The capital’s army was outnumbered.
Since the kingdom had been established as the capital of Men eight hundred years ago, the penalty for murder, rape, and repeated attempts of robbery was banishment to the barren lands of the Great Flats, three thousand square miles of desert winds and minimal vegetation, one hundred miles north of Illyrium. And as crimes against humanity began to rise, the numbers of exiles had slowly surpassed the cultured folk. But the beings who these exiles worshipped were far more dangerous than an army of refugees lurking in the shadow of the land. That evil was preparing to reveal itself with vengeance.
Beneath the castle floor in the emergency shelters, councilors, castle maids and butlers, and a few dozen village families waited as patiently as prisoners of war to breathe the free air again. Mothers wept while fathers, confused and angry, comforted their children with uncertain promises.
Montague excused himself and pushed through the crowd with Burton Lang at his heels. They found the princess, Olivia, the last living Volpi—a direct descendent of their creator—curled up in a cold, damp corner, shivering in the arms of her handmaid, Gretchen. Two melting candles stood alongside them on the sullied floor. Olivia showed no sign of malady, but she looked terrified. Born into a life of luxury the young adult had never experienced an attack at her own home. Just above them, screaming voices begged for mercy. Her only comfort was the soft song Gretchen whispered to her, assuring her that everything was going to be all right.
“Princess! Come now, we must go,” Montague urged, extending his hand to her.
Olivia flew into the farmer’s arms.
“We came down as soon as we saw the fires. What’s happening?” Gretchen rose to her feet.
Montague looked to the wizard for an answer, but he didn’t recognize him. Burton could tell that his apprentice was nervously anticipating the crowd’s reaction to seeing the exile—if they identified him. High-born and common folk alike feared Burton because of the tales told about his ‘gifts’, the supernatural abilities that had scorched the sky. But he had morphed his face into an unrecognizable visage. And once Montague realized, he played along.
“The wild folk have come,” said Burton. “Mages carrying deadly spells are murdering everyone in sight and burning homes to the ground. I believe the invaders are influenced and led by a supernatural force. A force so evil, its only purpose is to annihilate anything that breathes to get what it wants.”
Montague’s brow rose. “Mages?” he asked.
Burton nodded, confirming that the situation was more serious than Montague had thought.
A voice from the back of the crowd stuttered, “What do they want?”
“Blood,” Burton said. “Only blood.”
Although Burton had always used magic for the good of mankind, supernatural abilities were now associated with ‘witchcraft’—a dark art thought to be used only to communicate with demons from the abyss.
Everything Burton had once told Montague would occur was happening as they spoke. At least, Burton thought, these terrible events would dissolve any doubt his student might have had.
“This aggression is of no primitive weaponry. Only sorcery could melt stone that fast,” Burton said. He turned to everyone else listening closely. No one recognized his altered face. “I’m not trying to scare you, only tell you the truth of what we are dealing with.”
There was a shocked silence.
“We have to get away from here, quietly, and as fast as we can.” Burton pulled out a stained map with frayed edges and ran his finger north along the parchment, to the high plateau where the new city of Ikarus was still under construction. “We’ll take the tunnels to the forest. The ships on the Origon River should be intact. We will cross there and head to Ikarus to set-up camp until we make contact with the islands. There will be others there; master masons, carpenters, and blacksmiths.”
Illuminating the way with his torch, Montague led the survivors beneath the grounds of the kingdom through the soaked underground chambers. After only a minute, Burton suddenly stopped. “Demitri,” he whispered to himself. Thoughts of his friend had escaped him in the maelstrom. His mind had been victim to an aging body. “Demitri! He is still out there. I must go back for him,” he called out.
Montague grabbed Burton by the shoulder. He spoke softly. “It’s too dangerous; even for you, Sensei. If this attack is what you say it is, and our own army can’t defend itself, then you are simply outnumbered, not to mention the condition you are in.”
Burton morphed his face back to normal—the way Montague knew him.
“I will not leave him to die at the hands of dark magic,” said Burton Lang. He turned to Gretchen and escorted her away from the others. He unlatched his dragon-skin sheath from his belt and held his sword out to her. “If I don’t return, give this to my son. He is on Grale with the Atikan family. He has his mother’s skin. Tell him that his father loves him, and as long as he keeps the sword close, I will keep him safe.” Burton wiped Gretchen’s tear before it could fall from her cheek.
Burton loved his son from the moment he first laid eyes on the baby. The infant had dark, curly hair, just like his father. But over the years, the boy had become a man. Burton’s original plan had been to watch over human affairs and quietly live among them, not to court the female inhabitants. Emotional attachment can enslave the mind, he told himself. But the native women of the planet were hard to ignore. Their physical appearance produced a lust in him that not even his spiritual mastery could resist. If Burton died, his son would be the only bridge between the physical world and the heavenly realm. He was determined to see his son again.
Montague interrupted. “Meet us at the docks to cross the river. Get there by nightfall, and be careful.”
His apprentice’s drive and determination made Burton proud. “You’re finally speaking like a leader.”
“I’m sorry, Sensei,” said Montague, bowing his head.
“Do not apologize. It’s good to hear you delegate. The student must one day become the teacher.”
Burton left the shelter to retrace his steps. The smoke from the exhausted fires thickened. The old wizard veiled himself among toppled pillars, making his way back to where he last saw Demitri. There were tracks leading everywhere and not one was distinguishable from the next.
Drops of blood led behind a pile of debris. Burton feared that they belonged to his friend. He heard the sound of something slick and wet rubbing together, and when he peeked around the corner, Burton saw a man pulling out the intestines of a corpse. The savage wore the bloody mess around his body and danced while whistling a tune.
A few more rabid-looking people joined the celebration. They wore black, ragged robes and chewed on human flesh. Their assembly now blocked the only path to the gardens. Burton kept his distance and calmed himself. He needed to tap into, ‘Source’ as he knew it, or God, as it was defined by Man. This source was connected to all things living and nonliving. Until he could hear every beat of their hearts and every skip in between he concentrated. Once he locked on to the rhythm of their breaths, he was able to shut down their respiratory systems.
All of the mages’ eyes opened wide. They scratched at their throats before their twirling bodies went limp, tumbling to the dirt.
When Burton reached the gardens, Demitri was still there, kneeling motionless. It was still safe from the wrath of fire. “Demitri!” Burton yelled. But the minister was like a doll; stone cold, staring into nothing with hollow black eyes. Burton grabbed him by his maroon robe and dragged him across dust and ash back near the entrance to the underground chambers.
Half way there, Demitri opened his eyes. He looked weak and fragile, his stare aimless as if suddenly awakened from a dream. Burton rested him against an uprooted tree and lightly tapped his cheek a number of times before Demitri seemed able to focus.
“What’s going on?” Demitri finally asked, shivering and scared.
Burton briefed him on the situation and helped his friend
to his feet. Struggling to catch his breath Demitri was slow to continue. When they reached the cross section of the underground tunnels, one path led into a darkness that hadn’t seen the light of a single torch for at least thirty years. The minister sat down for a brief rest.
“I must retrieve an ancient artifact in the oubliette. It’s very special to me, my friend, and important for the advancement of our people. You won’t be around forever to help humans advance. I think it can generate power with the proper chemical compounds. I won’t leave without it,” he said.
“In the oubliette?” Burton asked. He couldn’t help but question the minister’s sanity. It wasn’t exactly a quick stop. And the idea was irrational. To reach the depths of the oubliette, they would have to use the basket and crank to lower themselves two hundred feet down a well and into the caves deep under-ground. “The caverns are still flooded down there. I guarantee you. And we don’t have time. Savages are on our trail. We need to meet up with the others before we get caught. The princess needs us.”
“We don’t have to go down the well. I put the piece in the basket the last time we came down here and I’ve been waiting to take it back out when I made the proper calculations to engineer the project. I just need a hand turning the crank to bring it up. It will only take a minute. I promise,” Demitri said. “Think of our people.”
Against Burton’s intuition, he agreed. In the future, Demitri will lead the people to new discoveries. The wizard was sure of it. He extracted his star-forged wand, Vandagelle, from the depths of his pocket. A brilliant golden glow emanated from its tip, illuminating the brick walls of the dungeon. The atmosphere radiated a chilling reminder of death. Cries of forgotten souls that had been abandoned decades ago made an impression in the rock and stone. The sound of their once beating hearts still lingered.
Burton and Demitri’s footsteps echoed loudly through the cavernous hall. Burton paced behind, his wand shining starlight. Nearing the end the space opened up to a vaulted room where a rounded brick table was set in its center; the well of the oubliette. Demitri stepped to the edge. The granite brim was moist and draped with moss. Burton gripped the handle to turn the crank with Demitri. They watched the basket lift to the surface. The lever, rusty and spotted with mold, locked and stopped. There was no sign of anything significant inside; only a cloth and small rope whose twine was loose and coming undone.
“So where is it?” Burton asked, looking at the frail fabric and rope. “What did we come down here for?”
His question went unanswered. Burton turned to find that he was now alone. “Demitri,” he called out. But there was no response. As shadows defied his light, the wizard’s wand began to fade against his will. Much of the room’s heat escaped. He heard whispers all around him, some sounding close to his ear. After the last of Vandagelle’s light went out he saw no one but heard Demitri’s voice crying for help in the cold distance. His friend sounded like he was in pain. But the wizard couldn’t see him, nor feel the minister’s energy. Now blinded by an unnatural darkness Burton felt defenseless.
Suddenly, the darkness morphed into the shape of a man and flew straight into him. The force of the impact pushed the air from his lungs. It knocked Burton back against the edge of the well, cracking his head before he fell into the depth of the rock bottom pit. In free fall, he tried to lower his body’s density, hoping to stabilize himself and slow down the speed of his descent, but the enchantment didn’t work; his powers didn’t work. But he was able to level himself enough not to break his neck on impact. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he was numb and his whole body felt like it was broken.
Burton’s fleeting attention captured chanting in an ancient language coming from above, pronouncing each word in reverse. He knew it was a curse. Only the host of the Nekrums could wield a magic so powerful. It must have followed them, Burton thought. But who the host was and what it did with Demitri was a mystery. Throughout the ages the Nekrums had changed their host, sometimes even multiple times a year.
“I know you’re alive down there, wizard, and I know you can hear me. You will never see the light of another day. Every heart will cease to beat after I’m done with this realm. And I’m going to save you for last so you can witness the invasion of Naan; the world you always got the credit for building,” the voice rumbled.
Darkness came before the silence. Burton Lang slipped into a dream at the bottom of a pit where the only path to freedom was now blocked by a spell.
MONTAGUE LA-ROSE led the escape to the end of the tunnels. Since his childhood, he followed the requests and orders of a man who had been exiled from the kingdom of Men. In many ways, he was a criminal. But now, everyone from that very kingdom was looking to Montague to lead them to safety. There were trust and dependency in their eyes, begging for salvation.
For the first time in his life, Montague gave an order. Everyone was to wait at the arched doorway until the wind calmed so as not to send adrift their scent. “Mages can smell fear like dogs,” Montague explained.
When the wind subsided, Montague instructed the escape party to walk in single file toward the forest. He took the princess by the hand while Gretchen gripped his opposite arm and walked alongside. The touch of Olivia’s fingers reminded Montague of how important she was and how careful he must be. Now that her parents were gone, he was responsible for her safety. But Montague felt as though he was only returning the favor.
He had first come to the castle with his father more than ten years ago. It was at the appreciation dinner where the princess saved Montague from the embarrassment of not knowing how to dance. All farmers were invited to a banquet with the king and queen in the castle hall. Before the party began, Montague paced back and forth in front of the ballroom doors biting his nails. His parents had already been inside sitting next to the Hollery Farms family, whose daughter Montague adored. A lady expected her date to take the lead, he’d pressed himself, and since he couldn’t afford a dancing master for help, he was nervous. The young daughter of the king and queen had kindly taken his hand and taught him how to step along to a beat. Montague remembered the music that night, the sound of violins and windpipes playing the most beautiful melodies he’d ever heard. He’d never met someone who was as kind to him as the princess. Although it was under unfortunate circumstances, Montague was happy to have seen Olivia again in recent months.
Whistles from afar sang an eerie tune that stopped Montague. All around them, shadows danced from tree to tree, slowly closing in on the escape party.
Montague stopped and took Olivia’s arm. “Go back, now,” he urged. “Walk the opposite way through the crowd, my darling. Keep calm and stay low.”
A band of women with rotten teeth and matted skin emerged, coughing and hissing. They spoke in an incomprehensible tongue to one another and carried weapons of sharpened bones or antlers. Some wore bracelets of animal teeth and claws.
The horde of exiles took a long look at Montague and Gretchen, whom everyone else was standing behind. Their dirty faces all sniffed hard, taking in the scent through snorting nostrils. But the leader had her eyes set on Montague, the apparent alpha of the escape party who was at the front of the line. The mage’s pungent body odor became unbearable as she neared. Then Montague realized that she wasn’t staring at him, but beyond him. Her black eyes were set on the princess, Olivia Volpi, peeking between the arms of the people she hid behind.
The left side of the mage’s smile extended high. Her matted hair flopped down to her waist like tendrils of an octopus feeling for its next meal. “That pretty girl was with you as well. Think we weren’t watching?” A black cloak grabbed the princess by the wrist and pulled her out into the open. “How could one miss a dress so elegant,” the mage intoned. “So explain yourselves. What is this?”
“The lucky ones who escaped the sack of Illyrium!” another one answered. They all laughed in high pitched squeals.
“Pardon our grimness. Who must you all be and how did you escape?” The big nosed lead
er had a large sore on the left side of her nostril. Her front tooth was chipped and scraped against the bottom of her lip when she smiled.
Montague didn’t answer.
“Maybe this will lubricate their mouths!” one with a spinning glass eye said impatiently. She grabbed Olivia and squeezed her cheeks to expose her tongue, resting the knife on the princess’s wet flesh. “Now, you’ll have to prove that you have use for your tongues or I’ll take them all out. Now speak!”
Olivia trembled.
“Don’t! Wait!” Montague yelled. “Don’t hurt her. We are just peasants. I’m a local farmer, and this my wife and daughter. She knitted the dress herself out of linen given to us as a gift. When we saw your people closing in on the city we left before we were ever seen. Please, I beg you. Let us be.”
“Shiver me bones, but who are you?” the ugly face asked. “I want a name. And if you lie by this, I shall know.” She finished, waving her hand as tiny fluorescent sparks fell across Montague’s face.
He tried to avoid the glittering particles, but as Montague inhaled, he felt a rush of energy—the spell she had casually set upon him. It was an incantation that could see right through his intentions. An internal interrogation made it all the more difficult to control his heartbeat.
But suddenly there was the sound of a soft thud that sounded like sharp metal puncturing fresh meat. Montague held his breath. Someone was struck. The scraggly arms that gripped Olivia became limp and the mage holding her collapsed to the ground, an arrow in her spine. From the tree line, Demitri Von Cobb came running towards them with a bow in his hand.
The haze over Montague’s mind began to clear. “Princess!” Montague yelled impulsively. He immediately regretted calling her by royal title. How could he be so stupid? Now the pack knew who Olivia was.
“Organize!” the mage with the leaky sore hollered. The pack dispersed, seemingly to increase their efforts, now knowing that a Volpi was in the mix, and vulnerable.
Under a Veil of Gods Page 4
