The Spirit of Malquia (In the Absence of Kings Book 2)

by Lee LaCroix

  The Spirit of Malquia

  In the Absence of Kings – Book Two

  By: Lee LaCroix

  Prologue

  In the voluminous fog of the southern sea, the torchlights of the Nomad blossomed into tremendous brilliance. From afar, their fiery display was like fallen stars. Although the wind whistled to accompany them, the crew of the galleon knew that an ill omen followed them, for the thick had stolen their sense of place and direction. As the tides took them as far as they dared, they tried to pierce the obscuration around them but eventually drew their masts back and became static as the celestials above. Although the compass was straight, the captain’s faith wavered as much as the ship lurched back and forth, and he made an effort to preserve the men’s spirits that began to languish at the sight of the impenetrable darkness. He made his way to the forecastle, his usual booming place, and drew in the salty air to address the crew, but his breath left him in wisps when the shine of stars finally cut through their path. As the fiery billows of fog around the ship finally returned to the sky, an inky blackness remained above and below. Only pillars of moonlight cut through the dark obfuscation on high.

  “There! Yonder! Let us be free of this wretchedness and find our heavenly guides again,” he bellowed as he unfurled his grasp towards the gathering light in the distance.

  “Captain!” the men replied as they sprang into action.

  The captain nodded his head and turned back to the bow, looking over the water for any signs to call him home. Under the workman’s chorus, the bustle of his crew, their heavy footwork, their enthusiastic groans, and the screeching of the many ropes could be heard. Seemingly pleased, he drew a hand through his thick beard, combing out the moisture that had collected and threatened to make him cold. Although he waited no longer than usual, the singing of unfurled sails escaped him, and his furrowed brow turned to meet the crew that had grown as quiet as the dying winds.

  Each of his men had three shadows then. Two were cast by the potent braziers on the head and the deck of the ship. The other was summoned by the evil of man. Each sailor was silent and still until the last breath had left their bodies. Save the captain, the crew had fallen to a darkness not of night but of vicious spite and unfeeling cruelty. The third shadows stood up from their prey, swathed in the black of their homeland, and ripped free of their victims. Their blades were stained as dark as their garb, and their bloodshot eyes were all the captain could fathom in order to distinguish those assaulters from spirits of darkness incarnate.

  “Let me show you the light!” The captain bellowed as he withdrew his sword and placed its blade into the oil of the brazier.

  A billowing wave of flame leapt from the weapon as the captain swung it towards the darkness, but as the fire split and divided, his opponents paced right through. With a yell, he charged their ranks and then was completely consumed by shadow.

  Three Days Later

  “What do you mean, Order? What is this, Vandar?” Vyse demanded as he looked up from his documents, making no attempt to disguise his frustration over the interruption of his most important of business.

  The lord shook his head, dismissing the absurdity that his subordinate had brought before him, and drew his gaze back to the inventories and ledgers. The only degree of caution he showed was lightly flecking his writing feather towards the doorway, persuading the man outwards without splashing ink over the polished oak desk.

  “Sir, Lord Vyse, sir. There’s a ship outside, a massive ship. The deck is packed with soldiers in arms. They are not of Malquia,” the servant spoke, his voice an awful quiver, and could not meet the eyes of his master.

  With a sigh of disgust, Vyse rose from his desk and made his way towards the window. As he passed through the dim candlelight of the room, the buffed red oak décor shined like gold around him. For a moment, he lost a small measure of his displeasure. However, not even the silky kiss of the velvet curtains on his fingers could prevent him from regaining it as he opened them to peer through the window.

  Looking down from his three-story manor, Vyse peered into the U-shaped cut in the land and the half-circle structure that made up the docks of Deepshine Bay. It was from that edifice that his own legacy had been forged, for his father and father before him were unable to trust the mountain path and forest road, knowing the dangers of those lurking there.

  On an ordinary day, his trade vessels came and went with their pitch black tarps serving little purpose to hide the precious sunsteel as it traveled around Malquia. Instead, the entire width of the bay was blocked by a massive ship with sails of silvered gray and depthless black. It was nearly twice as big as any of the Blackwoods ships and was armed not for weather but war. The sun shining through the overcast clouds lit the domed helmets of the soldiers that stood shoulder to shoulder on its deck. Like a ghost ship, the warriors stood with faces as pale as death and eye sockets sunken to blackness. Coloured like the sails and featuring foreign icons, Vyse could not make out the origin of their many banners that hung heavy, barely disturbed by the wind.

  “Call the guard. Let us go out and meet them,” Vyse commanded as he closed the window, hoping to return his study to a darkness greater than the one that had come to meet him.

  The whistling of the wind drowned out the crunching of grass and the shifting and spilling of sand. Although he soon grew tired at their marching pace, Vyse could not afford to lack in display. To command the respect of his unfamiliar guests, Vyse knew that he must display the martial excellence and proficiency of his hand-picked soldiers. As Vyse and his twenty-four armoured Deepshine defenders marched off the length of the bay docks, a gangplank slid out of the foreign ship. As the Malquians waited in the shadow of the massive vessel, the seafaring soldiers marched into formation with their banners before them.

  With an angular headdress and a robe of pitch black and shimmering silver, the diplomat in charge was impossible for Vyse to miss. As soon as Vyse could make out the blacks in his eyes, he could see that the magister’s vision was focused solely upon him. As the dignitary froze in place after his first steps on Malquia, his soldiers formed up around him as Vyse’s did and crossed the gray shore to meet their hosts. On either side, the faces of their warriors were hard and set, and their eyes were fixed and unblinking. Each force came to a halt a short distance from each other, and the ranks of the Vandari divided, letting their speaker through. Likewise, Vyse made his way through the Deepshine defenders and met the ambassador in the midst.

  “Sprek lak, umb dum tras!” the foreigner boomed.

  Vyse looked left and right and bent an eyebrow.

  “Excuse me?” Vyse replied, meeting the man’s gaze again.

  “Are you the ruler of this land?” the ambassador spoke in Vyse’s native tongue.

  “I am a ruler of many things. One of the most powerful in the land. But of its king, I am not,” Vyse explained.

  “Then what gives you the right to take from Vandar which you have stolen,” the ambassador accused, raising a hand to the Nomad parked in the Deepshine docks.

  Vyse looked over at the ship and back to the man. Although he kept a neutral face, Vyse’s mind was reeling. Quite clearly, he recalled the docking of the ship, the excitement of the successful crew, and the following report of the ship’s capture. Vyse himself had scoured the ship, discovering it foreign to Malquian design; he had already made a great deal of profit off the sale of its treasures in the Trade District. It was obvious to Vyse that it was in his best interests to withhold the truth from the Vandari.

  “My servants found the ship wrecked off the northern coast. We repaired it at great cost and had
it moved to here for safe keeping,” Vyse explained.

  The ambassador was silent for a time, and for the first time, showed a sign of emotion in his arched brow.

  “You are a snake and a liar. Your soldiers of shadow were not as effective as you presume. There was a survivor,” the man stated, gnashing his teeth together.

  It took a volume of Vyse’s strength not to flinch as his lies were unraveled, but like any man of great ambition, he kept his composure and continued.

  “I am sorry we must disagree on the discovery of this ship, but I swear that there was no foul business regarding this vessel. The ship is yours to take if it will assuage your offense, for we wish to honour and respect its ownership and your customs,” Vyse explained.

  “Your words mean nothing to us now. We will speak with your ruler, your king, at once. He will meet us here, or we will bring ruin and death upon this tiny island,” the man threatened.

  The ambassador did not take his glare off of Vyse as he went into the width of one of his sleeves and pulled out a rolled missive. The imposing stare was shattered as Vyse’s sunsteel ring gleamed bright when the lord moved forward to collect the missive. The diplomat’s demeanor broke as he stared upon the ring, leaving him reeling where he stood. Spontaneous whispers broke out among the foreign soldiers, but a sharp hand fell from above.

  “Sala’thon!” the ambassador commanded, and then the crowd was silenced.

  Vyse looked over the foreigners for a time, and then moved forward to receive the document.

  “Let our next meeting be more fruitful, for both our sakes,” the ambassador stated.

  With a bow, he returned to the midst of his soldiers.

  As the Vandarian procession made its way up the ramp and back into their vessel, Vyse looked down at the envelope, which was a shade more cream than the native paper and featured a seal of silver. The numbers on Vandarian ship did not seem to shrink or grow as their speaker rejoined them. Not a voice was heard as the vessel pulled its anchor from the water, unfurled its sails, and began to drift out to sea. Vyse watched it advance into the distance until he could no longer make out the soldier’s individual faces. Afterwards, he turned around and broke free of his entourage, pacing back to the warehouse that was not far from the Deepshine mine or the manor. With the aid of a servant, it took him little time to find the crates of goods that his men had lifted from the Nomad. All throughout the attached documents bore the same angular insignia of black and silver as the Vandarian banners displayed. Vyse gathered up all the papers he could find and made his way back to the study where he could examine them further.

  “Call for a linguist. Find me the most studious scholar in the Upper Quarter. In all of Malquia if you have to. Spare no expense,” Vyse ordered to his servant who was still shaken by the appearance of the ghastly ship.

  The servant gave a quick bow and left the room in a hurry, leaving Vyse in peace.

  “Where to meet,” Vyse muttered to himself as he opened the missive and looked upon the map that was contained within.

  He was unnerved to see that the accuracy of the map was just as detailed as any of the prominent Malquian cartographers had ever designed. What disturbed him more was that this Vandarian Order had probably known about Malquia for a time and had done nothing. Vyse drew his finger across a small set of isles off the northwestern coast where the rendezvous location was X’edin ruby red ink. It would be a small journey from Deepshine or even the capital. He hoped it would be secluded enough that it would not draw the attention of passing trade vessels or fishing operations. Public awareness of this misdeed would be another stain on his company, which was already becoming increasingly disreputable, and Vyse knew that he only remained in business because of his blood relation to the Queen and the generous donations towards the crown and kingdom. It unnerved him to even imagine how he would explain this to his brother-in-law, one of the great kings of Malquia.

  The pristinely maintained hull of the Gallant was golden like the sea around it as the ship cut through the waters a ways from docks at Amatharsus. An hour since their departure, the ship’s navigator now battled the sun’s orange-red glare as the fiery orb began to sink towards the horizon. He would not dare share his anxieties with the crew, for the distinguished passengers could not be burdened in anyway during this voyage. His sweat broke like a splash of water when he finally set eyes on the woody pillars of ships and the expansive darkness of their sails.

  “Hard to starboard. Follow the sun!” he cried as he pointed out over the vastness.

  “Aye!” the captain yelled from below.

  Amidst the clatter of feet and moaning, the crew turned the ship about.

  Vyse waited upon the quarterdeck, watching with squinted eyes as the Vandarian ships came into view between the glare of the sun and the shimmering line of the water’s surface. Although he had been through the wicked reproach that was offered by his sister’s empowered tongue and the King’s judgmental glare, he was still shaking inside with nervousness. The royals had told him that the severity of his punishment would be determined by the outcome of this diplomatic meeting. He was nearly the wealthiest man in all of Malquia, only second to the King of course. If things took a turn for the worse here, all of his efforts would count for naught. So he hoped and watched the tiny isle approach.

  Like the verdant forests of Malquia, the King’s opulent green cloak shined like the sunlight off crisp leaves. It was bordered with trimmed tassels of gold upon a strip of flawless black that lay on its edge. A swirling design of flaked sunsteel glowed upon the black borders of the cloak, which revealed only a slender showing of his gold silk shirt and black pants. Although in the midst of his thirties, his salt and peppered hair billowed in the wind as calmly as he breathed, and his close cut beard was as firm as his brow. His Majesty walked down the plank of the Gallant first. Next, the Queen was escorted by the Crown Aegis, and Lord Vyse and the other observers came last. The King’s glare remained stern as he looked over the foreign diplomats and the darkness of their ship. As he came to the forefront of their troops, the same Vandarian ambassador appeared through their midst to greet him.

  “The Holy Order of Vandar acknowledges you, King of Malquia,” the ambassador announced with a deep bow, and all of the visiting soldiers and diplomats bowed low as well.

  “Very well. Malquia welcomes the Vandari to these shores. I have come to discuss the relations between our two nations and to put aside the offenses that have brought you here,” the King announced, his words rolling outwards as calm as the waves of the sea.

  As soon as the Vandari had reached their full height again, the ambassador nodded and gave slight pause.

  “Malquia has not escaped the knowledge of the Order even at the great distance from our northern homeland. It has been centuries since your people have left the deserts of Kal’resh and have founded your kingdom here. We have been watching and waiting for a time that we may offer you a position of stewardship over these lands. So we could meet us as allies and kin of the Order,” the ambassador began.

  “I am honoured that Malquia has been considered for such a purpose in your Order, but I relent that we are a free people and will continue to govern ourselves for the years to come,” the King stated, his voice as firm as the mountains.

  “As it pleases you, King of Malquia. However, these latest trespasses against our property have given us reason to believe that your nation has advanced enough to serve the glory of the Order. We have allotted you the due time to flourish into your own national identity, and your culture will be valued greatly across all of our lands,” the Vandarian praised.

  “Unfortunately, this does not please me, son of Vandar. This borrowed time you speak of… We have been a free people long before we constructed our homes and turned the earth to bounty. We cannot bow to a presence that claims authority over us. Not in a fashion like this,” the King replied, confidence unshakable as the bedrock that Malquia was borne upon.

  “But you will,” the
ambassador announced.

  The sounds of the waves crashing against the nearby beach deafened everyone to the sounds of their lowered breathing. All but the King had blinked and wondered if they had just heard was really what had been spoken. Many held their breath, waiting with piercing anxiety, to hear the next words that would determine the fate of their kingdoms. The glare of the King upon that ambassador was enough to break a lesser man. However, the boldness of the Vandarian was bolstered by the unrelenting strength of their continent-spanning Holy Order. The ambassador stood at his full height and clasped his fingers together in his palms. In a pounding rhythm, the spears of the Vandarian soldiers struck their deck of the ship, their shoulders, and then their chest, repeating the three with seasoned precision. But the King was neither impressed nor amused.

  “It has severely offended us that your subjects have chosen to pillage from our great wealth. In return, you must become subject in order to repay such offense. Although you would remain steward over this land, a portion of your wealth, your knowledge, and your martial strength will now go to serve the Order. This is the only way you can repay this offense peacefully,” the ambassador claimed.

  “And if we do not choose peace?”

  “Then you will bow. With or without your heads. With all your towers torn down. With all your castles crumbled to dust. With all your culture and history consumed by fire and forgotten by time,” the speaker threatened.

  “Vandar has no claim here. Your threats do not scare us,” the King stated as his stature remained resolute.

  “Then perhaps these will,” the ambassador replied, raising a hand to the open sea between their two forces.

  As if mesmerized by the diplomatic relations, none of the Malquians had seen the change in the sea or its shimmering distance. They stared, squinted, and were irresistibly attracted to discover any notion that could carry the weight of the foreigner’s threat. The sparkling band of the sunset horizon was no more. Instead, it was swallowed by black and a lining of silver. Hundreds of Vandarian ships, more than could be seen from their vantage, bulked the mass of their armada a small voyage from Amatharsus. The King did not flinch but returned his glare to the ambassador who had donned a slim smile.