Sons of Ironstorm - Book 4: Griffon's Stand

Consolidation

"I hope you didn't just stir up a vipers' nest with that little display of power, Lawrence," Will said with a frown as his friend let what was left of the demon collapse onto the floor, its dark essence sent howling to the Abyss.

But Lawrence ignored his friend's dry comment to swiftly step over to where Micheal was pressing himself against the bars of his small cage, a grubby hand reaching out through the iron columns.

"Well, hello, little brother," he husked as he knelt beside the cage, catching hold of his brother's hand with his own. There was not a little relief in his voice to find his youngest sibling relatively unharmed.

"I knew you'd come for me, Lawrence," Micheal piped, sounding exhausted and hungry and not a little cold. "I just knew it."

"Of course I did, lad." Lawrence's smile was bright as he squeezed Micheal's hand reassuringly. "I'm your older brother. I watch out for you." The smile disappeared. "I'm just sorry I couldn't come sooner."

"It's okay." Quick to dismiss inconvenience as most small children were, Micheal squeezed Lawrence's hand back. "You're here now. Can you get me out?"

A sketched rune and the bars holding the youngest Ironstorm crumpled into rusty dust with a flash of light. Then Micheal threw himself into Lawrence's arms, holding onto his older brother tightly as he shivered with both the cold and relief. Smoothly stepping forward himself, Stylles pulled off his cloak to tuck it around Micheal.

"There you go, young prince," the big general rumbled, then looked over at Lawrence. "We best be getting ourselves out of here, your Majesty. Mern's Suntroopers and tjor'riin still infest the palace. We need to get Micheal to safety."

"Can we take the shadow port back out?" Will stepped quickly to the chamber's door to crack the door and peer out. And he just as quickly closed it as quietly as possible. "We've got a good dozen white shirts out in the corridor, perhaps more. And they're looking suspicious." He reported over his shoulder.

"Most likely heard the commotion in here," Stylles indicated, taking a fresh grip on his massive northern broadsword. The big man looked ready to cut his way out of the Room of Lights.

Lawrence let out a loud snort as he eased Micheal to the ground and stood.

"Do you both forget who I now am?" he asked and the Tree's crystal globe began to glow with ever-intensifying light as he began to draw in more power from the fabric of the universe.

"I am the Wielder of the Tree!"

The rough-looking sergeant major glanced down at the squad he was commanding, their current assignment to guard the corridor leading to the Rector's Room of Lights, his personal study. To the man, they were unshaven and dirty, disheveled from long moons of combat against the more seasoned and skilled soldiers of General Kent's Central Army. How could they not be? After all, the lot of them were hired swords out of various Hammer Peninsula kingdoms, signing on for a decent wage to serve in the Rector's personal guard. They were never supposed to be an organized combat force, pitted against armies and generals.

Yet here they were for a mere 20 silver marks a moon, waging war against the cream of Talemon's Central Army. For every ten men that had originally signed on, only one remained, a level of casualty no army could withstand. Only constant reinforcement had kept them in the fight, as misguided and misbegotten as it was, the survivors pushed to the very brink to keep up with the grim soldiers they faced across the wall. No wonder these men looked tired. So it wasn't much of a surprise when the man standing closest to the study door abruptly fell over, brushing up against the wall before slowly sliding to the ground to lay unmoving.