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

by Thomas J. Prestopnik

  The wizard wiped a sleeve across his sweaty brow before plunging his sword into the throat of a cloudy-eyed native of Kargoth who charged at him with an axe. As death quickly took hold, the soldier’s eyes cleared to their natural, light brown color that matched the long strands of hair framing his narrow and confused face. The man’s body collapsed to the ground in a senseless pile when Tolapari removed his sword in a single, swift motion, deriving no satisfaction from his brief victory.

  As the morning wore on, bodies on both sides of the conflict fell to the ground at the point of a blade or stumbled backward upon an arrow’s impact. The bright daylight of a warm spring day faded to black in the eyes of many. As the deadly minutes accumulated, King Cedric saw that his forces were still outnumbered and that achieving victory upon this particular battlefield was nearly impossible.

  “We’ve done all we can here!” he shouted to Captain Tiber while racing to his aid. Tiber and another soldier, both on horseback, were fighting off five Islanders who attacked them on foot. King Cedric’s steed clipped one of the Island troops as he sped by and knocked him hard to the ground. Tiber’s sword pierced the shoulder of another and rendered him incapacitated. Moments later, the remaining three foes were killed in the brief skirmish.

  “What are you saying?” Tiber replied at last, his brow dotted with sweat as he guided his horse alongside the King. “Retreat?”

  King Cedric nodded. “We cannot weather the numbers Vellan has thrown our way for much longer. We should make for the city and regroup. Besides, we’ve achieved what we came here for, breaking up the enemy’s initial attack. Call the retreat before our forces erode to naught.”

  Captain Tiber singled for the other soldier to ride out with him toward the central and western portions of the battlefield and sound the new orders. The King snapped his reins, preparing to ride and spread the word along the eastern lines. But he suddenly held back when, out of the corners of his eyes, he caught the distant gates of Vellan’s stronghold slowly reopen.

  “Nothing good can come of that,” he whispered to himself. Suddenly, another slew of enemy soldiers emerged from behind the iron gates to aid their comrades and push them on to victory. King Cedric scowled and raced to sound the retreat before his forces faced complete annihilation.

  The word to withdraw spread fast as several clashes still raged. Most soldiers, as ordered, fled south toward the northern border of Del Norác, moving with added haste when seeing the new wave of enemy troops flowing out of Minakaris. All sense of order broke down as King Cedric’s men dashed across the field away from Vellan’s troops whose fiery zeal was bolstered with additional lines marching their way. As King Cedric urged his men to the city, he glanced back one last time at Mount Minakaris, gazing indignantly upon the stronghold’s impenetrable walls built outward from the base of the mountain. He knew that Vellan was probably watching from one of his lofty perches and smiling with smug delight.

  A nearby voice then cried out in surprise, indicating the patch of woodland to the northwest alongside the mountain far beyond the gates of Vellan’s abode. “Where’d they come from?” he asked.

  King Cedric heard the comment but continued ushering his men toward the city, the words not registering in his mind. Only when he noticed some of his men turning around to glance back at the mountain did his scattered thoughts crystallize. He reined his horse to a slow trot and circled back so that Mount Minakaris lay once again in view. With mouth agape, he saw a second army appear in the north, but this time the advancing troops were charging directly at the fresh lines pouring out of Vellan’s gates.

  “Who are they?” another soldier uttered with incredulity.

  King Cedric, overwhelmed with amazement, couldn’t believe his eyes. Members of the mountain resistance from Surna, Linden and Harlow were barreling down the road between the woods and the mountain, fully armed and heading their way. He wiped a hand across his balding head, smiling with disbelief.

  “Surely the raid on Deshla cannot be over this soon,” he whispered, wondering if Nicholas and Leo were among those now charging full bore into Vellan’s astonished troops who were still filing out of Minakaris.

  Nearly the same question was posed by Torr who rode up alongside the King. “How is it possible they are here so quickly? Did they forgo the prison raid?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied with a broad smile. “But they will not battle alone. There will be no retreat today. Onward!”

  King Cedric snapped the reins of his horse and drew his sword, urging his men to return to the fray. But most, upon seeing the new arrivals, had already halted their flight to the city as a new spirit of hope infused the air. A sense of impending doom, however, infected the hearts of Vellan’s troops as they watched their welcomed reinforcements scatter in disarray from the surprise attack behind them. The discordant clanking of swords and whistling of arrows again filled the air. But it wasn’t until about an hour later amidst the ebb and flow of the fighting that King Cedric crossed paths with Malek and Max. The two were wiping fresh blood off their swords after defeating a trio of Islanders among a low mound of half buried rock. The King, now upon his feet with sword in hand, had been thrown from his steed nearly half an hour ago.

  “Those three Islanders looked as wild-eyed as their allies who had drunk from the Drusala,” Max joked as he greeted the King and a few other soldiers standing with him. He then introduced Malek before explaining the surprising turn of events at Deshla Prison.

  “I look forward to hearing all the details later,” the King said. “But your arrival couldn’t have been better timed. We were about to retreat to Del Norác.”

  “We may yet do that,” Malek said, gazing across the field and soaking in a panoramic view of the bloody proceedings. “I’m seeing pockets of retreat by Vellan’s troops near the east and west edges of the field. But his men are escaping to the city, not back to Vellan’s stronghold along the mountain.”

  “So we’ll pursue them there!” Maxed chimed in.

  “At once,” the King agreed. “King Justin and his men made for the garrison earlier. I don’t know how they’re faring, but more enemy troops can’t bode well for them.”

  “Then let us mop up the remaining mess here,” Malek said.

  “I’ll get word out to reconstitute the lines for a march into the city, though I’ll leave a small force here to deal with the aftermath,” King Cedric told him. “But with luck, King Justin may already have the situation at the garrison under control.”

  He hurried west with a handful of men to gather his troops while Malek and Max sprinted toward a rocky stream to the north to aid some fellow fighters. Deep in their hearts though, neither of the two parties expected King Justin to be facing anything but an excruciating battle in the center of Vellan’s capital. All, nonetheless, were eager to join in the conflict as soon as possible.

  The garrison in Del Norác was constructed of granite blocks, its long southern wall abutting the Drusala River. It rose four stories high with a square watchtower in the center. Lines of small, deep windows punctured the walls, appearing like deadened eyes that gazed tirelessly upon the city. A set of metal doors within an archway marked the main entrance. Several minor doorways were scattered about, all securely locked from the inside. A few smaller buildings of similar design were located nearby on both sides of the river, serving as additional barracks, armories, food storehouses and stables. Though the garrison was not filled to capacity as when housing its former Enâri occupants, Vellan had worked tirelessly in recent months to approach those previous numbers. He had gathered his remaining forces throughout Kargoth and the other mountain nations, supplementing them with his Island allies.

  When King Justin and his men had arrived there earlier that morning, they met only light resistance until Vellan’s troops on the other side of the river dashed across the central bridge to help defend the garrison. Soon the fighting scattered among various buildings and adjacent streets, though the garrison stood well defended.
Blood was drawn in swift fashion, staining grass, stone and hard ground while glistening in the sun.

  “How are your arms holding out?” Ramsey asked Eucádus as they swung swords by the shadowy northeast corner of the building, having abandoned their horses in an earlier scuffle. They stood with a handful of their compatriots holding off a sudden attack from a dozen men who had charged at them, their eyes clouded with a cold, fierce devotion to Vellan.

  “My arms still have life,” Eucádus replied between breaths as droplets of sweat trickled down his forehead. “But the throat is nearly parched. Perhaps we should take a drink from the river!” he joked, eliciting grins from Ramsey and others in earshot.

  “Vellan would like that,” he said, shifting sideways to avoid a well-aimed blade that nearly impaled him. Ramsey spun around as his attacker sailed past and shoved the man from behind with his foot, sending him face first into the garrison wall. Without missing a beat, he lunged forward and buried his sword into the man’s back. When he swiftly removed his weapon, the man collapsed to the ground, freed from Vellan’s hold. Ramsey had no time to contemplate the man’s tragic fate as he was instantly swept up again in the fight against the remaining troops from Kargoth.

  But moments later, the arrival of King Justin and a small group of men on horseback helped Eucádus, Ramsey and the others make swift work of their opponents. The dozen men from Kargoth soon lay dead around them while Eucádus’ troops, despite a few minor bruises and cuts, were none the worse for wear.

  “Well timed!” Eucádus called out to the King before eyeing the surrounding conflicts unfolding before him.

  The sharp clash of swords up and down several streets opposite the garrison grew louder and deadlier with each passing moment. When Eucádus glanced above to the west, he noticed a line of gray smoke snaking its way across the sky and over the river to the southeast. The acrid smell of a fire somewhere in the western district wafted upon the breeze. He eyed King Justin, both their thoughts turning to Prince Gregory.

  “Apparently my son has stirred up a hornet’s nest,” the King remarked without a trace of worry. The men around him, looking at their leader in a leather battle jerkin over a gray woolen shirt while sitting comfortably upon his steed, took much solace in his steady demeanor. But that reassuring moment was short lived.

  “Above you!” one of King Justin’s men shouted from across the road, pointing animatedly at the top of the garrison. “They’re coming from above!”

  Looking like a brood of dangling snakes, a series of long, thick ropes were suddenly dropped off the garrison roof from one end to the other. Scrambling down the lines hand over hand were Vellan’s troops, all armed with swords and sliding along the granite wall like a colony of rats scurrying from their nest. As nearly two dozen men simultaneously dropped to the ground and drew their weapons, an equal number above then climbed over the edge of the roof in unison and let themselves down. A third and fourth wave followed until a swarm of enemy soldiers infested the street, overwhelming King Justin’s forces as the din of clattering swords tainted the air.

  “Follow me!” Eucádus cried to Ramsey and his men as he plunged into the sea of enemy combatants.

  At the same time, King Justin and those of his troops still on horseback waded through the expanding, deadly crowd, their swords swinging from side to side as they confronted their newest foes. Other soldiers in the streets, upon seeing the spectacle, rushed to help. Several of them though, fell in the first few bloody moments as the magnitude of the shock attack rushed over them like a raging fire.

  Then something strange and unforeseen happened, though unnoticed at first by most as the chaos up and down the street intensified. As the thrust of cold blades through air and flesh continued unabated, two additional teams of Vellan’s troops dropped down from the rooftop along the suspended ropes. Working in concert, they slowly waded through the tumultuous crowd toward the King’s horse, furtively channeling the animal and its rider through the bedlam and closer to the garrison wall. King Justin fought off other attackers clamoring around him, unaware that he was being gradually separated from his riders and foot soldiers.

  As the King neared the shadowy north side of the wall, another pair of men on the rooftop peered over the edge directly above him. They climbed over the side close to one another, each holding onto a rope. Going hand over hand, they slid down swiftly and silently above the mayhem while the King’s horse was backed against the garrison wall. As King Justin fought off a few soldiers to his right, he didn’t see the two men on ropes above, lowering themselves the last few feet. Suddenly, they grabbed hold of the King from opposite sides, each placing an arm underneath one of his shoulders while tightly holding onto their ropes with the other hand.

  “King Justin!” Ramsey bellowed out just as the King craned his neck backward in stunned surprise, eyeing the two assailants who had him in their grips.

  But before he could utter a word, King Justin was lifted off his horse by the two men as several of their comrades on the roof furiously pulled on the ropes. The King and his captors rose up the garrison wall with mesmerizing speed that left onlookers below shocked and senseless. Upon hearing Ramsey’s frantic call, Eucádus spun around and gazed up with dread as King Justin ascended while futilely hacking at one of the ropes with the restricted use of his sword. Eucádus’ blood ran cold as he desperately calculated a way to rescue the King of Arrondale. But a moment later King Justin was gone, pulled onto the roof by a bevy of outreached hands and arms that engulfed the monarch like tentacles and carried him away. Seconds later, the ropes were pulled up and disappeared, and with them, any chance for a rescue.

  CHAPTER 105

  Blood on the Eastern Field

  The battle near the eastern bridge on the city’s edge was as brutal and bloody as the fighting inside Del Norác. The hostilities had separated into smaller conflicts along the river and among the trees and knolls across the field. Brendan and William inhaled the bitter stench of combat as they guided their steeds through the fires of warfare. King Rowan remained close to them after they were swept into the initial battle, brandishing their swords with expertise thanks to much training during weeks of traveling. But as the confidence of the sibling princes increased, they followed the natural flow of the fighting.

  As the day wore on, they were seamlessly integrated into the conflict much like their fellow soldiers. Many unfortunate others though, lay scattered about in lifeless poses, dirt-grimed and bloodstained. A few had expelled their last breaths while face down in the Drusala River, their bodies drifting eastward with the current and leaving behind a diffuse trail of pinkish water.

  “I never imagined it so,” Brendan said to his brother as they briefly rested in the shade of a tree after an exhausting bout with one of Captain Silas’ companies. They had both long ago lost their horses after a punishing clash. Brendan’s face was stained with sweat and dust, and his mop of blond hair was matted down like wet straw.

  “Imagined what?” William asked, appearing similarly disheveled.

  Brendan looked at his brother, his eyes filled with an unspoken horror. “I never imagined that I’d get used to the death and misery around me–and so quickly.”

  William wiped the perspiration from his brow, recalling his experiences in Rhiál. “You’ll never get used to this, Brendan. Right now our minds are tolerating it, even ignoring parts while we go about this unpleasant business. But the day will always haunt us,” he said with grim certainty. “Some day if we’re fishing on the Gestina River again or eating breakfast in our rooms, this day will find us, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

  Brendan placed a consoling hand upon his shoulder. “Nor would I want to, Will. The path we walk today is a part of who we are, for good or ill, and we’ll have to accommodate it into our lives.” He offered a heartfelt smile as he tousled his brother’s hair. “And now I’m better understanding your thoughts regarding my demise. But as I’m back at your side alive and well, I hope you’l
l not visit them so often, though I suspect they’ll knock on your mind’s door from time to time.”

  Will offered a playful grin. “I’ll try to keep that door locked.”

  “Good,” he replied, eyeing the nearby soldiers who were surveying an area along the river. To the left of the bridge, a company of Islanders were making a charge at Captain Silas’ men who had just fended off several troops from Kargoth. “I believe this respite is over,” he added. Brendan took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and patted the hilt of his sword before following the troops who started racing toward the Drusala River. William joined in the chase, wondering if this day would ever end.

  When they reached the river, over fifty men were tearing up the grass and wielding swords along the water’s edge. Captain Silas, embroiled in a deadly swordfight with a brawny soldier from the Isles, briefly looked up upon seeing the two princes of Montavia and their allies, his spirits lifting. An instant later, the tip of Silas’ blood-stained sword tore across the chest of the Islander, sending the man flailing backward and tumbling to the ground just before he was finished off with a single thrust of the blade. When Silas turned to seek out the new arrivals, he eyed another determined Islander racing toward him amid the chaos. The captain sighed and gripped his sword tightly, ready to do it all over again.

  Prince Brendan rushed over to give Silas a hand, much to William’s wide-eyed consternation. As the Islander bolted headlong toward Silas while running parallel to the river, Brendan charged at him from the north. As he drew his blade, he shouted out to get the man’s attention. The Islander slowed down upon hearing the frantic cry. When seeing the young prince barreling toward him, he repositioned his weapon just in time as Brendan’s well-aimed blade met his with a swift and sharp strike.

  Their swords clattered as each fended off strike after deadly strike, but Brendan never relented and edged forward with each swing of his blade. The Islander grudgingly retreated toward the riverbank, his back to the water while his eyes remained fixed upon the prince’s steely gaze and his unfathomable burst of fury. As their swords rose to repel the other’s strike, Brendan advanced another step and the Islander found himself poised precariously on the river’s edge as the prince’s fearless blade again came at him. He shifted to his right to avoid the expected hit, but misjudged his step and slipped, tumbling into the Drusala with a terrific splash. Brendan leaped back to avoid the spray of water as William ran up to his side.