by Stephen Wolf
Copyright © 2015 Stephen J. Wolf
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1514126362
ISBN-13: 9781514126363
To Mom, for always being on my side.
Contents
Prologue: War of the Colossus
Chapter 1: Gabrion’s Promotion
Chapter 2: The Mage’s Reprieve
Chapter 3: Foray in the Forest
Chapter 4: The Sanctuary
Chapter 5: Seeking Payment
Chapter 6: The Minstrel
Chapter 7: Bartering
Chapter 8: Gabrion’s Awakening
Chapter 9: Cold Stone
Chapter 10: Day of Execution
Chapter 11: Dariak’s Quest
Chapter 12: Preparation for Travel
Chapter 13: Departure from Kaison
Chapter 14: Respite in Warringer
Chapter 15: Kitalla the Great
Chapter 16: Nighttime Menace
Chapter 17: The Warrior and the Thief
Chapter 18: Gabrion in Gerrish
Chapter 19: Campsite
Chapter 20: Pindington
Chapter 21: Grenthar’s Complex
Chapter 22: Into the Tower
Chapter 23: Prisoners
Chapter 24: Escape from Prisoner’s Tower
Chapter 25: Inn Wiego
Chapter 26: Healing Kitalla
Chapter 27: Randler’s Tale
Chapter 28: Lightning Tower
Chapter 29: Pindington’s Woes
Chapter 30: The Determined Mage
Epilogue: The Saga Adjourned
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
War of the Colossus
“Tell me again, Gran-mama!”
Meriad smiled down at the child and rustled his hair. “Very well. But I must say that by now, you could tell it better than I.”
“Nuh-uh,” the eleven-year-old boy insisted as he pulled the blanket up to his chin and hunkered down into his pillow. “I’m ready.” He beamed.
Meriad doused the nearby lantern, allowing the full glow of the moonlight to illuminate the room. She watched her smiling grandson’s face as she gathered the threads of the story, ready to embark upon the tale. It was a familiar tale, told to many children, for it entertained them and held an important lesson. But she thought perhaps after this telling, she would finally reveal the events that happened after. A shadow weighed heavily on her heart, for it meant the truth would at last be revealed. Nonetheless, it was her penance, and for the good of this child and all the land, she had to follow through.
It would take her a while to tell the whole of it, but she cherished these moments with him. He was all the family she had left, and she was determined to fill their time together as completely as possible. Meriad knew guards were posted outside the room, listening to their conversation in full, ensuring she didn’t stray from her task. However, she wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of her past—they had cost her everything—so they need not have bothered. The boy had no idea that his grandmother was a barely tolerated guest or that her visits were purposely scripted. Meriad reminded herself that none of that mattered now.
With a weighted sigh, she pushed her darkening thoughts aside and focused on Perrios, who was eagerly awaiting the tale. “Many years ago,” she began, “before you were even born, there was a war between two big countries.”
“Our land of Hathreneir and next door’s Kallisor.” He scowled at the second name.
“Now, now,” Meriad admonished gently with a raised eyebrow. “First, we are friendly with Kallisor. Second, I thought you wanted me to tell the tale.”
He giggled and nodded his head, then zigzagged his finger across his lips as if he were sewing them together.
Meriad cleared her throat and continued…
“Vetrimon, get moving. If we don’t get this done now, we’re lost.” The rogue pulled a dark shroud over her head, neatly concealing herself in the dark night.
“King Kannilon will have our heads for this,” the man complained.
Another from the group of five piped in. “This war’s been going on long enough. If we’re successful here, then we may be able to turn the tide. His Majesty would thank us.”
“Besides,” Freth noted grimly, her voice barely heard, “we’re not likely to make it back anyway.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Vetrimon groaned. A moment later, he shuddered. “What if we encounter any mages?”
Freth spat on the ground. “Curse those nature-mangling fools. That’s the whole reason we’re here, to stop them from destroying the natural order of things.”
A white-haired thief jabbed Vetrimon in the arm. “If you’re not with us on this venture, then stay behind here and be lost on the field tomorrow. I’ve heard enough complaints. Freth, are we doing this?”
The five rogues reached their hands together and whispered tightly, “For Kallisor!” Each took a pouch from Freth and tucked it away. They shared a last solemn look of commitment and darted off into the night.
The band of rogues kept their movements as still as possible, skirting around their allies as they made their way to the forces of Hathreneir. Neither friend nor foe could spot them, or everything would be ruined.
The hatred between the two kingdoms was deep and stretched back for centuries. They were ever at war, and in the brief respites between major battles, each kingdom worked to build a stronger force for the next incursion. The Hathrens employed their mages, and the Kallisorians defended against them with swords, shields, and greater numbers.
The kings had agreed to this one last grand battle in an attempt to put an end to the wars that tore their lands apart. The winner would rule both kingdoms unchallenged. Too much depended on victory this time, and though the rogues were set to break the code of war, they had to give their liege his best chance at success.
Vetrimon pulled his cloak tighter, both excited and scared that his life would end this night. He tucked himself into the brush and waited until he was sure he would be unseen. Then, with a low scamper, he made his way, one hiding place at a time, until he approached his designated camp among the Hathren forces.
Avoiding sentries was easy, for few men were posted around the camp at all. No one expected a move like this, and though he hoped his actions wouldn’t curse him in the histories, if he helped to end the war in Kallisor’s favor, then it would all be worthwhile. Not that he would be around to enjoy it, he reminded himself with a roll of his eyes.
Torchlight flickered. Vetrimon took a breath and let it out slowly, his eyes on the ground, searching for movement among the shadows. A slight creak of boots crunched on gritty dirt, and he knew someone was close by. He resisted the urge to budge away from his hiding place. He had to rely on his training and his nerve. One breath at a time.
The meager footsteps turned and paced the other way, signaling that he had not been spotted. With a grin, he made his way around the sleeping camp, searching for his target. No one would be guarding it, per se, but it would probably be attended. He kept his eyes scanning left and right, watching for movement and hoping for none.
Sometime later, he found the tent that housed the food and water. He absent-mindedly tapped the pouch tied to his waist, hoping Freth had swiped the correct herb from the healers, though why they would carry poison among their wares eluded him.
Two water barrels stood at the western edge of the tent, so Vetrimon snaked his way closer. As expected, three men
were sitting near the barrels, chatting idly, but what irked Vetrimon the most was that one was a mage. The last thing he needed was some pagan nature-warper flinging rampant energy at him and tearing a rip in the fabric of the world just to put him down. Or whatever mages did. It didn’t matter. He had a job to do, and he would get it done.
Vetrimon lifted the nearest edge of the tent and reached blindly underneath, fumbling until he grasped something he could remove. An apple became his ally as he grasped it in his hand and then hurled it over the tent, taking care not to throw it so far away the trio would miss it.
“What’s that, a rodia?” one warrior asked. “I’ll find out.”
Though only the one man left, the other two were distracted, which allowed Vetrimon to slink his way to the barrels, where he upended the wolfsbane quickly. He backed into the shadows and made his way around the tent again.
Now it was time for the ruse.
The dire plan called for this action, and though he hadn’t originally cared for it, he realized its necessity. The others had all committed to it as well, and he would do his part for his king. He made his way through the camp and sought out the lieutenant’s quarters. The area would be well protected, he knew, but he could still achieve his goal. He kept to the shadows, hiding beside the makeshift waste bins that reeked enough to make him gag. Skirting around those, he found a darker corner of the lit tent. Drawing his dagger, Vetrimon sliced into the fabric when he heard voices speaking from within, trying to match his cuts with their words. He followed with a second long slit, then gently lifted the flap.
The shadow along the tent’s wall was due to a chair and a pair of legs that tapped furiously on the ground in front of it. Vetrimon watched for a moment and realized the legs belonged to some subordinate listening to the lieutenant’s tirade as he paced about the tent. The rogue could just see the steps the commander was taking on the other side of the chamber, but he couldn’t wait forever; a sentry would likely come around the outside perimeter and discover him any time now.
Once the lieutenant’s feet turned the other way, Vetrimon slipped into the tent, behind the chair, and slammed his hand against the unsuspecting soldier’s mouth and slit his throat. The lieutenant was so engrossed in his ranting he didn’t hear the brief struggle. Vetrimon dodged off to the side, seeking shelter behind a crate, but the tent was too small, and when the other man turned, he screamed aloud, “Intruder! Guards!”
“You will die, Hathren scum,” Vetrimon vowed. He bounced from his perch, dagger leading the way. The guards rushed in, but he ignored them, his eyes focused on the leader.
The lieutenant’s eyes widened with surprise, but his battle prowess was greater, and he smacked the assassin with a gauntleted fist. Vetrimon couldn’t see, but he didn’t need to survive this fight. Like a cornered lupino, he growled with feral rage and snapped his jaws, pressing toward his target relentlessly.
His dagger struck, and a mad howl burned in his ears. “Guards!” the man gasped desperately. “Healer!” Vetrimon stabbed again and again, even as fire erupted along his body with each sword thrust and magic spell that pierced his leathers.
“Guar—” With a final gasp, the lieutenant and his assassin perished within seconds of each other.
The Hathren camps erupted in turmoil as all five lieutenants were slaughtered in similar fashion. News was sent immediately to their king, who was roused ungracefully from slumber. Grumbling, King Pennithor of Hathreneir called to his head mage and advisor. “There is little time left. How go your preparations, Delminor?”
The mage bit his lip, but his gaze was firm. “Perhaps a few hours is all.”
“Perhaps?” the king echoed angrily. “We will defeat the Kallisorians this day, and that is all. You will be ready.”
“I will begin immediately.” Delminor bowed his head and swept from the king’s tent.
Pennithor called out to his commanders to assemble the troops into one large fighting contingent. It wouldn’t be as organized as he liked, but with the lieutenants gone, it couldn’t be helped. Each set of fighters was bolstered by the efforts of mages skilled in various schools of magic. Fire, water, and lightning made up the majority of his forces, but a few nature, healing, and other mages were scattered about as well.
It seemed unfair, he laughed to himself, to pit his foe against his mages, for Kannilon, like all his ancestors before him, was a fool of a king who refused to see the benefits of magic. Yet still, he growled, they always held back his own attempts at victory, and he could never determine why. Despite that, he would play by the rules of war and not resort to the underhanded slaughter his men had faced last night.
“Move out!” he shouted once the army was assembled.
The morning sun lifted into the sky as the two armies approached each other, facing off for one last rout. Pennithor bellowed over the din, “It is with foul treachery that you attempt to win this war, fool.”
The Kallisorian army responded by shaking their swords and shields. Their king turned to silence them, making a strange gesture with his hand. Kannilon shook his head and looked at his foe. “The rogues acted without my knowledge or consent. It was never my intent to—”
“I care little for your excuses, King of Kallisor. If you cannot maintain control over your troops, then you are not fit to rule one kingdom, never mind two.” Pennithor’s own army cheered as the others raised their swords again in denial.
“You will see just how well I control my troops, little Pennithor.”
“No!” the Hathren king shouted. “You will lay down your weapons in forfeit.”
Kannilon scoffed. “Forfeit?”
“Your army’s actions last night violated the rules of war. You will—”
Kannilon raised his hand and lowered it swiftly; in response, arrows filled the sky, pelting down upon the Hathren forces. “Attack!” he ordered, sending his troops forward with anger and haste.
“Again?” Pennithor spat. “Very well.” He waved his arms about, but his mages had already erected fire shields to burn away the incoming projectiles. Earth and nature mages jogged to the front line and bolstered the fighters’ defenses with spells of their own.
The battle was on, and soldiers fell on both sides. Throughout, Pennithor gritted his teeth, defending when he had to but shouting orders the rest of the time. He grabbed one wounded man and yanked him from the battle, ordering, “Find Delminor and tell him to arrive now!”
Kannilon watched as the Hathren mages supported their fighters, but his warriors were trained to dispatch the spellcasters. Wave after wave raced forward, fending off Hathren swords but seeking the mages as their top priority. Pennithor’s tactic had changed, however, and the mages were using their skills primarily for defense now, which made them harder, though not impossible, to target.
“Healers!” Kannilon summoned.
“Are you injured, sire?”
“No. I have a task for you, and you will not fail.”
Immediately, the tone set the healers on edge. Among all the mages in their combined lands, the Kallisorian king only tolerated those who specialized in the healing arts. They kept his fighters on the battlefield longer and with more vigor than they could ever have had without healer support. The special mages knew their opportunity was unique, and when the king laid out his plan, they blanched, but they could not refute him.
Their liege bade them to erect a protective shield that would deflect attacks and spells alike. Alone, no healer could succeed in this task, but together they might.
Fifteen healers, arms linked awkwardly together in a line, strode forth in sharply marched steps. Much the way they would shield a body from infection, the team now deflected larger influences, turning that skill outward, but they had to act as a single unit in order for the energies to support this bizarre use of their ability.
Ahead went the healers, followed closely by archers, soldier
s, and the Kallisorian king himself. They pierced through the Hathren forces, seeking and ending the mages. Yet as they went, the healers, whose lives were typically spent off the actual field of battle, fell one by one, until the protective shield was useless. When it collapsed and only a few healers remained, Kannilon gave them their next command.
Grudgingly, the healers anointed the archers’ arrows with various poisons, using their magic to increase the toxicity. The deadly projectiles struck one man down after another, but a second factor was affecting the Hathren troops as well.
The Hathren fighters had been drinking poisoned water throughout the day, and it weakened them further and further, until whole contingents of Hathren warriors fell to their knees in massive, unexplained pain, soiling the land as they vomited or were slain effortlessly.
Pennithor demanded an answer, and a nature mage brought the explanation moments before being pierced by an arrow and dropping to the ground.
“The murder of my lieutenants was a decoy?” Pennithor marveled with glorious rage. “Their murders were not even the lowest your men sank? You resorted to poison?” He bellowed aloud and hurled his sword angrily through the air, even as three arrows plummeted into his chest, piercing his armor and crashing him to the ground.
Kannilon hurried over to the fallen liege and ensured his doom by piercing the man’s chest with his own sword. “The Hathren king is dead!” Kannilon announced in glee. “Lay down your swords, Hathren fools, for you are now mine!” He brought his three remaining healers around himself to erect another shield, despite their exhaustion, and he called aloud his victory once more. “The Hathren king is—” Despite himself, his jaw dropped.
From the horizon, a fiery, flickering giant rose up into the sky. It wasn’t a wild creature from the south but an abomination of pure magic. Fully erect, the giant was at least the height of six men, and its power was remarkable. Blasts of lightning flickered across its surface with each swing. Every impact cracked the ground and exploded in fiery rage, flinging friend and foe alike into the air.
