by J. C. Staudt
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Fetch Geddle and Rylar Prince from the dungeons. Tell the old man it is time. And be sure the prince is well-guarded.”
“As you will.” The castellan bowed and took his leave.
“My father taught me that no man can have everything he wants. Oh, how I do wish he were here with us now. How I would’ve loved for him to see this.”
Darion would’ve bled the king’s nose with a swift headbutt, but he did not like the thought of what the three hooded men would do to him afterward. “I was wrong about the snake in the castle, your majesty,” he said. “It’s you. Your father was a true jötun of Dathrond. You are nothing more than a serpent.”
Olyvard smiled. “Charming. What you fail to grasp is that, while a jötun may be large and fearsome, a snake need only strike once to do its work. This, Sir Ulther, is my time to strike.”
“If you do not release Rylar Prince to his father, the Korengadi army will overrun the keep and march straight here,” Darion warned. “They’ll have begun their attack already. Had I been there, I might’ve swayed the battle in our favor. What was left of your armies is too small to repel Rudgar’s forces. The ford may be lost already for all we know, and your armies crushed. There may be no telling until the Korengadi show up on our doorstep.”
“You make quite the stirring argument, Sir Ulther. You seem to have forgotten the seeds I spoke of, though I mentioned them only a moment ago. You are losing your sharpness.” The king tapped himself on the temple. “I hope you’ve enough left up there to do what’s required of you. We’ll get to that in a moment, though. As it stands, I have three separate armies, each in the process of fulfilling its intended purpose. Those remaining at the ford are meant to flee. The rest of my army should have arrived in Korengad by now.”
“In Ko—” Darion cut himself off.
“You sound surprised. Yes, I lured Rudgar King to my shores using his son as bait. When the king and the prince are both gone, who rules in their stead? Why, their regent, of course. Castellan Master Gardwald has served me faithfully as a spy for many a year, just as he served my father before me. When my armies arrive at the gates of Cronarmark, they will walk in.”
“How can you hope to rule two kingdoms, and one so far from the other?”
“The well-being of Korengad is no concern of mine. So long as I control all trade through the Strait of Thraihm without those accursed Korengadi imposing their levies as they’ve done for hundreds of years, I shall foster new wealth the likes of which Dathrond has never seen before. And do you want to know the best part about this whole thing? Rudgar King will be none the wiser for months. I shall likely receive word of our successful conquest long before he does.”
“Rudgar King will have taken your throne before word arrives that you’ve stolen his,” said Darion.
“Ah, but you have not let me finish. That is where my third army comes in. They are on their way here even now. An army of mercenaries from the west.”
“The brigands who attacked Altenburg and burned Barrowdale to ashes?”
The king gave a jolly laugh. “The very same. They call themselves the Hand of Suffering.”
“Those men are criminals. They’ve been pillaging the Grey Teeth townships. Raping and murdering your subjects.”
Olyvard shrugged. “I had to pay them somehow. The royal coffers haven’t the gold to afford an army of sellswords on top of everything else.”
“You… hired them? To attack your own kingdom? Why would you set an army of bandits loose on your own people?”
“The raids served a dual purpose. First, that the Hand of Suffering took their reward in the spoils of their conquest. Second, the townships of the Grey Teeth were weak and undefended. Long have I urged the high lords of the western region to strengthen their defenses. Long have they ignored my decrees. They are the weak point in Dathrond’s borders, evidenced by the army of dwarf-kind who marched down the Elûnor and took the bridge there without resistance. Perhaps now they shall mind their king’s commands.”
“A lesson in violence and death,” Darion muttered. Gaelyn’s words came back to him. Olyvard King has many enemies, yes. Yet I am also certain he has allies in unlikely places.
Presently, Carthag returned with a group of soldiers in tow. Among them were Rylar Prince and a spotted old man, short and slight of build. Tufts of thin white hair peeked out from beneath a leather skull cap. He produced three scroll cases from a small satchel and handed them to the king.
“These scrolls contain the parts of the most powerful ritual the world has ever known,” Olyvard explained. “All but one of them have long been lost to time… until now. My mage Geddle has kindly arranged their retrieval and discovered their proper use. They are of a unique class of magic, in that each part may be spoken as its own spell. When all parts are spoken together, the effect is… quite different.
“There are only so many casters in the world with the skill and talent to intone such a complex series of sigils in harmony and timing with three others. To do so adds a layer of complexity which is possible only when performed with practiced rhythm. Four Warcasters are required. The Prince of Korengad is the first. My mage Geddle is the second. You, Sir Ulther, are the third.”
Darion did not want to know who the fourth was. He asked anyway.
Olyvard King laughed. “Why, haven’t you guessed by now? Partridge. Show him.”
The man with the cracked, dry voice lowered his hood. Recognition came again to Darion, but the face was something further than his memory-dreams could touch. Scars ran down the man’s aged cheeks, interrupted by patches of white stubble. Rough pink skin covered his bald forehead where he’d been badly burned. When he opened the collar of his gray overcoat, Darion remembered. Beneath the woolen fabric was a long, dark scar, a thick purple worm wriggling along the apple of his throat.
“Torrel,” Darion uttered. “Torrel… Partridge.”
“Very good,” the king said.
Darion was speechless. He had killed each and every one of the four thieves who’d murdered his father and savaged his mother; he was certain of it. How Torrel Partridge could be alive was beyond his reckoning.
“You did your work, Warcaster,” Torrel Partridge croaked. “I was dead. The druid Ceirath happened upon my corpse. You remember… it was the one you left naked, strung from a tree beside the Wildwood Road. Ceirath brought me back. I spent the years learning all he could teach me. Just as you had, Sir Ulther.”
“You and I are not alike, druid,” said Darion. “I’ve no fondness for tree-loving naturalists. It gave me great pleasure to kill you the first time, when you were naught but a petty thief. I shall take no less when I do it again.”
“You may find that a daunting prospect after tonight, I fear,” said the king. “Just as you studied magic so that you might have your revenge on the four thieves who took your father’s life, Partridge here studied the forces of nature so that he might take yours. After you help me cast my ritual, you are his to do with as he pleases. You are my payment to him for his services.”
“I refuse to be part of your ritual, whatever its purpose.”
“You, refuse me? That is an entertaining thought. No, I’m afraid every man has his price, Sir Ulther. Rylar Prince cares for the fate of his father and his armies. Geddle works for knowledge and for gold. Partridge, for sweet revenge. You, Sir Ulther… I know your price full well. You will not do this for me. You will do this… for her.”
Darion did not have to guess what that meant. “Alynor,” he breathed.
“Yes, yes. Oh, you are so perceptive. Mark me well, Warcaster. No matter how you choose to spend your last moments, rest assured—they will be your last. The choice you make, however, will determine the fate of your lady wife.”
For the first time, Darion struggled against his bonds. “Where is she?”
“Geddle has been looking after her for me. Haven’t you, Geddle?”
“That I have, your majesty,” the
old mage said with a cackle.
“What is your aim, Olyvard?” Darion asked. “Release her, and I will do whatever you wish.”
“That’s more like it. I wish only a little of that which you do best, Sir Ulther. Cast a spell. A spell to unravel the tapestry of magic.”
Darion frowned. “How can that be?”
“We may not know how magic came to be a part of our world, but we do know it can be destroyed. The mage-song lies over this world like the web of a spider, choking out the life that wishes to grow in its place; stifling us like a pestilence. Altering the balance of nature. This ritual will release us from the bonds of magic forever. No longer shall it burden us.”
“A world without magic is no place I wish to live,” said Darion.
“Lucky for you then. You won’t have to live in it long. Nature is the source of all good things, Sir Ulther. Its laws seek to maintain harmony, peace, and life. Magic defies those laws. It is an abomination, bent on destruction and chaos, and the world must be rid of it.”
“But… why?”
“It is all very simple. Dathrond has long possessed greater wealth, population, and breadth than every other kingdom in the realms. It is the persistent threat of learned casters like yourself which has kept us from enjoying an even larger share of the realms.”
“It’s kept you from conquering other kingdoms, you mean.”
“Since you put it that way… yes. Without magic, you see, there will be no casters to thwart my efforts. Dathrond will become the most powerful kingdom the realms have ever known. In fact, they will no longer be ‘the realms’ as we know them now. I will unite all the peoples of the world under one emblem; one power. One… empire.”
“A Dathiri Empire? That would be even worse than a world without magic.”
“We shall soon have both. My empire will uphold unity, harmony, justice, and peace. These are the tenets to which all people aspire. How can you oppose them?”
“How much bloodshed will you bring about before you find peace, your majesty? How many will die under the guise of unity before they bow in forced submission to your rule?”
Olyvard laughed. “You speak as if there aren’t subjects in every kingdom in the world who would give everything they have to be under the protection of Dathrond. This is a dream come true for many.”
“Are these the same people who watched their women raped and their children murdered in cold blood on the Grey Teeth? What is a king’s protection worth if it doesn’t extend past his own borders?”
“A man cannot stop the sands from shifting in the wind. Neither can he command a mercenary to exercise restraint in battle. Things are what they are, and we must use them as such. Recite the ritual, Sir Ulther. You have my word your lady wife will be set free as soon as the forces of magic are destroyed.”
“Things being what they are,” said Darion, “why would I trust the word of a snake?”
Olyvard held one of the scrolls out toward Darion. “Because you have no choice.”
Darion grabbed the case and unclasped it. He let the scroll unfurl and studied the sigils on the parchment. It was not an ancient page, as he’d expected, but newly pulped. They would never be so foolish as to hand me the only copy, he mused.
“Now, if you would… stand on that mark, there.” The king pointed, and the guards prodded Darion into one of the black circles chalked on the floor beside the long carpet. Geddle and Partridge each walked to the circles adjacent to him, while the guards took Rylar Prince to the one diagonal. When in position, they formed the four corners of a perfect square. Darion noticed Geddle was the only one not holding a scroll.
The soldiers and castellan Carthag evacuated the area inside the square. The guards split themselves between Darion and Rylar while the king came to stand behind Darion. Tapers were lit along the walls to replace the fading daylight.
“Are we ready, your majesty?” asked the old mage.
“Geddle knows the ritual’s first part by heart,” Olyvard King whispered. “He has been using it often lately to keep Rylar Prince at bay in his cell. Partridge will be casting the fourth part, the wild-song that shall allow the world itself to overcome the mage-song’s oppression.”
“I care not,” Darion said. “So long as you free my wife after this is done.”
“Well, Sir Ulther. It seems we have come to the end of your treason and treachery. And so, to the four corners of the world shall spread this cleansing. Geddle, you may begin.”
The old mage spent a few minutes offering instruction as to how the ritual was to be intoned. A Korengadi translator spoke Geddle’s words into Rylar Prince’s ear as he went along. Darion studied the long list of sigils on his scroll. There were some he did not know, but Geddle had transcribed their names into the realm-speech so he could understand. He wondered if the same had been done for Rylar.
When he was finished, Geddle lifted his arms and counted off.
Darion began his part in the ritual with the bitter taste of defeat lingering on his tongue. He intoned the sigils with rigid lethargy, following the rhythmic swaying of the old mage’s hands. This was no memory-dream; it was reality, true and present. A living nightmare from which he had no hope of emerging the same as he’d been before. Neither did the world, for that matter. And in those final moments, as Sir Darion Ulther thought of his wife and unborn child, he decided that perhaps it wasn’t feats of battle or famous deeds that made men heroes after all.
Chapter 26
Olyvard King never came to the dungeons to speak with Alynor and the prince, as the previous day’s guard had claimed he would. Instead, soldiers came to take Rylar from his cell. Alynor was half-asleep when it happened, exhausted after the pain of Geddle’s torture. She’d learned to take every opportunity for rest between the old mage’s visits. I must save my strength, she told herself. If this ever ends, I will need it.
The soldiers engaged in their usual small talk, exchanging what news or banter they could within the space of a few brief moments while the new guards relieved the old ones. They secured Rylar Prince by wrists and ankles, tightening a cloth gag around his mouth before unlocking his cell and escorting him from the chamber. He did not look at Alynor as he passed.
Are they taking him to speak with the king? she wondered. Am I next? She hoped not. She was too delirious from remembered pain to mind her courtesies before his majesty. Nor did she predict she would see fit to observe them. She would have been less worried had she not felt the abrupt stirrings of life within her belly the night before. The child inside her had moved; not a subtle stirring as in the weeks prior, but a true, unfettered awakening.
A shadow fell over Alynor’s cell as a bird flitted to the small window high above. It was larger than the doves and pigeons which often came by for a look at the prisoners. The birds seldom visited so close to sundown, either. It ducked its head and waddled through the bars, giving a squawk. She could see it clearly now, a regal creature with gray flecks on its white breast feathers. Ristocule, she almost said.
Across the room, a soldier cleared his throat. Alynor kept her gaze on the falcon, stunned. She looked around on the floor until her eyes fell on an uneaten bread crust. Picking it up, she stood and came slowly toward the creature. “Where did you come from, eh?” she whispered, holding the morsel between two outstretched fingers.
There was a throat-clearing sound again, louder and longer this time. Alynor turned back. One of the Dathiri soldiers was winking at her so feverishly it was as if he’d lost control of the muscles in his face. From beneath his heavy chainmail hood there curled a single wisp of flaxen hair.
Alynor froze. She scanned the room until she found Triolyn’s thick brown beard and Jeebo’s sharp canines and greenish skin. My gods, what are you doing here? she wanted to know. It wasn’t long before she found out.
With a wink and a smile, Kestrel flicked the butt of his spear and caught another soldier square on the jaw. The surprised man blinked, swayed on his feet, and fell.
Three black-and-white tabards flew into motion. Jeebo grabbed the man next to him and slammed his head into the steel bars of Alynor’s cell. Triolyn elbowed a man hard in the throat, then snatched his spear away and used it to trip another soldier on his way toward Jeebo. Steel sang as Kestrel drew his short blades to hack and cut at the arms and torsos of the soldiers around him. The footmen’s mail hauberks protected them from lethal injury, but they yelped and grunted at the pain from his strikes all the same.
Jeebo flung his spear around and struck a soldier across the face while Triolyn drove his shaft into the tender spot between another man’s legs. Kestrel was smacking them with the flats of his blades, hacking spears to pieces, knocking helmets away and bludgeoning them with his hilts.
In what seemed to Alynor like the blink of an eye, nine soldiers lay prostrate and groaning around the three companions. Kestrel sheathed his blades and told the guards to lie still, lest his associates be forced to dole out further punishment. After a thorough search for the keys, the three men came up empty-handed.
“How are we supposed to get her out of there with no keys?” Triolyn asked.
“Nothing a little magic can’t solve,” said Kestrel, rolling up his sleeves.
The singer spent a few moments casting a spell, then touched his finger to the keyhole. There was a thunderous crack and a flash of blue light. Kestrel’s arm flew back so hard it turned his body halfway round. He cursed and sucked his finger.
Triolyn laughed. “You ought to learn some magic before you try using it.”
“It isn’t my magic that’s the problem,” said Kestrel. “This lock is magically warded.”
“All the important ones are,” said Triolyn.
“I was afraid of that,” said Alynor. “Geddle left nothing to chance.”
“Here, let me try,” said Jeebo, stepping forward. “I’ve been known to break what magic can’t.” He jammed the point of his spear into the gap between lock and doorframe. Pushing with his muscular arms and churning with his legs, he inched forward until the spear’s wooden shaft was as curved as a longbow.
