A Dream of Mortals (Book #15 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (16 page)

They had barely finished killing it when another
Razif was charging down for them; this time, there was no time to react.

Darius and Raj rolled out of the way, but the Razif
lowered its horn and entangled it on their chain, and they both found themselves
flying through the air, each on one side of the Razif, dangling roughly as it
galloped through the arena, the crowd cheering. The Razif finally became
enraged and spun its head and threw them.

Darius went tumbling, head over heel, chained
to Raj, each tumble feeling as if it were breaking his ribs.

Finally, they gained their feet, just as the Razif
circled and charged for them again.

“Get closer!” Darius yelled to Raj.

They stood side by side, then at the last
second, they each jumped together, out of the way.

The Razif tore past them, as the crowd oohed
from the close call.

“FOLLOW!” Darius yelled.

Darius broke off into a sprint after it, and Raj
followed as Darius caught up to it, as it slowed and prepared to circle, and
leapt up onto its back. Raj quickly leapt onto it, too.

The crowd cheered as the Razif bucked wildly,
trying to get them off.

But Darius would not let go, and finally, he
commandeered it and as he grabbed its neck and dugs his bare heels into its
leather-like skin, he forced it to obey his will. He directed it toward the
other Razif, which was charging for the remaining three boys.

Darius’s Razif lowered its horn as it bore down
on the other Razif, and it gored it in its midsection. The crowd went wild as
it drove it down to the ground, killing it right before it could kill the other
boys.

The impact sent Darius and Raj flying off it,
falling to the ground, and as Darius rolled to his feet, he was suddenly met by
Drok, who kicked him in the face. Darius fell on his back, and Drok landed on
top, choking him, trying to kill them.

Darius kneed him between the legs, and as Drok
loosened his grasp, Darius swung around and elbowed him across the face,
knocking him off.

Darius watched as one of the other boys charged
for Drok, sword raised, wanting to give him what he deserved as he lowered his
sword for his back. But Drok, sensing it, turned at the last second and blocked
the sword with his chain. The boy was shocked as Drok wrested the sword from
his hands, then used it to kill him.

The crowd cheered. That left four of them.

The Razif, still alive, turned and bore down on
them, and Darius could not react in time. He saw its horn looming, about to
kill him.

As he braced himself for death, Raj lunged
forward and pushed Darius out of the way. He saved Darius, but found himself in
the beast’s path, and its horn cut through his flesh, giving him an awful wound
along his side, as he shrieked out in pain, covered in blood.

Darius, horrified, turned and pounced on the
back of the animal. It bucked wildly, as Darius raised his sword, and he could
not get it to steady. It set its sights on the fourth boy, and as he ran gored
it through the back.

The crowd cheered wildly.

Darius finally got a hold of his sword, and
brought it down with both hands, decapitating the Razif.

It dropped to its knees, blood pouring out,
dead, and Darius dropped to the ground beside it.

Darius knelt there as the crowd was whipped
into a frenzy and horns sounded. The Razifs were all dead. Only three of them
remained.

The match was over.

Darius knelt there, feeling a sweet sense of
victory, mixed with remorse. He had survived. Raj had survived.

But at what price?

The Lords of the Seven stood close together in
a circle in the dim stone chamber, lit only by the sole shaft of light pouring
down through the oculus in the ceiling, and faced each other silently, donning their
all-black robes and black hoods. Immortals, beings who had led the Empire
through century after century, who had been there all the way back at the Great
Forming, these seven men stood in the shadows, on the periphery of the
sunlight, silently staring into it, as they had for millennia.

For millennia, they had stood there and stared
into the light, seeing visions, watching the past, forming the future as it
swirled through the dust in the light, deciding on a course for the Empire. These
beings represented the four horns and two spikes of the Empire, and the seventh
was the deciding vote. They were the One Who Ruled All, the ones whom even the
Supreme Commanders had to defer to. They were the ones whose will was absolute,
and whom had never been defied. Ever.

Now, for the first time, as they stared into
the shaft of sunlight, the circular black granite table beneath it was not
empty—but instead, held the severed head of their messenger. They had sent him
to Volusia, and she had returned him lifeless.

They all stared at it solemnly, silently
concurring on a plan of action.

It was the seventh Lord who stepped forward, as
he often did, to speak on their behalf. He reached out, grabbed the hair matted
with blood, picked it up, and looked into its eyes. They were still open, and
stared back at him with a look of agony in death.

“This Volusia,” he began, his voice dark,
gravelly, “this young girl who thinks she’s a Goddess—she thinks she can defy
us. She has come to believe she can win.”

“We shall dispatch our forces from all corners
of the Empire,” interjected another, “and crush the capital. Within a
fortnight, she shall be deposed.”

The seventh Lord raised the head higher and
stared into its eyes, as though searching for an answer. The silence hung heavy
in the air.

“No,” he finally replied.

All the others turned to him.

“Don’t you see?” he said. “That is exactly what
she wants. She has weaved a trap. She has some power at her disposal, a dark
power, one I cannot discern. One I don’t quite trust. We shall not fall into it.”

“Then shall we just let her run free, run the
capital with disdain?” asked another, outraged.

The seventh waited a long time, then finally stepped
into the sunlight, revealing a too-pale face, startling blue eyes, a visage
marked by centuries of evil and deception. He looked out at the others and
grinned an evil grin.

“We shall give her what she does not expect,”
he added. “We shall make her suffer where it hurts her most.”

He breathed deep.

“Volusia,” he said.

The others all stared back, and he could feel
them thinking.

“We shall send our armies not to the capital,
but to her home city. It is defenseless now, left unguarded. She shall never
expect it. We shall destroy everything she’s ever known and loved. All of her
people. Every last one. It shall lure her out, irrationally, to war. And then
we shall meet her, then we shall make her know the power of the Seven.”

There came a long silence, and finally the
other six Lords stepped into the circle, each raising their fists.

They touched fists to the table, the sacred
symbol, and it was decreed.

Soon, Volusia would be a memory.

As the second sun fell, Gwendolyn entered the
royal feasting hall in the magnificent castle of the Ridge, passing through
great silver doors, held open for her by several attendants, and was
overwhelmed at the sight before her. Joined by Kendrick, Sandara, Steffen,
Arliss, Stara, Aberthol, Brandt, Atme, Illepra, and a half dozen Silver, with
Krohn at her heels—all that remained of the Ring, all who had survived the great
trek—Gwendolyn entered the hall and looked up, in awe at the soaring, tapered
ceilings, the walls in here lined with weapons, war trophies, suits of armor,
banners, and the mounted, stuffed heads of game. Beneath her feet was a
well-worn cobblestone, its floor spread out with hand-woven rugs, on which lay
lazy and well-fed dogs. Music hung in the air, and as Gwen looked out, she saw
bands of musicians, playing harps, interspersed amidst the feasting tables. The
feasting tables were all made of silver, save for the King’s which was made of
gold, large and round, right in the center of the room. Everything shone, and
it was like walking into a dream.

Equally impressive were the people, this hall
packed with hundreds of the royal court, dressed in the finest garb, draped
with the finest jewels Gwen had ever seen. The men wore the purple mantle of
the royal family, warriors each, all with the characteristic shaved heads and
long blond, stiff beards of this people. Some of the beards, Gwen noticed, were
braided, indicating perhaps a certain rank, while others were long and stiff. Logs
roared in the enormous marble fireplace, and several dogs lounged before them, contentedly
chewing away on bones. It was a room bursting with splendor and abundance, with
joy and prosperity, with music, liveliness—and most of all food. The delicious
smell of all the roasting meats and sauces made Gwen’s knees weak. She couldn’t
remember the last time she had a decent meal.

Gwen felt the hunger pains in her stomach, and
she knew she was ready for her first big meal—as all of her people were;
indeed, as she looked over, she saw her people looking out, transfixed by the
heaps of meats and cheeses and luxuries of every sort on every table, and practically
drooling at the bounty before them.

“My lady.”

Gwendolyn turned to see an attendant approach
in deference.

“If you would allow me to lead you to the King’s
table. He has reserved a spot for you and your men.”

Gwendolyn nodded and followed him across the
chamber, touched that the King would reserve spots for her. She knew it was a great
honor.

As they passed through the crowd, she could
feel the eyes of hundreds of people on her, all nodding back affably, smiling,
and all examining them as if they were objects of curiosity. Gwen suddenly felt
self-conscious about her clothes, fearing for a moment that she was still
wearing the same garb she’d had to cross the desert. Then she looked down and
remembered that she wore a luxurious outfit of black silks that the King’s
attendants had graciously left for her in her chamber.

As she neared the King’s table, Gwen looked out
and saw the King seated at the head, and beside him, his wife, the Queen,
seated perfectly erect and wearing a gracious smile, with her long blond hair
and green eyes, the very picture of beauty and royalty. She wore the most
beautiful necklace Gwen had ever seen, comprised of rubies, sapphires, and
diamonds, and on her head she wore a diamond-encrusted crown. She looked to be
the King’s age, perhaps in her forties.

She stood and faced Gwendolyn.

“My Queen,” she said to Gwendolyn, taking her
hand and kissing it as she was introduced.

“My Queen,” Gwendolyn responded, smiling. Then
she shook her head. “You are Queen here, my lady,” Gwendolyn added, “not I. It
is I who should be addressing you.”

The Queen smiled back.

“Once a queen, you are always a Queen,” she
replied graciously. “Everything you have has been stripped away from you. I
shall make sure that the honor and title of your rank is shall not be stripped
away too. All of our men have been instructed to address you by your rank—I
have seen to that.”

Gwen flushed, surprised, overcome by this woman’s
kindness, and she felt a rush of love for her. Even Gwendolyn’s own mother had
never been so kind to her, and Gwen could not help herself—she stepped forward
and embraced her.

The Queen at first seemed caught off guard,
especially as a surprised gasp spread through the room; but then she embraced
Gwen back, warmly.

The King reached out clasped both of Gwendolyn’s
hands warmly, then kissed both her cheeks, as was, Gwen assumed, their custom,
as he led her to her seat at the table, opposite the King. Kendrick was seated
to one side of her, Steffen on the other, and the others all around the table,
joining not only the King and Queen, but several others, all appearing to be
members of his family. Gwendolyn found herself seated in the most luxurious
soft-cushioned chair.

Gwen felt relieved that all of her people were
here—all except Argon, who was in the hands of the King’s healers, and the baby,
whom Illepra had given to the nurses for feeding. The Silver sat at their own
table close by, joining warriors who appeared to be the King’s elite, who all
welcomed them warmly. Clearly, they were eager to share battle stories.

“We can always speak,” the King boomed, as all
eyes turned to him, “but first, you must eat. After all you’ve been through,
let food come first. Talk can come later.”

The King nodded, and a moment later, trays of
foods and delicacies were placed before her by a flock of attendants. Gwen saw
the King and the others eating, and she could no longer restrain herself. She
reached down and popped the first delicacy into her mouth, a fig covered with
shredded coconut. She chewed, and as she did, she felt her entire body restored.

Unable to resist, she ate several more before
she finally held himself in check.

Gwen heard a whining, and she kicked herself
for forgetting Krohn; he sat at her feet, patiently, and she reached down and
gave him one. He swallowed it whole, licked his lips, and she gave him another.
Then another.

Gwendolyn ate and ate, as did the others,
eating thinly sliced steaks covered in delicious sauces, along with several
fruits and vegetables she had never seen before. She gave Krohn one bite for
every one she took. Course after course arrived, more than she’d ever seen,
even at a wedding feast, and Gwen was impressed by the endless bounties of this
place. The table, always, was filled with laughter, these people relaxed,
carefree, and quick to laugh.

When she could eat no more, Gwen looked up and was
relieved to see all of her people around the table equally content. Even Krohn,
beside her, was finally content, curled at her feet, sleeping. Finally, she
could lean back and relax, for the first time in she did not know how long. She
looked all around the chamber, at the craftsmanship of this castle, and she was
overwhelmed by the beauty of this place, by its order and sophistication. In
some ways, it was like being back in King’s Court—yet grander.

Gwen sat back, stuffed, and felt her energy
slowly being restored within her. She looked up to the King and Queen and felt
overwhelmed with gratitude. If it weren’t for them, she and all her people
would be starving to death in the desert right now.

“I cannot thank you enough,” Gwendolyn said
sincerely. “You have brought us back to life. May the Gods repay your kindness.
I, one day, somehow, shall find a way to repay you.”

The King smiled.

“You already have,” he said, in his deep,
booming voice, and the others quieted as he spoke. “You grace us with your
presence and allow us to practice the sacred law of hospitality. Not to
mention, you are our distant bloodline, after all. We share the same ancestors,
descend from the same line of kings and queens. There was a time when they all dined
together, here in the Ridge. Now that time for our people has come again. For
after all, even if separated by a great sea, we are one people.”

Gwendolyn had never thought of it that way, but
she knew it to be true as she examined their faces; she saw a resemblance in
their bone structure, a look to them that could have fit in perfectly with her
kin, her people. She could see something of herself in them, too, and she found
it remarkable to consider how she could look similar to someone so far away, on
the other side of the world. It was as if one big, great family had been split
in two all these years.

Now that she had eaten and could think clearly,
Gwendolyn slowly took in her environment; she looked around the table, noticed all
the others seated beside the King, and she was curious.

The King must have noticed her curiosity,
because he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Allow me to introduce you to my family,” the
King said. “Seated here with me are six of my children—four boys and two
girls—all, the pride of my life. Here to my right is my eldest son, Koldo, a
fine warrior and the leader of my Legions. He will be the one to inherit my
kingdom.”

Gwendolyn looked over and was surprised to see a
tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man, his skin dark black, perhaps in his late
twenties. He smiled graciously, revealed perfect, bright white teeth, and like
the others, he had a bald head, a scar running across it, and a short beard. He
had the poise of a warrior, and of a King’s firstborn son.

“My Queen,” he said, his voice deep and strong,
“a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Gwendolyn smiled and nodded back.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied.

Gwen was curious as to how the King’s firstborn
and heir could be of a different race—but she knew that now was not the time to
ask.

“Seated beside him,” the King continued, “are
my second-eldest sons, my twins, Ludvig and Mardig.”

Two men, perhaps in their early twenties,
looked back at her, and Gwen was at first surprised they were twins. They were
of the same height and general build, but otherwise, they did not resemble each
other. One, Ludvig, was more muscular, sat erect, and had the aura of a
warrior, and the bald head and a braided blond beard of their people. He had a
rugged look, with a large jaw and a plain, honest face. The other, Mardig, looked
similar, but was thinner, more slight, had no beard, and had a full head of
dark hair. His features were more refined, and unlike his brother, he had a
pretty-boy like face, and he stared back at her with dark eyes, in contrast to
his brother’s blue eyes, and Gwen detected some darkness in them. She wondered
why he, alone of all the others, did not shave his head, and she made a mental note
to ask later.

Beside him, clinging to him possessively and
glaring back at Gwendolyn, sat a woman about his age, with long black hair and
eyes, whom Gwen took, from her wedding ring, to be his wife.

Ludvig nodded back at her respectfully.

“My Queen,” he said, his voice strong and
respectful.

The other one, Mardig, did not nod back at all.

“You are not my Queen,” Mardig said, “so I
shall not address you that way. But welcome, stranger.”

“Mardig!” the Queen of the Ridge yelled at him,
her face darkening. She turned to Gwen, blushing, apologetic. “Forgive me, my
lady,” she said. “It seems not all of my boys have grown up as they should.”

Gwen wondered what was going on, but thought it
best to stay out of it.

“Do not worry, my Queen,” she said. “I am
comfortable to be addressed however anyone here wishes.”

The tension dissipated, and yet inwardly, Gwen
made a mental note to be careful of Mardig. She did not like what she sensed.

The King cleared his throat.

“Seated to my other side here you’ll find my
eldest daughter, Ruth. She is as fine a warrior as any of the others. Don’t be
fooled by her sex or appearance.”

Gwen looked over and saw a girl of perhaps eighteen,
tall, with broad shoulders, looking back at her with strength in her eyes, the
eyes of a warrior, a look she could recognize anywhere. Gwen was surprised to
see that she, too, wore a shaved head, and wore light chainmail armor. While
she was very pretty, her features were somewhat masculine, and if Gwen had not
been told she was a girl, she might not have guessed.

“Pleased to meet you, my Queen,” she said, her
voice deep and confident and strong, the voice of a warrior.

Gwen sensed the sincerity in her, a warrior’s
spirit, and she liked her instantly.

“The honor is mine,” Gwen responded, impressed.

“Beside her,” the King continued, “my youngest
daughter, Jasmine. Do not let her age fool you; she is wiser than us all. Her
scholarship outpaces even my Chief Scholar, so much so that in this year, only
her tenth, she has been named the official scholar of the King.”

Gwendolyn looked at the girl in surprise, and
saw a beautiful young girl with almond-shaped green eyes and strawberry-blonde
hair staring back at her, her eyes shining with intelligence. Gwen could sense
that there was something special about her.

“My Queen,” she said, a slight smile in her
eyes, “the history of the MacGil Queens is an interesting one. I should like to
share it with you sometime.”