Severed Empire: Wizard's War (11 page)

“What is?” Mykal said.

“The sculpture.”

“The head?” Mykal said.

“The head and shoulders.”

“They call that a bust?” Mykal said. “Who does?”

“The artist, I suppose.”

The knight opened a tall set of double doors on the right. The hinges were silent. The doors swung open. Mykal stood at the threshold. The room inside was beyond spacious. There was no red carpet, but the windows along the eastern wall were from floor to ceiling. There was nothing but glass. Hanging from the ceiling was a large chandelier. One hundred or more candles sat waiting to be lit. Smooth rock pillars were connected by arches over a wood railing that wrapped around a second level, and on the far right stood a narrow staircase.

The knight whistled.

Out from behind the pillars stepped archers. They drew back on the bowstrings. Arrows were aimed at the three of them.

Mykal spun around.

A flurry of men with swords filed into the room, they were dressed in the king’s colors, and brown leather. Their hair was long, and greasy.

“The Watch,” Eadric said, and stood back to back with Blodwyn and Mykal.

“I have the archers,” Mykal said.

There was no time for planning. Mykal raised his arms in the air.

Swords were drawn, and held in two handed grips. Blodwyn had his staff, Eadric the daggers, and Mykal his magic.

Seven archers stood above them, two knights, and six men of the Watch. The Watch were easily identified dressed in chainmail, with a black vestment, and the king’s royal sigil in red on the center.

They were outnumbered. Mykal closed his eyes. He imagined a ring of fire. He did not want to hurt the men in the room with them. This was not his intention.

Again, it seemed like time stopped.

When Mykal opened his eyes, everything was unleashed before his eyes in slow motion, including his power. The ring of fire he’d imagined let loose. The blue flames shot from his fingertips. It caught the wood rail on fire. The flames hopped past pillars and continued to encircle them. The men with bows were forced back, away from the rail.

Blodwyn moved forward, and swung his staff low. He swept legs of several men. They fell over. Eadric pounced on them, driving daggers into thighs, and stomachs and chests. Screams filled the room. Outside the window the blue, sunny skies were only slightly darkened by a cast of falcons who continually flew close to the window, as if watching, or enjoying the spectacle beyond the glass.

Two swordsmen backed Blodwyn up several steps. Blodwyn, unfazed by being outnumbered, thrust forward with his staff, and parried. One swordsman delivered a circular cut. It was slow, awkward. Blodwyn defended himself against the arcing blow, spinning and raising his arm. It was under the protection of the cloak. The blade slammed against the cloth, and Blodwyn countered with a crack of the head of his staff against the man’s temple. He crumpled to the floor, deflated. His sword clashed on the stone as it fell free from his hand. Eadric somersaulted over and retrieved the longsword.

Mykal climbed the stairs.

An archer stood at the top. He loosed an arrow. Mykal burned the shaft to ashes just as it fletching passed the curve of the bow. The broad-head dropped to the floor as the archer reached a hand over his back and into his quiver. Mykal pushed his palms forward against the air. A windstorm pulsed out of his palms and spun up the staircase. The wind was like thunder inside the room. The force slammed the man into the wall. He lost his feet, and fell. Mykal reached out with fingertips, imagining him pushing aside the man, and in an instant the man rolled out of the way.

At the top of the stairs, Mykal saw the other archers clustered together. They aimed arrows at him. Mykal held out his arms, palms up, and called on the balls of blue flames. The fire grew. He hurled both fireballs at them, as if shot from cannons. Men burst into flames, while one leapt over the side of the rail. On the floor was the archer who’d jumped. Bones from his legs stuck out of his clothing, just above the knees. He was unconscious, more than likely the pain too much.

Below Eadric used both sword and dagger to defend himself against two of the Watch. They came at him hard. They struck out with menacing blows. Steel clashed against steel, as if lightning cracking through storm-black clouds. The wood rails were charred badly, the fire mostly out. Mykal reached out with his right hand, and flipped it to the right.

The lone Watchman was lifted off his feet, tossed through the air, and crashed through one of the tall glass windows. Large shards fell and shattered on the rock ground.

Eadric took advantage of the surprise, and lunged at the remaining man. His sword sliced through flesh, and poked out of the man’s back. The fight was over. Blood spilled from the man’s mouth. His face was up close to Eadric.

Mykal’s father put his hand on the man’s chest, and pushed, pulling his blade free from the man’s gut. The man’s knees buckled. Gurgling on blood, he dropped to his knees and fell onto his back. With eyes open, he died.

Blodwyn was on a knee, and beside a small pile of bodies. He was not breathing heavy, but looked tired.

They hadn’t killed all fifteen of the king’s men, but had come close. Those still alive were badly injured. If immediate medical attention was not provided by a curer, they’d fester with infections and die before long. Mykal felt an urgent swell inside him. He could heal them all. He wasn’t sure they deserved it. The fight had drained him. His head suddenly felt swollen, and his limbs grew heavy. He moved away from the edge, where the rail had been and pressed his back against the wall. He closed his eyes as his body slid toward the floor.

The last thing he heard was his father calling his name: “Mykal!”

He felt someone slapping his face. He strained opening his eyes. “Mykal?”

Eadric had him in his arms, his head on his father’s lap.

“Dad?”

Blodwyn stood above him. “Magic takes a toll on a person. Power always has limits. It is draining. Strong as the lad is, the magic is stronger.”

“I’m okay,” Mykal said. His mouth felt dry, his tongue thick. There was nothing to swallow. He worried his throat was closing, that he couldn’t breathe. “Help me up.”

***

King Hermon met with his Majordomo and captains of his guard in the Long Room, a place where men discussed important issues that often led to war. The men shifted weight from leg to leg, showing fatigue. They’d been at it for hours. The Old Empire map was spread across the long table.

The Mountain King set down a silver chalice. The warm ale sloshed around inside. He couldn’t drink another drop. The alcohol was getting to his head. This was a time when he wanted his judgment intact, not impaired. “I want half a legion dispatched to escort a baron to Castle Deed,” he said. “Let the knights fortify the castle, and the lands.”

“Sire?” the majordomo said. “Which baron?”

“Does it matter? I just need a man and his family settled in the castle. With my flag flying from the top of the towers. There is to be no question that I’ve claimed the land, and the realm,” King Cordillera said. “The lands have been empty for a long while.”

A look passed among the men. The king did not miss the exchange.

“You think I don’t know the stories?” he said. The King arched an eyebrow and addressed his majordomo. “There are no ghosts, only men who are cowards. I do not suspect the knights are filled with rank cowards.”

Shaking his head, the majordomo said, “Not a one, sire.”

“Then occupying Castle Deed will not be a problem?”

“None, sire.” Only the majordomo replied.

King Hermon Cordillera looked at the others, those eyebrows still raised. “What was that?”

This time each man responded. It wasn’t in unison, but the conviction of the answer was firm in their tone of voice. “None, sire.”

“I want a second baron, and one thousand men to follow the first group, but to continue on. They will cross the Zenith and settle into Castle Eridanus,” King Hermon said.

“Reports indicate the castle is in ruins,” the majordomo said.

King Hermon eyed the map. It would be easier crossing the Isthmian. He didn’t want the headache of a sea battle with the Voyagers. Their time would come. Now was not that time. The mountains would take time to cross, especially with winter approaching. No matter. He needed his forces spread across the land. “These men are essential. They will approach Grey Ashland from the north when we attach from the east.”

“And the sea? How will they get across? The Crimson Falls make impossible for a ship to meet them,” the majordomo said.

“It’s nearly winter. By the time they reach the pass, it should be frozen.”

“And if it’s not?”

The king growled. “Must I solve every problem? They have grapples, do they not? They can zip-line across the sea if necessary.”

“That many men zip-lining?” a captain at the end of the table said.

“If that is too much of a challenge, they can swim.”

“Zip-lining should be fine, sire,” the captain said.

More looks passed between the men, infuriating the king. He remembered the times his brother Jeremiah stayed up all night telling him how one day they would pack up gear, take the horses, and ride out to the Zenith Mountains. They’d journey the across the peaks, and sleep under the stars by the Isthmian. Fishing for food, they’d spend a summer on their own. Cordillera loved seeing the preparations made. The idea of getting away with his brother, even if only for a few months always excited him. He could imagine them sitting by the sea with fishing poles beside them, laughing and soaking in the day’s sun. They’d stay up late nights and stare at the sky telling stories until finally falling asleep. Best of all, it would be just the two of them. Brothers. They would be countless miles away from their father. He wouldn’t be around praising everything Jeremiah did, and degrading Hermon. With plans set they were definitely going, but then Jeremiah died, and the idea of the trip died with him.

“We will defeat the Voyagers when we cross the sea for Grey Ashland, and Nabal’s Castle will succumb to our attacks easily, as well,” he said. They had no need for understanding what the future held. When he was an all-powerful wizard nothing would stand in his way. These captains must trust their king at his word, and be satisfied. “Does anyone not approve of my plan? Now is the time to speak up. Once we begin, it will be too late for sharing. Tell me now so we can assess everything together. Here. Now.”

The captain at the end of the table closed his mouth, lips pressed tight.

“You’ve something to say?” King Hermon said.

“No, sire.”

“Don’t bite your tongue, captain. If you do not tell me the flaws in my plan, I am forced to question your loyalty,” he said.

“It’s nothing, sire. It’s just,” he said, but stopped talking.

“Speak, captain!”

“Crossing the mountain range with supplies, a baron and his family, it won’t be easy this time of year,” the captain said. “The storms are coming soon. Snow. It’s always worse in the mountains. We’re bound to lose a lot of men during the journey,” he said.

“And you propose?”

“Waiting until the thaw, until spring, when battling the elements won’t be a concern.”

King Hermon smiled. “A concern?”

“Sire?”

“You’re concerned?”

“For my men, your men, yes, sire. I always worry about the safety of the men. They are family to me, sire”

“That’s wonderful, captain.” King Hermon said. “I applaud your… paternal instinct.”

King Hermon caught the majordomo’s eyes, and nodded with a grimace.

The majordomo walked around the table, up to the captain who’d spoken, and quickly thrust a dagger into his throat. He pulled out the blade, and blood sprayed from the wound. The captain remained on his feet, both hands clamped over the wound, which stopped the spray, but now thick blood oozed between fingers and covered his hands. The captain stared at the majordomo, who shrugged with apologetic eyes.

“Push him away from the table!” King Hermon scowled. “He’s getting blood all over the place. Look at the mess. The wood is going to drink that up. We’ll never get the stains out.”

The majordomo pushed the captain’s body over. It fell hard onto the floor with a hollow thud.

King Hermon clapped his hands together. “Okay. Does anyone else have any… concerns? Anyone? Please, speak now. It will be your last chance to voice an opinion. No? Very well.

“As I was saying, then. Once we secure the realms of the Old Empire, we will surround and conquer the islands,” King Hermon said.

“And then?” the majordomo said. His voice sounded shaky, as if he’d spoken, when he’d meant to hold his tongue.

“And then? And then I will be the emperor. Your emperor. From there we will expand out lands to the west, and east, to the north and south,” he said. He picked up his chalice and chugged the remaining ale. His head feeling clearer than it had only moments ago.

The men cheered.

The cheers echoed inside the room.

And inside the Mountain King’s head.

Chapter 8

The door to the room opened. Eadric immediately stepped out in front of his son, sword and dagger drawn. Blodwyn readied himself with his staff, holding it away from his chest in both hands. Although he wasn’t sure how much damage he could cause, Mykal held out his arms, palms up. He didn’t feel anything inside his veins; no electricity pulsed up and down his arms. Could magic expire? Could he tax his body of all power? Had he used what limited sorcery was inside him, and now he was nothing shy of ordinary?

More Watch filled the room. They parted, and King Golan Nabal stepped forward. He was dressed in his crimson robe, with a wide belt around his waist. The crown was distinct with four white diamonds, and on the triangular panel at the forehead a black diamond that was square. That was the rare gem said to have been mined from the Gorge Caves, beneath the Zenith Mountains in the north. Mykal had a new appreciation for the stone. He’d been in those caves. He knew the dangers of working the mines. It went far beyond cave-ins, and bad air.