The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set

by Jamie Edmundson

  ‘Down here,’ muttered Soren, his mouth nearly too dry for words to escape.

  Starved of food and water, his body was beginning to give up. Gyrmund was having to half carry him along the corridor, Soren’s legs no longer willing to move. All he wanted to do was lie down to rest. But the reason he had stayed alive was the same reason he kept going now. Belwynn. Somehow, she had found her way to Samir Durg—to rescue him. He couldn’t let her down.

  They stopped at a door. Soren had to take a few breaths before he could speak again.

  ‘I think this is it,’ he gasped. ‘But there may be servants in there.’

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  Moneva’s voice.

  ‘You’re not going in there by yourself,’ said Gyrmund.

  ‘You’ll just get in the way,’ she replied. ‘Here, give him some of this.’

  Gyrmund didn’t argue further. He lowered Soren down against a wall. Soren felt Gyrmund putting the clay jug of kumis to his lips, and he took a sip. His dehydrated body wanted him to gulp it down, but he knew that would make things worse. He took a second drink and then a third. He felt the liquid fire up and revive his body. The desperate need for sleep was banished, but instead he became more aware of the sharp pain in his back.

  He looked up as the door opened. A figure emerged. He still couldn’t see clearly, but he somehow knew it was Moneva.

  ‘Well?’ asked Gyrmund.

  ‘There were three of them. All clear now. Looks like the right place,’ she added.

  Belwynn had told Soren to try to find the rear entrance to the Throne Room, accessed via the private rooms of Erkindrix. If they had found it, they were only a few feet away from Erkindrix and his Council. And Belwynn.

  Gyrmund and Moneva both bent down to lift Soren back up to his feet. He bit hard on his lower lip to stop himself from shouting out as pain lanced down his spine. They guided him through the door into the room.

  It was small and dimly lit, with a musty smell. One of Erkindrix’s servants lay sprawled dead on the floor opposite them. Soren could make out items, probably wooden chests, dotted around the room; but he had no interest in his surroundings. He made out an open door to the right, and gestured for Gyrmund to take him there. A soft rug underfoot muffled the sound of their footsteps. As they approached the door, he could hear raised voices.

  Gyrmund guided him into a second, larger room, with the paraphernalia of living quarters. But now Soren took even less interest in his surroundings. Directly ahead was a stone archway. Beyond it, he could hear the voices as if they were in the room with him.

  ‘They hit us hard,’ someone was saying. ‘The Drobax broke like a pack of cowardly animals. After that, it was impossible to regroup.’

  Soren dropped to his hands and knees as he approached the archway, moving carefully to avoid being seen. Gyrmund and Moneva joined him, dropping to their haunches. Soren peered through.

  They were behind the throne: on which, presumably, Erkindrix was seated. Two figures stood either side of him. Above, the vaulted walls of the Throne Room rose impossibly high. With his limited vision, Soren couldn’t properly make out the ceiling, though he could see a golden shimmer at the very top.

  A palpable sense of tension filled the atmosphere. In front of the throne, Soren could make out four figures, stood in pairs. He heard Moneva gasp to his right.

  ‘Belwynn!’ she whispered.

  A chill ran through Soren’s body. What was his sister doing here? He focused on the four figures, and picked out the one that was smaller and slimmer than the others. He had thought he would never see Belwynn again. Here she was, so close, yet he was not able to see her clearly, never mind go to her.

  Perhaps seeing Soren squinting into the room, Gyrmund leaned over and quietly filled in the details that Soren couldn’t make out.

  ‘She’s standing next to Pentas. She’s holding Onella’s Staff. Across from them is Arioc, with one of his men.’

  Soren struggled to take in the information. Arioc? It was Arioc who had ordered that Soren be transported in a box to Samir Durg. Was it also Arioc who had tortured him here? Delving into his brain, picking out all his secrets? All but one: his special bond with Belwynn. His torturer had been unable to unlock that puzzle. That was why, Soren was sure, he had been kept alive. But now Belwynn was standing only a few feet away from him, with Madria’s weapons. Why had she brought them here, of all places?

  Soren felt his mind reeling. Starved and tortured, he couldn’t think clearly. He couldn’t see what was happening in the throne room, and even after Gyrmund had told him, he couldn’t understand it.

  He recognised the voice of the next to speak. Smooth and self-controlled, despite the tension in the air. Pentas, the red-eyed wizard they had first encountered on the road to Coldeberg. According to Belwynn, he had rescued her from Edeleny, spiriting her and Madria’s weapons away from Arioc. Why do that, and then bring them here, to Erkindrix?

  ‘I have recovered two of Madria’s weapons,’ he was saying, as if defending himself from some accusation. ‘That was the priority. It means that we are now safe from Madria’s threat. The fate of one army is inconsequential compared to this. We can simply raise another one to deal with the Krykkers.’

  ‘True enough,’ came a voice, a voice that grabbed at Soren’s throat and nearly made him choke. The voice of his tormentor. It was coming from the throne, so close to him that Soren could almost reach out and touch its owner. So, not Arioc after all. Some other.

  ‘The weapons are more important to Diis than a defeat,’ the voice continued. It wasn’t coming from the throne itself, Soren realised, but from a cowled figure, all in black, who seemed to stand in shadow even where there should be none. Soren’s mind, assaulted by a slew of emotions, slowly worked it out. Siavash, the leader of the Order of Diis. Arioc had passed him on to this man for interrogation.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Siavash continued, the sound of his voice grating on Soren’s nerve endings, reminding him of the agony he had suffered at his hands. ‘A defeat such as this is unacceptable.’

  Soren’s first instinct was to escape. He wanted nothing more than to run and hide from his tormentor. But other instincts prevented him. Anger came to the fore. A savage desire for revenge. Ambition, still there despite the weeks of torture. And a brother’s love for his sister. These instincts won out over fear, and Soren took to his feet. Gyrmund laid a restraining arm on him, but he shook it off and took a step through the arch into the Throne Room.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Pentas, as Soren emerged behind the throne.

  He must be able to see me, Soren considered. Did those red eyes flicker, he wondered, and give me away? Or did Pentas keep his composure?

  ‘It would have been much sounder,’ Pentas continued, his voice giving no indication that anything had changed, ‘to have given the command of the army to Arioc.’

  ‘Treason!’ said the figure on the other side of the throne to Siavash.

  Soren considered what he knew of the leaders of Ishari. This one must be Ardashir, long-time ally of Erkindrix. His voice sounded like the dry crackle of parchment paper, but it was alive with surprise and pleasure at having caught Pentas out. ‘Those were the orders of Lord Erkindrix!’

  Ardashir stopped, puzzled perhaps by the reactions of those who stood before the throne. Ignoring him, their eyes had drifted to Soren who now emerged, shuffling, onto the scene. It took what felt like an age to manoeuvre his broken body around the throne, as the eyes of the greatest wizards of Dalriya studied him. They could have destroyed him in an instant. But they didn’t. No-one seemed quite sure how to react.

  This gave him a chance. Ignoring everyone, even Erkindrix himself, even his own sister—Soren moved in front of the throne until he could look Siavash in the face. The stink of rotting flesh from the throne assailed him, but he stared into the dark eyes of his torturer. Siavash looked back, but there was no sign of recognition.

  ‘What—’ began Ardashir, but Soren suddenly unl
eashed a bolt of magic at Siavash. In his mind’s eye, his attack would blast Siavash into pieces, but the High Priest casually negated the bolt as if it were nothing. He smiled then, a thin smile of wicked pleasure.

  ‘Soren!’ shouted Belwynn.

  Then, things suddenly happened very fast.

  Belwynn threw Onella’s Staff towards him. He reached out, using his magic to draw the weapon into his grip. On contact, he felt the magic within the stave funnel into him. He understood—instantly, instinctively—its power to enhance and channel his magic.

  Immediately, he used its help to address his greatest weakness: his vision. He constructed a picture of the room and the people in it. This was a picture that his mind, and his magic, told his eyes they could see. His eyes returned an image, wonderfully clear and detailed, of his surroundings. The crystal throne sparkled in a range of red hues. The crumpled figure of Erkindrix who sat there had a grey tinge to his skin, interrupted by crusty, yellow scabs. Eyes like black coals stared out from behind the face of the Lord of Ishari. The whole throne room was bathed in a golden light that came streaming through the dome above. It was a version of reality that he could see and react to.

  Just in time.

  Siavash launched a counterattack at him, blasting a scorching flame in his direction. Holding the staff out in front of him, Soren put up a shield to resist the High Priest’s magic. The flames were diverted either side of him, though he only just managed to stay on his feet from the force of the blast.

  Belwynn continued to move forwards, Toric’s Dagger now in her hand. But the Isharite next to Arioc reacted quickly, throwing a punch which connected with the side of her head, sending her to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The Dagger dropped from her limp hand as she hit the floor, skittering a few feet away. She lay unmoving—unconscious, or worse.

  From behind Soren, Gyrmund came storming out from their hiding place. He launched himself at the Isharite, a flash of steel in his hand as he stabbed at him. His opponent, however, was quick. He grabbed Gyrmund’s wrist, stopping the blow. They struggled for control of the weapon.

  ‘No you don’t!’ shouted Pentas, launching an attack on Ardashir.

  Soren turned to see the old wizard’s outstretched palm facing him, ready to fire a surprise blast. Instead, Ardashir had to quickly change direction, hurling a bolt of magic towards Pentas. The room crackled with energy as the two attacks met. Both wizards visibly strained against each other, but neither seemed able to get the upper hand.

  Soren had no time to watch further as a second attack from Siavash came his way. He blocked it, redirecting the blast of magic to the side where it hit the wall of the Throne Room, scorching the stone black. Using Onella’s Staff to strengthen his wasted muscles, he backed away, recognising the trouble that they were in. He and Pentas were both fully engaged in defending themselves, while Arioc and Erkindrix remained free to act.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Erkindrix slowly rise from his throne. He walked forwards. His was a frail body, centuries old—it looked like it was held together by sheer force of will. Then, Arioc finally moved too, to meet his master. He was the opposite: strong and powerful looking, full of vigour.

  ‘Finish them,’ Erkindrix commanded Arioc.

  Arioc raised a hand, but to Soren’s utter astonishment, instead of turning on himself or Pentas, Arioc fired at Erkindrix. The blast sent Erkindrix flying backwards until he crashed into his throne.

  Siavash, rage spread across his face, prepared to strike at Arioc, but Soren got in an attack first. Siavash saw it coming and blocked it easily enough. But Soren knew that he had to keep the High Priest pinned down, so that he couldn’t come to the aid of his master. For whatever reason, Arioc had turned on Erkindrix, and this gave them all a chance of survival.

  ‘You are too old now, Erkindrix,’ said Arioc matter-of-factly. ‘No-one can live forever. It is time for new leadership.’

  A bitter laugh escaped from the old wizard. Despite looking like a crumpled bag of bones, Erkindrix regained his feet, seemingly unharmed.

  ‘You think to replace me, Arioc? For so many years you have served me, and yet, it seems you have learned nothing.’

  Erkindrix shrieked and bolts of white light emerged from his outstretched fingers to shoot at Arioc. Drawing a sword, Arioc swatted them aside and marched forwards, an implacable look on his face.

  Soren, trying to concentrate on his own task, fired another bolt at Siavash. But he was growing tired, and his attack was predictable. Siavash had been waiting for it, and somehow turned it back on him. Soren dived out of the way, narrowly avoiding being hit by his own magic. As he fell to the floor he lost his grip on the staff. His recently regained eyesight vanished. His back spasmed in agony. He would have been killed there and then, if Siavash had not had another priority.

  Scrabbling on the floor, his fingers clutched around the staff. A burst of light erupted as his eyesight was restored.

  Looking up, he saw that Siavash was using his magic to tug on Arioc’s crystal sword. Arioc was concentrating on pulling it back. The interruption allowed Erkindrix to fire his bolts of white light a second time. This time, they hit home, enveloping Arioc’s body in white light, forcing it into spasms, and finally driving him to the floor.

  Using Onella’s Staff, Soren fired a shot at Erkindrix, but Siavash was ready for him. The thin smile had returned to the High Priest’s face, and he easily blocked Soren’s attempt, before forcing him back onto the defensive with a blast of his own. Soren blocked it, but he was now running on empty. Without the Staff, he couldn’t have kept going this long. He had failed to keep Siavash occupied, and despair crept into his thoughts, as he saw the fight going the wrong way.

  Then, Erkindrix screamed out—a deafening, unnatural sound unlike anything that had gone before. Soren looked over, and there was Moneva.

  She was holding Toric’s Dagger, and had plunged it through Erkindrix’s chest, into his heart. She withdrew the weapon. Erkindrix howled once more in agony. No blood could be seen where the Dagger had punctured his body. Instead, Soren could make out dark vapours escaping. Erkindrix’s howling stopped. His body collapsed and sank to the floor—a dried-out husk that could no longer be kept alive.

  Everyone in the Throne Room stopped and stared for a moment, in shock. None of them, it seemed, had quite thought it possible. But the evidence was there for them all to see. Erkindrix had been killed.

  Ardashir was the first to react. With a snarl, he raised his hand in Moneva’s direction. A shield of magic appeared in front of her.

  ‘I think not,’ said Arioc from a kneeling position, his voice calm. ‘Moneva has done me a service, today. I am the new Lord of Ishari. Your allegiance now goes to me.’

  Ardashir sneered at him. ‘You think this makes you Lord of Ishari? Your treachery today has sealed your doom, Arioc.’

  The two wizards faced off, ignoring everyone else. Soren quickly looked around. The remaining threat was from Siavash. The High Priest and Pentas had turned to each other, ready to fight.

  Soren limped towards Siavash, Onella’s Staff raised. It was a bluff—a desperate bluff. He didn’t think he had anything left to give now. But Siavash didn’t know that.

  The High Priest looked from Pentas to Soren. He was outnumbered. It seemed that it was a risk he wasn’t prepared to take. He turned and ran a few steps, before leaping into the air. One moment there was a man. The next, a crow was flapping its wings in his place. It flew around the empty throne, and headed for the arch from where Soren had entered the room moments ago. Pentas unleashed a blast of magic in Siavash’s direction, but the crow flew to the side avoiding it. Then, it was gone, through the arch and away.

  The duel between Arioc and Ardashir had begun. Ignoring them, Soren made for the prone form of Belwynn, but two figures blocked his path.

  Rostam and Gyrmund’s fight was over now. They had separated, neither seriously injured by the other. The Isharite backed away from them warily, drawing a cryst
al sword from his scabbard.

  ‘I serve Arioc,’ he said.

  ‘Go serve your master, then,’ said Pentas.

  Rostam’s withdrawal allowed Soren to reach his sister. He crouched down by her side.

  Moneva arrived. Her hands were shaking, but she still gripped Toric’s Dagger tightly. She leaned over Belwynn, as did Gyrmund and Pentas.

  Soren wanted to check his sister but suddenly, an enormous fatigue descended on him, and he fell to his hands and knees. He felt like he was going to faint, and had to fight to stay conscious. He watched Gyrmund put a hand to Belwynn’s neck.

  ‘There is still a pulse,’ he said.

  A huge feeling of relief flooded Soren. Was it possible that they would all escape with their lives?

  ‘We need to get them out of here,’ said Moneva, looking at Belwynn and Soren, who was still too tired to get up from his hands and knees. He gripped Onella’s Staff tightly, using its power to keep his senses working.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Pentas. ‘Siavash will return with his followers soon. I can’t let these weapons fall into his hands. I think I have enough energy to teleport us away to relative safety. If I can get us to her, your friend Elana will be able to treat them.’

  ‘What about Herin and Clarin?’ asked Gyrmund.

  Pentas shook his head.

  ‘If we try to get to them, Siavash will track us down. If not him, Arioc or Ardashir,’ he said, looking over at the struggle between the two wizards which continued unabated. ‘If your friends are still alive, they will have to make their own escape.’

  Soren wanted to protest. He wanted to get Herin and Clarin out of this place too.

  A crashing sound behind him made him turn to see Ardashir pinned against the wall of the room by Arioc’s magic. Rostam closed in on the old wizard, sword in hand.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, accepting the reality of their situation.

  He reached over and took one of Belwynn’s hands.

  Gyrmund looked at him for a moment, before conceding, and reaching out for Moneva’s hand. Pentas put a hand on the staff. Once they had formed a circle, Pentas began his spell.