The Sword and the Sorcerer (3 page)

Xusia’s hooded slits shifted from the two men to the witch.

Discerning the spite and fury on the sorcerer’s face, Ban-Urlu began to tremble.

“Of thee,” Xusia hissed, “I have no further need!”

“Aaaahhh!” she screamed, realizing she was about to be sacrificed to entertain the cruel king and debauched general. “Please, master, no! You are my dark lord—my god! It was my incantation and magic that made life’s juices again flow in—Aaaahhh!”

Her frail body jerked and lifted several feet off the floor, dropping on the ground like a sack of flour.

Cromwell and Malcolm backed against the wall to watch Xusia’s grotesque display of wizardry in action.

The sorcerer raised his bloody, taloned hand toward the witch and opened his palm, as if to release an unseen missile into her body, galvanizing her off the floor to her feet again. Excruciating cries of pain flew from her as she twisted, writhed, and tossed about the tomb in a paroxysm of agony. Cromwell and Malcolm nearly retched before the sight of the green bile and smelly urine erupting from her mouth.

Throughout the witch’s agony Xusia rocked in the casket with demonic laughter. Now the sorcerer raised both arms and aimed them at Ban-Urlu. Whatever kind of malevolent force shot out from those thin, scaled arms hit their target, for the witch clutched her titless chest and the cracking of bones and ripping of flesh resounded throughout the chamber.

Their strong backs still pressing against the walls, with grim fascination the two warriors watched Ban-Urlu’s still beating heart tear from her mashed and shredded chest and fly through the air into Xusia’s outstretched hand—still pumping and squirting blood.

Cackling madly, the sorcerer stared at the dead witch’s heart and petted it, as if it were a prize bird he had caught.

Sick to death of Xusia’s gloating demonstration of power, Cromwell rushed to the casket and, before the sorcerer realized what was happening, the King pressed the edge of his gleaming sword along Xusia’s throat. “Enough of this nonsense!” Cromwell bellowed. “You’ve made your point!”

Xusia dropped the heart beside the gory body of the hag and grinned at Cromwell, pretending he was oblivious to the blade at his throat. “As you can see, my art is powerful!”

“Do we then even need my army?” Cromwell baited him.

“Even sorcery hath need of swords and the warriors to wield them.”

“Then you will do as I ask?”

Xusia nodded.

Cromwell withdrew his sword and inserted it back into its sheath at his side. “I will let you live, sorcerer, so long as you serve me well. But betray me,” the King warned, his brow knitting with menace, “and I will joyfully send your spirit back to rot for another thousand years!”

Xusia’s face lit with a demonic radiance. “Thou shall have thy kingdom and I, too, shall have what should be mine.”

Cromwell stood back to watch Xusia slither rather than climb out of the casket, gore oozing in rivulets down the sorcerer’s emaciated, malformed frame.

Had he made an irreparable and terrible mistake in resurrecting Xusia? Or did the event mark an alliance that would carry him to the kingship of Eh-Dan—and tomorrow the world?

TWO

t was a sea-moist, bright spring morning and Elysium, the capital of Eh-Dan, shimmered with radiant light as if encapsuled in a giant glass bubble.

Built around a natural half-moon bay, for many centuries this bustling and prosperous city had been the cultural and commercial center of the ancient world. Because of the medley of nations that sent precious wares for trade to Elysium—sensuous houris from Persia, salt and wines from decadent Rome, silver and diamonds from Zimbambee, myrrh and spices from Egypt—the city was a melting-pot of races and influences from East and West.

Elysium was a veritable treasure chest of riches, a prize that many foreign kingdoms had tried in vain to wrest from its benign but invincible monarch—King Richard, who ruled over his contented subjects from a castle on the highest summit overlooking Elysium and the azure sea beyond.

The castle was made of rough-hewn gray stone and was surrounded by beautiful gardens, with a maze of paths, islands of riotously bright flowers, gleaming pools, and magnificent statuary. The labyrinthine interior had as many resplendent chambers as it did hidden tunnels and dungeons known to the king and a precious few alone.

On this particular late morning, the entire city was astir with the spirit of celebration. For it was the much beloved king’s sixtieth birthday. A colorful pageant of events was planned: puppet shows, tumblers, jesters, singers, actors, tournaments and jousts of sundry sorts. In appreciation of this radiant outpouring of love from his people, Richard had ordered his emissaries to bestow upon every man, woman, and child of his kingdom a gold coin.

A special celebration feast for the lords and ladies of the King’s court awaited Richard’s arrival in the main banquet room just outside the garden.

But while the festivities were already in full swing throughout Eh-Dan and the castle, a less than celebrant King Richard stood on the garden terrace waiting for his lovely queen to join him.

On the surface Richard pondered the majesty of the capital stretched out below him, glittering in the sunlight like a cache of jewels. But inwardly he brooded, sorely disturbed by the recurrent nightmares he had been having before his soothsayer’s death. That was a week ago. The dreams were all filled with terrible portents involving sorcery, betrayal, and the dismemberment of his loved ones. Amilius had been on the verge of deciphering the nightmares when he suddenly died, the victim of a mysterious disease.

Richard’s dark musings were interrupted by the appearance of two of his children, five-year-old Natalia and Talon, his precociously serious and warlike fourteen-year-old son. Richard wiped the worry off his face and held outstretched arms to both children. But gay Natalia ran into them first and he lifted his saucy and only daughter high over his head, kissing her on the way up.

“We’re all waiting, Papa! Your birthday feast is ready!”

“I’ll be along shortly, my treasure! Why don’t you and Talon go first and make sure everything is properly ready.”

Natalia smacked her lips with anticipation. “Does that mean I get to taste the cake—to see if it’s good enough for you to eat?”

Richard chuckled, for a while forgetting about the nightmares and rumors of Cromwell amassing another army against him.

“Of course, my angel! You’re my royal taster!”

He lowered Natalia to her feet and she instantly sprinted from the terrace in the direction of the feast, her mind filled with visions of the enormous white cake she had seen earlier.

When he turned to Talon and saw the frown on his already manly face a pang shot through his heart. The boy’s gloomy disposition of late made Richard wonder if Talon had somehow discovered, perhaps through court gossip, that he was not the legitimate son of the king and queen but was, in reality, the bastard offspring of a night Richard had had with a harem wench—a beautiful and intelligent damsel but a lascivious wench nevertheless. And was the stain on Talon’s birth the reason why he had always favored the boy over his older son, Duncan?

Richard kissed Talon on the cheek and sadly studied Talon’s brown cloak, brown cowl, and brown puffed-sleeved tunic. “You dress too somberly for one so young, my boy. And why that dark cloud on your comely brow?”

Talon accepted his fathers mild reproof unflinchingly. “Why is it, Father, that Duncan will get to go on your expedition and not I?”

Richard was somewhat relieved. Behind the frown was the boy’s frustrated eagerness for battle, not what he had thought.

“Next year it will be your turn. Your older brother is all I can handle this time.” The truth was he didn’t want Talon’s superior swordsmanship to outshine his older brother’s just yet.

Talon shrugged his shoulders and shuffled inside, stopping in his tracks about ten feet away. Without turning around Talon defiantly asserted over his shoulders, “I can whip Duncan blindfolded.”

“I know, son. Unfortunately—so does he.”

Talon nodded and dejectedly left his father standing outside the chamber on the expansive terrace.

With his strong-willed son gone, Richard returned to dissecting his nightmares, searching for meanings behind the cryptic symbols in them. But no sooner did he get started then he heard the rustle of the queen’s robes behind him.

He spun around and saw Malia sauntering toward him with tantalizing hints of her bountiful body through tight misty-blue-gray robes. He smiled, pleased with the sight of her. Her hair the color of tarnished gold, her skin smooth and pink as an infant’s. Malia at midpoint in her life was more arousing to him today than when he first bedded her, when she was but fifteen and he was already a man. He had never put much value on virgins anyway. Did not everyone know that a lute gave off sweeter music the more it was played?

Richard’s wet lips brushed her cheeks and she flushed. His hair and short, neat beard might be white but beneath his dark tunic she knew Richard was as lean and hard as the night she first felt the thrust of his formidable shaft.

“Why do you tarry out here on the terrace, dear husband? Everyone awaits you at the feast.” She tried to sound as gentle with him as possible. He had not been himself since Amilius’ death.

“I’ve been obsessed with those infernal dreams, dear wife. They still haunt me.”

“Was Amilius able to give you any enlightenment about them before he died?”

He started to reply that of one thing the soothsayer had been certain; the nightmares boded evil tidings for the kingdom of Eh-Dan. But he thought better of it. Already worried as she was about Talon’s moping about the castle, this was not the time to add to her cares. He tried to adopt a happier mien.

“Amilius did say that a king rules better when he plays harder!”

The queen knew the game he was playing. He was trying to spare her feelings.

“That doesn’t sound like the Amilius I knew,”

Richard locked his arms about Malia’s waist and drew her to him. Peals of merriment from the feast drifted to where they stood. “I’m tired of the routine, my love. Tired and bored. I long to set a stallion between my legs and be off into the horizon of adventure!”

“You’re too old for that sort of thing. Besides, you are the king and kings have duties.”

“A pox on duties, I say!” The warm sun and the press of her body against his own started to kindle his passions and he kissed her on the mouth, slipping his tongue between her moist lips.

Breathless but enjoying his upsurge of virility nevertheless, she gently but firmly pushed him away.

“What has come over you, husbandl You’re acting like a child—a wanton one at that.”

Aware of the dent in her self-control his enflamed kiss had delivered, Richard smiled and refused to be put off.

“Duncan is old enough to watch the throne in my absence. Let’s not tell a soul and go off by ourselves for a spell—like two young lovers stealing away for a tryst!”

“Darling, there are hundreds of people waiting for us at the celebration in your honor! We can’t just bolt off on impulse like common people. You’re the king and I am the queen!”

“Which is precisely why we can get away with doing things others cannot!” He embraced her again. “Grab only what you need, woman, and we’re gone for a week, or two—or a month if you like!”

Malia giggled like a girl, warming to the idea of a spur of the moment holiday. Then she saw her brood of children walking along a garden path toward them and the girl within instantly became the responsible mother and queen again.

She disengaged herself from Richard’s arms. “Careful, husband. The children are here.”

Accompanying Talon and Natalia were Duncan and Henry. Duncan was eighteen and rapier-thin like his father. Henry was ten and blonde and sleek like his mother. With the exception of Talon’s drab garb all the children were dressed in their gayest finery.

“I’m hungry, Father and Mother!” Natalia whined. “And so is everyone else at the feast!”

Richard and Malia exchanged looks of dutiful resignation, held hands and proceeded to lead their brood along a rose-flanked path to the waxing din of revelers drinking and laughing.

As they approached the brightly bannered and festooned archway to the feast area they nearly bumped into Phelan, the royal appointee to the throne, who was also hurrying late to the celebration. Sprightly trailing after their father was Phelan’s young daughter and only son, Alana and Mikah. The boy was as sturdy for his age, fifteen, as his sister was lyrically beautiful and mature for her thirteen years.

“Whoa, Phelan!” Richard jokingly chided his closest and most respected advisor. “There’s enough food for you, your charming fledglings, and everybody else in Eh-Dan on this day!”

Phelan laughed, adjusting the silver belt girding his paunchy stomach, which not even his long white tunic could conceal. “We both appear to be running behind, beloved sovereign. But I must place some of the blame where it belongs.” He fixed Alana with a mock stare of annoyance. “My beautiful daughter is much worse than her mother used to be. She’d doll up till donkeys learn to whistle if you’d let her!”