THE WARLOCK
By
Sylvia Kincaid
© copyright July 2005, Sylvia Kincaid
Cover art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright July 2005
ISBN 1-58608-599-9
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
An alarm was sounded as soon as the lookout spotted the flutter of a battle flag at the distant end of the wide fields that surrounded the principle fortification of Aradan. Even as the first soldiers crested the rise, the gates of Aradan Castle were swiftly closed and locked down tight with the great timber braces that took ten men to fit them in place. All along the walls, the men at arms checked their weapons and then waited in rigid tension, staring hard into the distance, watching as the small dots on the distant horizon slowly began to resolve themselves into men garbed in gleaming armor and battle horses decked out in the trappings of war. In the keep below the walls men at arms who had been loitering in the keep, cleaning weaponry and armor, practicing their craft, or whiling away their free time gambling their meager pay, froze at the sound of the warning horn and the sudden activity on the walls for a handful of minutes. Abruptly, they sprang into action themselves, racing to the armory to don leather armor and gather swords and long bows and quivers full of arrows. King Gerard had never been a popular king and they knew he had many more enemies than friends or allies among his neighbors.
Still, relief flooded the hearts of many as they took up their battle positions along the walls and stared out toward the threat approaching their keep. The army that marched forward with such discipline and precision--if it deserved such an exalted name--was a small one. They made up nearly thrice that number and had the added advantage of position.
Puzzlement began to take the place of their uneasiness as the army advanced purposefully, still displaying battle readiness, still flying the colors of war. None recognized the crest on the tabard of the man who led the army, but he wore the gold and purple of a king.
Their confusion intensified as the army halted at a signal from their leader before they’d covered much more than half the distance between the castle and the rise where they had first appeared. Expecting a messenger to break away and ride forward with their demands, a murmur of surprise rippled through the waiting troops as the leader himself left his army and came forward. Without any sign of wariness or hesitation, he spurred his great black horse with his spurs and closed the distance, bringing his restive mount to a halt only when he when he reached the outer rim of the moat, when he was so close that many of those on the wall above him could see his face clearly.
A dark cape, lined in scarlet, fluttered in the wind that coursed around him, outlining the proportions of a man of surprising stature and build. Long hair, darker still than the cape and gleaming with bluish highlights flowed with the cape almost taunting them with the fact that he was so bold he saw no need for helmet, or even to bind the mass to prevent an opponent from grabbing a fistful for leverage to lob his head from his shoulders.
Beyond that, the purple and gold tabard of royalty he flaunted was worn over nothing more substantial than a quilted vest. A wicked looking sword hung by his side that was clearly a weapon and not merely there for ornamentation, but, in his sword hand he held the staff of a conjurer, a dabbler in the black arts, which would make it impossible for him to draw the sword with any speed if he found it necessary.
He was either a fool or a madman to come so close. A good marksman could have pierced his heart from twice the distance. As close as he had come, it would take no great shot to slay him where he stood.
Oddly enough, that thought comforted none. There was grim determination on the man’s face, but no sign of fear, and intelligence gleamed in his strangely piercing eyes. He was an enigma that made them uneasy in an indefinable way for such obvious fearlessness indicated he had reason to believe there was nothing to fear.
To rout their uneasiness, some of the men voiced taunts and jeers, but he remained maddeningly cool and undaunted, taunting them by his very presence and attitude.
Silencing them, the captain of the guard, Bryon, placed a foot on the low edge of the wall and leaned over just as brazenly to call down to the intruder, drawing chuckles of admiration from his men. “What business brings you to Aradan leading an--army?” the captain demanded sharply, emphasizing his contempt for the threat the army represented by his hesitation in honoring them with that distinction.
The stranger studied him for a full minute before he spoke. “My business is with the man who calls himself King of Aradan. I will discuss it with him and none other.”
A murmur of both surprise and outrage rippled through the men at arms at the brazen demand. Their captain lifted an arm to silence them, however, and they desisted almost at once, waiting to see what their captain would have to say to this arrogant lunatic.
“Commoners do not summon kings,” the captain spat contemptuously.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Nor question their commands,” he responded coldly.
The captain was taken aback for several moments. “Off with you before I have you shot as a spy, lack-wit.”
The man said nothing, merely waited.
“Suit yourself. Kill him,” the captain commanded, nodding to the nearest archer and turning back to watch the slaughter with amusement.
An arrow was loosed. It shot true, so fast it was little more than a blur as the missile spanned the short distance. Three feet from the mounted rider, the arrow shattered, dropping to the ground. Several of the men who’d witness it gasped and crossed themselves. The captain frowned angrily, nodded to the two archers on either side of him. Two bolts were notched. Two bolts launched and both shattered a full arm’s length from the target.
The stranger smiled grimly.
Unnerved and furious now, the captain commanded his archers to fire. A hundred arrows flew from the walls, peppering the ground around the rider, bouncing off something none could see, shattering--but not a single arrow touched him.
“What trickery is this?” the captain demanded, disbelieving, trying without absolute success to hide the fear that had begun to worm its way around his confidence.
The captain’s words were cut off abruptly and the men around him whirled to look at him, certain a stray arrow from the waiting army had caught their commander. Instead they saw him clawing at his throat, as if invisible hands had closed around it in a vise hold.
“Bring me the man who calls himself king of Aradan!” commanded a voice so powerful that seasoned warriors trembled and new recruits went weak in the knees.
* * * *
“You are a willful child, Rhiannon, but you must accept that I know what is best for you,” King Gerard said coolly, “Or I will be forced to send you to bide a while in the tower until you come to your senses.”
The knot in Rhiannon’s stomach wound a little tighter, setting off a wave of nausea. She did not lift her head to look up at the man seated on the throne on the dais above her. She didn’t need to see the chill blue of his gaze to know that he was in deadly earnest.
Her body had already begun to cramp from her position of subservience on the floor, and her knees to ache from the cold stone, but she resisted the urge to shift and give away her discomfort and uneasiness. Her mind was chaotic, however, her fear so overpowering that the wisdom of weighing each of her words very carefully eluded her. “If I am a child, Uncle, then surely I am not ready to wed?”
She knew the moment the words were out that that tact
was a grave misstep and risked a quick glance upward to gauge the magnitude of it.
Gerard’s eyes narrowed. “I have spoiled you. Do not test my patience, my dear, or you will see that I am a king first and devoted uncle second. You have always known that you must marry to form an alliance for the kingdom, not for your own pleasure.”
Swallowing with an effort Rhiannon bowed her head once more but a surge of anger had displaced much of her fear of her uncle. By rights, she should have been queen as her father’s only heir, but she had been a small child when he was killed and his brother, Gerard, had taken the throne--originally with the announced intention of preserving it for his niece and protecting her until she reached an age where she was fit to rule, but all had known long before she reached that age that she would never see it if Gerard were not crowned in her stead.
It was outrageous to be usurped and then used by the very villain who’d done so to further his own ends. Had she assumed the throne as was her right, she would have been no happier that her union would be used to form some alliance, but she would have at least had reason to want to. Then, it would have been for the good of the realm. Then it would have been her choice and she might at least have had a little more latitude in deciding who she would ally herself with.
If she had not known better, she would have thought her uncle had gone out of his way to find the most repellent suitor possible for her. For King Linea of Midea was not only a foul toad, he was sixty if he was a day--and a randy old pervert besides! She had met him only once, but that was more than sufficient.
Her uncle’s choice hadn’t been based on malice, of course, though he was certainly not above it. His choice had been based solely on greed. She had no doubt that her uncle expected King Linea to be so obliging as to croak as soon as he’d planted his nasty seed in her and leave his kingdom, with its considerable wealth, within his grasp.
She gritted her teeth, determined if she could not evade the fate her uncle had in mind for her then she would see him in hell before he got his hands on yet another kingdom at her expense.
As uplifting as that thought was, the one that followed it made her shudder, for she could not erase the vision of King Linea from her mind and it was revolting to think of what would be expected of her. “I am willing enough to do my duty, Uncle--to the realm and my people--but I confess I can not see how wedding that--King Linea is to benefit anyone above any of the others who sought to wed me.”
Gerard smiled thinly. “Alas, that my brother begat no son before his untimely death, for the weight of this office is a heavy one--but, princess or not, you are little more than a child--a female at that, and you can not be expected to understand the complicated world of politics.”
That comment made her so angry she felt even more ill, for if she was ignorant of politics it was precisely because Gerard had no intention of enlightening her for fear his beleaguered subjects might decide to overthrow him in favor of the old king’s heir.
Dangerous thoughts, those, and likely to bring her a swift end if her uncle even suspected she harbored them.
Which she didn’t, actually. She resented the theft of her birthright. She resented being used. She pitied those who suffered because of her uncle’s cruelty and greed, but harbored no real desire to rule herself. She had often wished she had been born of some other household altogether so that she might be spared the tedium and intrigue of the courts, so that she could be spared being used as a pawn in a game she was not even allowed to play.
“But I do understand the need for a strong alliance, Uncle. What I do not understand is why it must be King Linea. Midea is a tiny kingdom. Surely it would be far more useful if I were to be allied with one of the larger kingdoms--perhaps to buy peace with one of your enemies? He is--a toad and ancient besides!”
Gerard smiled a little more easily, but she could see anger simmering just below the surface and wondered a little uneasily if he realized that she was far more likely to encourage his enemies than to discourage them. “In which case, you should not have to suffer his presence long and, the gods willing, will find yourself a wealthy widow err you are much older.”
Disgust filled Rhiannon that her uncle would so brazenly outline his plans, for she didn’t doubt for a moment that he fully intended to help her new husband along the path to his grave if he proved more hardy than expected. She forced a tremulous smile, though it was becoming harder and harder to play the role of weak minded female. “I had not considered that, Uncle.”
She’d not considered it before he spoke it aloud because she’d been too naive to believe her uncle was truly as cold and calculating as he appeared to be. Even now she could hardly credit it. He had seemed kind enough to her as child. She had never felt comfortable in his presence, primarily because his displays of affection had always seemed ‘wrong’ to her, just a little too excessive, a little too familiar, and yet he had indulged her a great deal, just as he claimed.
She could hardly remember her own father, and her mother not at all since her mother had died when she born, but her uncle had always said he stood in her father’s place and when she had been a child she had tried to think of him as father.
It made her uneasy that she was not entirely certain of her uncle’s motives in the alliance he proposed--insisted upon. King Linea’s motives seemed straightforward enough. He was old enough to be her grandfather, but she didn’t doubt that he believed himself capable of begetting the son he required as heir--though he’d been married twice already and had failed to produce a child that lived beyond babyhood. Moreover, although she also looked upon her uncle as old, he was still considered by most to be in his prime, and would be a strong ally for the tiny kingdom of Midea, which lay across the sea that formed Aradan’s northern border.
Midea was less than half the size of Aradan in lands, but thrice as rich. Perhaps that was motive enough?
And yet her uncle had refused the offer made by King Saliem’s emissaries and his was a far wealthier kingdom.
Then again, King Saliem was a more powerful king altogether, not even as old as her uncle, and perhaps her uncle had realized the chance of actually getting his hands on King Saliem’s wealth was very remote?
She might have put it down to the fact that she’d scarcely attained womanhood when the offer had been made except that now she knew better. Her tender age would not have weighed with her uncle if there had been benefit to himself in it.
She saw when she emerged from her abstraction that her uncle was studying her appraisingly and wondered if it would be wise to capitulate now--or at least appear to--or if folding so quickly would make him more suspicious instead of less so. Before she’d quite made up her mind which was the safest course, a breathless messenger stumbled to a halt before the guards at the entrance to the receiving chamber, distracting both her and her uncle.
“What is it?” King Gerard demanded testily.
The messenger gulped, but hurried forward and fell to his knees. “Sire--There is
--I believe it must be a powerful sorcerer at the gates, though he has claimed no such thing--but we fired upon him for his brazen demands and our arrows simply bounced off, causing him no harm at all.”
King Gerard frowned. “A wizard?”
The messenger glanced up at his king. “He has demanded to speak with you.”
Gerard reddened with fury. “Demanded?” he roared, on his feet instantly. “He demanded? The cur summoned me?”
The messenger turned white as death. No doubt he saw the possibility looming before him for Gerard had been known to strike down more than one messenger who’d delivered unwelcome news. “Captain Bryon ordered him shot for his impertinence, Sire! I saw myself. The arrows shattered and fell to the ground all around him. He commands the dark forces! Captain Bryon was seen to have been seized by the throat, as if by invisible hands that lifted him clear off the wall!”
Gerard glared at the messenger for several moments. Finally, his anger seemed to dissipate and a thoughtful e
xpression crossed his features. He stared at the hapless messenger for some moments, scratching his beard and finally got to his feet decisively. “Captain Bryon was right to refuse entrance and to send for me. I will see this conjurer myself. If he is as skilled as you say, I may have use of him.”
When the king departed the chamber, Rhiannon at last rose gratefully to her feet. Her uncle had not ordered her to remain where she was and await his return, however, and after a moment, curiosity drove her to see if she could get a look at the madman herself.
He must be mad! Conjurer or not, no one in their right mind would offer their services to Gerard, who was known to be dangerously fickle--and certainly not demand the king’s presence so that he might petition for a place in the household.
But perhaps that particular part of the message had been garbled?
Gerard, she saw, was already climbing the stairs to the wall when she reached the keep. She waited until he had reached the top and strode purposely toward the stair, ignoring the curious looks of the guards and proceeding as if she was expected to be just where she was.
She gave her uncle a wide berth when she reached the wall, however, moving somewhat further along the battlements and taking up a position at last where she could peer over the crenulations.
She was startled when she saw how close the man had come, for he stood just beyond the moat, well within range of the archers who’d lined up along the walls.
He did not look mad. There was no wildness about the intense gaze he had trained upon her uncle as he, too, moved close enough to the battlements to look down at the man who’d summoned him.
A sense of uneasiness moved through her. She wasn’t certain of the source at first, but finally realized that it was pity. Poor fool! They would crush him, or worse!
After eyeing the stranger speculatively for some moments, Gerard finally spoke. “I am King Gerard. I was told that you are a dabbler in the black arts. As it happens, I may have some use for you.”
The Warlock Page 1
