“I’m surprised, Crawley. The barbarians are deft at evading capture. How ever did a man of your common education pull off such a feat?”
“Just so happened we had a really big net with us that day. And he’s a young one, alone. We cornered him and took him down like a wild gazelle. I’ve never missed a mark.”
“So why not kill him?”
Leaning his shoulder on the metal bars, Crawley said, “As it turns out, Ingrid took an interest. Given the marvelous constitution of these wild men, she thought we could breed a fantastic army of soldiers.” Crawley let out his wicked chuckle. “A silly idea. An army of civilized barbarians wouldn’t be very frightening, would it?”
“You’re asking me? You’re their descendant. That strong protruding jawline is a dead giveaway.”
“Whenever you’re ready to talk about that artifact, Finster, just give the guards a shout. In the meantime, enjoy your new tavern.” Crawley and the guards departed. Their footsteps faded down the halls.
Finster raised his arms over his head, stretching his burning back. For the most part, he’d led a charmed life of mystic gifts and intelligence. Other than facing the wizard’s trials, he never allowed himself to be in a situation that made him uncomfortable. He liked comfort. That had always been a benefit of the order. The intelligent were drawn to it. Now, for the first time, he was truly destitute.
He covered his nose and shuddered. The stink alone should kill me. His frail chest heaved in and out. His eyes drifted to the barbarian. Please don’t wake up. Ever. He pulled his knees to his chest. The length of chain scraped over the stone floor. The barbarian stirred. Easy, Finster. Easy.
With heavy eyelids, Finster gathered his thoughts. Ingrid is insane! Did my passions blind me so much I did not see it? He’d come across Ingrid more than two decades earlier in a small tavern in a city called Shangley. She was a fetching girl, serving tables, who’d caught on to his magic. He hoped to do some good with the promising adept, but her upbringing had been too marred and jaded. She’d seen too much bad in the world. Hatred fed a dark fire she held within. It fueled her ambition. Finster could not change that. He liked her drive. She consumed everything he taught her. Finally, seeing his pupil blossom into a flower filled with venom, he broke away. Just like the father and mother she’d never come to know, he had abandoned her. I can’t be the sole one to blame, can I? On the brighter side of things, I breathe. That’s more than most of my counterparts can say. Perhaps living a soldier’s life is more desirable than making these world-changing decisions.
Finster yawned. His lids closed. He tried to fight off the exhaustion overtaking his body, but couldn’t. He leaned into the corner and slept.
Something jerked at his foot. His head dragged down the wall and smacked into the floor. Wide-eyed and drooling, he heard a tremendous sound. The barbarian—whom he was still chained to—rammed the dungeon door with his shoulders. Built with the shoulders of a bull, the monster of a man hit the door like a wild animal, and the effect was jarring.
The sound of flesh colliding with metal pounded Finster’s ears. He covered them. “What are you doing?” Finster shouted. He’d never seen a man so big before. No one living had ever frightened him so. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Chest heaving, the barbarian seemed to fill the entire cell. He stood over seven feet in height. His wild eyes, burning with intensity, looked right through Finster. He lowered his shoulder once more and rammed the door. The hinges groaned but held fast. The barbarian moved to the back end of the cell, dragging Finster by the ankle like a babe, and took a run at the door. He hit it at full speed with a resounding wham!
“Will you stop it?” Finster said, gathering his leg, trying to keep it from being jerked out of its hip socket. “You oversized idiot! You can’t break down that door!”
The barbarian collided with the door at least twenty times. The man was as wild as a cornered animal. He pounded the door with ham-sized fists. He kicked the metal and bit the bars.
“Oh, please. I know stampeding cattle that are smarter than that!”
The barbarian head-butted the metal. Blood trickled down over the bridge of his nose.
Finster rubbed his aching head. “You’re an embarrassment to your own kind! Stop it!”
Laboring for breath, the barbarian glowered down at Finster. The wild eyes turned sullen. He seemed to see Finster for the first time. Holding the chain, he lifted Finster off the ground by the ankle.
Hanging like a fish on the line, Finster said, “Oh dear.”
CHAPTER 9
The barbarian gave Finster a couple of fierce shakes before finally setting him back down. His heavy stare landed on the wizard’s face. The heavy brows of the semi-primordial man seemed to push Finster down at the shoulders. The barbarian was a creature from another time, long lost before shimmering cities grew from straw-topped huts into spires that yearned to kiss the clouds.
Hands up, Finster said, “I’m not your enemy. Do you understand me?”
The barbarian’s chin dipped. His head tilted. The gray eyes probed Finster’s. There was a spark of reason lurking behind that dead stare. At the same time, there was also the hunger of a prowling tiger. There were savages in the world—men who slaughtered and devoured their enemies. They ate the raw flesh of animals. Barbarians were little different from savages, but they had their own kind of civilization. As far as Finster knew, they drew the line at eating people. They were capable of a few other things, such as working metal in a forge, trapping, and farming. Finster wasn’t certain whether there was a difference between this man and a savage.
Aside from the black brows knotted between his eyes, the barbarian didn’t have a shred of hair. His skin was ruddy and smooth. The rest of his body, except for blood smears, dirt, and scars from many wounds, was clean of paint and strange tattoos. Grabbing the leg chain, the barbarian tried to pull the links apart. The barbarian’s muscles bulged in his arms and neck. Sinew popped up along with blue veins that strained to burst from his skin. The metal groaned the slightest bit. After a long minute of struggle, the barbarian stopped. He dropped the chain and moved forward, staring through the cell’s bars.
Finster leaned forward. His fingers toyed with the length of chain. “My, that was impressive. I swear, for a moment I thought that link would snap. That would be quite a feat. This chain is tempered, but you were oh, so close. Interesting. Even wild bulls can’t snap it.”
If the barbarian heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it. The only reply was a loud groaning in his stomach.
Finster scooted back as far as the length of chain would allow. He sounds like he could eat a herd of cattle. He pushed up his sleeves. “I have little to offer in regards to nourishment. No, just skin and bones. Wizards, such as I, believe exercise profits very little. We focus on more divine things.” He scratched his head. I can’t believe I’m talking to this illiterate imbecile. How desperate I’ve become—and starved for conversation. With a barbarian, no less.
The barbarian’s eyes searched every crack and crevice of the dungeon. Finster didn’t bother looking. He’d noted every detail the moment he’d walked in. If he was going to get out, it would take cunning. And perhaps a dash of brute force.
Within the hour, the barbarian had slammed the cell door again. It happened all day long, on again and off again. It was like watching a ram butting a giant oak tree. Finster pleaded with the man. “Stop, you gigantic baboon! Save your energy!” He shouted himself hoarse. It went on for days, while Finster suffered painful withdrawal headaches and the scarab burning in his back.
The guards never came despite the annoying sounds, but late in the night, they brought scraps of food and placed them down at the edge of the cell along with a ladle in a bucket of water. As soon as they left, the barbarian’s fingers stretched for the food. He scarfed all of it down, every last morsel. He slopped the water into his mouth.
Finster didn’t care. He was accustomed to days without eating, but was not used to going
without wine or ale. As the long days went on, he started to shake and shiver. He began to scream and yell absurdities. “Guards! Morons! Wine! Chinless bastards! Wine now! I must have it! I’ll kill you all!” His head ached. He broke out in cold sweats. The madness between him and the barbarian went on for what felt like weeks. Finally, the withdrawal, added suffering, and fever died. With clarity, he sought the wooden bucket. Hands shaking, he grabbed the ladle and drank. “Oh, that’s what water tastes like. I’d forgotten. Very bland.”
He nibbled a few leftover scraps of food on the tray. The barbarian woke from his slumber. The time came for the hairless brute to try to tear down the gate again.
Finster locked his arms in the bars. “Listen to me! Stop this madness. If you want out of this, work with me.”
The barbarian pried him away from the bars as easily as a monkey peeling a banana. The wild man charged the door again. When he stopped, Finster caught the man’s eye. “Listen to me! You must—” Stopping short of his complete thought, he turned toward the back of the cell. The guardian eye from the doors of the Magus’s throne room appeared on the dingy wall. “Please, Magus Supremeus, take me out of this cesspool. I’ll help you find the artifact. Together, we’ll seek out the stone.”
The eye hung on the wall, watery and unblinking.
The barbarian caught sight of the strange eyeball orb. He charged, dragging Finster behind him. He punched the wall with his fists, making loud smacking sounds. The orb drifted along the wall, unharmed, and disappeared. The barbarian ran his hands over the rock with the gentleness of a physician.
“It’s gone now, but it will be back, barbarian,” Finster said. “If I’m going to have to continue these one-sided conversations, at least give me a name to address you with. Make a sound or something.”
The barbarian scratched at the wall. A moth that would fit in the palm of Finster’s hand flew into the cell. The barbarian’s thick neck tilted. Without looking, he swiped the moth out of the air and ate it.
Finster made a sour face. “Ew. In all my travels, I’ve never seen moth fancied as a delicacy. Of course, I’ve never watched a man try to run through steel bars before either. Humph. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. A name.” He watched the barbarian swallow. “I think I’ll call you Moth. Any objections?” There was a short pause. “Good.”
With greater clarity than normal for a mind that had been dulled by years of endless drinking, Finster reflected. Ingrid wielded eight rings, each with its own power, and she—with the help of her own training—had mastered them. She’d cleverly picked apart anyone who could challenge her. At least anyone that Finster knew of. He didn’t doubt for a second that she could achieve what she’d set out to do. The effects would be catastrophic. The entire kingdom would be at war. Countless innocent people would die. He knew that because the same thing had happened in the histories he’d studied.
Long ago, the Magus Supremeus—called by a different name at the time—had tried to overtake the kingdoms. The devastating results could still be seen everywhere—mountains had been leveled and cities destroyed. In response, the Order of the Magus had been created to protect peace, at least enough that men would never fully destroy themselves. The new order swore never to interfere directly with the world of men again. They would be guides, sages, and seers. Peace was pursued, but not at all costs. After all, the magi were flesh and blood, like other humans, even though they wielded a convincing power. To maintain order in the world, they had to keep order among themselves. And even the magi, from their lofty perch, had problems. That was one of the reasons Finster had walked away—he’d tired of the problems. The magi wrought much good, but evil was never undone. Still, deep inside, he’d realized he had to do something, or the world as he knew it would perish.
“Moth, it’s time to get out of here.”
CHAPTER 10
Finster removed his robes. The draft bit his shoulders. Goose bumps popped up all over his body. He reached his long arm behind his back and touched the jade beetle. The cursed thing’s tendrils clenched. He jerked his hand away. “Gah! I never would have thought I’d have created my own undoing!”
The jade beetle was a magical device of his own design used to thwart the powers of his opponents—other magic users in the world who didn’t agree with the high order. The jade beetles, very difficult and expensive to make, would crawl into homes unseen and attach themselves to the order’s unsuspecting adversaries. A beetle like the one on Finster’s back had brought Harlock the Reaper down. “I almost feel pity for that mystical marauder of innocent flesh.” Finster took a deep breath.
Removing an attached beetle that had burrowed into one’s skin was fatal. Once implanted, it could never be removed. It was terminal. At least, that was what Finster had led everyone to believe. Nothing done cannot be undone. He’d created the beetle and knew it could be removed, but the risk was great. The pain would be unbearable. The risk of paralysis, blindness, senselessness, and even death was high. Finster had figured if a beetle was ever used on him, he might as well be dead anyway. I can’t believe I’m going to do this. For the kingdom!
He reached up and snapped his fingers in the huge man’s face. “Moth, listen to me,” he said, turning and pointing to the beetle. “See this insect between my shoulder blades? I need you to pull it out.” He gesticulated. “Pull it. No matter how loud I scream—and I’ll scream like a thousand wailing inbred infants—don’t stop! It has to come out.” He faced Moth. “If you do this, I think we can get this door open. I hope I can. But we must be quick. It is this or neither one of us will get out of here alive.”
Moth, neither handsome nor ugly but just naturally scary, stood like a statue, unblinking.
“Listen, barbarian, you have to do this! I know you understand. I see a flicker in those dim eyes. Now, pull this bug out of my back.” He turned and faced the cell door. He locked his fingers around the bars and squeezed his eyes shut. “Go ahead, Moth. Do it!”
The dungeon fell quiet. The seconds were long.
This brainless barbarian is not going to do it!
Finster started to twist his neck over his shoulder. A rough hand touched his back. Fingers dug in around the beetle and pulled. “Yargh!” Finster screamed at the top of his lungs.
One-handed, Moth pulled at the beetle. Finster’s grip was ripped from the bars. He stumbled back into Moth’s chest. Bursting into a sweat, he said, “Mercy, that hurts!” He caught his breath. “Try it again!” Finster stuck his arms through the bars and hugged them tight. “Try again!”
Moth’s hand, filled with the raw strength of a grizzly bear, latched onto the beetle once more. He pulled.
Finster shrieked, “Eeeee-yargh!” His arms strained to hold onto the metal bars. “I can’t hold it!” His arms gave way. His fingers slipped. “It’s going to be impossible to get that thing out of me—urk!”
Moth stuck one large foot in Finster’s back and drove him into the door. He locked his free hand around the bar. With the other hand clutching the beetle, he renewed his efforts.
“Eeeeeeee-yaaaaaaah!” Finster screamed. Lightning flashed under his eyelids. His eyes pulled back into his head. Something was being ripped out of his body from the top of his fingers to the bottom of his toes. He continued to yell. “Aaaaaaaaaaaah! You’re killing me!”
A sickening sucking sound caught his ears. It felt like his entire back was being yanked out by a giant fishhook. Something unnatural stretched and squiggled. There was a high-pitched skreeeyal sound followed by a loud pop and snap.
Shaking, Finster slid down the sweat-slickened bars, drooling. He panted. He trembled. Somehow, he managed to turn his body toward Moth. The giant man held the beetle in his hand. Thin, long tendrils with tiny barbs dripped blood onto the floor. Slowly, the tendrils coiled back up into the beetle. Moth set the beetle down. He raised his heel over it.
“No,” Finster sputtered. He crawled over and grabbed the beetle. The object was cold in his hand. The damp air became icy. The chills
were painful. He gathered his robes and stuck the beetle in his pocket. Then he huddled in the corner and shook uncontrollably for hours. His vision came and went. That unforgiving itch is gone, only to be replaced by an unbearable burning sensation.
Meanwhile, Moth started banging into the bars again. His strength and determination defied reason.
Finster rocked in the folds of his robes. He could feel the warm blood on his back. He swore a hunk of his flesh was gone. Somehow, he lived. Not that he thought it was impossible, but the pain alone was more than enough to make any person’s heart fail. He retched in the corner and wiped his mouth. “That’s better.”
With the jade beetle out of his back and his mind sober, Finster’s strength slowly began to return. He was inside the belly of the Wizard’s Citadel. The entire building was a conduit to the mystic realm, from which sorcerers drew their power. A little bit at a time, he drew more energy, gathering enough until he was able to stand. He was just about to make his way up to his feet when the mystic eye appeared again.
Sitting against the wall, Moth stirred.
Finster didn’t acknowledge the brute. He merely gazed back at the eye. “Please, Ingrid, let us speak and drink. I beg of you.”
Moth pounced at the wall. The move jerked Finster underneath him. Moth pounded at the eye, chasing the strange orb all over the cell, dragging Finster along with him.
“Will you stop this madness?” Finster demanded.
The eye vanished.
Moth scanned the walls with his inflamed eyes. He clawed at spots with his hands.
The Red Citadel and the Sorcerer's Power Page 4
