“I’d like to learn how to use a sword,” she said.
“Then I’m the man who shall train you. Why the interest in swords?”
Dawn nodded toward the open stable door. “For the likes of that fat stable master, having a sword could exact better justice than the whip.”
“You don’t think he’s learned his lesson?” Caen asked with a curious expression on his face. He ran a hand through his blonde beard.
“I don’t think people like him ever learn anything.”
“I’ve run into folks like that, too.”
“And?”
Caen laughed. “There are more fools in the land than wise folk. They generally don’t fair too well. Short life spans.”
“Your armor?” she said, still using a deeper voice. “Why is it styled in that manner?”
“I’m a member of King Erik’s Dragon Skull Order.”
“Never heard of it,” she replied. Her hand went to her belt pouch. “What is this Order for?”
“We were chosen by King Erik to protect the kingdom in the event of an invasion like the one that has currently befallen us.”
“And where are the others in your Order?”
“Scattered across Aetheaon at the moment, which is why I need this horse, so we may have to scout out to find them.”
Dawn said, “I see. Won’t your armor make you stand out and draw attention to yourself?”
Caen nodded. “Perhaps.”
“Then I suggest you find an alternate suit of armor until you join the rest of your band. Otherwise, your quest might become shortened.”
He studied Dawn with great curiosity. “Tell me, lad. Where are you from?”
She thought for a moment. “A small peasant village in the forests beyond the city walls.”
His curious frown didn’t diminish. “You seem better educated than most peasants.”
“I’m flattered, but really it’s just my observations. I’m curious about things I don’t understand. Isn’t that usually the best kind of education?”
“Indeed.”
Dawn examined the silver dragon pendant that fastened his cloak together. It was identical to the one she had found in her father’s study. She smiled. She and Caen were destined to meet, and perhaps he was the man that could help her bring armies together to drive out the Vykings and kill the traitorous guards. Once they were removed, she’d seek Waxxon.
Unusual warmth increased beneath her stomach and her pubic region. She thought it was due to staring at Caen for too long, and her attraction to him had aroused her. Her mother had told her that such things often occurred when a woman met a man she quite favored, but the heat was more than what should have been. She tightened her hand upon the gemstone and the pendant in the pouch, which explained somewhat the intensity that she was experiencing, but the items weren’t responsible for the welling excitement rising in the pit of her stomach. She understood she held keen interest and possible affection for Caen, so she looked away quickly.
Dawn took a saddle blanket and set it on Baymont’s back. Caen grabbed a saddle and swung it onto the steed. He fastened all the belts.
“Perhaps we should get you a horse,” Caen said.
“No.”
“Why not? You’re not afraid of them, are you?”
Dawn scoffed. “Of course not. But it’s not part of a squire’s attire. I’m to carry your extra weapons and tend to your needs. That is a squire’s duty.”
“Surely we can amend that rule.”
Dawn really wanted to take Keela, but she didn’t want to place the horse into danger. Although leaving the mare behind didn’t guarantee the horse was entirely safe, she was safer in the pasture than travelling throughout Aetheaon during the chaotic Vyking invasion.
She shook her head. “I will do what is required, and in return, you teach me how to use a sword.”
“Granted, but a horse will allow us to move quicker.”
“It will also draw attention to ourselves. Too much chaos has erupted in Hoffnung. If we want to succeed in our mission, we must remain alive.”
His brow furrowed. He stared at her with more curiosity than before. “We?” he asked.
“A squire is like another arm of a knight. Is he not? As such, your mission becomes ours.”
Caen grinned. “Well stated, squire. Again I marvel at your level of reasoning. Most peasants tend not to think much further than daily survival.”
“Spend some time taking undeserved lashes and your mind will venture to either revenge, escape, or die from despair.”
“I imagine so. But trust me, Balo’s not one you will have to worry about again. Let’s get started.”
Dawn held the horse’s bridle while he swung up into the saddle. When he was settled, she said, “I must insist that you find a different suit of armor.”
“In time,” he replied.
“Soon. Before we leave Hoffnung.”
She grabbed a burlap sack, rolled it up, and tucked it beneath her arm. Pain throbbed in every place where the whip had struck her, but she never grimaced. She led the horse to the stable door that led to the cobblestone street. Her hope was that they reached the gates of Hoffnung without incident, but she didn’t think it would be that easy. Nothing ever was.
Chapter Nineteen
Hidden inside the swirling, ever growing Black Chasm was the City of Mortel, or as wandering thieves and unsuspecting weary travelers discovered far too late—The City of Death.
The reigning Dark Wizard Prince, Tyrann, sat on his obsidian throne of skulls, listening to Waxxon’s prayer. He watched Waxxon through a dark floating bubble and smiled. Tyrann marveled at how easily men gave up their souls simply to gain power, wealth, or whatever else their lust craved at a moment’s notice.
Waxxon was a fool but somewhat beneficial in the tasks Tyrann needed the new king for. Conquering Hoffnung was only the beginning. The kings Tyrann placed into power would soon destroy other kingdoms. However, these power-lusting kings didn’t realize they would not be the true rulers. Tyrann would be.
“I ask for one other thing,” Waxxon said, kneeling before Una’s statue. “Lady Dawn still lives. Deliver her into my hand.”
Tyrann cast a channeling spell. His voice traveled through the bubbled windowed portal and echoed inside the Temple of the Three Goddesses. In a thunderous angry voice, he said, “If you wish to reign in Hoffnung, your duty is to find her at all costs. I will not deliver everything into your hands. Prove yourself worthy of the throne that is now yours. Find her and sacrifice her to me where you kneel.”
“Yes, my Goddess,” Waxxon replied, closing his eyes tightly and gently kissing the statue’s feet.
“And remember one thing,” Tyrann replied through Una.
“Yes?”
“As long as Dawn lives, you don’t rule Hoffnung. She is the rightful heir, so you must hunt for her. Sacrifice her. All of the kingdom, and more, falls to you.”
Without awaiting Waxxon’s reply, Tyrann waved his hand and broke the connection. The portal window vanished.
He rose from his throne with his dark staff in hand. His long dark robe flowed behind him as he walked across the polished obsidian floor.
His skin was gray, ashen like a dead corpse. A pale inky red surrounded his dark pupils. His short cropped black beard and wavy hair almost weaved together like a mask covering the lower half of his face, which made gazing into his strange eyes even more intimidating.
While he walked, powerful energy flickered off his armor like pulsating blue shimmering sparks. Crackling sounds echoed softly. Small pools and fountains glowed orange, granting light inside his dark temple. Spider webs meshed and lined the walls like soft sticky silk. Occasionally, spiders the size of human hands scuttled across these delicate weavings.
Large bats chirped and flitted from roost to roost amongst the overhanging stalactites. Living gargoyles also hung from the rafters of his vaulted cave-like ceiling. Their eyes opened and glowed an odd green as footsteps echoed fr
om the adjoining hallway, drawing their attention. Their strange mouths opened with eagerness, thinking possible prey had stepped inside their Dark Lord’s chamber.
Two of Tyrann’s Soulless Knights approached with a black robed figure walking between them. When they reached Tyrann, he looked down at them. The Dark Prince stood seven feet tall, lean and muscular, and was more daunting than the fiercest warrior on Hell’s Battlefield. A black aura of magic shimmered around his face, which gave his gray skin a near purple tinge.
“Ah,” Tyrann said with a slight smile. His stern gaze, however, was less inviting. “Welcome, Botis.”
Botis slid back his hood, revealing his large serpent-like head. Large diamond-shaped green scales covered his face and hands. Sharp fangs protruded from his narrow mouth. Yellow poison beaded at the tip of each fang.
“Your Majesty, Prince Tyrann,” Botis said, bowing. His voice whispered hisses as he spoke. “Thanks-s-s for granting me into your courts at s-s-such s-s-short notice.”
“The City of Mortel is always open to you, Dark Chancellor.”
Botis acquiesced with a humble nod. As Tyrann studied the serpent eyes of the wizard, he noticed uncertainty where usually there was none.
“May I assume you have traveled to the Black Chasm to claim your new staff?” Tyrann asked.
“It is as we agreed, is it not?” Botis asked with a hint of nervousness in his voice and eyes.
“If you’ve brought your gift.”
“Oh, yes-s-s!” The serpent-faced humanoid hissed eagerly and smiled. From his robe pocket, he produced a tiny vial filled with yellow liquid.
Tyrann grinned. “You have. Good.”
He took the vial from Botis and studied it in the orange glowing light of a lava pool.
“There’s not much poison in here,” Tyrann said.
“Highly potent, My Lord. You hold enough to kill entire cities.”
Tyrann’ laughter echoed throughout his chamber. “I have more resourceful means than that.”
Botis hissed with nervous laughter. “Of course, you have. All the dark realms tremble at the mention of your name, my Prince.”
Tyrann stared into Botis’ eyes. Immune to the Dark Chancellor’s ability to hypnotize, Tyrann thrust his mind into trying to read Botis’ thoughts and intents, but Botis quickly flung up a magical mind shield, preventing access beyond his mind’s threshold.
Tyrann frowned.
“And my staff?” Botis asked with eagerness.
“Come, my friend,” Tyrann said, leading him from the courts toward a long dark corridor.
Botis hesitated at the mouth of the tunnel. No torches or light shone inside the corridor. The tunnel was pure darkness. Tyrann turned and faced him. “You seem a bit nervous, Chancellor. Do you not trust me?”
Botis folded his hands together in a prayerful manner and bowed toward Tyrann. “Forgive me, Lord, for my apprehension.”
“Is there something you wish to tell me?”
“No.”
“Very well,” Tyrann said, walking toward the corridor.
This time Botis went with him. The two soulless warriors also followed, which caused the serpent-faced wizard to keep a watch over his shoulder. The warriors’ black metal armor made them almost invisible inside the carved stone corridor, other than their faint glowing yellow eyes.
“I must ask, Lord,” Botis said. “Do you not trust me?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Normally, your guards don’t keep such . . . closeness to you.”
Darkness surrounded them.
“And should that be a concern?”
“No. I just wondered if you were experiencing similar strange flows of uncontrolled magic, too?”
“Having odd occurrences inside your odd magical cavern, Botis?” Tyrann asked in a mocking tone.
“Perhaps not any more than normal.”
“You’ve enchanted the entire cavern system in what the Overlanders call, ‘Devils Den,’ which may also cause counterproductive clashes within your own spells.”
“I s-s-see. Never thought of it in that . . . light before. But I suppose that is possible.”
“Unleashing magic to do its own bidding isn’t a safe way to monitor the caverns.”
“I s-s-suppose not. As a precaution I have placed some of my most powerful guardians at the entrances.”
“I believe something more troubles you, Dark Chancellor. Perhaps I can be of some assistance in aiding your cause?”
Botis was quiet for a moment. “No, my Lord. You have enough pressing issues without being bothered by my own.”
“Very well.”
The dark tunnel turned and twisted, descending lower. When they began ascending upward again, a faint bit of light spilled toward them. There was a noticeable relief in Botis’ breathing pattern.
The glow from dozens of black candles around the obsidian altar lit the room. Pools of fresh blood coagulated on the floor and altar. Hovering just inches above the blood-coated altar was a black staff. Energy flowed through the staff and flickered like small bolts of blue lightning.
Tyrann glanced to notice Botis’ eyes beaming with greedy desire. Tyrann asked, “I see this is to your liking?”
“Oh, yes-s-s-s,” Botis replied. Yellow beads of poison enlarged and dripped from his fangs. “S-s-so much power in that staff.”
“But it comes with a price,” Tyrann replied.
Botis took a sharp breath, his eyes widened with worry, but his want for the staff remained great and unconcealed. Tyrann could feel the chancellor’s heartbeat increase at the thought of possessing it.
“What price would that be, My Lord?” Botis asked in shallow breaths.
An evil grin parted Tyrann’s netted beard. “Open your mind to me. Let me read your thoughts, your intents.”
***
Botis gasped. He searched Tyrann’s eyes, hoping that the Dark Prince, his Lord, was jesting. But after a few long minutes, he knew Tyrann was serious. His gaze drifted to the hovering staff above the black altar. He couldn’t hide his obsession and lust for that staff and all the power that it held. More drool of saliva mixed with poison dripped from his mouth. The droplets hissed as the obsidian floor absorbed them.
He had traveled so far to get to the City of Mortel that he couldn’t possibly leave without the staff. It was the sole purpose for making such a journey. He seldom left his underground fortress except for when he might find a powerfully magical relic, and this black staff was something he couldn’t risk losing. But he wondered what more he would be sacrificing to the Dark Prince by allowing him access into his mind and thoughts.
***
“Do we have an agreement?” Tyrann asked.
Botis moved closer to the staff. A long blue wave of sparkling light leapt from the black wood and reached for Botis.
“It calls for you,” Tyrann said. “It wishes to attune to your power and grant to you, its own. Imagine what all you could accomplish with this in your possession.”
The serpent-faced wizard’s eyes darkened. He turned and faced Tyrann. He bowed forward and whispered, “All I possess is granted to you.”
Tyrann raised his staff, chanted in his demonic tongue, and then lifted his left hand. Power rushed from his open palm and passed into Botis’ mind. Every twisted spell and evil thought the wizard mentally possessed now became a part of Tyrann’s memories. Botis held no secrets that Tyrann didn’t know.
As power surged into Botis from Tyrann and back again, Botis’ eyes turned white and rolled back into his skull. His body shook. After Tyrann had read all of the wizard’s thoughts, he released his hold, and Botis dropped to his hands and knees, gasping for air.
The Dark Prince motioned a wave of his hand toward the altar. “Your gift, Chancellor. May you find many rewards of new power available to you.”
“Thanks-s-s,” Botis said, on his hands and knees.
Seconds later, Tyrann and his two Soulless Knights vanished into the dark tunnel, leaving Botis alo
ne with the staff. Rather than rise to his feet, he crawled, and took the staff into his hands. A radiant blue light danced off the wand and surged through him. With soft-spoken words, Botis vanished and returned to his cavern between the realms.
After he materialized deep underground, he wondered if the price he had paid for the staff was greater than necessary.
Chapter Twenty
Waxxon rose from the feet of Una’s statue and stared into her glowing red eyes that pulsed like a heartbeat. Slowly the power faded, as did the crimson glow. Chill bumps pimpled his arms and ran down his back, but not out of fear. To think that one of the goddesses had chosen and blessed him. He shivered. Power and zeal swelled inside his chest. Hoffnung was within his grasp. He needed to thank Priestess Renee for allowing him to see the Three Goddesses during the past several months. Without her assistance and allowing him to enter the temple, Una would never have blessed him. He would see that the priestess was highly rewarded for enabling his rise to the throne.
He had never thought paying homage to the darkest of the three sisters would grant him riches and power so easily. And somehow, the blessings had showered upon him almost effortlessly. What more could Una grant to him for his devotion?
“Renee?” Waxxon asked aloud, his voice echoing to the high vaulted ceilings and throughout the fountain room.
“Odd,” he thought. The earliest hours were when she prayed the most regularly and yet he neither saw nor heard her.
He made his way to the balcony. The morning sun gleamed through the high crystal towers of Hoffnung Castle. He savored the sight in knowing this castle was now his to command from the throne. Indeed the kingdom was to be refreshed by a new ruler. He had much to show Aetheaon about his power as king. Queen Taube had been docile when it came to foreign diplomatic matters. He would not. Other kingdoms would bow to him, recognizing his power and authority. He would never satiate other rulers by sending them wagons filled with gold, silver, and gems. Instead, they would return those treasures. Or else.
While he basked in the moment of his castle’s unblemished beauty, he glanced down to see the priestess lying on the stone walkway in a pool of her own blood. Sudden fear shot through him. His hands shook.
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