that if Yave had her way, the church would have been razed.

The thought brought even more despair. His fear pressed him faster, like a whip at his backside. He battled with it, fought for control. He did not race with the speed of a delver. Though Connel was now used to such a sight, he did not want to send the soldiers into a panic. He did, however, match the pace of a trotting human.

Passing near mindless wanderers and concerned soldiers, he ignored more than one question as to his hurry. The destruction he passed faded from his focus, his purpose fixed upon one sole destination.

When it finally came into view, he welcomed his own relief. From a distance, his eyes narrowed on the church’s outline. There was no sign of damage. He slowed slightly, but his desire to see his friend moved him beyond a slow walk. While maintaining the grace of a softly floating cloud, he dashed up the tall stone steps of the church and bounded through the front door. The momentary spell of relief disintegrated in an instant.

This was not the place Ryson remembered. It was not the place where algor, elf, dwarf, human and delver met to deal with Sanctum. It was not a Church of Godson. It was no longer a place of worship at all, but a hospital.

Instead of waiting seats for faithful followers, beds lined the expanse of the church’s open interior. The benches were removed. They rested haphazardly atop each other off to the side. Instead of a simple alter, the front of the room stood covered with blood soaked sheets. There was no joy of faith in this room, there was only suffering and slow agony.

Attendants moved about with empty hands and sorrowful expressions. The patients no longer called for them. The injured and dying knew there was nothing for them. Meager bandages barely covered their wounds and little else covered their frail bodies. The lucky ones were sheltered in old, dusty wool blankets. Others made do with old clothes for covers.

The sight of this horror was burden enough for the delver, but the sound was haunting. The silence overwhelmed him. A few soft moans or sick coughs broke it for a heart beat, but it would return like some unrelenting fog. It held more than despair, it held shock.

Ryson moved with heaviness, as if the silence was a weight upon his shoulders. He sought an attendant, someone he believed he recognized. He remembered her name as Rachael, a follower of this church. He hoped she would direct him to Matthew.

His stealth startled her. He apologized as he greeted her.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I just didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

She looked vacantly at him at first. She had been approached by so many relatives looking for lost family members. She was never able to give them the news they wanted. It had reached a point where she now recoiled from visitors. Then, a spark of recognition brought a beam of hope to her face.

“Ryson?”

The delver returned the smile and he nodded.

“Thank Godson.” She threw her arms around him.

Though surprised at the reaction, Ryson did not retreat from her. He returned her hug. “Are you alright?”

Rachael nearly laughed at the inane question. She released him and moved to an arm’s length. “Is anyone alright? I guess I’m better than most. I’m just so glad to see you.”

Ryson spoke a single word in the form of a question, simply to confirm his obvious suspicions. “Dwarves?”

Rachael’s expression went gray. She spoke as if recalling