With eyes open wide and staring fixedly in front of him, he saw the heavy curtain next to one windows slowly push away from the wall. A figure emerged, clothed in black silk. It was a man, or it had been a man at one point. Now the figure was hideous. Its long fingers were crinkly gray skin over bones. Under the black hood that shrouded its face, its skin that was also gray, with dark circles around its eyes.
A wizard.
A wizard of Acedor had slipped into Duke Falco’s bed chamber, unseen. Regin, still unable to move, mentally prepared for death. He was unable even to close his eyes, not that he would have done so. Confronted by an agent of the enemy, Regin would have glared defiance at the wizard of ancient evil, showing that Falcos would not surrender to fear.
“Duuuuke Faaaalco,” the wizard hissed, and waved a skeletal hand toward Regin, releasing the paralyzing spell slightly.
Regin gasped for air, only able to take rapid, shallow breaths. “I,” he struggled to speak as he exhaled, “do not fear you.”
“Yes, you do,” the wizard’s voiced hissed through gnarled teeth that were even more stained and yellow in the light of the candles. “You do not show it, to your credit. You should fear my master, for his power is unstoppable.”
“He,” Regin took as deep a breath as he could manage, “has been stopped.”
The wizard laughed; a rasping choking sound that made the hairs on the back of Regin’s neck stand up. “A truly minor setback. Tarador has showed the full extent of its strength, and you were barely able to defeat a tiny part of my master’s forces. It was foolishness, not lack of power, that lead to the loss of our army in the Turmalanes. Our commanders were lured into a battle that was not necessary, because of their incompetence and overconfidence. They and their families have paid with their lives. There will not be any such mistakes in the future.”
“Empty words,” Regin tried to put disdain into his voice, fighting with the only weapon he had left. “Say what you wish after your army was crushed in battle, your words change nothing.”
That angered the enemy wizard, for his hand rose again, and Regin writhed in silent agony as a spike of fire-like pain stabbed through his heart. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. Then the pain stopped as suddenly as it began, and Regin panted to catch his breath. “You should be wary of insulting my master,” the wizard hissed. “You see only what is before your eyes, and not the greater truth. Behold!” The wizard put a hand over his eyes, and-
For Regin, the room in his Linden mansion disappeared, his vision rushing forward through the night, as if he were flying across the landscape of Tarador. He soared over hills and rivers he vaguely recognized, and unseen behind him, the sun rose. In the light, he saw what he knew was the River Fasse in Anschulz, seeing the distinctive bend in that river where it looped back on itself. He saw destruction and the terrible remnants of a great battle on the east side of the river; Royal Army troops mopping up defeated and scattered groups of the enemy. His vision zoomed over the river, continuing west, where an enemy encampment on the west side of the river had few fires burning. The encampment, which stretched for miles along the river, had been occupied by the army which had crossed the river and been decisively defeated. As Regin’s disembodied sight floated silently overhead, he could see the enemy camp was split between men and orcs, with a swamp between them. Even in his disorientation and fright, Regin smiled inwardly to see how divided were the armies controlled by Tarador’s ancient enemy; the men of Acedor and the orcs of the north would fight each other at every opportunity.
Then the camp disappeared and Regin was flying over a forest of sickly, gnarled, stunted trees. Even from on high, he could imagine the unhealthy stench of the decaying woods. The forest continued west up over a chain of hills, and Regin gasped.
Just beyond the hills west of the River Fasse was another camp of the enemy. Only this camp made the one along the river look like a cluster of tents housing a mere hunting party. Tents and fires lay everywhere from the hills to the horizon. Everywhere Regin looked, he saw more tents, more corrals of horses, more men and orcs training for battle. The movement of his vision slowed, until he hovered over the center of the enormous camp. From the west, along every road, men and orcs were marching to swell the ranks of the camp. Strings of horses and oxen pulled huge wagons laden with supplies and equipment for war. Regin had never imagined an army of that size.
With a snap of the wizard’s bony fingers, Regin’s awareness returned to his familiar bed chamber outside the capital city of Linden “You see?” The wizard hissed. “You have seen the host my master had prepared to invade across the river into Anschulz. Your Royal Army cannot stand against such a mighty army. And what you saw does not include the army poised to invade Levanne, or the legions of arcs who will sweep down through the dwarves, and split Tarador down the middle from the north. Duke Falco, the Royal Army of Tarador, and the armies of your seven provinces, and all your wizards, are as nothing compared to the hosts my master will throw against you. Soon, you will be duke of nothing; duke of a scorched wasteland. If you are still alive, you will bow before my master, and you will beg for him to be merciful to your family. He will show you no mercy, if you have resisted his rightful desire to protect himself against those parasites, the Trehaymes.”
“The Trehaymes?” Regin asked, surprised.
The enemy wizard’s mouth moved silently, as if chewing on something unpleasant. “Much as it would please me to destroy scum like you, my master sent me here not to kill you, but to entreat with you. Do not think my master does not know your plan to retake the throne by your son marrying the princess, and then killing Ariana when she becomes queen.”
“Your master disapproves?” Regin did not bother to deny his plan.
“My master would greatly reward anyone who kills the princess, but your plan will never come to fruition. Your son will not be controlled by you; the Falcos will never regain the throne through him. You have now seen the mighty hosts my master will soon throw across the border into the heart of Tarador. None can stand against him, and no one in Tarador will survive his final triumph. Ariana will never become queen; there will be no throne of Tarador for you to take back for your family.”
“What,” Regin asked with a voice starved of air, “do you wish of me?” The wizard said his master wanted to offer something to Regin, in exchange for, what? What could the demon of Acedor want that the duke of Burwyck could give?
“My master is wise and merciful, except to those who take up arms against him. What my master offers you is the throne of Tarador. Now, for yourself. While there is a throne to be offered. You may take the throne in your own right, and you will save Tarador from destruction.”
Regin Falco should have refused the enemy’s treasonous plans. Instead, he considered the temptation of fulfilling, after generations, his family’s quest to regain the throne of Tarador. “How?”
“My master wishes peace, not conquest,” the lies dripped easily from the wizard’s tongue. “You will assist my master in killing the crown princess, the usurper of the throne Ariana Trehayme. Once she is dead, my master will support you taking the throne, and we can pull back from the brink of this unnecessary war. Terrible bloodshed can be avoided, Tarador will be saved, and the Falcos will once again take their rightful place at the leadership of your nation. Think on it, Duke Falco. My master chose to entreat with you, because of all the dukes and duchesses of your seven provinces, he judges you are strong. And because he recognizes your claim to the throne, the throne that was stolen from you by the treacherous Trehaymes. The treacherous and foolhardy Trehaymes, who have brought Tarador to the precipice of utter destruction. Think on it, Duke Falco. My master offers not only the throne to you; he offers life for the innocent citizens of your nation. Why should they pay with their lives for the aggressive actions of the Trehaymes, the Trehaymes with their endless desire for conquest?”
Regin shook his head. Was the enemy casting a spell to break his will as the wizard spoke?
Or did the enemy merely understand what lay deep inside Regin’s heart, his greatest desire, the desire that consumed him and blocked out all other concerns?
The duke of Burwyck should have rejected the enemy’s offer to support treason. Instead, he persuaded himself that he, and he alone, could save Tarador from complete and final destruction. He had indeed seen the unstoppable armies that the enemy could soon throw across the border. It was an army the wizard assured was only part of the enemy’s force. And Regin believed. He believed, because he had his own intelligence sources, both from his own army and within the Royal Army. And because he wanted to believe that defeat and destruction for Tarador were inevitable, for only that could justify his treason. “Your master offers me the throne? Throne of what?” He struggled against his own instincts and desires. “A land of slaves?”
“I said my master is merciful, and desires only peace. The peace of not being threatened by Tarador. My master will sign a treaty of peace with you, once you are king of Tarador. You must surrender all lands west of the summit of the Turmalanes, as a buffer between our nations, to protect the peaceful people of Acedor. Tribute must be paid to my master every year, to compensate for the threats and insults Tarador has given him over centuries. And Tarador will be banned from maintaining a standing army, for the only purpose of such an army would be to threaten my peace-loving master. You may use a force of sheriffs to maintain peace and good order within your border, of course.”
“Of course,” Regin repeated. “My son. My son Kyre. He has taken up arms against your master. Kyre acted on my orders,” his voice faded.
The wizard’s mouth moved again, gnashing his teeth against having to say something that greatly displeased him. “I told you that my master is merciful; part of his mercy is not to blame the son for the sins of his father. If you repent of your hateful aggressions against my master, your son will be spared.”
“And the others of my family?”
“You ask much, Duke Falco!” The wizard roared, and Regin’s heart was again spiked with fire. The wizard jerked like a puppet on strings, and the searing pain left Regin. For a moment, the wizard wavered on his feet, and when he spoke again, his voice was a pained whisper. “Your family will be safe, if you keep to your promise to my master. If any of your family continues to act against my master, they will answer for their crimes.”
“Understood,” Regin said quickly, ready for another sharp pain.
“Do we have an agreement?”
The duke of Burwyck did not answer. In part, he was playing for time to decide what to do. If he agreed, he would have the possibility of gaining the throne, of a country enslaved. But he might be able to save the life of his son. Making a deal with the enemy might be the only way to save Kyre’s life, for if Kyre continued on his current course, Regin may reluctantly have to order his own son killed. Kyre’s youthful emotional foolishness could not be allowed to destroy what the dukes and duchess of Burwyck had striven for over hundreds of years.
And, most importantly, Regin despaired of Tarador’s survival, having seen the almost endless army the enemy could use against the already strained and meager forces of Tarador. Ariana may be a far better leader than her mother, but she was also far too late to save her nation.
Regin’s heart was filled with despair. This was the end of everything he had hoped for, the end of everything he held dear. “Does your master need an answer tonight? This is a very serious decision for me to make.”
The wizard smile, a horrible sight that made Regin’s skin crawl. “There is no need for an answer, Duke Falco. My master knows what is in your heart. You have already decided.”
Regin found that he could move again, and he took deep breaths, his head in his hands. When his head was no longer spinning, he looked up that the emissary of Tarador’s ancient enemy. The emissary of the demon of the underworld. “What do you wish me to do?”
THE END
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Transcendent (Ascendant Book 2) Page 41
