The Chronicles of the Myrkron: Book 01 - The Nine Keys of Magic

by Timothy Woods

  Captain Doss was the commander of the archers; a lean fellow with blonde hair and blue eyes. He wasn’t given much to talking, except when giving orders. Captain Tanner was leader of the cavalry. Salic didn’t much like the man personally. Tanner was competent, but he was also arrogant, not a trait for which Salic had much tolerance. Then there was Captain Hamil, the infantry commander, a big bear of a man. Hamil had brown hair that was close cropped to his scalp, a neatly trimmed beard, and hazel eyes. He wasn’t much taller than Salic, but his girth was at least twice Salic’s own. Each of his arms were as big around as one of Salic’s legs, and his neck was so thick that it almost looked like he had two sets of shoulders, one on top of the other. The man must have weighed at least three hundred pounds, and not an ounce of it was wasted. His men all called him Bull because of his size, and once he got moving, nothing stopped him. Salic liked him. He was plain spoken and always got right to the point. If you wanted an honest opinion on something, you asked Captain Hamil.

  Without any preliminaries, Salic filled them in on his plan and told them what Rand reported. When Salic informed them of the Avari guarding the pass, Hamil’s face split in a huge grin, and he clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

  Tanner looked at Hamil with displeasure. Obviously, he thought the outburst unbecoming an officer. Salic was pleased to note that Captain Hamil just grinned wickedly at Tanner, a silent challenge. Salic privately hoped that Tanner would say something, anything. He thought that a good thrashing from Hamil would knock some of the arrogance out of the man. Of course, it was only wishful thinking. Commander Salic did not encourage dissention among his officers.

  "Avari, huh? Well now, there are some real infantry. Just the two; and they have already taken out eighty Weres. I must meet these two," Captain Hamil exclaimed eagerly.

  "You’ll get your chance in a couple of days, Captain," Salic told him.

  "The Infantry will be ready to move out at first light, Commander. I am as eager as you to reach The Slot," Captain Hamil assured.

  "As will be the Calvary," stated Captain Tanner.

  "The Archers move with the Infantry. We will be ready as well," added Captain Doss.

  "Then get some rest, gentlemen. We have another long march ahead of us tomorrow," Salic said with a wave of dismissal.

  Tanner and Doss immediately got up and left the tent. Hamil continued to sit, his hands cupped around is ale mug, staring into it as if looking for something within its depths.

  "Something on your mind, Captain?" Salic asked.

  "Aye, Commander. I feel I need to apologize for my behavior tonight. I shouldn’t have baited Tanner like that. Especially not here in your tent," Hamil said sincerely.

  "Apology accepted, Captain, but not really necessary. We have all been on the march for many days. Tempers have a way of becoming short on forced marches." Salic leaned forward across the table so Hamil could hear him whisper.

  "Besides, my money is on you," Salic said with a conspiratory nod.

  Captain Hamil looked up into Salic’s eyes and a wide grin came over his face.

  "Thank you, Commander."

  Salic leaned back in his chair.

  "Is there anything else, Captain?"

  "No, Commander."

  "Then off with you."

  Still grinning widely, Captain Hamil drained his ale cup in a single gulp and left the tent. As Captain Hamil went out, Dale came in. He gathered up the Captains’ cups.

  "Will you be needing anything else, Commander?"

  "No, thank you, Dale. I’m just going to finish my ale and go to sleep," Salic assured him.

  Dale bowed slightly with the cups clutched to his chest and left the tent, this time tying the flaps to help keep out the chill, night air of the desert. Salic finished his ale and set his cup down on the table before crawling into his cot. Despite everything, he fell asleep almost instantly.

  About an hour before sunrise, Rand and Pete had their horses saddled and were moving out of the camp at a steady gallop. Rand thought how much better he felt just getting away from the crowd and press of so many men. If I wasn’t a scout, there would be no way I could stand military life; too many people in one place. It felt good to be astride Fire and moving again. Pete rode along on his right. They moved at an easy pace, one to which both horses were accustomed. Rand had been training Pete for almost three years. Though he wasn’t a natural born scout, he was coming along fine. His tracking skills had improved dramatically over the last six months, and he was developing some of a scout’s instincts.

  When they reached The Slot, he would have Pete wait at the entrance for the men to catch up while he headed on through to the other end. With a little luck, Rand would be out scouting the GlimmenSwamp within a few days. He looked forward to it. He hadn’t been there in years and was anxious to explore more of it. The sky began to lighten, and Rand turned to Pete and nodded. They both urged their horses faster and went thundering ahead.

  Salic heard Dale moving about outside the tent, grumbling about the cold making his bones ache, and knew it was time to get up and get moving. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, stood, and stretched. Yawning, Salic moved to the tent flap and untied it. As soon as he released the last tie, Dale walked in carrying a large basin, a towel, and a pitcher of water.

  "Morning, Commander," Dale said as he set the basin and pitcher on the small table and draped the towel over a chair.

  "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."

  "Thank you, Dale. I’ll be along in a few minutes then."

  Dale nodded and left the tent. Salic moved to the table and poured water from the pitcher into the basin and began to wash up. He didn’t see how water could be so cold and not be frozen solid, but it did the job of bringing him fully awake. Salic shivered and quickly began to dry off. He needed to get moving. They had another long march ahead of them today, and Salic wanted to get an early start. After breakfast, they would start the last leg of the march that would bring them to The Slot. The Commander would then have a whole new set of worries. Draping the towel over the chair to dry, he pulled on his boots and headed out to the warmth of the fire and breakfast.

  Salic finished his breakfast as the sky was starting to lighten. The men had already disassembled his tent and packed it away in one of the wagons. He scraped the remainder of the oatmeal from his bowl into the fire. Dale was suddenly at his elbow holding Smoke's reigns. Salic handed the empty bowl to Dale and accepted the reigns with a nod. As he swung into the saddle, Salic scanned the horizon and noted, with a sinking sense of dread, that the horizon was tinted red. It looked as if the sky had been slashed open and was bleeding. Not usually one to seek omens, Salic nevertheless felt his stomach clench.

  "I like not the look of that," he whispered to his faithful horse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mortow sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair. His massive frame occluded most of the intricate scrollwork adorning the chair. He held his fingers steepled, both index fingers resting against his lips, contemplating the network of plans he had devised for the coming war and those that were currently underway.

  He decided it was time to check on his new prodigy. Mortow spun his chair around to the basin behind him not moving from his relaxed pose. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, carved from a solid piece of black marble with golden veins running through it. The pedestal formed the likeness of a tree with its branches embracing the basin. The outside of the basin displayed relief carvings of various birds of prey taking flight from the branches.

  Mortow focused on the mirrored surface of the basin, ignoring the intricate details. He spoke a few words under his breath, and the silvery surface began to darken and swirl. The vision cleared, and he was looking into the eyes of the young magi he had chosen to groom as a new apprentice. The man seemed to be leaning towards him, and his face was dripping water. Mortow studied the face before him, noticing the expression on it begin to change.

  "Now what is tha
t boy up to?" Mortow lowered his hands and leaned forward a little. Something was wrong. The man in the image seemed to be looking straight at him, as if he could see that Mortow was observing him. He watched as the man's eyebrows drew down and the mouth set in a firm line of displeasure. Suddenly, Mortow realized the boy was definitely looking back at him. He made a sweeping gesture with his right hand to sever the connection. It didn’t work! Mortow spoke in a clipped voice.

  "Obscurum." The image went black, but he could feel power surging through the connection trying to reach him. The power was massive and coming fast. He spoke again.

  "Contego ab verlnero!"

  Mortow felt the power slam against his defenses and saw the basin shatter explosively. The liquid in the basin flew in all directions sliding down the defensive shield he had quickly erected. He was now standing and could not remember getting to his feet. Mortow turned around and saw that his chair was shattered as well. He must have propelled it into the big, marble desk with enough force to break it when he jumped up.

  He looked back toward the basin and was surprised to see the liquid running all over the floor. Not a single fragment of the basin itself remained. Mortow's first reaction was anger; a boiling rage to strike back at the boy.

  "The audacity of that whelp. He actually attacked me. ME!" Then his anger turned, just as suddenly, to a smile.

  "Such power! I have never felt its match. He was able to attack through a scrying. Oh, I am going to have to watch this boy closely. Never did I dream, when I found him, that he would be this powerful. Yes, I must watch him very closely indeed." Mortow waved his hand over the spilled liquid and chair.

  "Funditus incinerate." The chair and liquid vanished, leaving the floor clean and dry. Still smiling, Mortow spun on his heels and walked out of his study.

  Maklin scanned the gate pass for the third time in as many minutes. The dwarves had closed East Gate and were fortifying its defenses. He smiled to himself. Let them think they are safe behind their stone. Indeed, if it were only the ogres attacking, the stone of East Gate would hold for a long time. What the dwarves did not know was that Mortow sent him as well. With the aid of his magic, East Gate would fall before the sun rose again.

  Maklin instructed the ogres to make a good show of it. Press the defenders back. Get them to think they had survived the battle by allowing them to retreat into their bolt hole. He had to give the ogres credit. They performed flawlessly. Charging the dwarves with battle roars that could shatter the eardrums, they slaughtered ten of the guards before the dwarves could rally and form ranks. After seeing for himself how ferocious the dwarves were in battle, Maklin found it hard to believe the Weres had been doing so well against them.

  Naturally, the dwarves retaliated for the death of their comrades, mobbing and killing twenty three of the larger foes before retreating through the gate. The ogres made a show of giving chase, but broke off pursuit when the gate closed. The ogres then proceeded to hurl nearby rocks and boulders at the gate for another twenty minutes before withdrawing to a relatively safe distance and setting up camp. After the ogres had been camped for a while, the dwarves came out and collected their dead and quickly disappeared into the mountain once again. Maklin would let them think they were safe behind their gate. Tonight they would learn otherwise.

  He moved away, out of sight of the dwarves, and joined the ogres at their camp. The ogres were not happy about breaking off the attack. They lost over twenty of their comrades and had only slain eighteen of the dwarves. They were anxious to renew the battle. Maklin spoke with their leader, Gallow. He was short for an ogre, standing barely over nine feet tall. His skin was almost flesh tone, an unusual coloring for one of his race.

  Most ogres had yellowish-orange colored skin and were extremely thick boned, having prominent brows and lower jaws. These traits had the combined effect of making them look extremely dull witted. While the common ogre was of slightly lower than average human intelligence, they did have those few with sharp minds.

  Gallow was one of them, and he knew the plan. He had readily agreed to Mortow’s stipulation of no trophy taking, knowing this would incite the dwarves to retaliate viciously. Maklin was not the least bit squeamish, but ogre trophies were gory and primitive. They took the heads of their fallen enemies, removed the skin for shrinking, and ground the bone and brain into a pudding-like substance for consumption. It was a disgusting ritual as far as Maklin was concerned.

  "Be ready to move when the moon starts its descent," Maklin told Gallow.

  "We will be ready. My warriors are eager to fight. We owe the foul bearded, stone rats a debt of blood," Gallow replied vehemently, clenching both hands into fists. Maklin could hear the tendons in those huge hands pop and snap with the force of his grip.

  "Just remember your part. You can kill as many of them as you want, but don’t push too far inward. We want them to defend this pass, not retreat into their vale. Keep them occupied here. Take no trophies at all. The last thing we need is for them to become enraged enough to concentrate more forces here. We need them spread thin, not massed in one place."

  "I know my orders, and I know the consequences of not following them; as do all those in my company. We know what to do and how to get it done," Gallow replied loosening his fists and picking up his war hammer. It was an impressive weapon, nearly as long as Maklin was tall, with a massive iron head the size of a small boulder. Yet Gallow wielded it with ease, even using only one hand.

  "Good," Maklin said tearing his eyes from the blood stained hammer and returning his focus to Gallow’s eyes.

  "I will destroy the gate, and then I must be off to West Gate. They will be waiting for me. The Were camps are close. If you need reinforcements, don’t hesitate to use them."

  Gallow grunted an affirmative then returned to his troops.

  At the West Gate, they had been more successful. The ogres managed to completely surprise the dwarves with their attack and killed nearly thirty of them. The dwarves tried to retreat and bar the gate, but a few ogres were able to hold it until the bulk of their force arrived. They then flooded inside the gate and slaughtered any dwarves that had not fled deeper into the caverns. When Maklin arrived, he found the ogres guarding the gate and the tunnel entrance into the mustering hall. He congratulated their leader, Dannig, on a job well done. So far, all of them had refrained from their grisly trophy taking. The ogres only lost twelve of their own number while dispatching twenty eight dwarves.

  "Commander Dannig, I want you to send three hundred of your men into the outlying area. I want them razing and burning houses and farms throughout the countryside. I do not want them engaging the King’s army, but rather demoralizing his citizens and tying up his troops as they make an effort to hunt down your men. Under no circumstances are they to return here. I do not want the King to know that we hold West Gate. If your warriors are forced to flee, have them go south to Spanning Ridge."

  "It shall be done as you command, Maklin," Dannig replied.

  "Not as I command, Dannig, as Mortow commands," Maklin reminded him.

  "Oh and Commander, tell the men you send out that they are encouraged to take all the trophies they like, in fact, the more the better. But, make sure they permit a few from each village to escape to spread word of the attacks. I want the men of Branna to lose sleep fearing they and their families could be next. Have them skip some villages and attack from different directions. I do not want a steady line of carnage. I want it to seem as if there are ogres everywhere, attacking from everywhere."

  Commander Dannig smiled and bowed slightly to Maklin.

  "As Mortow commands."

  Maklin was still riding a high from the destruction of East Gate. It had been a small matter to shatter its mass. Still, the dwarves were so surprised by its destruction that Gallow and his men overran them before they had time to recover from the shock. The ogres actually had to nudge some of them toward escape or they would have been completely wiped out. Maklin could see that the ogres enjoyed
the game. Their morale was bolstered by the slaughter and retreat of the dwarves. He cautioned Gallow about being too successful, and then transported himself to West Gate.

  Mortow’s plan for Branna had been put into motion, and the ogre attacks were a resounding success. Maklin was eager to return and give his report. Events were proceeding exactly as Mortow planned. Maklin never doubted that they would. Mortow’s cunning was only overshadowed by his power. Smiling, he spoke the words that would take him to the portal and vanished.

  Maklin arrived amidst the trees on the north edge of the stone ring. He looked around and saw someone else standing behind a tree not too far in front of him. He cocked his head in thought. That’s funny, why would a Were be wearing a robe? No, it must be Mael. Mortow must have sent him here in preparation for Micah and the new magician’s return. Maklin came out from behind his tree and took a step towards Mael.

  "I wouldn’t come any closer without announcing yourself, Maklin," said the cloaked form without turning. It was a female voice, one he recognized, but hadn’t heard in a long time. Could it be?

  "Megan, is that you?" Maklin asked surprised.

  "Of course it’s me, silly. Who else would it be?" Megan replied turning to face him and pulling back her hood.

  It was dark, but he could still see her in his mind, flowing brown hair and the intense blue eyes, the half-smile that he found so alluring. Gods! How many times she had visited him in his dreams.