by Jason Howard
“Yeah, but I practically live at bars, I love em’, every last poisonous one. Best way to shorten your life while you piss away time!”
We have to pass life-threatening tests to become warriors and this one sounds like he has the discipline of a child and boasts of poisoning his body, the weapon gifted to him by the one true God.
Artem smiled when Rigel looked over at him. “Bars must be a lot of fun.”
Rigel laughed. “You need to wipe that touristy look off your face, Arty. It’s gonna get you robbed, maybe even killed and stripped naked.”
Artem raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What?”
“The hookers, the hustlers, and the hecklers—they’re all watching you, my friend.”
They walked under the eaves of a tall brick building. Shadows hunched around them.
Artem looked over his shoulder and saw a skinny man in a dark cloak smoking a pipe. Watching him.
“You’re in the city now, my friend. At night you have to have a second face. You want to look either crazy or pissed off. I go for crazy. So how about you try pissed off, you dung-suckling jungle dog.”
Artem’s teeth gritted and his eyes narrowed.
“Perfect. Hold that expression and we’ll be much better off.”
Artem was shocked by how many people were still out—it was late, hours past when his village would have been silent and still. He was also shocked by how quickly the people changed. The distance from the inn to the castle were just a handful of blocks. The first half of these blocks had been full of drunks and prostitutes. Once the castle came into view the neighborhoods brightened. There were guards patrolling. Amongst the beautiful gardens were fountains that were lit with multi-colored beams of magic that sparkled through the jets of water. Rich, lavishly dressed couples strolled the streets, taking in the mingled smells of flowers and cool night air.
Artem felt like the city had turned inside out.
When they arrived at the base of the castle, he felt like he was at the base of Spiraloo, the tallest mountain in the Ajaltan Jungle. The stone edifice loomed above him. Three giant spires, the center the thickest, were enclosed by a muscular wall that separated it from the city. Behind the spires, Ascadell’s Steeple rose up into the heavens—no matter how far Artem craned his neck he couldn’t see where it stopped reaching into the night sky. Between the huge spires (which were dotted with windows that glowed with torchlight) was an intricate system of suspension bridges. He could see people walking along those bridges through the swaths of torchlight. Artem thought it looked like some vast spider web enchanted with luminescence.
The buildings of the city came right up to the castle’s thick walls. It was an interesting statement—Artem had never seen a castle before, but his father had told him of stories of other castles that were moated and separate from the common structures of the city. This one was nestled right among shops, rowhomes, and other buildings. Artem wondered for a moment what statement they had been trying to make—maybe that if the city was taken, so would the castle—their fates were intertwined. It was a statement of unity. Or maybe it was arrogance. They believed no one could breach the city’s walls. Or it could be an attempt to make the castle seem one with the city, indicating that the king and his people shared a kinship.
A giant pair of steel double doors stood open wide. Artem had never seen doors like these. Intricate, swooping patterns wrought of silver and gold had been embedded into the lacquered steel, and torchlight played across it making it glint and dance to the whim of the flames. Two rows of armed and armored guards with their backs to the walls inside the doors faced each other. They almost didn’t look real, standing so stone-still.
The rows extended to a hallway so large that it easily held a row of trees planted in its center. On either side of the trees was ample space for walking. Artem was speechless. Rigel glanced sidelong at him with amusement.
“You’re a bit far from the jungle now, huh?” Rigel asked.
Artem mumbled an agreement without taking his eyes off the breathtaking castle.
Inside, Rigel led him up a tall staircase. Then across a great hall lined with portraits of long dead royalty. Each portrait had a glowing frame, enchanted somehow. The colors of the glowing frames varied. One of a beautiful princess glowed a deep blue. Another of an arrogant looking king glowed green. Magenta surrounded the smiling, weathered face of a queen who must have been sixty or seventy when she’d been painted. On and on they walked between the glowing portraits. Soon they were past royalty and on to generals and heroes of war.
Artem was also impressed by how many armed guards they passed. Some were motionless, hands on the hilts of their weapons. Others patrolled specific routes, stopping and turning at predetermined points, eyes straight ahead. None of the guards were alone, all walked or stood with at least one partner. To keep each other alert, Artem thought.
Rigel saw Artem’s furtive glances at the guards and said, “Many of the guards also have speaking stones, so they can call for reinforcements if they ever needed to. Castle Sal Zerone is the safest place in Ascadell. Barring a civil war or a coup of course, then I would steer clear.”
They reached another stairway and walked through a corridor, which brought them to another great hall. This one was lined with tapestries that had glowing threads. Some of the tapestries moved on their own, the threads slowly rearranging themselves, making new patterns. “How?” he muttered.
“Each of these enchantments takes decades of effort from dozens of conduits. All permanent enchantments are labors of love and endurance,” Rigel replied. “As all artwork is. The combination of the two makes something . . . truly extraordinary. Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Artem said, still staring as a tapestry of a green field below a blue sky changed into a green and blue spiral that slowly rotated.
He also noticed a few men, wearing long, shimmering blue robes, sitting on a few padded benches, scribbling away on a parchment they had between them on an oak table. They talked to each other in low voices and stopped when Artem and Rigel neared, studying Artem as they would some strange woodland animal they had never seen before. Artem noticed that one was dark-skinned, like him. He wore shimmering blue robes.
“Ho, Tyrious,” Rigel said.
The oldest of the architects nodded to him and replied, “Ho Rigel. It’s a bit late for guests.”
“It’s a bit late for old men, shouldn’t you be snoozing, dreaming about the women you’re too wrinkled and dusty to lay with?”
“Oh, I suppose I should be, if only to miss this abuse!”
For a moment Artem was shocked that Rigel and Tyrious held such animosity for each other, but then he detected a smile in the Tyrious’s eyes.
Rigel turned to Artem as they continued. “They’re architects. They live here in the castle when they are commissioned by the throne. They spend every waking moment together until their job is complete, and then they are paid and return to their homes in the city.”
Artem thought it was strange that they would live here in the castle. It was also strange that they were up this late. Did they ever sleep? Artem heard Tyrious barking something. Artem turned to see him scribbling a shape onto the parchment. Another shook his head in disagreement, dipping his quill, and drawing something else.
Artem noticed that there were other tables and padded benches. He imagined that the castle bustled with people during the day. Their voices probably echoed through this huge chamber. Perhaps that was part of the reason for the tapestries, to dampen the echoes.
They came to another stairway. This one had doubled back on itself again and again and again, for flight after flight. He glanced over a railing and saw a long drop down to the first great hall he’d walked through, the one with the paintings. His feet padded along velvet carpeting. There were evenly spaced torches on either side of the corridor. The stairway seemed endless.
Hallways branched off from the staircase, but they took none of them.
Rigel sai
d, “Many of these men are equipped with speaking stones so they can call for backup if needed, and they have a shift change every four hours so that they will be sharp and vigilant. We take our king’s safety seriously.”
Artem nodded, wondering if they would soon arrive at their destination, or if they would simply walk through these corridors for eternity.
More than once Artem found himself wanting to stop and see where one of the hallways led. Some of them were lined with awe-inspiring artwork, or fitted with a carpet that had such beautiful designs that his eyes wandered away from the velvet stairs.
Eventually they came to a pair of glossed-wood double doors.
Beyond the doors was a vast hall made entirely of marble. Glowing white orbs hung from silver chains. The light was diffused and reflected off all the creamy marble surfaces. Stairways led to balconies above, hallways at the edges of the room led to side rooms. There was a long dining table surrounded by plush black velvet chairs. Immaculate marble columns lined both sides of the room like soldiers standing at attention. The columns made him feel like he was in a marble forest. The floor was marble as well, and their footsteps echoed.
They ascended a staircase that curved around the edge of the room and led to a landing above. Rigel led Artem away from that landing and into a different chamber, this one carpeted. There was a faint, almost unnoticeable glow that rose from the carpet. Artem felt like he was walking on a cloud. After walking over what seemed like miles of carpet, they arrived at a thick oak doorframe with four guards next to it—two on each side.
Rigel said, “Now, a quick word before you go in there. Don’t approach him until he stands. Then kneel before him, look him in the eyes, and say that you wish to express your gratitude for his time. He will allow you to kiss the blade of his sword.”
“Kneel before him?” Artem said.
“It’s a custom. If you don’t do it I’ll be forced to escort you from his presence immediately. By force if necessary.”
At the mention of force Artem glared at him.
Rigel continued, “I know I jest often, too much for some. That’s because there is only one thing I take seriously in this world. The safety of the King. I met him during the war, before he held the crown. I have been at his side ever since. I met your father once, you know.”
“You did?”
“By the word of the gods.”
Artem understood Rigel’s strange behavior now. He wasn’t a normal soldier. He wasn’t just a faceless bodyguard of the king. He was the king’s friend. Artem was now glad he hadn’t openly expressed his distaste for Rigel’s attitude.
“I will express my gratitude and kiss the blade.”
“Good. Give me your weapon.”
Artem didn’t want to, but the huge change in Rigel’s demeanor squashed his hesitation. Artem hated seeing his father’s halberd in someone else’s hand, but looked away to hide his distaste.
“I’ll be ahead of you. These men will enter behind you. Any magic you attempt to use will fail. If you attempt a spell, the enchantments in this part of the castle will redirect the spell back at you. I tell you this because there was an accident once. A man was trying to show Lanthos something, an illusion that would have projected a map of Ascadell into the air. The illusion was reflected back at him, and he was overwhelmed by the sudden mental intrusion. In his panic he reflexively tried to channel another spell, a force spell. This second spell smashed him into a wall, where his head was split open like a hammered melon.”
“I won’t channel anything,” Artem said.
“Good. Follow me.”
Rigel pushed the doors open and walked in ahead of Artem. He walked halfway across the room and stood at attention, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Beyond him, Artem saw the king.
On both sides of the room, tall bookcases loomed. A yellow glow emanated from the ceiling by magic, and it lit the room brightly.
King Lanthos sat at an enormous oak desk. A tall wizard (it was clear by his long milky robes and the gemstone dangling from his necklace) sat at a plush chair to the side of the desk. Ivor stood. They both looked at Artem expectantly.
Chapter Seventeen
The City-States of Ascadell
Every city-state in Ascadell has a noble who represents the common folk of the region and a high conduit who represents those who can wield magic. Each city-state is granted much autonomy, but must pay taxes to the capital city-state, Sal Zerone. The taxes maintain the continental army housed in Sal Zerone. Each city-state can worship as they please and choose their own laws as long as they don’t apply to the military. Also, each high conduit answers to the Conduit Most High of Sal Zerone. The Council of Conduits meets annually in Sal Zerone to discuss advances in magic, as well as any new policies or laws that will be set forth to govern the conduits of Ascadell.
King Lanthos was dressed in a plain earth-brown tunic that matched his thick hair. A ruby pendant dangled from his neck, heavy links of pure gold glistening as he moved.
“I am Artem Remelda. I wish to express my gratitude for your time. May I approach?”
Lanthos nodded. Artem didn’t start walking until Lanthos stood. Lanthos took a gleaming claymore down from pegs on the wall. He rested the point on the black marble floor. The marble was flecked with gold that made swirling patterns and curving shapes.
Artem knelt. The steel was cold on his lips. He made the kiss audible, then looked up into Lanthos’s eyes. He said, “I am humbled. Once again, thank you for your time.”
“This is Ivor, my chief advisor and the Conduit Most High of Ascadell—you spoke with him earlier. I’d also thank him, he convinced me to let you come here. Also, I respected your father. He was the fiercest warrior I ever met. And I’ve met quite a few.”
“Thank you,” Artem said. He didn’t know what to say next, only cleared his throat and looked nervously at Ivor, then back to King Lanthos. He tried to hide his anxiety. He told himself that the king was probably used people getting jittery nerves when they talked to him, but that hardly helped.
“Pleased to meet you, Artem.” Ivor shook Artem’s hand, smiling gently. The smile set Artem at ease. The old man had creases around the corners of his eyes and mouth—smile lines. His pale blue eyes glowed with sincerity. Artem found it strange that he could remember this man’s voice from the speaking stone, but had never seen his face. Ivor seemed full of energy but calm at the same time. “You look like you could use something to drink—perhaps a red wine?”
“Ahh . . . sure,” Artem said. “What is a conduit?”
“A mage or wizard. Due to advances in our understanding of magic during the past century, we have come to call ourselves conduits rather than the old terms.”
Ivor waved a hand and a panel in the wall opened, revealing a discreet liquor cabinet. A trio of glasses and a bottle of fine wine assembled themselves on the king’s desk. Ivor pulled Artem a chair and put it next to the desk as the wine poured itself.
Artem sat down and sipped the wine, but he didn’t like the taste of this strange drink he’d never heard of. Lanthos, on the other hand, tilted his wine and downed it. Ivor, with an easy flick of the wrist, made the wine bottle pour Lanthos another—it looked like an oft-practiced motion.
Lanthos said, “State your business.”
Artem looked down, steeling himself to say the words. He looked up. “My tribe has been murdered. Even my father.”
Lanthos nodded. “Ivor told me as much. I am sorry to hear that we have lost such a proud warrior, and so many of your honorable people. Go on.”
“The murderers wore black armor with the red hourglass of a black widow.”
Artem told the entire horrible tale of his village being slaughtered, finishing with a trembling voice and a pounding heart. He took a deep breath. “There must be justice. These evil warriors . . . they may be a threat to your kingdom. If we move quickly, I can track them through the jungle and lead your men right to them.”
Lanthos nodded.
&nb
sp; Ivor’s blue eyes looked sad and distant.
Lanthos said, “These men that ravaged your tribe—this hasn’t been their first appearance. They call themselves Roen’s Raiders. Our army has engaged in many skirmishes with them already, but they are using hit and run tactics and advanced spellwork to cover their retreats. When did you last see Roen?”
“It was eleven days ago. I got here in a week but then I was not allowed to go past the gates.”
Lanthos sighed. “Eleven days. That’s far too long ago for us to be sure of his whereabouts now. The trail will be cold. But rest assured—he is a wanted criminal. In time we will find him.”
“But . . . he may strike other villages in the Ajaltan Jungle. They must have had a specific reason to attack us. Perhaps it is the ancient magic we possess, different that what the condets—”
“Conduits,” Ivor corrected.
“Conduits here can do with magic. So if that is the case he will be near my village leaving a trail of blood and despair.”
“Artem, I do not have the resources to actively pursue this problem. Our army is stretched thin just trying to protect the villages of Ascadell, let alone your tribes in the jungle.”
“There must be justice!”
“There will be justice.”
“If I had not been stopped at your gates I could have told you sooner!”
“Appointments with a king are not made on a whim.”
“The other tribes are in danger. We are all in danger. These men were dishonorable and ruthless. They took pleasure in murdering mothers and children, helpless older folks. . .” Artem trailed off and muttered to himself, “Almera.”
When he looked up he saw Ivor fixing him with an intense stare.
“Your people don’t deserve my protection,” Lanthos said.
Artem looked distraught. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, fishing for the right words.
Ivor shot a look at Lanthos, then turned back to Artem. “He’s not saying that your people are less deserving because of your race—he’s saying that they don’t pay taxes, so we can’t spend the money on them.”
