by Joseph Lallo
Malcor = Mal-core
Waipara = Way-pa-rah
Meilan = May-lan
Athlone = At-LON-uh
Gylaren = Guy-lah-ran
Navarien = Nav-are-ree-anne
1 ~ Scorched Earth
Shadowy figures dashed from house to house and from shop to shop. Wherever they paused, fire sprang up throughout the town. In silence and haste, the men burned all they owned. Although many eyes watched the destruction, no one protested. No one drew sword to stop them. It was night and the new moon had yet to appear, but they could see well enough—too well. The burning houses and shops provided more than enough light to show them what their lord’s orders had wrought.
From the saddle, Lord Keverin watched the destruction and brooded upon the waste of it all. Was there another way? If there was, he couldn’t see it. The firing was necessary, crucial even, but by the God how it rankled. Years of work gone in a single night, all because he couldn’t see another way to save his people. While he watched in impotent silence, hundreds of woman and children streamed up the road away from their burning homes carrying a few meagre possessions. It was all they owned now.
They were good people. None accused him; none blamed him for what he knew was his failure. When he’d come down to tell them what he wanted them to do, they had nodded and asked when. No outcry, no protest of any kind, just: When Lord? He didn’t deserve such loyalty. That he was justified in destroying all they owned mattered not—not to him. He should have found a way to avoid this, curse it!
Keverin turned his horse and stared up at the brooding shadow of mighty Athione where the huge walls of the fortress loomed waiting to defend her people once again. Although too dark to see, he knew that his cross-fisted banner flew proudly beside the crescent moon of Deva above her towers. She had never been taken, never even been in serious danger in her entire history. His family and people had been secure here, never fearing defeat, but he feared it now. How much longer would those proud banners fly over his home before the lightning bolt of the Protectorate took their place?
Cavell stamped a hoof as if to tell him it was time to leave. “Easy girl, easy,” he murmured, and patted her muscled neck. “I’ll have you in a nice warm stable soon enough. I promise.”
Keverin waited stony faced for his orders to be carried out, but at last, the menfolk from the town stood before him with torches held aloft in silence. Shadows cavorted upon their upturned faces, causing each man to appear a stranger.
One figure stepped forward to reveal his features. “It’s done, Lord.”
“It’s done, Dergan,” Keverin agreed. He raised his voice so all could hear. “Go now. Go swiftly all of you. Join your families and see to their welfare.”
“But what of you Lord?”
“I’ll stay awhile.”
Dergan bowed and moved to lead the others up the steep slope of the road to find their families.
Keverin waited for them to enter the gates of Athione before turning back to watch the town burn. It was the least he could do.
The fires roared as the roofs collapsed. The flames leapt skyward as the cool night air fed them. Windows exploded succumbing to the intense heat. Nothing would remain of the town but ashes come the morrow. That was as it should be—as he’d ordered it to be. Not one loaf of bread to feed the enemy, not one wall to hide him, and not one roof to shelter him. A mere gesture of defiance. What more was there at this late date?
He watched the flames consuming his town waiting for inspiration to strike, but the voice of the God was silent within him. The roar of the fire was his only answer. So be it. There had been no answer because there wasn’t one. He had done all he could do here. It was time to be inside the walls.
Lord Athione, Lord Protector of the West, turned his horse and rode for home.
The dawn found Keverin standing upon the battlement with Darius watching the invaders moving along the pass below. The distance was too great to make an accurate estimate of their strength, but he guessed there would not be less than a legion. Numbers meant little. Darius, and mages like him, would be the deciding factor in determining who was to rule Deva.
He couldn’t help thinking that he was to blame for what was about to happen. Though for the life of him he couldn’t see how he could have done otherwise. Surely there must have been something—a point where he could have avoided all this, but looking back, he just couldn’t see it. Everything he had done in his time as Lord Protector had been done with the good of his people in mind, yet still his path had led them all to war. The Protectorate’s invasion of Bandar five years ago had led him to believe that Deva was next on Mortain’s list, and so it had proved. But was it his reaction to the fall of Bandar that spurred Mortain to this attack? It might be egotistical of him to believe so, but he did. His desire to protect his home and people, had led directly to their current peril. He was a fool to have ever believed he could give Mortain pause by strengthening his defences with magic. He was a threat that Mortain could no longer ignore. Why hadn’t he seen the inevitability of that?
He shook his head. Inevitable or not, standing by and doing nothing had been, and still was, out of the question. Mortain would have turned his attention to Deva eventually; of that he had no doubt. He only had to look to Hasa to know that.
Al’Hasa, once the proud capital of the nation called Hasa, fell to the sorcerers centuries ago, and they had intermarried with the Hasian population in order to firm their grip. It had worked. The country was an intrinsic part of the Protectorate now. No division remained, but they still ruled their conquest from Castle Black on the island of the same name, led by a long succession of lords styling themselves after the first Mortain.
The Protectorate and its legions had become aggressively expansionist in recent years. When Bandar fell, he’d thought the sorcerers would wait to digest their latest meal, just as they’d waited after taking Hasa, but he was only partly right. Five years had gone by since he closed the pass, but already the Hasians were on the move. This time they were trying to cross the Athinian Mountains into Deva, and he defended the only route they could take.
From his position above the west gate, he watched the Hasians approach. His face was calm, but the clenching and unclenching of his fists could not help but betray his tension to those who knew him well. The legions were the envy of the entire continent of Waipara. The men were the best fighters, the best disciplined, and the best equipped soldiers any country had ever fielded. They had fought in many battles, though not in the last five years, and were always victorious. Always. The men were hardened professionals and worse—they were veterans.
His guardsmen would fight well; they were defending family, home, and lord, but they had no experience of being under siege. Nor did he have any. He was outnumbered and outclassed. If he led his men in an attack, they would die. It was as simple as that. Sally and die. If he did anything more than he was doing, they would all die. He kept trying to see something he’d missed, but there was nothing. They must defend, not attack. He had fought brigands and raiders successfully in the past, but this was an invasion, and it bore no relation to any mere raid. He hoped his inexperience wouldn’t doom them all.
Keverin glanced at his friend. “How many do you think?”
“Too many for us by far, my lord. We have five mages of varying strengths, but they have ten times that number.” Darius clenched a fist and banged it down on the crenel in front of him in frustration. “Mortain would not send weaklings. You must know that.”
He nodded and swept his hair out of his eyes from where the wind insisted on blowing it. “The spell, you still intend trying it?”
“I see no other option. We could hold them off for a few days; with luck more than just a few. Renard has some ideas, and you know how good at warding he is. So then, we hold them off for a few days, but what then? We’ll tire long before they do, and they’ll smash the gate. My brothers and I will die to prevent that, but die we wi
ll.”
He shivered at Darius’ matter of fact way of discussing his own death. He was too young to be so world weary. He was only thirty, yet he looked fifty at least. Why anyone believed magic was worth such a price, he couldn’t fathom.
He had puzzled through some of the texts in his library, but by no means all. Even with all he’d read about magic and the Founders, he still didn’t understand why mages risked so much. To throw away years of life, to burn ones youth in the pursuit of magic was incomprehensible to him or anyone but the gifted. He shook his head at the familiar confusion and reminded himself that he didn’t have to understand their motives to thank the God for them. And he did, every day. Of all those in his service, they alone might yet save Athione and all of her people from going down into defeat.
“If only Pergann would send help!” he hissed as his frustration got the better of him. “The Chancellor writes that the King is too ill to make such a decision. No help is coming.”
“Ummm,” Darius said looking at his feet a moment and frowning in thought. “I should tell you that I scried the palace at Devarr last night.”
Keverin gasped. “You fool! You know that’s a death sentence!”
“I hardly need to worry about being executed for spying, do I?”
“I won’t argue with you. Not this day of all days. What did you find out?”
“I’m not quite sure,” Darius said, sounding puzzled. He frowned again. “The palace seemed almost deserted. There weren’t many servants walking the halls. The stables were empty and the walls didn’t even have sentries. I know the King is old, but the realm is surely in someone’s hands.”
That didn’t sound good at all. Pergann was a weak fool, but he was still the King. The Chancellor, however, wasn’t even a noble, yet he effectively ruled the kingdom by Pergann’s order. Chancellor Morfran turned his stomach with his two-faced well wishes and refusals to send aid, but Keverin was a King’s man. Despite his dislike of the Chancellor and of the King’s decisions regarding him, nothing would change that.
“My messengers have had no luck convincing Morfran of the danger we face. What of the King’s mage?”
“I did try to find someone I could talk to at the palace, but I couldn’t find anyone with the gift there. I fear the kingdom is leaderless. What of the nobles?”
He grimaced. What indeed? He wouldn’t trust most of them to polish his boots, let alone aid him in battle. Only the other Lord Protectors would be of any real use in the battle he faced, but there were only three of them. Four if he included his own Athione, holding the west. Malcor protected the north, Elvissa held the east, and Meilan defended a pass in the southeast that led into Japura. The Japuran Matriarchy wasn’t an enemy of Deva, but it was powerful and bore watching. The south of the kingdom was open to the sea, but it still had protection in the form of reefs. Many a fleet had tested them to their destruction.
The lords that he considered trustworthy, and more to the point, had enough guardsmen to make a difference, were leagues away. Gylaren Lord of Meilan was one, and Purcell Lord of Elvissa was another, but both had their own approaches to guard. Malcor was the closest fortress with guardsmen enough to help, but it was problematical in that Lord Malcor hated him with a passion, and with good reason. He’d killed the man’s father.
“I’ve sent messages to all of the lords,” he explained to his friend. “Lord Malcor didn’t answer, no surprise there. Killing Athlone’s father was something I had to do; he would have killed me else, but that deed is coming back to haunt me now. As for the others, most of them don’t have enough men to patrol their own estates let alone aid me. Those that do made excuses not to send them. Gylaren though is on his way with two thousand men—only half are cavalry. Purcell is bringing five hundred, but all of his are infantry. We’re lucky to get that many.”
Darius looked surprised. “Tanjung and Japura are quiet. They have been years now. They can’t fear an attack... surely?”
“Our beloved neighbours to the east would just love for us to reduce our defences. While we’re worrying about the Protectorate, they could take us in the rear.” He shrugged and then smiled. “You’re right about them being quiet, but we can’t take the chance.”
Darius nodded. He took one last lingering look at the sorcerers in the pass below before visibly making an effort to look confident and cheerful. “So then, we’re agreed. With your permission, my lord, I must prepare for the summoning. Good luck to you, and... farewell.”
Finding no words to express his fears, Keverin embraced his friend. After a moment they parted and Darius walked away toward the gate tower.
“May the God watch over you my friend,” he called.
Darius stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. “I expect he will,” he said then entered the tower.
He watched his friend disappear into darkness. “May the God watch over, and comfort you at journey’s end.”
It was the prayer for the dead.
* * *
2 ~ Summoning
Darius refused all help from his fellows in the fortress. All were needed to repel the invasion, and he wouldn’t risk tiring or injuring them. If what he had in mind worked, they would have to hold the wards alone, because he would not be here to help them. Despite the danger, he was looking forward this. It felt as if he’d been working toward this day his entire life. It was destiny calling. He felt it.
He knew that Keverin didn’t understand why he and mages like him willingly paid the price of the craft. Only someone with the gift could understand the ecstasy he felt when using his magic. It was one reason why mages regardless of their rank tended to overuse it. He’d felt the point when the sweet ecstasy of using magic turned to agony many times. Without discipline a mage could age himself a hundred years in moments.
He wore the red robes of a wizard. Only the black robes of a sorcerer were higher, and yet even his discipline had failed him on a number of occasions. He was only thirty years old, but outwardly he looked fifty or more. That didn’t deter him from using his power—nothing could. When he released his magic after a major conjuration, he would often swear never to let it seduce him into that last grasp for more ever again, but the next time would inevitably come, and he would abruptly forget the oath, ageing perhaps another month. Then again, and he would age a year, and then another month; on and on. Now he was a young man with an old man’s body about to perform his last and greatest work.
He’d studied for years piecing bits and pieces together from stories he read about the Founding of the Black Isle and early years of Deva. He hadn’t been studying for any high minded ideals, but rather for the love of learning new things. Coming to Athione was the culmination of his life’s pursuit of knowledge. Fitting then, that it was here he’d discovered the answers to so many of his questions about the Founders, and about how they’d lost knowledge of the Great Spells brought with them from their own world.
In the beginning, the world had been devoid of magic wielders. Sorcerers had arrived on Fisher Isle, through a gate where some stayed to build a home that would later be called Castle Black. A smaller group wished to explore the mainland, and went there to separate and mingle with the inhabitants they found. To his mind, Athione’s construction with sorcery attested to the validity of the story. No one could construct anything on such a grand scale today, but he was determined to attempt something just as ambitious—a gate spell.
The key to the spell had come into his hands quite by accident when he swore his oath to Keverin. At Keverin’s request, he had warded all the books against removal from the library soon after his arrival, but the lord hadn’t entrusted one particular volume to the library. No indeed. That book was in the vault, guarded night and day by trusted guardsmen handpicked for the task, but also by magic. Keverin had asked him to place wards on the vault to ensure that a lord of Athione must always accompany anyone who wished to enter. It was his strongest ward, and he’d aged himself an entire year on purpose t
o make it. It would outlive anyone currently living, and should endure forever if it remained untouched by a greater mage. Even so, he wasn’t sure the ward was enough, but he could do nothing more to ensure the vault’s security. The spell would hold long after his death—it must.
Darius surveyed his room one last time. He was as ready as he was ever going to be he decided. He straightened his robe and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. Before closing the door, he glanced back at the table where a sealed scroll lay.
Perhaps it will ease your mind in some small manner my friend.
He locked the door and made his way through the fortress. He didn’t want to be late for his own demise. The thought started an absurd chuckle building in his chest.
“Darius!” Gideon called. “Please wait a moment, would you?”
His heart sank when he heard the priest call out to him. He had hoped to avoid this. “I wanted to say good bye, but I’m late and Keverin is waiting for me.”
“So it’s true,” Gideon said in disbelief. “You’re throwing your life away for nothing. The God won’t let Athione fall.”
“I know you believe that, but you and I both know that the God helps those who help themselves. I’ve never been one for praying or begging for help. Certainly not when I can do something to aid the situation myself. I’m not going to start now.”
“You can’t unmake the barrier. No one can do that,” Gideon said with frustration heavy in his voice.
“True, but I can make a tiny hole and slip through.”
“You’re deluding yourself. The stories are just that—stories.”
“You’re wrong, my friend. I’ve read the histories as you have, but where you see charming stories, I see logical and well written accounts of the Founders’ journey and first years here.”
Gideon sighed. “I cannot sway you, and so I pray for your success. I believe the Holy Father would chastise me for that and for saying this, but I’ve always been proud to call you friend.”
