“Have you taken a look at me? Have you seen this place?” Eadric said. His voice was gravely, and rough. He ran fingers through long, greasy dark hair, and set as much as he could behind an ear. He needed a shave. The beard was long and unruly. “I am in no condition for traveling, not fit for quests. Sometimes the memory of a person is far better than the reality.”
Mykal stood up. He didn’t push the chair back in, but left it out in the center of the small room. It wouldn’t matter. The place was in disarray. Something scurried across the floor. Its long tail whipped left and right. “Why are you here?”
Eadric looked around, as if confused. “This is where I live.”
“How long have you been here? How long have you lived in this place? Grandfather and I have been home; you know? We’ve been running that farm, struggling to make ends meet. We could have used your help, father. I could have used your help.” Mykal was not going to lose composure. He bit down on the inside of his cheeks.
“What did you want me to do?” Eadric whispered. His voice was hollow, a whisper. It fell flat as the words rolled off his tongue.
The rat scurried into a different corner.
Mykal kept his arms straight, and stiff, at his sides. His fingers rubbed at his palms. “I wanted you to come home. I expected you to come home. One night when I was in bed, Grandfather must have heard me crying. I was maybe eleven years old. He came in and sat on the side of the bed. He told me that we had to stop hoping you’d return that we needed to accept you had passed on. He wanted me to believe you were dead. Doesn’t that sound strange? I asked him why, why couldn’t I keep wishing you’d return one day, and he told me because it made moving forward impossible. So we said a prayer for your soul that night, and we said goodbye. In my mind I buried you, Father.” That silence returned. It lingered. “You should have come back to us.”
Eadric shot out of his chair. It tipped backwards, and crashed onto the floor. The rat scampered out of the room, into another, and most certainly into hiding. “How could I return? I made a vow; I pledged that I would save your mother. I had bent a knee to you, held you by the arms and promised I would not return without your mother by my side, Mykal.
“And I failed. I followed a lead for a time, confident I was close behind the men who stole her. It never changed, I always felt close. I never found anyone. No signs of anyone. I searched the bordering kingdoms, the mountains, the valleys. I crossed the river and went beyond.” Eadric pressed his hands together in front of his face, by his lips, and sighed. “I was lost. I’d not given up, but I didn’t know where else to look. I researched place I’d been a hundred times. I got into fights when they mocked me in taverns, calling me crazy, and touched in the head. The name-calling never bothered me, but I beat them, I hurt so many people because I was angry at myself, upset because I couldn’t find your mother.
“How could I come home, Mykal? After so many years and nothing to show for it, how could I come home?”
“I would have known you had done your best,” Mykal said. “And I would have been proud of you for trying.”
Mykal wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Uncle Quill thought this man would be an asset on their current quest? How was Eadric, a prisoner to the bottle, going to help them?
“I want to know about you.” The words came out in a whisper. Mykal wasn’t sure if he heard them, or imagined them. “I want to hear about how you have been.”
“Will it make a difference, Father?” Mykal said.
“A difference?”
Mykal shook his head, and turned his back on his father. His eyes had adjusted to the dimness. He didn’t see any furniture in the room now on his left, just a blanket on the floor, more empty brown bottles, and second pail similar to the one out by the rocking chair. He could smell the smoke butts from where he was, and cringed.
At the screen door, Mykal stopped. “She is alive, you know. I am going to see her next. Blodwyn coordinated her escape. She was never kidnapped. Did you even talk with Wyn before you took off and left us?”
There was no response.
“We’re headed out in the morning. I don’t know how I feel about you joining us, if I’m honest. I think I’ll leave that up to you.” Mykal threw back to him, and walked out onto the porch. The fresh air filled his lungs. He hadn’t realized how stagnant it had been inside the house until he was back outside. It was… freeing.
He walked up to the lake, bent down and picked up a round flat stone. He skimmed it across the surface; five good hops and then it plopped down into the water. When he turned around he half expected to see his father on the porch.
The porch was empty. The house looked abandoned. Mykal climbed up onto the horse’s saddle and trotted away from Lantern Lake and back into the forest.
***
Galatia hung on a wall outside of her cell. Her wrists were shackled to the rock wall. Her legs hung freely. The way she dangled made her chest hurt. Her shoulder blades ached. It felt as if her lungs were being pinched shut. Every breath she drew was painful.
Her hands throbbed. The Mountain King had used heated forceps and clamped them onto her fingernail. When he ripped the nail away she thought she might pass out. She hoped she would. It wasn’t until he’d forcibly removed the third fingernail that her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and thankfully unconsciousness took her.
When she came to, she realized the dungeon was not just dark, it was absent of all light. Someone had put out the fire in the bowls on the stone staircase. Dried blood from her fingers streaked her forearms. The walls were too damp, and moldy. She knew infection spread inside her body. She could not remove the gag from her mouth, or she would heal herself. Completely incapacitated, slowly decaying, Galatia began to welcome death.
Surviving even this long was not her choice. She’d surrendered to death long ago. The Mountain King’s witch kept her alive. King Cordillera would torture her for hours, and Ida would heal her just enough so she would not die. It was vicious, and psychotic. Galatia had no idea such evil actually existed. Too many times she wanted to call out to Mykal with her mind. She always stopped short of trying; afraid Ida would pick up on the use of telepathy.
She had given King Cordillera nothing. Sometimes he didn’t even ask how to summon the other wizards he just seemed more intent on the method of torture, as if it got him off hearing her muffled screams.
When she writhed in agony chained to the table, when her eyes found his, she saw nothing but black in them. Lifeless and black eyeballs. If his body possessed a soul it was lost, or covered in blood, and dripping with nothing but darkness.
He was not a man, not a person. The Mountain King was a behemoth. If he succeeded in obtaining the magical powers he sought, there would be no hope for the rest of mankind.
That was the single thought that kept her from talking.
So far…
Something moved in the darkness. Galatia opened her eyes wide. She worried her eyeballs would pop free from the sockets. It made no difference. She could not see a thing. Grunting, she attempted to ask who was there. Her words were not audible. Drool spilled from the sides of her mouth like syrup.
A scraping noise came from her left, or from directly in front of her. She wasn’t sure which.
She closed her eyes and violently shook her head from side to side. She just wanted this to be over. She just wanted this nightmare to end!
Something brushed across the top of her foot.
She opened her mouth; the wad of rags kept her from making a sound, but screamed anyway. It could have been a feather, a finger, a tail. She had no idea what traipsed over her foot. Not knowing was what made it worse. Her imagination took control of her mind. She saw things that didn’t exist hiding in the dungeon. She knew beyond a shadow of any doubt she was always being watched, stalked.
She quickly raised her legs, drawing her knees up toward her chest. The muscles in her arms and back protested. The sudden movement, the shifting of weight, put unbearable stress on
her shoulders and chest. She gasped, unable to catch her breath. The shackle irons cut into her wrists. Blood rolled down her forearms and dripped off the tip of her elbows.
Something snickered below her. She kept her knees raised. She knew if she lowered her legs, whatever waited below would touch her again. Hot tears fell from the corners of her eyes. Only behind the rags, she was laughing, not crying.
This time it was not a snicker. A cackle echoed in the darkness.
Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Galatia’s mind screamed. Leave me alone!
***
Blodwyn sat on a bench outside the mess hall. His staff stood between his parted knees. He held onto the shaft with both hands, and unblinking, watched as Mykal walked toward him.
The entire time Mykal climbed up a tree into the canopy he ran through the conversation he expected he’d have with Blodwyn. He got down exactly the words he wanted to say. He even figured on some of Blodwyn’s responses, and had a counter ready.
However, seeing the man—his friend—sitting thoughtfully, he knew his plan might deviate. He said, “Hey.”
Every word prepared escaped his memory. There was nothing left inside his brain to call on.
Blodwyn shifted his way down the bench, patted a spot beside him.
The sun was mostly hidden behind low grey clouds. The air was cool, and crisp. Mykal sat. “Look, I’m sorry about the things I said.”
“You do not need to apologize to me. Your anger is justified. There were countless times I wanted to tell you about your mother, about your father, only I knew doing so could prove dangerous. Dangerous for them, dangerous for you and your grandfather. It doesn’t take an educated curer to notice the pain you lived with growing up. It hurt me knowing I had answers that might eliminate some, if not all of your agony, and yet I couldn’t say a word,” Blodwyn said. “I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me. Know this, if I had all of this to do over again, I would do it the exact same way.”
“And not tell me about my parents?” Mykal knew the pain in his voice apparent.
He nodded. “And not tell you. It was still the right choice. I can’t apologize for that. But I can apologize for allowing your suffering to continue for so many years.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Wyn. And you don’t need my forgiveness. I’m not mad. I mean, I was, but I don’t think I was really mad at you. Either way, there’s nothing to forgive except my behavior. I hope you don’t look at me like some dumb kid who just threw a stupid temper tantrum in there.” Mykal hooked his thumb over his shoulder and pointed toward the mess hall.
Blodwyn clapped a hand onto Mykal’s knee. “You are no dumb kid, friend.”
Mykal smiled. “So we’re good?”
“That we are!” Blodwyn smiled, in return. “How did things go with your father?”
Mykal recounted the details of the brief visit. “I told him we were leaving in the morning, but he made no indication one way or the other. He’s not what I expected. I thought he’d be leading some rescue party on horseback, searching the lands for my mother, and excited to see me.”
“It started that way,” Blodwyn said. “When he first set out, but years, and years later…”
“He didn’t seem happy to see me, though. Not even a little.”
“I know your father. He was happy to see you but so filled with guilt and embarrassment; it probably hurt him more having you track him down.”
Mykal remembered what Eadric had said. “Because he thinks he failed me?”
“Failed you and failed your mother.”
“Did he ever ask you where my mother might be?” Mykal said.
“Ask me? No. Not once. He enlisted my help.”
“Do you help him?”
“I told him that I would instead stay and watch over his father and son until he returned,” Blodwyn said.
Mykal and Blodwyn sat for several moments. The silence was far different than what he experienced with his father. There was nothing awkward about it now. Although they were not talking, it was anything but quiet. Forest animals, and birds, made noises. Their songs and calls made everything below them seem so alive.
“I think we should look for my uncle. I want to figure out what we’re going to do next. I want things planned, with little room for surprise.” Mykal knew things never worked out that way. It still seemed better to have an idea of what they would do; an outline to follow, rather than depending on winging it.
“Well. I think you know what’s next,” Blodwyn said.
“We need to warn King Nabal about the upcoming attack,” Mykal said. “And then you’re going to tell me where my mother has been hiding.”
***
King Hermon Cordillera strode through his castle with purpose. His footfalls pounded on the stone floor. The queen and his darling princesses were in another part of the castle, up in their rooms getting ready for bed. He took the stairs to the tower two at a time, anxious to see how Ida was coming along. He no longer locked her door. The enchantment was removed. She could come and go as she pleased. He felt like they were finally working together, working toward similar goals. He hadn’t been sure at first, but was slowly beginning to realize his sorcerer could prove a resourceful ally.
Inside her room, Ida sat at a work bench. Displayed on the tabletop in front of her were the hand-mirror, dagger, and chalice.
Cordillera stood in the doorway watching her for long minutes. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn she was a statue. She did not move a muscle. She did not even blink. Wearing her black cloak without the hood made the king cringe. She had wisps and patches of long, thin, white hair. Her skin sagged, and was a decaying grey. A prominent feature among so many grotesque contenders; was her long crooked nose, and close-set black eyeballs under tree bark-like knuckled eye sockets.
“I see the thoughts inside your head.” She rubbed her face in her hands. Bony disjointed fingers kneaded rough skin around her temples. “They make my brain hurt.”
“You expect me to apologize to you?” King Hermon closed the tower door. The latch clicked. He made his way over to the work bench. His eyes traced over the three talismans.
“Apologize? No. Never. Either, ask me the questions that trouble you, or leave it alone. I’ve too much work to do.”
“Then why is it every time I see you all you are doing is sitting and staring at the pieces?”
It was as if she ignored his question. She waved a hand around as she spoke. “There is so much that needs to get done. I can’t concentrate with your thoughts spiraling around inside my skull.” Ida then gripped the sides of her head with fingertips, and shook it from side to side. She grunted, showing how annoyed she was with her king.
“Have you gotten any closer to figuring out how to summon the other three wizards? Every time I come in here you are in the same spot, and all you do is stare at the items.” King Cordillera reached for the hand-mirror.
Ida slapped his hand. “Don’t touch!”
He arched an eyebrow. No one touched a king that way and lived. Was her cocksure attitude too flippant? She deserved freedom for getting work done, but scolding a king might be taking confidence too far. Her behavior was far from acceptable.
And yet, he didn’t say a word; he let it slide as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.
“There is a power, a different energy, which courses through each of these.” Ida continually waved a hand over the mirror. The glass shimmered. It looked translucent, like water, as ripples rolled from the center of the mirror on out. “I believe I may be getting close to answers.”
“Close? How close?” He wore Galatia’s teardrop on a thin rope around his neck. He felt the jewel under his tunic, and against his skin. He was aware of the amethyst because he thought it might be growing warmer.
“We don’t want to rush the process. I have no idea if there is a failsafe. It is all too possible that if we attempt the summons, and do it incorrectly, the talisman will lose all of its magic. We need to app
roach it with the idea that we have one chance, and one chance only to get everything right.”
Patience was never a virtue Cordillera possessed. He preferred things getting done immediately. Waiting drove him crazy; it made his skin itch as if bugs crawled on him underneath his skivvies.
“And your other question, the one weighing so heavily on your mind,” Ida said. “Ask it.”
King Hermon Cordillera spun away from the table. He moved over to the window. He pushed open the shutters. The frigid air in the mountains would soon become relentless. Snow would fall soon, and not let up until late spring. He breathed in deeply, letting the cold fill his lungs. “Why must I ask the question if you claim you already know it?”
“You want a son, an heir.”
Ida knew him far too well. “I cannot stomach the idea of lying down with my wife. The excitement of intimacy died shortly after marriage.” Thick flabby thighs grew like extra skin over her sex, making his manhood limp at best. “And what if she bares me another daughter? I cannot handle the disappointment of such a birth. Not again.”
“She would give you a third daughter. That much I can see.”
King Hermon sneered. “I knew it. I knew she would do that to me, the wench! Perhaps I need someone I can ensure will deliver a son for me!”
Ida grinned. It resembled the closest thing to a grin, anyway. Her lips spread flat, but wide, and her eyes squinted some. “The wizard Galatia would sire you a son.”
Hermon made a fist and narrowed his eyes. “A son, you say? And would he have powers? Would he have magic?”
“That is not seen. Yet. Now aren’t you glad you didn’t use the iron pear?” Ida cackled, threw her head back and laughed.
Hermon made his way for the door. He’d anticipated a union between himself and the sorceress, and perhaps children. There was always the chance that once broken, she’d pledge loyalty to his cause and sit beside him as he ruled the new empire. The thought that their offspring would be blessed with fantastic powers was not something he’d considered. It made the concept all the more appealing.
Severed Empire: Wizard's War Page 5
