Lorik felt more like himself with his swords strapped around his waist. He felt prepared for any threat and he scanned the crowds, rooftops, and city walls for any sign of resistance, but there appeared to be none. The crowd looked frightened, and Lorik couldn’t fault them for that. Behind him, high on the side of the castle, hung the bodies of Yettlebor and Issalyn. They were a grotesque pair; both bodies dripped blood as the carrion birds feasted on their flesh.
“What do you see?” Lorik shouted at the crowd that immediately fell silent. “Do you see your king and queen? No, you see only the dead.”
Lorik waved his massive arm at the bodies high on the castle wall.
“Yettlebor was an imposter. He was not even from our kingdom. You should not have tolerated his rule, but I will take some responsibility for that. I was not ready to rule, and in my absence a greedy foreigner took up residence. But as you can see, he has been rooted out along with any of his soldiers who dared face me.”
“Who are you, lord?” shouted someone in the crowd.
“You know who I am. I am the protector of Ortis, the defender of the weak, and I have become the judge and executioner of Ort City. I am here to return Ortis to greatness and lead you spineless lot back into prosperity. I am Lorik, your king.”
The crowd cheered, but Lorik felt no adulation. In fact, he only despised the citizens more for their timidity. They had accepted Yettlebor because it was easier than resisting. And now they accepted Lorik for the same reason. And in return he felt no love for them in his heart. They were the same people that had jeered and ridiculed him when he was Yettlebor’s prisoner. The darkness inside him prompted him to slay the disloyal hordes, but he refrained, biting back his anger.
“If you were a soldier serving under Yettlebor, you now have two choices. You may come and swear fealty to me. Or you may leave Ortis forever. If you do not, you will die.”
The crowd murmured at this, but Lorik didn’t care. He was through with mercy. He no longer believed in the good of people. All he saw before him were sheep, listless and disloyal. He would rule them because they were Ortisians, but he had no compassion for them.
“Return to your lives,” he commanded. “There will be no more punishment for your disloyalty, but from this moment forward, you shall serve me. We will root out lawlessness and return this kingdom to its rightful people.”
A few people clapped and cheered, but most of the crowd was too cowed to respond.
“If you served in the castle, you may return. There is much to be done, and I will not tolerate laziness. Ortis will be great again, and it will start in Ort City, in this very fortress. Remove the dead—scrub their traitorous blood from the walls and floors. Tonight we shall feast together to celebrate my reign.”
This time there was more cheering. As Lorik turned back into the castle, he saw many of the servants hurrying back toward the rear entrances, where they had easy access to the kitchens and storerooms. Lorik saw Kierian lurking in the shadows, watching him and the crowd. He did not bother to call for her. She would return to him when she was ready.
The great hall seemed gloomy, but before Lorik could stride across the length of the massive room, servants appeared. A fire was kindled in the huge hearth, and torches along the walls were lit. The feasting hall brightened considerably, and soon the smell of baking bread wafted in, making Lorik’s stomach growl.
The dark magic was powerful enough to sustain Lorik for days without food or water, but his flesh still craved sustenance and occasionally rest. He would eat at the feast and drink his fill of ale and wine. Then he would sleep, but in the morning he would set out to find Ulber and the band of mercenaries that had played a roll in Vera’s death.
One by one soldiers came into the feasting hall. Most were young men, barely old enough to shave. Yettlebor had recruited the most impressionable young men into his army, which was mainly made up of soldiers from Baskla. The young Ortisians were made to stand watch on the city walls and man the garrison on the far side of Ort City. When Lorik had emptied the castle, those young, impressionable soldiers had no idea what to do. They were frightened but willing to accept Lorik as their lord. They came in and bowed before him, swearing to serve him in life and death. By nightfall nearly a hundred men had formed the first of Lorik’s army.
He sent the oldest men to stand watch on the city walls; the others were allowed to stay for the feast. And it was a magnificent affair. The servants had slaughtered several cows, butchering the bodies and roasting the meat on huge fires. The choicest cuts were taken into the castle, where courtiers and wealthy merchants had slowly returned. Very few approached Lorik, who seemed even more massive on the king’s dais, his huge frame filling the oversized throne. Those who did stammered out their pledge of loyalty. Lorik barely listened; his mind was already pursuing Ulber.
Entertainers came in, and some of the bards had hastily composed songs that retold Lorik’s achievements. The crowd was entertained, but Lorik was more interested in the food. He ate three times as much as any other man and drank ale until his head began to swim. Then, without a word to any of the revelers, he left the feasting hall. He could tell that his absence only made the atmosphere in the great hall more festive.
He climbed to the balcony that overlooked the city and saw the people celebrating in the streets. Torches and bonfires burned throughout the city, casting the streets in bright colors, but Lorik preferred the darkness. He lit no lanterns or torches as he made his way back into the king’s quarters. Everything had been cleaned, including the sheets on the king’s bed. But Yettlebor and Issalyn still hung from the window by the imposter’s own entrails. The smell of rotting flesh was strong. Lorik drew his sword and severed the intestines that held the former king and queen, listening to their bodies fall to the courtyard below with satisfaction.
He refused to sleep in the same bed that Yettlebor had defiled. He would have the servants remove it and a new bed fashioned to support his large frame. In the meantime, he found a guest room, pulled the thick mattress from the bed, and arranged it on the floor by the fireplace. The room was cold, and Lorik kindled a small fire in the hearth. When the light from the fire spilled out into the room, Lorik could see the ghostly form of Spector hovering near the ceiling.
“Make sure no one kills me in my sleep,” he ordered the wraith.
“What makes you think I won’t do it myself?” Spector hissed.
“You won’t kill me, because you want me to suffer,” Lorik said.
“I do indeed.”
“So don’t let anyone else do it for you,” Lorik insisted.
He removed his armor and lay down on the thick mattress. The warmth from the fire felt good, and for a few moments, he felt happy. The darkness that resided inside him seemed to retreat, and the world was practically at his feet in that moment. But then, as he closed his eyes, he saw Vera being held by Yettlebor just before she died. She was staring at Stone, who had fallen to his knees with an arrow embedded in his side. Yettlebor was staring at Lorik with an evil grin, and Vera’s face grew white with fear. She realized what was coming and that no one could save her.
Then the knife plunged in, and Lorik felt the pain of her loss and his helplessness in that moment all over again. Tears flooded from his eyes, and he writhed on his bed. His dreams were haunted by that image over and over again. There was no rest in the darkness, no relief from his guilt. And in his heart, more than ever, he longed to kill everyone responsible, everyone who stood by without helping, and anyone who dared to cross him ever again.
Chapter 12
Zollin raised a magical shield around his body. It happened out of reflex, not thought or planning, but it saved his life. He was knocked to the ground by the men who would have stabbed him with their dark blades had he not seen them running toward him in time. The magic kept the fists and blades from reaching Zollin, but he felt every impact. His magic flared to life, billowing hot inside him like a fire burning out of control.
Without s
aying a word, blue energy came flooding out of him, crackling and popping like a tiny lightning storm. The dark street was suddenly flooded with light; the two men attacking him stiffened as the energy pulsed through their bodies. Zollin smelled the burning flesh as the men fell to the ground, and he was just getting to his feet when a bolt from a crossbow slammed into his shield. The bolt was so powerful from close range that it nearly tore through the magical barrier.
Zollin staggered back from the force of the blow but managed to stay on his feet. He was angry, and his mind was fully engaged in the fight. He swung his hand over his head, kindling a long tongue of flame that filled the dark street with light. Another bolt was fired at him from a dark nook where the assailants had been waiting to ambush him. Zollin took the bolt on his magical shield, feeding his strength into the invisible bubble that protected him. Then he flung his arm forward, casting the fire at the men in the nook. There were two men, both with crossbows. They had been in the act of reloading but they dropped their weapons and dove out of the nook as the fire crashed into the tight space.
The buildings on either side of the narrow street were made of wood, and the space around the nook caught fire easily. Orange light flooded the narrow street from the flames, but Zollin knew he couldn’t let the buildings burn. He wanted to kill the men who had attacked him, but he had to extinguish the flames first. He sent a wave of magic to smother the flames, keeping his focus on the buildings until he was certain that the fire was put out. The wood was singed and blackened, but not burned enough to be brittle.
When Zollin turned his attention back to the men who had fired the crossbows, he was surprised to see them up and running. He reached out with his magical power, snagging the slower of the two men just before the first raced around the corner and out of sight. Zollin levitated the man back to where he stood and dropped him headfirst onto the ground. The man was screaming hysterically, forcing Zollin to drop to one knee on the man’s chest and clamp his hand down hard over the man’s mouth.
“Shut up or you die,” Zollin threatened.
In the back of his mind, he imagined Miriam’s look of disapproval. He had to shake the memory away. It wasn’t her life in danger, and he hadn’t attacked the men—they had tried to murder him. Their intent was to kill, his was to survive, and Zollin could see nothing wrong with that.
It was dark in the narrow street again, and Zollin waited for a moment, listening to hear if anyone was coming to investigate the panicked screams of the man he’d captured. He knew he should have used his magic to sense if anyone was coming, but he’d overtaxed himself in the heat of battle. He could feel the magic burning hot inside him, almost as if it were roasting his insides. There was a sharp pain in his stomach, but he ignored it, focusing his attention on the man and keeping his magical shield intact around most of his body. The last thing he could afford at that moment was to drop his defenses.
“Who sent you?” Zollin demanded.
The man shook his head, and Zollin leaned closer. He held his free hand up above his assailant’s face and let blue magical energy crackle around his fingers. The spell gave off just enough light for Zollin to see the man’s face. His eyes were open wide with terror, and he was trembling.
Zollin shifted his weight, making it easier for the man to breathe, and removed his hand from the man’s mouth, but he kept his other hand above the assailant’s head, the blue magical energy giving just enough light for Zollin to see by. And of course, it focused the man’s attention on Zollin’s magic, so that his threats carried the weight of his power.
“Who sent you?” Zollin asked again.
“He’ll kill me,” the man said in a hoarse whisper.
“I’ll kill you, the same way I killed your friends,” Zollin threatened. “Tell me who sent you and where he is. I’ll let you walk away from this.”
“Murtah will have me hunted down and killed,” the man whimpered.
“Not if he’s dead,” Zollin said in a cold voice. “You tell me where he is and you can leave Felson forever. At least you’ll have a chance. Otherwise you’re dead where you lie.”
“Okay, okay,” the man said. “He’s in the Crooked Stream. It’s an inn on the outskirts. He does all his work from there.”
“Good. What do I need to know about it?”
“There’ll be men on the second floor with crossbows,” the assailant said. “And he’ll have men with him in the main room, too. In fact, the entire building will be filled with outlaws. Murtah runs all the games in town, and everyone kicks a percentage of their business up to him. Most of the businesses pay him protection money. He’s got a lot of guys.”
“Any innocents in the building?” Zollin asked, thinking he might just set the whole building on fire and save the town from the entire bunch in one fell swoop.
“He’s got a few people that work for him. An innkeeper, some wenches, and occasionally they keep someone there when they’re working them over or holding them for ransom.”
“All right, and which side of town is this inn on?” Zollin asked.
“The west side,” the man replied. “In the old section.”
“Fine,” Zollin said. “Leave the city and never come back.”
He stood up, and the man scrambled to his feet. It was too dark to see the man running, but he could hear the man’s footsteps as he raced away. Zollin felt a sense of fatigue settle onto him like a heavy fog. He knew he needed food and wine before he did anything else. He moved cautiously out of the narrow street and spotted an inn not very far away. He went there quickly and stepped inside. It was an old building; the innkeeper was an elderly man. The common room was nearly empty, with only one other occupant, who was obviously a friend of the innkeeper.
“You have food?” Zollin asked.
“A little,” the man said. “I don’t get business since my wife died.”
“Get me everything you can,” Zollin said. “And wine.”
He dropped two silver marks on the table. The innkeeper nodded and picked up the coins. Zollin moved toward the fire and took a seat with his back against the wall so he could see what was taking place in the room. The elderly innkeeper returned with a tray of bread and fried potatoes with onions. There was a meat of some kind in the food, but only a few scraps, and Zollin couldn’t identify it. He wolfed down the food and drank nearly an entire bottle of wine that the innkeeper had obviously watered down. In different circumstances Zollin might have complained, but all he cared about was regaining his strength, and the food helped calm the raging fire inside him.
“Will you need a room?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Zollin said. “A clean one preferably.”
“I’ve still got clean rooms,” the man said. “I have a woman who takes care of that.”
“You should hire a cook,” Zollin said.
“No one could compare with my wife’s skill in the kitchen.”
“Hold the room for me,” Zollin said. “I shouldn’t be gone too long.”
The old man nodded, and Zollin could see him rubbing his bent fingers over the coins Zollin had paid him, which the innkeeper had stashed in a wide pocket of his apron. At least the old man would be able to buy some meat for the next week or so, Zollin told himself.
The cold seemed to leech into Zollin’s bones and joints. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so cold. Whenever he flew with Ferno, the great beast’s body heat kept Zollin from freezing, but the young wizard felt as if he might not ever be warm again as he walked quickly toward the west side of town. Zollin was still tired; it had been a long day, and he’d used more magic than normal. What he really wanted was to crawl into a warm bed and get a good night’s rest, but he knew that if he didn’t deal with the man named Murtah, he might be attacked in his sleep. Zollin was a powerful wizard, but he couldn’t defend himself while he slept, and Ferno wouldn’t be back until the morning.
Zollin let his magical senses flow out when he got to the section of the city the locals calle
d Old Town. The buildings were well constructed from stone and thick timber. Everything seemed to be in good repair, the streets were cleaner, and the homes were more lavish. Zollin had no trouble finding the Crooked Stream. It was a tall, imposing building. Zollin stood hidden in the shadows of another building several hundred paces away and let his magic flow toward the inn. He could sense that dozens of people were in the building, but he didn’t try to identify any of them. Instead, he focused on making sure that no one was around the building.
When he was convinced that he could approach the structure safely, he raised a shield around himself and moved slowly toward the inn. Along the way he picked up a few small stones and held them in his open palm, like a servant carrying a platter. When he got to the inn, he felt the presence of three men looking out windows from the second story of the building. He waited, sensing everything his magic could tell him about the men. Zollin felt with his magic when the windows opened, felt the men lifting their crossbows and taking aim at him. Zollin levitated three small stones, each about the size of a ripe cherry. Then he sent them hurtling toward the men with the crossbows. All three stones hit their marks, crashing into the heads of the bowmen so hard they knocked the men down.
Zollin walked confidently to the inn and put his hand on the door. It wouldn’t budge, but Zollin let his magic flow into the door. He sensed a heavy wooden beam locking the door. He used his magic to slide the beam aside. The door swung open easily after that, and the noise of people drinking and carousing inside suddenly stopped. Zollin spotted Murtah immediately. The criminal was sitting alone, in the corner of the room near the massive fireplace.
“Send anyone away that you don’t want to die,” Zollin said.
Murtah smiled. “You have style, wizard,” he said. “But you are outmatched, I’m afraid.”
“Your mistake was sending men to kill me,” Zollin said. “I told you that I was simply passing through. You must not be a good judge of character.”
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