Empire Awakening (Maledorian Chronicles Book 2)

by John Forrester

  She seized Devin’s arm. They were coming for them.

  A sudden thrill jolted Elendria to action. Devin led them as they took flight, racing from the eyes stalking them in the dark. She tried to cast the spell of light, but nothing came. Her magical reserves were utterly gone. The empty void inside was so total and frightening it chilled her to the bone.

  The black stone felt cold in her hand. Though the way was hard to see, only lit by the faint moonlight, they chased off, leaping over fallen logs and rocks, their feet stamping against the pine-needle floor. Her heart raced as she realized their lives were in danger.

  After a few moments, she heard someone stumbling and falling to the ground.

  “Wait!” Maggie cried.

  Elendria stopped and turned to aid the frightened girl.

  Hundreds of glowing eyes were floating toward them. Angry stares filled with the power of Elendria’s magic, the orbs of light had been feeding them all along. She mumbled a prayer to Nenlil, begging for him to protect and guide them to safety. But after witnessing the wraiths surrounding them, she felt hope fleeing from her heart.

  She stared up as the wraiths loomed, surrounding them. She sank back to the ground, defeated.

  Maggie huddled close as they watched them descend, mouths open in a hungry, gaping maw. Threads of silver light streamed out and covered them, giving off a sticky, diseased feeling. It reminded her of the light one saw in nightmares, pale-blue ghostly fingerling strands stabbing out from the origin of madness.

  And the agony. The crippling agony filled her with a kind of dull paralysis. She gasped from the pain.

  But she refused to let Maggie be taken. So, she placed herself in front of the child and begged for the earth to bury her in a loamy blanket of protection. The wraiths were creatures of wind and storm, and she prayed the earth would shelter and protect her.

  As she drifted off into a euphoric numbness, a brilliant light illuminated the forest, blinding her for a moment. She rubbed her eyes and saw Devin glancing around as if searching for some new threat.

  But it was no threat. Shining silver figures strode toward them in the darkness. They looked like fairies of the forest. Their melodic voices, clear and sweet, swept away the fear and tamed the darkness.

  The mist-wraiths became like children mesmerized by a circus, turning in awe as the bright, feminine figures flew past them.

  It was the witches. They had heard the cries of warning from the crows and had come for them.

  A shimmering face appeared, curious and cruel. Elendria slowly slipped away into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  At the end of their second day’s march south, Lord Rigar and his army of constructs had encircled a city of one thousand souls. Speed was their ally, and time was of the essence. To gain momentum, they had to capture towns and cities of a large enough size before word spread that their army was on their way.

  There could be no failure when it came to the execution of their plans. They needed as many people as possible to grow their army of constructs. Humans were the fuel to feed the growth of their army.

  Rigar unfolded a map of Mar Thagroth and plotted their meandering course across the kingdom. They would need to fragment their forces, he believed, to speed their assimilation of as many people as possible. The time for experimentation was over. They’d found ten of the most potent combinations for their constructions and were sticking with those, for now, reducing their loss rate to nearly zero.

  But some of the younger priests always made stupid mistakes. He had corrected those mistakes by sacrificing those priests to Ba’al during the next creation of a construct. That sobered up the remaining priests, reminding them to concentrate, and ensure they made no errors at future castings.

  “How long will it take to convert these citizens?” said the Duke of Wrainton. He was dressed in a regal military uniform complete with a side sword. The outfit looked ridiculous on him. Lord Rigar had never seen him wearing anything but dark suits and the traditional garb the nobility typically wore. The duke was no warrior or commander, but lately, he styled himself as one.

  “The process isn’t like one of your factories.” Rigar scoffed, glancing at the boy for support. Unfortunately, Remi was looking away at the group of people they’d collected. “Magic requires a certain finesse. And unlike other areas, we’ve been slow to produce new sorcerers to aid in the spell casting.”

  The duke’s wrinkled face adopted an expression of contempt. “Do you not understand the urgency of the situation? The army of Mar Thagroth has over fifty-thousand soldiers, and those of Jalinfaer likely have a similar, if not greater, number. We have four thousand constructs but require far more. Is it so difficult to answer the question?”

  “I fully grasp our position, Duke. But realities are realities. At best, we can complete the task in two days, though not all citizens will be effective. There is a sizable population of the elderly who will produce inferior constructions. More important for us to discuss is where we should go next. I propose we split our forces into three groups and conquer Blackpool, Thrasso, and Kenmoor. Next, we should combine and go after the more sizable city of Chesling.”

  “Ridiculous. The sorcerer thinks he’s a military strategist.” The duke displayed a wry grin. “If Chesling is the prize, then why would we split up and lose precious time? We risk the citizens of Chesling getting wind of our movement south and then fleeing for safer destinations.”

  “The Duke is right,” said the boy, turning his glowing eyes toward Rigar. “We will march immediately to Chesling, no waiting. Leave enough sorcerers and soldiers to work on the creation of our army. They can join us later. We must speed to Maren Downs as quickly as possible.”

  “But that will put us directly in the line of conflict between the armies of Mar Thagroth and those of Jalinfaer. Why would we risk such a major confrontation so early?”

  “Do you think we tell you everything? You are but a pawn to Ba’al.” The duke’s eyes were filled with contempt. “We do not aim for the line of conflict between those two kingdoms but elsewhere in Maren Downs.”

  “A pawn? Did you call me a pawn?” Rigar aimed a finger at the duke. The man had grown haughty and ridiculous since Ba’al had been summoned. Increasingly, he sought to isolate the boy from Rigar and anyone else in their organization, including the priests. A fact that had not gone unnoticed by Rigar, and one that irked him to the bone. “Do you realize I could destroy you with a thought? And have you forgotten that it is I who control the constructs?”

  At his threatening words, several of the most powerful constructs, one foxlike and the other the original beetle form creation, came over and loomed over the duke.

  The duke didn’t even look mildly irritated. “You’re displaying your hand too early, Lord Rigar. Why are you so eager? You’ll only lose in the first round.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up with power, and the two constructs turned to him and kneeled.

  “It is not you who controls the constructs, but our lord and master, Ba’al. Or have you forgotten this fact?” The duke and the boy studied Rigar with a raw intensity. “You are nothing but a pawn, Lord Rigar. And if you wish to retain your standing in our organization, you would do well to remember this fact. Ba’al’s will is unchanging.”

  Lady Shallia strode over, glancing between them with amused eyes. “Don’t tell me my husband has demonstrated a spine? It’s a bit too late for all that, isn’t it? You should stick to working in the laboratory and crafting your creations. Do what you do best; that’s what my mother always told me.”

  The duke gave her a knowing smile as she stood next to him. The two held the same expression as they looked at him, and that terrified Rigar even more than even the god-like power inside the boy. Had she been conspiring against Rigar all along? Then he was truly a pawn, a tool manipulated and used by both of them. And he’d been stupid enough to allow it to happen.

  “Disengage, Lord Rigar.” The duke’s voice was low and menacing
. “There is no need for bloodshed here today. And by blood, I am only referring to yours. Ba’al still has a part for you to play, though it is a minor part of only one small scene. Don’t allow that scene to end with you lying dead on the ground.”

  Rigar ground his teeth, wondering how it had all turned out like this. It was his dream, his vision of a new Maledorian Empire, and it was being stolen from him by the duke and his wife. How had it gotten this bad?

  While he was working hard in his laboratory and working long days out in the forest, the duke and his wife had been secretly conspiring against him. What was their contribution to their cause? Nothing but back-stabbing and vice.

  But he bowed his head anyway and left the room, refusing to allow the duke the victory he craved. He would bide his time and conserve his strength and strategize an approach that would see him gaining victory in the long run. This was his idea and would be his empire.

  Ba’al was far more than the manifestation inside the boy. That was simply a small fragment of the greater whole. Could what he had accomplished in summoning Ba’al be replicated? Or was his summoning of Ba’al into the boy incomplete, as manifest by his mental lapses? But how to complete it?

  What did the duke and the boy want inside the ruins of Maren Downs? He should have paid more attention to politics and stayed closer to them both. Now, he was an outsider to the cause he had championed initially. He would have to change all that.

  He thought for a moment, allowing the breath of life to fill him with power. A kind of serene clarity came to his mind. There, in that clarity, Lord Rigar found a kernel of an idea. He would not be sidelined by the duke. If he executed the plan perfectly, he might win back his daughter’s affections and gain the power over the empire he so greatly desired.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “What?” Prince Jondran glared at the scout. “An army south of Chesling?” Was it the Maledorian army that Madam Lassengre had been giving warnings to Arcturius? How had they sped so far south so quickly?

  “It’s impossible,” said Branwenth. “No army can march that fast.”

  “This is no regular army.” Arcturius looked glum as he surveyed the battlefield. “They are magical constructions created by an ancient spell. Madam Lassengre came to me in a vision last night. She was overrun and had to hide from their speedy advance. Let’s hope she gets here in time to help.”

  They had been preparing to engage the army of Jalinfaer. After days of border skirmishes, their enemy had finally decided to move in force against them. Thirty-thousand soldiers, all risked in one big push. Enemy sorcerers stood at their core, behind the regular army.

  Their northern flank was almost entirely exposed. Should he send half his army to defend against an attack? But it was madness. He would lose to the army of Jalinfaer.

  “Your Highness, there is some good news.” The scout bowed his head once again. “They appear to be heading southeast—away from us. So, it seems they’re not an immediate threat.”

  Why would they be heading there? Not that Jondran minded a bit of positive news. Dealing with the army from Jalinfaer was more than enough.

  Concentrate, Prince Jondran told himself. Focus on the battle in front of you.

  “Southeast…” Arcturius looked off toward the far hills and the deep forests of Maren Downs. A look of horror came over his face. “They’re heading toward the old Maledorian Empire, the capital. There must be something inside those old ruins that they want. I fear this is a far more worrisome situation than I expected, though I do not fully know what they are after.”

  Drums began to pound across the field behind the enemy line. A battle horn sounded, and the enemy spearmen began to advance.

  “Your Royal Highness!” shouted General Vargendal. “Do we engage the enemy?”

  When the news had been received of the problems in Criswall, the military leadership had declared Prince Jondran as their temporary sovereign, at least until the king and the remaining royals were rescued. So, Prince Jondran gave the general a terse nod, signaling the beginning of the battle.

  He wished that Arcturius’ negotiations had fared better. The leaders of Jalinfaer had spurned every peace delegation sent. The wizard’s discussions with the witch Cambria had also failed. The fools were bent on total annihilation, all because of Prince Silvren.

  Jondran sighed, suddenly thinking of Elendria. He pictured the girl in his mind, hoping and praying she was safe. But knowing the stories of the northlands, he knew she was likely in danger, despite Madam Lassengre’s assurances to Arcturius concerning the girl’s safety.

  The old general raised his hand, aimed it at the battlefield, then lowered it. The line of spearmen bearing tall shields began to march forward, spear tips pointed out. Archers followed, nocking arrows and lifting their bows. Next came their cavalry, circling back behind the archers. Their war drums sounded, and trumpets blared out. The fight was on.

  *

  After a bloody engagement with heavy losses on both sides, Prince Jondran retreated to the war council’s tent with a heavy heart. If they had many more days like this, there wouldn’t be any soldiers left to fight the real enemy: the Maledorian cultists and their army of constructs. He had to find a way to talk to the witch Cambria. It was the only way, he believed, to negotiate an alliance or at least a temporary truce.

  Before the other members of the war council had a chance to enter the tent, Jondran stopped them and motioned for Arcturius. “A moment alone, if you will?”

  The wizard entered the war tent, giving the prince a curious eye. “You look morbidly concerned, Prince Jondran. What is it you wish to speak to me about?”

  “We’ll lose everything at the rate we are going. Today, we lost three thousand men. We can’t afford such heavy losses.”

  “What do you expect? Wars cost human lives. They generate misery and suffering. Families are destroyed, children become fatherless, women become widows.” The wizard shrugged, surprisingly resigned for someone supposedly so wise. “We have tried and failed to negotiate peace.”

  “That’s not good enough,” said Jondran. “I can accept failure on the battlefield, but I can never accept a failure to negotiate peace. We’ve shed enough blood. Now, you and I must fight to secure peace and join to fight our common enemy.”

  The wizard gave an amused laugh. “And how do you propose to go about doing this? I’ve tried arguing with Cambria, but she has refused to speak a good word on our behalf to the leaders of Jalinfaer. What, do you want to attack her tent? Strike out in the dead of night and force her to listen to us?”

  Prince Jondran raised an eyebrow. The wizard was on to something. What if they were able to sneak inside?

  “No, stop whatever you were thinking. I meant the statement in jest. You can’t be serious, can you?”

  “You suggested it, not I. It’s just… I happen to think it a good idea. We tried everything else and failed. What do we have to lose?”

  “Everything, foolish prince. Think about it; we could be captured, tortured, and—”

  “But you’re a wizard, aren’t you? And they say you’re a grandmaster of the highest order. Can’t you cast some spell and disguise us or perhaps make us invisible?”

  “It’s not so easy as you say. Many sorcerers in our enemy’s camp can see through the spells I might be able to weave over you. It would require something far more complex.”

  “Such as?” Jondran raised a challenging eyebrow.

  The wizard sighed and rubbed his eyes. “You are a tiresome one, indeed. Did you always make it a point to meddle in areas where you knew little about?”

  “So, what if I am ignorant? It is up to you to educate me. Tell me how we can do it. I truly believe it is our only way forward. We must unite against the cultists; otherwise, we will all fail, and likely the world will fail along with it.”

  “If you insist on trying, then I will support you. But I can guarantee nothing. If we attempt using traditional means, we would certainly fail, but truth woven i
n with lies often succeeds. And whatever we do, it would be better to use not only magic.” Arcturius tapped the side of his head. “Don’t we have captured enemies? Access to their uniforms and armor?”

  “We could go there in disguise!”

  “It is more complicated than that. But yes, we will wear the garb of our enemy. Tonight, we will try.”

  Prince Jondran and Arcturius had changed into uniforms of a suitable size, gained from two officers of Jalinfaer. It was odd to see the wizard wearing a military uniform, instead of his usual long, flowing robe. They had walked around to the side of the enemy camp, a cloak of magical invisibility disguising their movements. The wizard had assumed it was unlikely the enemy sorcerers would patrol the outer edges of their camp.

  They passed several patrols and continued toward the multicolored tents at the heart of the camp. There, Arcturius believed the witch Cambria would reside. The last time he had visited her in a dream, she had admitted to him that she had joined their army in the march up north. She had to be here.

  After entering the camp proper, they slipped inside an empty tent, and the wizard released the spell. From here on, they would walk in disguise, keeping their head down to avoid suspicious eyes.

  Outside, the mood in the camp was foul, and Jondran doubted anyone here would have anything on their mind but the day’s brutal battle and the loss of men. Still, several squads marched by in formation as Arcturius and Jondran penetrated farther into the camp. He fought down his beating heart and breathed deeply to keep himself calm. After rounding a corner, they encountered a group of soldiers sitting around a fire, watching stew simmering. Their eyes lifted to stare at them, then they stood in attention and saluted.

  “At ease, soldiers,” said Arcturius. He grinned at them, eying their stew. “That’s a mighty fine smelling stew.”

  Prince Jondran was shocked to hear the wizard speaking Sarthian, the language of Jalinfaer. Jondran was even more surprised to find himself understanding the language. Had the wizard cast a spell over him as well? Was this part of the plan all along? But why had Arcturius chosen these men?