by Kel Kade
Rezkin and Wesson untied the soldiers, who each hurried to put distance between himself and the mage. They were instructed to collect a sword from the pile and then stand in a circle in the center of courtyard facing outward. Once the men were in place, Wesson began weaving the difficult spell. Rezkin watched him with interest, the process seeming needlessly complicated. To the mundane soldiers, the mage appeared to be erratically waving his hands in the air as he muttered; but, when Rezkin focused, he could see the complex tapestry of vimara that started with Wesson’s hands and then expanded outward and around the entire room. Wesson began cinching it inward, the weave getting tighter as it wrapped around the soldiers.
“Uh, Rez? You might want to leave,” Wesson said, the waver in his voice baring his concern.
“What is the problem?” Rezkin said.
The men began to panic, even more so once they realized their feet were rooted to the ground.
“Well, um, you kind of got wrapped in the spell, and … um … I am not sure you can get out of it.”
As Rezkin stared, he noticed a small splotched cat had come to sit beside the mage. It watched the proceedings with interest and did not seem concerned in the least by the commotion.
“It will be fine. Continue,” Rezkin said.
“I appreciate your confidence in my abilities,” Wesson said through gritted teeth, “but this would not be the spell with which to test yourself.”
Wesson threaded the last strand into the spell, splitting it into multiple lines and attaching one end to the trickle of vimara within each of the men. The soldiers’ vimara began to seep into the spell, keeping it powered as Wesson withdrew his own. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked at Rezkin, who was wrapped in threads as well.
“Alright, it is tied off. I can activate it when you are ready.”
“Wait, what are you doing to us? We deserve to know,” shouted one of the soldiers.
Wesson looked at the frightened faces of the men on his side of the circle. “Did your mother ever tell you not to make an ugly face because it would freeze that way?”
The one who had asked said, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, that is about to happen—to your whole body.”
Rezkin grinned and said, “So strike a daring pose.”
Wesson frowned. “It will be temporary,” he said with an anxious glance at Rezkin, “but it will keep you from reporting to the fort while we go about our business. The drauglics should not even take notice of you if this works, but we do not know the circumstances in which you will find yourselves when it wears off—hence, the swords.”
“Wait, you can’t do this—”
“It is better than death,” Wesson said again, more for himself than for them, since he was uncertain they would survive the spell.
Rezkin nodded, and Wesson ignored the men’s shouts as he activated the spell. A silent concussion of power swept outward from the center and then was just as suddenly sucked inward in a bone jarring implosion. Panic surged through him as he worried over his potential mistakes. When he was not showered in gore, he finally filled his lungs with the air he so badly needed.
Wesson watched as the spell began to take hold, and the men yanked furiously at their failing limbs. “They are going to hurt themselves,” he muttered.
Rezkin glanced at the cat and then focused, pressing his will on the men who were already under the influence of a powerful spell. “Attention!” he shouted.
The combination of Wesson’s spell and whatever power was behind Rezkin’s will produced the desired effect. Like the well-trained recruits they were, their frantic motions ceased, and each of the men abruptly came to attention, a ring of soldiers bearing arms. Their skin and hair became pale and then turned white as their breathing slowed to naught. Their clothes and swords were changed as well, and within seconds, the soldiers had become phenomenally detailed statues, their exquisite forms refined by the imperfections of ten unique individuals.
Rezkin felt the spell slither over his skin, but with each grasp and tug, its tendrils failed to gain purchase, slipping away ineffectually. The stone pressed against the skin over his sternum turned cold, and a sense of alien anger invaded a small and distant part of his mind. His gaze urgently sought the cat, but it was no longer resting at Wesson’s feet. In fact, it had penetrated his space without him noticing and was sitting only a pace away, glaring. Its attention was not on him, though. It was on his chest—exactly where the stone lay hidden beneath his shirt and armor on the lace around his neck. The cat stared intently, and then its yellow eyes flashed orange. Seemingly in response, the stone heated to an uncomfortable burn. Then, the cat met his gaze and blinked, its accusatory expression becoming haughty and judgmental.
Rezkin tore his eyes from the cat to see Wesson watching the strange, silent exchange between man and tiny beast. Ignoring the cat, Rezkin dragged his fingers down the face of one of the statues and found that it felt like any natural stone carving.
“Are they aware?” he asked.
“I do not believe so,” Wesson said as he stared into one soldier’s empty gaze. They are stone throughout, mind and body.
Rezkin ran his finger along the stone that used to be a blade. “How is this temporary, then?”
Wesson’s expression was worried. “I am not sure that it is. I tried to tie the aura to the spell. I am no necromancer, but I thought maybe I had achieved a connection with the chiandre. The spell was supposed to mimic the properties of stone while maintaining the body’s ability to support the soul and also preserving the soul’s connection between the body and the Afterlife. This”—he looked deeply into the eyes of the statue—“is so complete, it is amazing. I have never heard of anyone transforming a living being into stone.” Then, remembering his subjects, his eyes began to tear. “I can no longer sense the power of the spell, though. I think I messed up. I am afraid I have killed them.”
“Time will tell, Journeyman,” Rezkin said. “The drauglics will not be interested in stone, and they will be armed when they awaken.”
“If the spell has already dissipated, then they are surely done. I designed it to become unstable as their vimara drops. When it dipped below a certain threshold, the spell would no longer receive power, and it would collapse. It is why I could not have used it on the purifiers. Their wells were deep. They would have remained embedded in stone for centuries, maybe longer. With these mundanes, it should have lasted a month or two at most. If the spell has already ceased, though, and they have not changed back, then they are dead.”
“We tried,” Rezkin said. “Remember, any one of them would have killed you had he known what you are. They would have killed the rest of us on the unfounded assumption that we killed the residents of this plantation.”
“I know,” Wesson said with a nod. “Really, I do.”
“Then what distresses you?” Rezkin asked.
Wesson turned. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words were not strong enough to pass his lips. Finally, he whispered, “Another time, perhaps.”
After days of plodding down the busy road that led from the coast through Behrglyn and Tahn to the inland capital of Drovsk, the dark smudge on the horizon took form. Orin and his men had elected to travel separately, hoping the physical distance between the two parties would be enough to detach them from the events at the plantation. Luckily, it appeared the drauglics had either avoided or had not yet reached the somewhat more populated south.
The long approach to the King’s Seat gave the travelers ample time to survey the city’s unusual architecture. For those who had been graced with the sight of it, nothing could compare to the splendor of Caellurum, but anyone besides the Gendishen would agree that Drovsk was ugly. The surrounding landscape was hidden by crops and wild fields—no mountain, forest, or sea in sight. It appeared as though some weary traveler from long ago had given up after weeks of trudging through endless plains and decided to build a city where he stood. Without the luxury of natural
defenses, a monstrous wall had sprouted to surround the castle at the center. As the city grew, more walls had been built, but rather than surrounding the entire city over and again, as in Serret, each consecutive wall encapsulated only the newly built structures. Rezkin imagined that if he could view the city as a hawk, it would look like a senseless mosaic. The only entrance was through the gate at the end of the road. Once inside, travelers had to navigate a nonsensical maze of gateways, each with guards determining who was permitted into the respective sector.
Rezkin’s group stopped long before they reached the city, though. A blockade manned by soldiers had been erected across the road, and picket lines of tall, sharpened posts and crossbeams had been planted along the sides of the road leading to the gate. Some travelers and merchants were permitted passage, but the mercenaries and young men hoping to enlist in the regular army were sent to camps on either side of the road. The mercenary camp was far less orderly, but the men there strutted with greater confidence and seemed to be thrilled with the prospect of war. Fights broke out between the different companies and sometimes among members of the same company, and veterans often jeered at the green army recruits who wandered too close to the road.
Kai led the party to hide amongst the tallest grasses they could find, using the grazing horses to break the line of sight to the road. Once there, they quickly changed out of their worn attire to something more suited to a king’s entourage. Rezkin donned the guise of Dark Tidings, and the others wore tabards bearing the green lightning bolt on a black field. Wesson quietly muttered to himself about the fact that he was unable to wear the robes he had painstakingly earned as he brushed down the pants and tunic befitting the king’s manservant.
“Remember,” Rezkin said, “you are all warriors now. You are the king’s warriors.”
“We are too small in number to be convincing,” Malcius said as he plaited his hair.
Farson nodded toward the stream of travelers on the road who were attempting to reach the capital. “While our party is small and lacks the typical fanfare of a royal arrival, our sudden and unannounced appearance at the capital’s gate should have an impact.”
Malcius tied the ribbon at the end of his braid and said, “I suppose that makes sense, but what if they just arrest us?”
Farson glanced from Kai to Rezkin. “That would not be in their best interest.”
Malcius scowled, an expression that had, of late, nearly replaced his previously untroubled visage. “Two strikers, a swordmaster, and a … whatever he is”—he waved toward Rezkin—“are not enough to take on a kingdom.”
Brandt said in a forced whisper, “Do not forget the battle mage.”
“Who will surely be found out by these purifiers. What can one mage do?”
Farson shook his head as he began stuffing his items into his pack. “I have not seen Mage Wesson use his talent in such a way, but even a weak mage with a natural affinity for destructive magic can cause significant damage.”
Yserria, who had been pointedly avoiding direct interaction with Malcius, finally snapped, “If you do not wish to be here, why did you come?”
His fiery gaze struck the woman. “No one wishes to be here. I want to make sure things are getting done.”
Yserria laughed. “And what do you think to do if they are not?”
“It is your fault we are in this mess!” he said as he closed the distance.
Yserria met the lord’s hostile approach in kind and yelled, “How is it my fault that we must prevent a war with Gendishen while claiming their land?”
“If it were not for you, Palis would be alive. We could return to Ashai and lead a campaign against the tyrant in the name of House Jebai. I could stand before my father with honor. I was responsible for him! How am I to return now, having lost my brother?”
Rezkin was glad that Malcius was finally putting voice to his festering resentment, but the circumstances at that moment were not ideal. “Yserria is not responsible for Palis’s death, Malcius. He was his own man, and he made his choice.”
“If she had done what she was supposed to, he would not have gone back for her, and he would not be dead.”
Yserria thrust a long, slender finger in Rezkin’s direction. “I did what I was supposed to do. I protected my king!”
“Who ordered you to return to the ship,” argued Malcius.
Kai interrupted Yserria’s response. “I gave her the order to stay with Rezkin no matter what. She is a member of the King’s Royal Guard. It is her duty to protect her king with her life.”
“But the king ordered her to leave!”
Kai dropped his pack and turned to Malcius. “It is the responsibility of the royal guard to ignore such orders if it appears the king’s life is in immediate danger. Rezkin was alone on the beach with an army bearing down on him. If I had not been otherwise engaged on the ship, I would have been there, too. Yserria acted with courage, not just in facing the enemy, but also for risking the wrath of her king for doing so. By tradition, her act of bravery would have been recorded in the Book of Honors, placing her one step closer to official knighthood. As it is, she has endured only the guilt and resentment associated with your brother’s death—the death of her potential betrothed, no less.”
Malcius’s nostrils flared. He glanced between them and then turned and stormed farther into the grass. Since there was no place in which to find privacy, he had to settle for distance.
As Farson stood to follow, Rezkin said, “Keep an eye on him, but give him some space.”
“What do you know of space?” Farson snapped. “You would not have required it.”
Rezkin shook his head. “He has not learned to separate from his emotions. Outworlders must be permitted time to battle with their feelings before they can be expected to function with sense.”
“An astute observation,” Farson said cautiously.
Rezkin picked up the black sword from the wrap that lay on the ground and thrust it into the scabbard strapped to his back. “It is inefficient and needlessly draining of energy, but it is their reality. Still, we have little time. I do not wish for our presence to be reported before our arrival. Brandt, give him a few minutes and then encourage his return.”
Brandt nodded and jogged into the grass, followed by Farson.
A short time later, they were all in the saddle heading toward the blockade. Unlike other travelers, they did not dismount upon arrival. They held back until the travelers in front of them had been processed, and no one behind attempted to pass. The travelers, mercenaries, and soldiers watched with interest, and eventually, whispers of Dark Tidings encouraged others from the camps to crowd the road. The soldiers at the barricade looked on anxiously as the new arrivals plodded forward in the final approach. The officer in charge was easily identified. A silver chain stretched across his chest from one shoulder to the other. From the chain dangled the various emblems of rank and awards he had earned throughout his career. This man had many, which meant he had either found himself uncharacteristically in trouble, or, more likely, the kingdom considered the barricade position to be of great importance.
“We demand an audience with King Privoth,” Dark Tidings said from behind the mask.
The officer glanced between the mounted warriors. Each was wearing a black tabard bearing green lightning bolt and a hooded black cloak, beneath which were shadowed faces painted with thick black lines running vertically from the hair line, through the eyes, over the cheeks, and ending at the jawline. The only member of the party not dressed in such a way was the priest of the Maker who rode at the back.
“Who should I say is calling?” the officer asked, and the mutterings of Dark Tidings grew louder.
“Tell him the King of Cael, True King of Ashai, has arrived,” said Dark Tidings.
The officer turned to the soldier at his side and said, “Get my horse and one for the fyer.” To Dark Tidings, he said, “I am Myer Lour. I will deliver the message personally. This is Fyer Volt. He will take you to
the overgress.”
Dark Tidings tilted his head in acceptance. They followed the myer and fyer into the city, the blockade preventing anyone from following, at least to the first gate. Within the gates, the road split into two parallel paths—one for use by riders, wagons, and official business, and the other open to pedestrians. While people began crowding the footpath to watch their procession, none crossed the boundary to interfere with their passage. Rezkin appreciated the order of it, having been uncomfortable with the crowded chaos of the cities he had visited thus far. He supposed the paths needed to be clear if one was to navigate the discordant honeycomb that was Drovsk.
The party was led through increasingly attractive sections of the city. Eventually, the myer left to report to the castle. The fyer led them to an empty plaza, in the center of which was a stone dais. Around the perimeter were rows of steps that rose to an upper walkway lined by a stone colonnade.
“This is the overgress,” the fyer said.
As they entered, soldiers quietly slipped into the spaces between the columns. The fyer invited their party to dismount, but Rezkin remained in his saddle, a signal to his companions to do the same. People dressed in colorful court finery began to trickle into the plaza to take up seats on the steps. They muttered and pointed, and some laughed, but it was anxious laughter. As they waited, the assembly grew more uncomfortable with the mounted warriors in black who were obviously uninterested in socializing. Pride had been trained to keep his nickering and snorts to a minimum when commanded to do so, but the other horses were becoming restless.
Eventually, a trio of brown-robed men descended the steps. The soldiers between the columns spread apart, and seven more brown-robed men stepped into the spaces between them. Rezkin could feel the buzz of mage power, and it grew to a roar before the lead purifier came to a halt a few paces from him.
“Afflicted,” the man hissed, and he lifted his hand to point a crooked finger at Wesson.
