Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web (The Complete Epic Fantasy)

by Thomas J. Prestopnik

  “Come at us if you dare!” a soldier shouted out to the men while brandishing his sword above his head, stepping into the lake as the low waves broke against his high, black boots and washed away the dirt and blood that had caked upon them since early morning.

  “The forces of Drogin are not welcome here!” another man hollered across the water as he stabbed his sword into the wet sand. “We’ll gladly demonstrate what we mean if you would draw but a little closer.”

  “Oh, they will,” Silas remarked as he stared across the lake, his jaw fixed and his expression granite hard as a fine mist off the waves did little to cool his passion for a final stand against the enemy. He looked askance at Ranen as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. “If there was ever a time to call forth the blessings and good fortune of your wife’s keepsake, now would be that time.”

  Ranen grinned as his long, black locks blew in the refreshing breeze. He held up his left hand for all to see, still bandaged with the red piece of material from his wife’s dress. “I have been doing so from the moment we started our run toward the water,” he answered as the rafts in the fleet heading there closed in fast. “Now let us see what fruit my silent petitions will bear in the coming moments.”

  “We’ll gladly accept any fruit, ripened or not,” the captain said as another wave washed over their waterlogged boots. He was already playing out in his mind a moving picture of the first soldiers leaping off the rafts several paces from the shoreline and charging at them through the water with unbridled fury.

  But before Silas could speak further, he froze, his mouth agape at a curious sight beginning to play out before him. He raked his fingers in disbelief through his shortly cropped hair drenched with sweat and lake water, unable to utter a word. The same dumbfounded expression enveloped each of his companions as they watched the perplexing event unfold upon the water. In the blink of an eye, the orange, brown and black flags of Drogin had suddenly disappeared from the flotilla approaching shore as well as from those rafts nearing the docks and the ships anchored farther away. Seconds later, a scattering of blue, silver and white banners from Arrondale unfurled above the heads of the distant soldiers who held them proudly aloft in the stirring breeze, the kingdom’s emblem snapping in unison upon the cool lake winds.

  “Am I alone in witnessing this display?” Captain Silas asked, still stunned in a dreamlike state. His fingers slowly loosened their grip on his sword.

  “No, you are not alone!” cried a soldier from Rhiál standing next to him with a smile on his face that outshone the sun drifting among the white clouds overhead. “Those aren’t Drogin’s troops, sir. They’re King Justin’s men–but how and why I can’t begin to say.”

  “None of us can,” Ranen replied, “yet I’ll happily speculate about their mysterious arrival until I learn the particulars.”

  Silas nodded in agreement, and for a moment, he simply smiled as a tear rolled down his face, not knowing whether to laugh or cry or shout out with joy. He turned to Ranen who caught his gaze and mirrored his boyish grin.

  “Do not lose that strip of material!” he joked. “Ever.”

  “I shall wash it in this very water and treasure it in my house when I return to Harlow,” Ranen replied, now confident that he would again see the land of his birth when this battle was finally concluded, and more importantly, his wife.

  Suddenly, boisterous shouts of triumph and welcome erupted from the rest of Captain Silas’ men. The rafts drew nearer to shore, now close enough so that they could see the faces and smiles of those on board, knowing beyond a doubt that their allies had at last arrived. Soon armed soldiers from Arrondale jumped from the rafts while several feet from shore and stormed onto the beach amid white-capped waves and splashes of water. They had paddled down the lake on rafts built by King Basil’s secret allies in Altaga to the north, the very rafts that the King’s troops would have used for their predawn raid across the water in Zaracosa had things gone according to plan.

  The new arrivals greeted their fellow warriors with heartfelt shouts, handshakes and hugs as a similar scene played out upon the docks, all to the horror of Drogin’s troops who saw their inevitable victory turn to sudden disaster. New battles soon raged upon the shore, the docks and among the city streets, only this time the soldiers from Maranac, Kargoth and the Northern Isles were vastly outnumbered and swiftly overwhelmed by the prowess of refreshed troops from Arrondale and the renewed strength of their rivals from earlier in the day. Especially challenging were the several battles waged for the control of the tall ships where many lives were lost in grueling, close quarters combat on and below the decks. But victory was slowly and at last achieved. And as the fighting commenced in the city, with soldiers running here and there to put down the last of the skirmishes, the men of Rhiál and their allies from the west learned in bits and pieces how King Justin’s men had miraculously arrived from the north tip of the lake in such grand fashion.

  Days before, when King Justin and one half of his army had finally left Morrenwood for Rhiál–the other half preparing to march east to liberate Montavia–he had sent scouts ahead to consult with King Basil. When the scouts returned, King Justin was informed that forces from Rhiál were going to participate in two secret attacks, one on the fleet at Zaracosa using rafts and the other in the southern provinces. King Justin dispatched a third of his troops to the northern tip of Lake LaShear to join in the raft raiding party, knowing that such a daring attack would be dangerous and would need all the support it could muster. He realized that lessening the size of his already slim army would be a risk, but a necessary one.

  But the gamble had paid off. The soldiers from Arrondale arrived at the northern tip of the lake just as Drogin’s troops had begun their surprise attack on the men from Altaga who were readying their rafts for King Basil’s soldiers who would never show up. And since Drogin’s overconfidence caused him to send only a small force north, the troops from Arrondale had little trouble defeating them with help from the Altagans.

  Fortunately, the rafts had not been destroyed. A new plan was quickly devised since everyone realized that Drogin must have learned of King Basil’s forthcoming offensive. After confiscating the enemy’s weapons and flags, the men of Arrondale made their way down the coast as if they were soldiers from Maranac, knowing the deception would fool Drogin’s forces and buy them precious time until they could make their landing.

  In the meantime, King Justin considered how to best make use of his remaining men, wondering if their trust would diminish as they watched a third of their comrades-in-arms leave before the main battle had even begun. He wondered how effective his army would be as it traversed the last weary miles on the outskirts of Melinas. It was now the same morning that Drogin’s army had materialized in the cold, ghostly fog on the low ridge south of King Basil’s estate.

  It was after the parley with Irabesh had concluded that King Basil sent out two scouts to alert King Justin, hoping that his army was drawing near. King Justin was shocked by the news of the enemy’s surprise arrival, prepared to lead his remaining men to Melinas as fast as he could though knowing they would arrive late to the fighting. But after the scouts told him that a second wave of Drogin’s men was gathering deeper in the south behind the front lines, his thinking suddenly changed.

  He learned that the second wave was composed primarily of men from Maranac whose loyalty to Drogin was based on fear and intimidation rather than true devotion. King Justin wondered if his reduced forces might do more good battling the fewer, hardnosed Drogin loyalists among that second wave, and at the same time, recruit those remaining soldiers who had once pledged their honor and service to King Hamil before he was assassinated. If he could turn them to his side, together they could deliver a fatal blow to Drogin once and for all. Until then, it would be up to King Basil’s men and his allies to hold out for as long as possible.

  After consulting with his captains, King Justin directed the troops swiftly southward, sweeping past
the long stretch of woodland to their left and secretly bypassing Drogin’s main force gathered upon the ridge on the opposite side of the trees. The King halted his men soon after he spotted the enemy’s second wave of soldiers preparing for their assault later that morning. Their numbers were about equal. But just how many of them were truly devoted to Drogin? That was the question occupying King Justin’s thoughts as he prepared to parley with the opposing forces who were surprised by his sudden arrival. The King knew that the following minutes might very well determine the outcome of this terrible war.

  Eucádus watched as the army advanced down the low ridge, the flags of Drogin snapping in the breeze. The captains in King Basil’s army shouted out orders from all directions, preparing to rally their remaining men for what they knew would be a final assault. Most expected not to survive the few hours left before twilight would gently touch the browning field.

  Eucádus prepared to mount his horse and make for a small gathering nearby that was readying a charge south under Captain Tiber’s command. Before doing so, he knelt on one knee next to Jeremias’ body and covered the soldier’s face and chest with a portion of the man’s cloak he gently freed from underneath the cooling corpse.

  “As the situation looks at present, you may not receive a proper burial when the day is done, Jeremias, so I shall give you one now,” he softly said, “however simple and temporary.” Eucádus found Jeremias’ sword close by and plunged it into the ground near his head as a marker to complete the brief ritual, wondering where his own body would end up after the day wound to a close. “Farewell, my friend,” he whispered before climbing on his horse. He snapped the reins to join his fellow soldiers, feeling empty and lost and tasting defeat in the cool autumn air.

  As Eucádus neared the restless group of fighters and heard Captain Tiber shout out orders, something caught his gaze in the distance. At that same moment, Tiber and his men grew hauntingly silent as they incredulously looked southward as well, including the injured King Cedric who sat upon his horse near the captain’s side. Across the field and along the tree lines, those in King Basil’s army momentarily paused amid words, thoughts and actions as a fantastical sight unfolded before them.

  Eucádus held his breath, his face as hard as stone as he watched the vast army of men and horses advancing up the sun-baked field amid a roar of thundering footfalls and swirling eddies of dust. But what momentarily paralyzed him and elevated his spirits was seeing all of Drogin’s wildly waving flags suddenly disappear within the approaching stampede. It was as if their bearers had flung away with reckless abandon the dreary orange, brown and black emblems that marked the tyrant’s forces.

  “How can this be?” he whispered.

  Slowly, he displayed a smile that radiated pure joy and utter relief as a spread of new banners rose up in the midst of the advancing troops. The flags of Maranac, along with the blue, silver and white colors of Arrondale, flew together as the new wave of soldiers advanced to join the fight for Rhiál. Leading the line was King Justin, his cropped silvery hair and unsheathed sword catching the golden light of afternoon. His ice blue eyes targeted the numerous battles raging around him and he directed his captains where to lead their companies to put an end to Drogin’s handiwork.

  Eucádus bowed his head as cheering rose from all over the field, his mind unable to comprehend this turn of events. But his heart and soul were overwhelmed with an incredible sense of euphoria at the same time. The sacrifices they had all made today, including Jeremias, had not been in vain. He swiftly unsheathed his weapon and snapped Chestnut’s reins, bolting forward into the churning fury to see it through to the end as the clash of swords grew closer and louder around him.

  Minutes earlier, any thoughts of victory were unimaginable to King Basil. He lay upon a cot in his tent that had been brought in from one of the encampments. He had grown increasingly weak and weary as the war and the afternoon wore on, his breathing labored and his words and thoughts scattered. Though Garron had suggested that the royal physician should attend to him, King Basil refused, allowing the war–and his life–to run the course that fate had in store.

  “At least take more soup or tea,” Garron insisted, sitting on a low stool next to the King’s cot. “You’ve hardly touched either,” he added as he glanced at the cooling food upon a nearby table.

  King Basil started to chuckle, but only ended up coughing until his chest hurt. “You talk too much, Garron. But still, you are a good aide. Let me close my eyes and rest while you bring in someone who can tell me what is happening on the field and along the lake. That will be nourishment enough.”

  Garron smiled, knowing he would not convince the King otherwise. “As you wish, sir. I shall find someone at once though Yurris should be back shortly.” He stood and stepped through the tent flap just as the sound of horse hooves rumbled in the near distance. A moment later Garron poked his head back into the tent, pleasantly shocked. “King Basil, Yurris has returned just as I said, but there is a visitor riding with him for you. Two, in fact, who I believe you will be most eager to see. Shall I bring them in?”

  King Basil, too tired to open his eyes, wearily sighed as he waved his fingers through the air, indicating for Garron to bring the callers forward. Moments later, Prince William and Aaron emerged through the tent flap, their hearts sinking when they saw the King lying upon the cot in his helpless state. The boys glanced at one another, each silently shocked at how much the monarch had deteriorated since they last saw him.

  “King Basil,” William cautiously said as he stepped forward, wondering if he and Aaron should have stopped by. But Garron urged him onward. “It is Prince William. And Aaron is with me. We are both safe.”

  The King paused in the middle of a deep and labored breath and slowly opened his eyes, staring at the tent ceiling that dimmed the brilliant afternoon sun. “William? Aaron? Is it really you?”

  King Basil slowly turned his head and tried to sit up, but was too weak and tired to do so. William and Aaron hurried to the side of his cot. Aaron sat on the stool and instinctively took the King’s hand in his as he lay his head back down. Prince William stood close enough so the monarch could gaze upon him with ease.

  “We’re here,” Aaron responded, gently squeezing his hand.

  The King noted the boys with a grandfatherly smile. “Well, this is truly a pleasure to have you both back where you belong. So, my young lads, where have you been off to?”

  William was about to tell him and thought otherwise, believing the truth might upset him. A wary raise of Garron’s eyebrows confirmed his decision.

  “Aaron and I were…lost,” he finally said. “But we found our way back, sir. I hope our absence hasn’t caused you any stress.”

  “Not anymore.” The King smiled, visibly relieved. He closed his eyes again. “Now that you’re both back home in Melinas, life is again as it should be. Is either of you hurt? Or hungry?”

  “No, sir,” William replied.

  “And you, Morton?” King Basil said lethargically, squeezing Aaron’s hand. “You were always fond of your mother’s apple-walnut bread when she baked in the kitchen.” He took a few slow breaths as if building up more needed energy to speak. “Shall I have some brought up?”

  Aaron stared uncomfortably at the King as soon as he had called him by his oldest son’s name. Morton had been killed last summer after the war with Maranac had begun. Aaron didn’t think it was proper to let the monarch continue thinking that it was Morton sitting beside him and holding his hand.

  “Sir,” Aaron began. “I am not…” But when he saw William and Garron shake their heads, the boy knew what was expected of him in that delicate moment. “Sir, I am not hungry now, but thank you for thinking about me. All I really want to do is sit beside you and talk, if that is your wish. You can continue to rest and listen.”

  “That would be most agreeable, Morton,” he replied with a joyous expression. “Perhaps your younger brother can start the conversation.” He signaled to Willia
m with a weakly raised hand, though his eyes remained shut. “Victor, tell me how this war is playing out. Step outside and describe what you see.”

  “Very well,” he replied with a heavy heart as he looked upon the King, his face pale and gaunt beneath a tangle of gray hair.

  William swept aside the tent flap with one hand and held it open as he stepped partially outside and monitored the two fronts of the war–to the south on the field and east to the shores of Lake LaShear. A fresh wind blew across his face and into the tent along with a scattering of bright sunshine. He saw the chaotic movements of men and horses amid clouds of dust as a second army of men descended down the low ridge. He saw more soldiers gathering near the lakeshore beside glittering waters and foaming, white waves as a fleet of rafts zeroed in on them. The relentless clanking of metal swords and the hoarse shouts of men rose upon the air like a dull, unending echo. Suddenly Prince William shot a second glance toward the lake, looking for the flags of Drogin that had been waving ominously in the wind when he and Aaron rode away from the estate. He placed a hand above his eyes to shield the afternoon glare, wondering if he had been deceived in his first observations.

  “Speak to me, Victor,” the King called from his cot. “What is happening?”

  “If my eyes are not mistaken, I’m seeing the flags of Arrondale flying upon the rafts floating down the lake,” a surprised William spoke as he ducked his head back inside to directly address the King. “It is a most amazing sight, sir!”