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

by Thomas J. Prestopnik

  The captain grinned. “Apparently so.” He sat up proudly upon his steed and called out to the Enâri. “Soldiers of Vellan, lay down your weapons and dismount your steeds and no harm will come to you! That I will promise–but only this once. Choose any other course of action and the consequences will be severe.”

  An icy silence blanketed the landscape as Grayling’s soldiers waited impatiently upon their horses. In one motion, the Enâri creatures thrust their swords forward and cried out defiantly, their exclamations guttural and garbled, but not unexpected.

  “They have chosen,” Grayling said matter-of-factly. “Men, ready your bows. We’ll make the first strike in this affair. And let’s be sure it’s the only one we’ll require.”

  “You can count on it, sir,” Grezza replied as he retrieved his bow and a small quiver of feathered arrows attached to the side of his horse. He slipped an arm through a strap on the quiver, affixing it to his back as did his fellow soldiers. He patted the hilt of his sword still secured in its sheath, eager to take on the enemy.

  “Look sharp now,” Grayling told his men. “Here they come.”

  With swords held high, the Enâri forces snapped the reins on their steeds and charged forth down the valley in two wide lines, the pair of Island soldiers riding in the center of the back row. The pounding hooves reverberated between the grassy hills and along the surface of the cold ground like a steady roll of thunder.

  “Arrows ready!” Grayling shouted. “Wait for my order.”

  The soldiers of Arrondale and Montavia steadied themselves upon their horses, the animals anxious and jittery as the opposing forces barreled at them. Grayling’s men were spread out in a single, curving line with the captain directing the maneuvers from the middle of the formation. He gripped his sword, preparing to thrust it forward when he uttered the command to fire.

  “The tall Enâr is mine,” one of the soldiers joked, eliciting chuckles from his fellow soldiers.

  “Steady now,” Grayling calmly replied as the harsh voices of the approaching Enâri grew louder, their chiseled faces and wild eyes growing clearer in the brightening dawn. Soon their hideous shouts and cold, hard grunts overwhelmed the sounds of the galloping horses. “Aim to kill. They are fierce fighters if it comes down to hand-to-hand combat. Let’s finish this now.” The captain took a deep breath as the Enâri were nearly upon them like a fast moving wave. “Release on my command.”

  With bows raised, the line of soldiers sat poised like statues, their fingers itching to let loose a barrage of arrows as the moving target grew larger in their sight. Captain Grayling observed his adversaries as if they moved in silent slow-motion, his mind briefly shutting out all other distractions as he focused on the unabashed grit reflected upon their crazed expressions. He noted an unquenchable fire in the Enâri eyes and the stony grip of their thickset fingers upon the hilts of sharp swords. Yet when he glanced at the two Islanders in back through an opening in the line, he couldn’t help but notice their less than equal fervor for the mission, wondering why they were partaking in such a suicidal run. Surely they were not as devoted to Vellan as were the Enâri, unless, of course, they had accidentally drunk from the Drusala River in Kargoth and were under his magical influence. Grayling decided that that must be the case just as he was about to drive his sword into the air and shout out his order to launch the arrows.

  Suddenly his eyes caught a glimpse of bright clothing peaking out from beneath one of the Islander’s long, weather-stained brown coats–a vivid, colorful fabric of autumn hues with fine embroidery, entirely out of place for an Islander. A harrowing chill seized the captain just as his lips began to form the command to fire, the truth revealed to him in a heartbeat. Then several things happened at once.

  The tips of the trees in the west began to sway as the men drew back their arms and bowstrings to the breaking point, awaiting Grayling’s order to fire. The Enâri thrust their swords forward and cried out, determined to break through the opposing line. A violent gust of wind tore through the hills and across the meadow from the west just as Captain Grayling shouted as loudly as he could, his words nearly consumed in the gale.

  “Stay your arrows!” he cried out. “Stay your arrows! Spare the Islanders!”

  Grayling’s men had but an instant to digest his impassioned words, wondering if they had heard their captain properly. But Grezza, sitting next to Grayling and glancing at him askance, caught the movement of the captain’s lips and the horrified expression upon his face and instantly knew that something was wrong. Grezza fought every impulse in his strained muscles to launch his arrow, finally loosening the tension on his bowstring in the last instant and tossing down the weapon before drawing his sword to defend himself. His fellow soldiers reluctantly yet obediently did the same as the wild wind rushed over them and the Enâri forces prepared to crash through the line.

  But the disturbance in the air vanished as quickly as it had materialized along with the raucous cries of the Enâri, who for a split second rode upon their horses as if frozen, their swords raised and unmoving, their faces hardened with expressions of vengeance and contempt. To the shock of Captain Grayling and his men, the limbs of the Enâri riders suddenly fell from their bodies like melting clumps of snow and crumbled in the air, hitting the ground as piles of swiftly drying soil. Swords clattered as they hit the cold surface, the fingers that once held them having eroded into nothingness. Pairs of boots dropped like weights, filled with dry dirt that spilled out of the tops. The heads and torsos of the Enâri suffered similar fates, disintegrating upon the horses and pouring to the ground in streams of sand and soil as their ragged uniforms and cloaks collapsed into lifeless piles upon riderless saddles and frosty meadow grass.

  Grayling and his men looked on with mouths agape, their eyes wide in disbelief as the once charging horses quickly slowed down and trotted past them, as if happy to be relieved of their unnatural burdens. The two horses carrying the Island soldiers took their cue from the other steeds and reduced their speed, eventually halting before Grayling and his men as the line closed up and stopped them from advancing.

  “What just happened?” one of the soldiers uttered, excited yet stunned. Still, he kept his sword raised, wary of the two Islanders before him. But when they made no sudden move, he let his guard down slightly, though his befuddlement rose to the clouds.

  “I can’t explain the fate of our Enâri foes,” Captain Grayling said as he sheathed his sword and quickly dismounted. “But I think I can now explain some of the mystery of this strange morning.”

  He signaled for Grezza to join him as he hurried to the pair of horses patiently standing there with the Island soldiers still atop them. Grayling rushed over to one of the steeds as the hooded soldier on top slowly bowed his head toward the captain. Grayling flung back the soldier’s hood. But instead of the defiant face of a Northern Isles’ native, there to greet them was King Rowan of Montavia, his mouth bound with a piece of cloth and his hands tied to the horn of his saddle.

  “King Rowan!” Grayling said, quickly removing the gag from around the monarch’s face.

  Grezza hurriedly removed the hood from the other rider. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw a woman’s gentle face framed with long, blond hair, thickly braided.

  “Lady Vilna!” he cried, hurriedly yet gently untying her gag with shaking hands. “My utmost apology!”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” said the mother of Princes Brendan and William. “You helped save my life, but more importantly, helped to save the life of our King.”

  “For which we are both eternally grateful,” King Rowan replied with a tired smile as Captain Grayling untied his bonds.

  When King Rowan and Vilna were helped down from the horses shortly afterward, Grayling introduced himself and told him what had just occurred at Red Lodge. “But I cannot explain what happened here to the Enâri creatures, sir. Perhaps Prince Gregory and the wizard Tolapari can provide us some answers.”

  “Let
’s pay them a visit at once,” the King said, happy to see some of his soldiers among Grayling’s group. “I’m eager for answers about this unusual turn of events–and for some news about my two grandsons.”

  The soldiers who had been battling Vellan’s troops at Red Lodge experienced the same gamut of emotions after a sudden gust of wind brushed across the compound. For a brief moment, the Enâri forces turned into the rock and soil from which they came before collapsing into piles of dry sand, scuffed boots and tattered uniforms. A clanking of swords echoed across the compound as their weapons fell to the cobblestone in eerie unison.

  The men of Arrondale and Montavia, whether holding their weapons in mid stroke or running to assist a fellow soldier, suddenly stopped and gazed upon the silent battlefield as the peculiar breeze quickly died away. Soldiers from the Isles, whose numbers were far fewer as the bulk of their forces were scattered among the other villages, stood in stunned silence. Many, now vastly outnumbered, laid down their arms and surrendered. Some of the Islanders fighting on the periphery fled the compound, either running to a nearby village to warn their comrades or escaping from the kingdom to start a new life, having grown weary of the war.

  But those occupying other villages in Montavia needed no informants to learn of the events at Red Lodge. Caldurian had placed a small number of Enâri troops in each location to serve as his messengers and spies, and when they disintegrated in front of their Island counterparts, no explanation was required. Many panicked at the sudden misfortune, fearing that a huge army of wizards from the west had invaded to avenge the deeds of both Caldurian and Vellan. Even Commander Jarrin was unnerved when the Enâr he had been speaking with near a campfire disappeared right before his eyes during a sudden and chilly breeze.

  To King Rowan’s delight, he later learned that many Island troops deserted their units as rumors spread of their impending defeat. The few Islanders who stayed their ground were soon killed or imprisoned when Prince Gregory’s troops, alongside the freed soldiers from King Rowan’s guard, spread out across the countryside village by village over the next few days, decimating the Island scourge all the way to the Trillium Sea. There, the last of the ships that had once carried the Island invaders to shore, now retreated to their archipelago homeland with skeleton crews in shameful defeat.

  Inside the garrison near Red Lodge, shortly after the fall of the Enâri, Caldurian stared incredulously at the opposite side of his prison cell, his head throbbing mercilessly. He and Gwyn had been locked in a small room until Prince Gregory determined their fates. Moments earlier, the wizard had been sitting on a bench against one wall, still reeling from the effects of Tolapari’s spell. Gwyn paced along the opposite side, feeling as if he were again trapped inside the Spirit Caves.

  “We’re not getting out of here any time soon,” Caldurian had said, trying to calm the Enâr. “I’ve lost my powers and I believe we’re outnumbered.”

  Gwyn snarled as he trudged back and forth along the wall. “My fellow Enâri do not fear these invaders. They will fight to the death!” he sputtered, spinning around to face Caldurian. “They will not be–”

  Those were the last words Gwyn had uttered before his body momentarily froze into the likes of a stone statue before collapsing onto itself. Caldurian watched in helpless amazement as Gwyn disappeared before his eyes in such a stark yet unceremonious fashion as a cool stream of air flowed into the chamber from somewhere, gently brushing across his face.

  Now, Caldurian gazed at the pile of dry sand and clothing, imagining the ghastly sight outside the garrison as the pain in his head throbbed. Soon the rattle of keys caught his attention and the door opened. Tolapari stepped inside carrying a cup of steaming liquid. He indicated for the guard who had let him in to leave.

  “I’ll be safe,” he assured him. “Caldurian is no threat for now.” After the guard left and closed the door, Tolapari walked over to his fellow wizard and handed him the cup.

  Caldurian looked up with a tired sneer. “First you take away my powers and now you want to poison me. Why didn’t you just kill me from the start?”

  Tolapari smiled. “At least I didn’t take away your sense of humor, such as it is. Drink this herb elixir. It will greatly ease the ache in your head you are most likely enduring. I consumed some earlier, having prepared the dry ingredients beforehand. My spell affected me as it did you.”

  Caldurian relented and took the cup, swallowing the hot liquid a few sips at a time. Soon the tension in his face faded. “What did you do to me?”

  Tolapari sat down on the other end of the bench. “It is a spell called the âvin éska, and since you are questioning me about it, I must conclude that you were never taught it or knew of its existence.”

  Caldurian took another sip and glanced contemptuously at his fellow wizard. “No. Apparently Vellan skipped that lesson.”

  “Not surprising. Perhaps he feared that you might use it on him someday despite its deleterious effect on the user.”

  “So now we are both without our powers?”

  “Temporarily–if I performed the spell correctly,” he said. “It took me many days to prepare for it, and if properly cast, our powers should come back in the weeks to come. Yours may take much longer since you absorbed the brunt of the spell.”

  “Should come back?”

  “We’ll see. But it was worth losing mine to keep you in line, Caldurian. You are nearly as bad a menace as Vellan.”

  “I try,” he muttered, taking another sip. He indicated Gwyn’s sandy remains. “Apparently the medallion had been successfully remade into the key and used. Well done.”

  Tolapari was taken aback. “You knew of that? How?”

  “I can’t reveal my secrets–and spies–but it’s irrelevant now. The Enâri have been defeated,” he said. Caldurian set the cup down and rubbed his forehead. “I can’t even imagine the look on Vellan’s face when all his soldiers, workers and guards in Del Norác disappeared before his eyes.”

  “That was most likely their fate,” Tolapari said. “His realm will be at a standstill for some time, though he will still have his Island supporters who traveled to his lands as well as any locals who are devoted to him, willingly or otherwise. But many might have second thoughts when they see that the bulk of his forces have been destroyed.”

  Caldurian laughed grimly. “Now I suppose King Justin and his allies will sweep into Kargoth and put an end to Vellan once and for all. Is that his plan?”

  “King Justin’s plans are his own. But I suppose you will get a chance to talk with him before it is all over.”

  “He had better hang me or shoot an arrow through my heart while my powers are gone, because if they come back, I shall return with a vengeance.”

  Tolapari snickered. “As if we didn’t already know that.” He looked up at Caldurian with genuine sadness in his eyes. “That is why Vellan never passed on the âvin éska spell to you nor probably to any other students he had trained over the years. You, he and others like you are vengeful sorts, absorbed with yourselves first and foremost. You just wouldn’t trust each other with such knowledge because you would ultimately use it for your own advantage.”

  “And you wouldn’t?”

  “Nor haven’t. Frist taught me that spell years ago when I was his apprentice. It is a defensive tool that he hoped I would never have to use,” Tolapari explained. “He had no fear that I would ever use it against him or others to advance myself. That is how we are different, Caldurian. You and those like you sit at the center of your worlds, and chaos and destruction is usually the result. Nothing else matters.”

  “I do what I do to bring order to a chaotic region,” he replied with a sharp edge to his voice. “Things get messy along the way, but some day the end result will be worth it.”

  “Some day.” Tolapari shook his head, glancing at the wizard with a skeptical eye. “I’m sure that’s what you tell yourself to sleep well at night, but I’m convinced that even you don’t really believe that, Caldurian. Yo
u’re no different than a common thief or a charlatan. You just have better resources at your disposal.”

  “Spare me the lecture. You have no idea what motivates me to behave as I do, to make the sacrifices I do.”

  Tolapari sighed. “That’s precisely your problem, Caldurian. In the end, it is only about you–or Vellan, or whomever. Your kind is on a perpetual quest for power and control. You live well at others’ expense,” he said. “A simple matter really–just small men with twisted views seeking their warped vision of greatness regardless of the consequences.” He stood and knocked on the cell door for the guard. “You could have done so many good things with your talents, Caldurian, if only you didn’t get in the way of yourself.”

  “Think as you like,” the wizard muttered, his eyes fixed on Gwyn’s remains as the door opened. “You’ll never understand.”

  “Probably not.” Tolapari sadly shook his head. “Enjoy the drink,” he replied as he left the chamber, leaving Caldurian alone with his muddled thoughts. The door swung shut and the key turned, locking them both inside.

  CHAPTER 77

  The Long Road to Spring

  Three days later, on a cold, sunlit morning, a messenger from the Citadel arrived at Red Lodge. Though some of the physical ravages of recent warfare had been cleaned up by then, the deaths of those who had sacrificed their lives to retake Montavia would never be erased. Black ribbons of mourning had been strung about the courtyard and in the villages throughout the kingdom. Many somber memorials had already been held to honor the valiant deceased and would continue throughout winter.

  But there was still much work to be done against Vellan and his allies before the nations of Laparia could live in peace. This weighed heavily on King Rowan’s mind as the messenger handed him two sealed notes he had carried from Morrenwood. One was from King Justin and the other from King Rowan’s grandson, Prince William. After delivering the correspondences, the courier left to find Prince Gregory and present him with other messages from his father.