The High Council (Royal Institute of Magic, Book 6)
Page 1
Royal Institute of Magic
The High Council
By
Victor Kloss
Cover artwork by Andrew Gaia
Text copyright © 2017 Layton Kloss Ltd
All Rights Reserved
www.RoyalInstituteofMagic.com
Table of Contents
Chapter One
The Queen’s Final Warning
Chapter Two
Back to the Institute
Chapter Three
Hard Decisions
Chapter Four
Box Dwarfs
Chapter Five
It Takes Practice
Chapter Six
It’s About Acceptance
Chapter Seven
To Arms!
Chapter Eight
The Institute Dungeons
Chapter Nine
The Quest Begins
Chapter Ten
Abigail Takes a Risk
Chapter Eleven
Sometimes You Have to Fight
Chapter Twelve
A Surprising Turn of Events
Chapter Thirteen
The Long Flight
Chapter Fourteen
A Close Call
Chapter Fifteen
Under Water
Chapter Sixteen
The Tunnels of Erellia
Chapter Seventeen
A Secret Meeting
Chapter Eighteen
Moss and Frost
Chapter Nineteen
A Way Out
Chapter Twenty
Don’t Look Down
Chapter Twenty-One
Pigs and Wolves
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Pack
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Lord of the Underworld
Chapter Twenty-Four
A Bit of Luck
Chapter Twenty-Five
The End of the Journey
Chapter Twenty-Six
Krobeg’s Great Sacrifice
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Help From Surprising Places
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Friend or Foe?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Where the Real Fight Is
Chapter Thirty
The King of Erellia
Chapter Thirty-One
The War
Chapter Thirty-Two
A Different Kind of Prison
Chapter Thirty-Three
Charlie, the Hero
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Head Guardian
Chapter Thirty-Five
Turning of the Tide
Chapter Thirty-Six
The High Council Revealed
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Institute Prevails
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I Have a Plan
From the Publisher
About the Author
— Chapter One —
The Queen’s Final Warning
Date: 27th March 1603
“The Queen is dying, and you're late,” Lord Samuel said. “I hope there is a good explanation for your ill-timed absence.”
“There is,” Michael Greenwood said, without elaborating. The lack of explanation turned Samuel's face a bright shade of red, which gave Michael a little pleasure, an emotion in short supply at the moment.
All five founding directors were present in the hallway of the executive floor of the Royal Institute of Magic, each showing various degrees of anxiety. Lord Samuel commanded a large chair, and was constantly flicking his beady eyes at the throne room door. The Scholar and Diplomacy directors looked no less nervous, sitting on a gold-plated chaise longue, hands plastered firmly on thighs. Only Charlotte, Trade Director, showed any calm, which Michael admired. She strode up and down the hallway, heedless of Samuel's nasty looks.
Michael chose to lean against the wall, at a respectable distance from the throne room.
“What are the doctors saying?” he asked.
“An hour, at the most,” Charlotte said. “Under her orders, we have faked her death in London, and brought her here. She has instructions for each of us.”
“We just need those blasted doctors to let us in,” Lord Samuel said. “I'm starting to wonder if they are stopping us on purpose.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Samuel,” Charlotte said. She was still pacing the room, her petite green dress swishing to and fro. “They will let us in when she is ready.”
But she wasn't ready for another half an hour, and by that time, even Michael was starting to fidget, clenching and relaxing his hands. Samuel had escalated his mutterings to unpleasant remarks about the doctors, and anyone else who happened to cross his mind. Charlotte had stopped and started her pacing half a dozen times, whenever there was a hint of noise from the throne room.
Michael was beginning to wonder how much longer the Queen's health would hold, when the door finally opened, and an immaculately dressed guard appeared, a spellshooter upon his waist.
“Lord Samuel, would you come through, please? Her Majesty is waiting.”
Samuel dabbed his forehead and cheeks with his now damp handkerchief, and hauled himself to his feet with a strength that defied his weight. He passed through, and the guard promptly shut the door.
There was a group intake of breath, as the four directors watched him leave.
“What could the Queen have to say in her final hour?” Sophia the Scholar Director wondered, staring wide-eyed at the locked door.
“Plenty, I would imagine,” Charlotte said. “My concern is that she is lucid enough to say it. She's died once already. It's only powerful magic that's keeping her alive.”
“She'll be lucid,” Michael said. “Of that you can be sure.”
Sophia nodded, but didn't appear convinced, and went back to staring at the door, her hands pinching her dress.
Charlotte had taken the seat Samuel had occupied, so Michael took the role of pacing the hallway slowly. He cast his mind back to the last time all the directors were together, waiting upon the Queen. Back then she had given them specific instructions on what to do with her armour, and Michael had no doubt that her orders would be no less significant this time.
The wait for Samuel to return seemed to drag out endlessly, and had them jumping at even the smallest sound from the door. Michael was semi-occupied counting the exact steps between each of his journeys back and forth down the hallway, when he heard the door open.
Lord Samuel emerged, looking thoughtful, his eyes focused on the floor. Michael tried to read his expression and was surprised when Samuel stopped next to him, and gave him an appraising look.
“When you are done, we need to talk,” Samuel said, his voice brokering no doubt upon the matter.
Michael was caught by Samuel's unusual sincerity, and only managed a nod before the Warden Director disappeared down the hallway.
“Charlotte Rowe,” the guard called.
Charlotte bit her lip and, despite the nervous wait, strode with determination into the throne room, where the guard promptly shut the door again, leaving just three of them.
To Michael's surprise, Charlotte took almost as long as Lord Samuel, and emerged some twenty minutes later, looking quite emotional. She stopped just as she was about to pass Michael, and put a hand on his arm. Her steely grey eyes looked moist.
“She's a remarkable woman,” Charlotte said, her voice soft, almost distant. “Listen carefully to what she has to say. I have a feeling your message will be the most significant.”
“I will,” Michael assured her, even as Sophia was called upon and passed inside.
The remaini
ng two directors took less than ten minutes, and both looked just as emotional as Charlotte upon their departure.
Michael expected to be ushered right in, but it took an unusually long time before the guard emerged for the final time.
“Director Greenwood. Her Majesty is ready.”
Michael was expecting Queen Elizabeth to be lying on her death bed, surrounded by some of the best Institute healers, salvaging the last few moments of her life.
What he saw was entirely different.
Queen Elizabeth sat on a gilded chair at the centre of the spacious, exquisitely furnished throne room. There were a couple of Institute healers either side of the room he recognised, and they gave him an appropriately respectful nod befitting his position, but they made no move to fuss over the Queen, nor did it seem like she required it.
Michael bowed and the Queen beckoned him forwards. There was a small desk in front of her, piled with several scrolls and documents. On the other side was a chair, which Michael sat down on.
“This brings back some memories,” Queen Elizabeth said, with a subtle smile. “Though if I remember correctly, you were standing last time we had a discussion of this significance.”
“I don't recall a chair being present,” Michael said, with a straight face.
Coming from anyone else, Michael's comment might have been considered inappropriate, but the Queen only gave another smile. Now that he was this close, Michael could more clearly see the genuine state of the Commander. Her skin was pale, and plastered tightly against her face. Her eyes, as strong as ever, were deathly tired, and Michael noticed with some alarm that the flecks of gold in her pupils had almost entirely taken over their usual brown complexion.
She was at death's door, being held in the realm of the living by sheer willpower and considerable magic.
“My healers tell me I have less than twenty minutes,” Elizabeth said, “and there is much to say, so it would be well to get started.”
“Twenty minutes?” Michael said, with alarm. “Is there nothing else to be done?”
“No. It is a miracle I'm alive. As it is, we have fooled my subjects, and my body will be rushed back to London the moment I pass.” She lifted a pockmarked hand. “Now, there is some vital information I have withheld from everyone regarding the Unseen Kingdoms. I have been very careful to guard it, but you, Michael Greenwood, are about to become its custodian, if you are ready?”
Michael felt his heart flicker, but he maintained a composed face. “I am ready.”
Despite Michael's agreement, the Queen gave him a long hard look before continuing.
“Did you ever wonder how I came upon the Unseen Kingdoms in the first place? After all, they are not something one simply stumbles upon.”
“I assumed you were approached by one of the kingdoms — Theron, most likely. They were always ambitious,” Michael replied.
“No,” the Queen said. “The Unseen Kingdoms never approached me.”
Michael frowned. “Who did then?”
“An emissary from the High Council,” Queen Elizabeth said. “A grand sorcerer by the name of Laslor Keep.”
Michael found himself lost for words, which was just as well, as the Queen wasn't finished.
“I was sailing across up the North Sea, when Laslor appeared quite suddenly upon deck. There was much disturbance upon the sailors, but frankly, none of them could touch a sorcerer of such power.”
Michael was aware that the Queen's hands were shaking a little, as the final minutes of her life were quickly ebbing by.
“What is the High Council?”
“A brotherhood of twenty-four of the most powerful and dangerous sorcerers in the Unseen Kingdoms. They represent every race. Their knowledge and skill in the science of magic is unparalleled. Of course, this was the first time I had encountered magic of any sort, but it did not take long to realise that I had stumbled upon something very unusual.”
“What did they want?” Michael asked, his voice now almost a whisper.
“Nothing,” the Queen said. “But they imparted wisdom of the Unseen Kingdoms, and told me of the land and riches that could be mine. They would, they promised, give me access to these kingdoms.”
Michael frowned. Something didn't feel right. “Why would they do that?”
Queen Elizabeth gave an unhealthy cough, and Michael spotted a little blood, but he knew better than to rush to her aid.
“A growing threat,” Elizabeth said, after a moment. “They warned me that in time, a powerful enemy, one that cannot be over-estimated, would come forth, and that it would be my responsibility to withstand that enemy. They felt that my empire had the best chance of doing so.”
Michael's attention immediately went to the dark elf king. “You think they were talking about Suktar?”
“I do,” Elizabeth said, with a subtle nod. “As Suktar's army grew, he began to conquer several of the Unseen Kingdoms, and I was visited several more times by the High Council. Upon the eve of the great battle, where we eventually banished Suktar from the land of the living, the High Mage, Lord of the Council, came to me himself with a gift. Can you guess what that gift was?”
Michael's voice was so soft he barely heard himself. “Elizabeth's Armour. Your armour.”
Despite the Queen's health, he stared at the table, littered with papers, and took several moments to compose himself.
“I take it there is a point to this story,” Michael said, eventually.
The Queen nodded, her frail arms clasping the armchair once more. “The High Council. I do not trust them.”
Michael had a great deal of respect for the Queen's intelligence, but that comment gave him a little start.
“Why not?” he asked. “Surely they have been on our side from the very start?”
“Manipulation,” Queen Elizabeth said. “I know all about it, and it smells strongly within the High Council. Any group with that much power must be treated with caution.”
The Queen gave a sudden spasm of her chest, but before Michael could move, one of the healers rushed forwards, and fired a small white spell into her chest. She relaxed, but only a fraction, and Michael could see beads of sweat running down her forehead.
Nevertheless, she remained upright, and stared Michael right in the eye.
“I have a job for you, perhaps the most important of all,” she said, her voice somehow sounding clear despite the pain that must have been wracking her body.
“Anything, of course, Your Majesty,” Michael said.
“The High Council,” Elizabeth said. “They will have some role to play, perhaps not now, but certainly at the end. It will be your responsibility to discover what that is, and make sure it doesn't come back and haunt us all, which I fear it may do if left undiscovered.”
“I will make it a priority,” Michael assured her.
The Queen gave a nod, and then went into another fit of coughs. Again, the healer fired a spell into her chest, but this time it did very little, and Michael had the sudden urge to lean over and help. But the Queen spotted his intention and raised an arm.
“I think it is time for you to go,” Elizabeth said. “I am almost done here.”
Michael felt a sudden rush of emotion that started at his head and rushed down through his body, making him flush. He stood up, and then hesitated.
Despite the pain and pressure of the occasion, the Queen gave him a rare affectionate look.
“I have enjoyed our company, Michael Greenwood. Be well, and good luck.”
Michael smiled, though he couldn't find the right words in response. Instead, he turned, took in one last look at the Commander of the Institute, and left the throne room, knowing he had just seen Queen Elizabeth for the last time.
— Chapter Two —
Back to the Institute
Date: Present Day
“Get down!”
Ben yanked Charlie down as a searing purple flash sizzled the top of his short, frazzled hair.
“Where did that come fro
m?” Charlie asked, looking around in utter confusion.
“Dark elves on steeds, at six o'clock,” Krobeg said.
His leathered dwarven face was stern, but the shining light in his eyes gave Ben the idea that he might be enjoying himself.
“I can go back and remove them,” Krobeg offered.
Ben glanced behind and saw a half-dozen dark elves riding the most peculiar hind-based animals that reminded him of a certain particular meat-eating dinosaur. They were snapping and slashing their way through the London crowd, towards Victoria Station. But, to their credit, the London authorities were beginning to come to grips with the terror that was unfolding; the police and even first signs of the military were beginning to materialise, slowing the dark elves.
“No, let them go. We need to get out of here,” Ben said.
Krobeg gave the smallest glance of disappointment, before following Ben and the others into Victoria Station, where they came to an almost complete standstill. Despite its size, with vast arches and huge floor space to provide for the twenty platforms, it was complete pandemonium. The calmer citizens were trying to come to terms with what was going on, but many had spotted the dark elves and were running in every direction.
Not everyone was panicking. In typical London spirit, many braver souls were charging the dark elves that had broken into the station with anything they could get their hands on, from umbrellas to scalding cups of coffee. Several from both sides went down and Ben's heart went out to them. He desperately wanted to join the fight, but instead forced himself towards the London Underground.
“I feel terrible,” Abigail said, her large brown eyes eyeing the scene with despair. “Is there nothing we can do?”
“Not right now,” Dagmar said. “Ben is right. We need to get back to the Institute.”
With some difficulty, Ben squeezed his way down the stairs into the Underground, going against the majority of traffic, most of which was trying to get out, the poor souls probably not realising that was where the real danger lay. He dived over the ticket barrier, as did Joshua, whereas Krobeg just charged right through them, leaving a convenient path for the others. Ben flew down the first series of escalators, until he saw a lift that, despite the chaos, went completely unused. Eyes glazed over it; some even stopped for a moment to wonder at its presence, before inevitably moving on.