The Four Kings

by Scott Spotson

  “Well,” Demus said, his face turning a little pale, “It has to do with something we wizards are not comfortable with.” He muttered, turning his head away, “No, no, I can’t talk about it.”

  Damn again. So close.

  She attempted to get the conversation back on track. “I can see how Elsedor deserved all the accolades conferred upon him. He united all the wizards, didn’t he?”

  Demus seemed relieved at the change of topic. “Yes, he was a very clever wizard. He did one amazing feat of magic that’s never been duplicated so far.”

  Her eyes widened. “What’s that?”

  He extended his arms out to the glowing spectacle. “This. This is the only feat of magic that has survived long after its wizard’s dead.”

  Amanda was impressed. “You mean this is all still his magic?”

  “Yes. Usually when a wizard dies, his magic dies with him. This is the only exception we know of. He truly was a god.” Demus kept shaking his head, marvelling at the statue and its round lava moat.

  Amanda gently placed her hand over Demus’ as they both gazed at the flickering shadows on the god’s replica. “It’s really marvelous, Demus.”

  The wizard gaped at his idol. “No one has been able to break his key.”

  This was a huge revelation. A key? Amanda turned her head, unsure of what she’d heard. “What do you mean?”

  Her companion gulped as he’d realized he’d made a verbal slip. “Oh, nothing, Amanda. Nothing you should know.”

  This denial only made her more frantic to know. “You mean the key to his greatness?” She glanced quickly at the pedestal: there was no giant keyhole anywhere.

  “You could say that,” Demus nodded quickly.

  Amanda pondered for a moment. What did he mean by break his key? A key wasn’t supposed to be broken, was it? A lock, yes, maybe, but a key?

  Demus grinned at her fascination with the statue. He squeezed her fingers over hers.

  “Such a shame that you wizards won’t be governing us Mortals for much longer,” Amanda said, not really meaning it, but wanting to placate him.

  Demus cocked his head and sported a dangerous-looking expression. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  Amanda’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

  Demus laughed. He clasped her hand again and looked at her straight into the eyes. “Elsedor has always wanted wizards to reign supreme in this world.” He directed his gaze back to the colossal statue. His voice trailed off, “Elsedor has always longed for this day to happen. I’d hate to disappoint him.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  One year, six months post-Liberation

  Indie steamed with indignation as the meeting went underway.

  “Amanda,” she snapped, “this is the third emergency debate we’ve had on the so-called P.E.U. And this is supposed to be Games Day today.”

  Amanda knew very well how much the wizards valued Games Day. They would have been willing to undergo a root canal extraction if it meant keeping Games Day on schedule.

  “I realize today is Games Day,” Amanda attempted to stay neutral, “but it’s the third day in a row that the Patriots have amassed, demanding the Liberators engage them for battle. All of our people are wondering how you’re going to respond to this threat.”

  “Same as before,” Indie retorted, “We do not deal with terrorists. It worked before. They released Leslie Bafia one day after her kidnapping, did they not?”

  “Amanda,” Justica gently spoke, “there’s no point in responding to their threats. It’s safer this way, and we can’t make them martyrs.”

  All of the participants at the meeting were aware that the television cameras were trained on them; their every nuance would be picked up by millions all over North America. The wizards, however, never seemed to feel the stress of being in such public view.

  Demus sighed. “What’s the situation today?”

  Amanda went over her report. “There’s an estimated 23,500 Patriots assembled on Osborne’s ten-thousand acre farm twenty miles west of Ellendale, North Dakota. The leader, self-proclaimed President, Jake Faulkner, has issued a challenge for the Liberators to meet them, in his words, quote, ‘man to man.’ They’ve been reported to have assembled a multitude of weapons, including AK-47’s, FIM-92 Stinger missile launchers, and AT4 rocket launchers. They’re considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

  “What danger could they do on a farm that’s being offered as a battlefield by a supporter?” Demus asked.

  Amanda considered her response. “None, as they’re not threatening the public. They say you’re all cowards, hiding among the heavens, and that if you have any claim to governance, to meet them in battle.”

  Regi waved away the threat with the flick of his wrist. “They should know. They can never defeat magic.”

  Justica spoke up. “Ignore them. Let them camp out for a few weeks and play war games. This isn’t worthy of our time.”

  Amanda pleaded. “I know that’s how you feel, Liberators, but I’ve been inundated with calls and messages from my people to at least acknowledge the threat and to respond in a meaningful way.”

  “Faulkner! That scum,” Indie said through her gritted teeth. “He deserves a lesson for blustering like a fool!” She suddenly had an idea. “I know!”

  “What?” Demus asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “We will continue Games Day.”

  The wizards all appeared thrilled.

  “Right on their selected battlefield!” Indie finished triumphantly.

  The three wizard comrades all clapped and hooted.

  Indie stood up and turned backward, speaking very loudly but addressing no one in particular. “Calling all wizards of NAM. We’ll convene in five minutes. I repeat, all wizards of NAM, assemble at my command.”

  Amanda gaped as she started at Indie, totally lost at what was going on.

  Indie closed her eyes. “Let me think of uniforms. Yes, no, yes…” She started muttering to herself, as in a trance. Once she opened her eyes, she grinned and snapped her fingers.

  Amanda nearly had a heart attack at what she saw next.

  She was now seated, her legs splayed about. She became instantly aware of a heavy object on her head, and it blocked some of her vision above her line of sight. She felt suffocated in a heavy layer of what felt like tight-fitting blankets of wool. She was on a meadow, with the sun up at the ten-o’clock position. The air felt crisp and cool and it blew past her face, offering her some respite from the overbearing clothes that trapped heat above her skin. She uttered a startled outburst, and then gasped again. Right to her left were Indie, Demus, Regi, and Justica dressed in Napoleonic army outfits, straddling dark black horses.

  The four wizards, plus Amanda, were wearing the most elaborate display of pomp in the history of military dress. They all were wearing tenue de campagne, full campaign uniform of the Napoleonic era. The women wore navy blue bicorn hats, which appeared triangular upon their heads, with intense red plumes sticking out. The men, Demus and Regi, wore hard hats called shakos, which appeared as slightly widening cylinders with protruding visors. Each shako ended in a flat top, with one blue pom-pom each resting above. A drooping thick wide white cord adorned the front of each shako.

  And the uniforms! The wizards proudly displayed dark blue jackets, white cross belts in front, ivory waistcoats, white trousers, black gaiters, and dark tall leather boots. For weapons, each carried a bayonet and a saber, strapped to their sides. Each of the wizards carried a musket in one hand, pointed and ready to fire.

  Amanda’s mind reeled at the information overload. She quickly glanced, seeing herself wearing the same outfit, but she wasn’t carrying a musket. As she peered out again in alarm, the next sight nearly made her fall off her horse.

  All of the horses had no legs! These beasts of war, with black hide as dark as the night sky, hovered into the air! Horses’ heads, yes, enclosed by silver armor that extended all the way to their nostrils, and retr
acted as far back as the bottom of their manes. Beneath each saddle was a gold-rimmed, navy blue horse blanket which gave all the horses appearance of existing as they should. But to direct your eyes below the saddle level – was to expose yourself to mind-reeling horror. There was nothingness on the ground.

  Ghost horses.

  Amanda shrieked when she saw flames shooting out from the tiny holes in the front of the armor where the horses’ nostrils should’ve been. She was very frightened by the glowing red eyes underneath the horses’ head armor. Eyes as potent as probing red laser beams of light.

  “Now!” Indie called out.

  In a split second, thousands and thousands of wizards materialized in fan-like formation, wearing the same war outfits, also riding invisible, apocalyptic horses.

  This can’t be happening, Amanda thought.

  The haunting sound of a bugle rang in the distance.

  “Noooo!” Amanda cried out, extending her hand. Her impulses forced her to cry out.

  Giant screens followed their every movement, broadcasting every salient detail of the upcoming battle to millions of North Americans. Soccer matches were cancelled. Business meetings were deserted as executives rushed to the live feed of their computers in their offices. Neighbors and families and friends phoned each other to urge them to turn on the television. This was now pure, unadulterated reality TV. And grainy images of a sobbing Amanda filled the screens for a few seconds at a time, generously displaying her raw emotions to the world. Millions of residents of North America – NAM – covered their mouths in horror.

  The wizards didn’t hear her. They were too engrossed by the upcoming thrill.

  “The Battle of Osborne’s Farm will now begin,” Indie announced, her gleaming bicorn hat nicely giving her an air of authority. The giant screens all displayed her grinning image.

  The camera shot to a beaming Demus, handsome in his military prowess. It seemed to suit him well. “All 21,906 wizards from NAM accounted for, Général de brigade,” he said.

  “Oui, mon ami,” Indi acknowledged, peering at the ragtag army opposite them, about two miles away. Finally, the cameras showed close-ups of the Patriots army, wearing an assortment of camouflage uniform, army green surplus outfits, and civilian clothes. Bewilderment showed up on each and every face, including that of the commander, Jake Faulkner. Almost all were armed with semi-automatic machine guns or rifles.

  An aide to Faulkner could be seen and heard talking urgently to his commander. “Jake, they can see and hear everything we do!”

  A close-up of Faulkner showed his irate face, with a green beret on top. “Get these damn cameras outta my face!” he roared, not sure from where he was being filmed.

  The next instant, the images of Faulkner and Indie appeared at once on the giant screens everywhere, showing a split screen, ostensibly to heighten conflict and contrast between the two.

  “Mr. Faulkner,” Indie cheerfully rang out, “The wizard army is assembled and ready for battle. You have one more chance to surrender. Will you do so?”

  Faulkner’s face exploded in rage. “You take the surrender right up your ass!”

  Indie turned to her comrades, wholly undisturbed. “I think he says no.” She pointed to Justica. “The battle shall begin. Justica, you go first.”

  “My pleasure,” responded Justica with glee. Straddling her half-invisible horse, she waved her hand around up into the air several times. “I think what we need is to confuse the enemy,” she said, very clearly broadcast to millions, “Shock and awe. First the shock; then the awe.”

  A torrential downpour suddenly dumped down on the Patriots from the sky, drenching them with blistering hurricane-type winds. All the Patriots struggled mightily to assemble their weapons in the face of the extreme weather. Some slid and tripped in the mud, swearing out loud.

  “More shock on the way,” Justica said to herself. Immediately, hailstones the size of golf balls pounded the Patriot army, sending the troops ducking for cover. Cries of pain resounded from with the twenty-thousand plus Patriots all over the meadow. Confusion reigned on their side. Close-ups of Faulkner shouting out orders dominated the screens, but his words could barely be heard above the deafening machinations of the weather.

  “Now, the awe,” Justica finished off with a flourish. The winds vastly picked up speed, to hurricane levels. Conjuring up hundreds of tiny twisters on the Patriots’ side, Justica laughed with glee.

  Amanda stood transfixed with shock and horror as the huge screens delivered images of Mortals, dressed in army outfits, sucked up into the air and unceremoniously spun around several times before ignobly being dropped several feet through the air upon the ever-thickening mud.

  Pandemonium reigned on the Patriots’ side. Nearly all the Patriots were moaning with pain, crawling through the mud, or had fallen over their weapons. Faulkner was spotted stumbling as he attempted to right himself and assert command. Mud smeared his angry cheeks.

  “Very good, Justica,” Indie approved. “Regi, your turn.”

  Regi appeared as if he could barely restrain himself. He said, “Now for obfuscation, a battle technique. If they can’t see us, they can’t fire at us.” He released his fist into the direction of the Patriots army. All at once, thick black fog enveloped the Patriots, causing them to fumble for their weapons and to shout out directions to one another. No Patriot could see more than one foot ahead of him. Some of them crashed into each other as they rushed to their positions.

  As he watched with delight, Regi twirled his finger at the thick cloud. “Now for some color.” Upon his command, hundreds of “flashes” – white, green, blue, red, purple, yellow, and orange – erupted spontaneously and randomly everywhere among the thick fog, further disorienting the Patriots. The outbursts of colored light continued for several more minutes, distracting the enemy as their eyes constantly had to adjust to the ever-changing stimuli.

  “Brilliant, Regi,” Demus grudgingly acknowledged as he stood atop his tall mare.

  Regi smirked.

  Indie appeared as a child eagerly awaiting a twisty balloon animal from a street vendor. “Now, my turn.” She extended both hands, and then opened all her fingers out wide in a dramatic manner.

  While the previous feats of magic dazzled Amanda, she just had to gasp at the next illusion.

  The dense fog mysteriously lifted and an army of thousands of grinning, gleaming skeletons magically appeared and converged upon the retreating Patriots army!

  All the creepy skeletons marched on in file, row upon row, unleashing fear into the Patriots’ hearts. So devastating were their appearance that some of the resistance fighters broke down emotionally, falling upon their knees to weep and to seek salvation from the Lord. The giant screens lovingly zoomed into assorted horrified reactions from the Patriots’ faces, shamelessly capturing their fear and abject and complete humiliation.

  There was more. The skeletons manically wielded Japanese-style kendo bamboo sticks called shinai, and fearlessly raised them above their skulls in a series of intimidating moves. A melee of hand-to-hand fighting ensued. Hundreds of Patriots fled the scene of battle at the sight of the skeletons, while dozens of more brave compatriots tentatively approached the advancing monstrosities. Once engaged in battle, these fearless Mortals started fighting for their lives, even felling some skeletons or knocking their skulls off their spines.

  Amanda’s mind was numb. She felt violently sick, and she bent over listlessly, having no desire to show poise. She nearly fell off her “horse,” so overwhelming were the violent images.

  Justica’s face appeared on the screens. “Very good,” she said, her expression revealing that she’d realized things were getting out of hand. “Time to halt. No casualties. The Patriots’ army is in full retreat.”

  Indie scowled, but mindful of the millions of horrified Mortals watching with eyes glued to the screen, agreed. “Call off the hostilities. We have won.” With a swish of her hands, the skeletons all vanished. “Be ready to disengag
e.”

  A shrill voice rang out from the hovering screens in the sky. “Not yet, you royal bitch!” An image of a battered, but defiant, Jake Faulkner appeared, multiplied millions of times all over North America. He shifted his head to the left. “Fire,” he said.

  As every spectator gasped, several rockets and missiles, launched by a small band of remaining Patriots using rocket launchers, soared through the air, en route to the Liberator army. Rocket flares could clearly be seen, tracking through the sky.

  “Enough!” snapped Demus, who materialized on the screens, his face contorted by fury. He propelled his arm dramatically through the air, as if he were a pro baseball pitcher urgently throwing the ball to first base in order to head off a sprinting batter. Upon his command, all the missiles and rockets underwent a steep trajectory as they reversed direction, heading back to the Patriots’ side.

  “No!” Amanda shouted out, horror-struck.

  A series of explosions rang off, one by one, with fiery bursts on the Patriots’ side. Several Mortals were captured on screen being bombarded from the blasts. Everyone watching in rapt dismay realized that several Patriots had died instantly.

  “Oh, my God,” moaned Amanda. Too shell-shocked to cry, she let herself slide off her horse, and then crumpled to the ground, lying on her side.

  The close-up of Indie’s face showed her eyes wide, full of regret, then anger. She snapped, “Repeat, I said the battle is over. We’ve won. Back to work.”

  With that comment, the wizard army disappeared, along with Amanda, leaving random fires burning on the Patriots’ side, along with destroyed weapons, fallen bodies, shell-shocked survivors, and thousands of still-fleeing deserters.

  The Battle of Osborne’s Farm was now officially over.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Amanda stood, crestfallen, in the nerve center of the Liberators’ Headquarters. It was late evening, and all her staff had headed home for the day. She sighed as she glanced over the stack of resignations she now held in her hand. Over one hundred of her three hundred and fifty person staff had quit due to the fiasco over the Battle of Osborne’s Farm. There were hundreds of media requests, asking for a personal response from her. The crescendo of urgency was deafening.