The Red Citadel and the Sorcerer's Power

by Craig Halloran

  Inslay came closer. The tentacles on his head seized the magus’s skull. “No! You tell me!”

  Finster wailed like a banshee. His eyes rolled up into his head. A new burning fire coursed through his limbs, not feeding him but draining him. In stammering speech beyond his control, words gushed forth about the Founder’s Stone and the rings of power. He held back what he could before going limp and falling to the ground, twitching and exhausted.

  Inslay loomed over him, bright glowing fingers tapping together. “Interesting. All I have to do is rip that scarab out of your back and cut those rings from the savage’s hands.” He smirked. “That won’t be a problem.” He looked toward his bog men and gave them a nod.

  The hairy-armed bog men hurried over to Finster. They lifted him by the arms and legs, leaving his head hanging toward the ground.

  Finster lifted his head. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Yes, I do,” Inslay replied. His tentacles latched onto Finster’s face again. “Cut him open.”

  CHAPTER 73

  Inslay’s tentacles, latched onto Finster’s face, didn’t hurt this time. Instead, the eerie sound of music pulsated through them, sending Finster into a pure stage of serenity. The euphoric sensation had drool falling from his open mouth. His eyelids became heavy. His body, seized by rough hands, seemed to float in the air. He mumbled, “Whatever you are doing, don’t stop.”

  The beautiful harmony brought relief as the tentacles massaged his temples. He envisioned Dizon, a glorious siren, covered only by her honey-blond hair, singing to him. She sat on the rocks along the banks, where a gentle tide splashed over her lower body. Her eyes, her lips, her voice captivated him. The pain of the scarab had vanished.

  This can’t be happening. It’s not possible that I live without my curse. Is it? Is this life? Is this liberation?

  Whatever arcane power Inslay had used to soothe Finster’s chronic aggravations was working. Finster wanted to embrace the power and not resist the temptation. Yet the parts of him that had not stopped fighting continued to churn, pushing back against the warming mind massage. His body trembled. The illusion of Dizon sang, “Do not resist… sweet Finster, do not resist, do not resist, but embrace the illumination of your mind.”

  The knots the scarab had caused in his back yielded. His focus on reality fled. Finster was with Dizon, singing at her side like a bird. Together, they sang in perfect harmony, “It will all be over soon. It will all be over soon, sweet Finster.”

  A prick of a razor-sharp edge cut into the skin in his back. He felt every bit of the blade, yet there was no pain. Through a strange out-of-body experience, he had a vision of himself as he hovered in the air above his limp form. In the middle of his back, between the shoulder blades, was a scarred clump of skin the size of a fist. Below the thickness of the mass glowed the scarab, lighting up the cobweb of green veins in his back. It would have been a repulsive sight if he had not been in a state of elation. Using a sharp dagger, a lone bog man, incomprehensibly instructed by Inslay, began cutting off the massive callus on his back. Deep underneath his skin, like a massive tick, the emerald scarab pulsated like a beating heart. Its black legs had burrowed so deep that he could not see them. Finster thought to himself, “Take it out.”

  The bog man cut through the surrounding flesh with the dagger. The scarab’s legs clenched. Finster’s head snapped backward. He let out an inhuman scream. On instinct, his mind grabbed ahold of the rock he rode upon. He sent it hurtling into Inslay’s shell. It hit with a resounding crack. The eerie music stopped. Finster’s dreams turned into a nightmare of pain. Dizon and Rinny stirred. The girl saw the snail man. Eyes widening, she let out a bloodcurdling shriek.

  Inslay’s big hands clamped over Finster’s face. His own face filling with rage, he shouted, “Cut that scarab out now! Kill him!”

  ***

  Moth slumbered. The siren-like music covered him, and he felt as if he rested in a down-filled bed covered in soft fox-fur blankets. The world he knew was gone. The savagery was lost. Only serenity remained. All in the world was well until Rinny screamed.

  His eyelids snapped open. The comforting sounds were replaced by a horrifying, frightening sound. With snails latched onto his body, he rose. Reality came back to him. He pulled them away in handfuls. The last thing he remembered was that he had been scouting the forest when the music came. Everything else had been a blank. He ripped more snails from his flesh. Like leeches, they left ugly blood marks all over his body. The snails, ugly green, yellow, and fuzzy, had mouths and tiny teeth. He crushed the shells in his hands and flung them away.

  The sullen-eyed savage scanned the grove. A man sticking out of a massive snail shell had seized hold of Finster. Bog men stood about with their backsides to him. Rinny’s screaming came from somewhere on the other side of the shell. The strange music resumed. He fiercely shook his head. Moth’s eyes fell upon his sword, stuck hilt deep in a giant mushroom. He snatched it up and charged the part man, part snail. Plowing through the bog men, he swung hard into the massive shell. The blade skipped across the rigid shell. Chopping with vigor, he hacked into it again with the same poor result. Over a dozen wild bog men piled on top of him and dragged him to the ground.

  ***

  “Kill him!” It was those words that snapped Finster’s senses into place. The Founder’s Stone inside the scarab had reacted on its own earlier. Finster wasn’t sure if it was protecting him or itself, but it wasn’t going anywhere. In the meantime, the bog men stretched him out by the feet and hands, pulling at his limbs like the corners of a blanket.

  The bog man with the dagger lifted it high. With two hands, he plunged it downward. Halfway down, the dagger froze in midair. The bog man put all of his weight behind the dagger, pressing it downward, but it did not move.

  “Foolish bog man, what are you doing?” the enraged Inslay demanded. “Just stab him!”

  Though Finster fully desired that the knife not penetrate his weakened flesh, it was not him that had halted the dagger. The scarab had taken command, for he could barely lift a finger. Inslay’s probing had left him woozy minded. He looked at Inslay and said with a smirk, “I told you not to try this.”

  Inslay backhanded him across the face. “Be silent, trespasser!”

  The muscles bulged in the arms of the bog man wielding the dagger. He couldn’t move it down an inch. Then suddenly, the dagger gave, and the bog man plunged it deep into his own belly. “Urk!” The frightened ghoul of the marsh let go, frantically backing away. The dagger pursued him, stabbing him over and over. The bog men dropped Finster to the ground. More of the surrounding bog men jumped up and down. They beat their chests and howled wildly. The dagger took after them, sending them scurrying away.

  The eerie music coming from Inslay’s shell continued to play. Inslay, in a foreign tongue or some sort of bog-man language, shouted orders. The bog men chased the dagger. Jumping and diving, they tried in vain to corral the menacing blade. The dagger twisted out of their grips. It slit throats and cut off fingers. Many of the primitive bog men, bleeding from mortal wounds, fled into the recesses of the island.

  Surrounded by the chaotic carnage, Inslay glowered at Finster with burning eyes. “Stop this!”

  Finster lay on the ground now in a half-fetal position. With a wobbly voice, he said, “I’m not doing it, though I wish I were. I think you are about to experience some dire regret… slug man.”

  With a mouth full of gooey saliva, Inslay fired back, “It is not I that will regret but you who will watch your women die.” With a wave of his long hands, Dizon and Rinny were scooped off the ground by an invisible hand. The slug lord squeezed his hands into fists. The woman’s and girl’s eyes bulged. Their faces reddened. “Them first. You next,” he said.

  CHAPTER 74

  Dressed in common traveling cloaks, three assassins followed Alexandria, the High Executioner, east to the outer territories often called the Fringe. Unlike the seven main cities of the kingdoms, the lands be
yond their borders offered harsher and more rugged terrain. The rich farmlands fed by the rivers that spilled into the Gallatan Sea were replaced by small creeks and streams. The plains were sparse and rocky, offering little sanctuary from the glaring sun. They rode all day until they came to the trade city known as Portgul.

  Portgul was an old city made from stone and wood and weathered by centuries of time. Half of the roads were paved with gray bricks. It still thrived because of the surrounding coal and copper mines. Hauling their tools in wheelbarrows and carts, hard-faced men and women wandered home from a hard day of work. Many called the rugged Portgul the last stop between man and civilization. Barbaric tribes thrived in the surrounding hills and were often troublesome and unpredictable. Soldiers in ringmail underneath unkempt uniform tunics with a black raven on the chest patrolled the streets, carrying spears. They didn’t give the assassins a glance. No one did.

  Hosting well over ten thousand residents, Portgul wasn’t without its own charm. It was a place where rogues, fugitives, embezzlers, and shady merchants gathered. The great taverns that resided within the heart of the town stood three and four stories tall. All of them had large covered porches, where men and women sat on wooden benches and rockers, cackling, drinking, and smoking.

  Alexandria dismounted at the largest tavern she came across. The tavern sign read “Lowport.” Eyes from the porches below and above passed over her and the others. Her top assassin, Holger, cleared his throat. She followed his gaze. A row of fine stallions was hitched to the posts on the other side of the tavern’s front entrance. They had the River Knights’ sword-over-water insignia stamped in the leather of their saddles.

  “Damn,” she said.

  Holger, sandy haired and dark eyed, standing shorter than Alexandria and the other two assassins, said, “It seems Carlyn’s deception did not stay the course. The River Knights were not fooled.” He dropped his reins over the hitching post. “I have a feeling they’re going to be a pain in our bollocks.”

  “Let’s find out.” Trailed by her men, she walked up to the porch and passed a swaying oaf of a man with a black eye who held a tankard in his hand. He winked at her. She entered Lowport tavern. The big tavern could hold five hundred revelers easily, but the tables were only half-full. The smell of incense intermingled with smoky vapors. The scents of kitchen grease, charred meat, and roasted onions lingered in the air. A handful of barmaids in long skirts, smiling excitedly, hustled back and forth, serving the dozen or so River Knights who filled the tables. They whispered and giggled to one another while adjusting their hair and revealing their blouses. Alexandria slid over to the barstools and took a seat. Holger and the other men joined her.

  “I like this place,” Holger said with a crooked smile. “It has my kind of sordid element. Barbarians, knights, miners, and wenches. Could prove to be interesting.”

  The barkeep was a tight-faced older woman with black hair tied back in braids. She sponged down the bar top. “What will it be?”

  “A row of ale will do,” Alexandria said.

  The barkeep gave her a wink and held up four fingers to the fellow who was manning the keg taps. Making light conversation, she said, “We don’t get many knights in these parts. My girls have never been so excited. Aside from some of the Goth traders, they’ve never seen strapping men like this.”

  “What brings them through?” Alexandria asked.

  “The same thing that has been bringing newcomers in like a wave: the bounty on this divine sorcerer, Finster, who kills kings and turns ships into planks.” The barkeep blinked a lot as she spoke. “I imagine you are hunting the bounty too? Heh, I can tell.”

  Alexandria leaned forward on her elbows. “What makes you so sure?”

  “I’ve seen the faces of murderers, wizards, merchants, and savages. I know when someone is looking for trouble.” The barkeep rubbed her fingertips together. “I can feel it. And what I don’t, I hear. Those River Knights, they are a gusty lot. Bold and brazen. They make a lot of high talk about killing this wild barbarian who conquered the Gauntlet with swords sticking out of his legs. He’s a blue-toe. The dying breed. Just so you know, I haven’t seen him or the magus, not that I would tell you if I did.”

  Holger turned toward the barkeep and, with an elbow on the table, said, “Why wouldn’t you tell us? We are nice and curious people. And there might be something in it for you.”

  “Something better than the River Knights offer?” The barkeep laughed. “Hah. They practically promised the crown. The truth is, they can shove the crown where the moon won’t shine, because we don’t care about the kings and queens of the Seven Kingdoms. Rebels such as the savage and the sorcerer would be more than welcome here. But I haven’t seen them.”

  The male barkeep set four tankards on the bar. The lady shoved them in front of the assassins. “That will be three silver jacks.”

  “Expensive,” Alexandria replied. She put the coins on the table.

  “My conversation makes it worth it. Do you need anything else?”

  “No. Ale will do.”

  The blinking woman gave her a long wink. “Just holler if you do.” She hustled to the opposite end of the bar. Two brawny savages covered in furs were banging their tankards on the bar. She waved her hands at them. “Settle down, you bloody Goths! More ale’s coming!”

  Alexandria turned toward the knights and leaned against the bar. Her frown deepened. If word about Finster’s exploits had reached Portgul, she could only assume the rest of the Seven Kingdoms knew as well. It infuriated her. King Rolem and King Mather were fools to send more men on the hunt and not trust in the Circle. There was no telling who else might have been hired to begin the pursuit. But clearly, trackers had made it this far out and had begun asking questions. It was a problem. A big one.

  Holger said, “So, what do you think?”

  “It appears that this hunt is no longer a matter of discretion. It’s going to be a matter of who finds the terrible twosome first,” she said. With full view of the knights, who had begun to fill their laps with the barmaids, she noticed some other intriguing men among the group. Deep in the corner, shielded behind several knights, were three men. They wore long checkered robes in red, blue, and gold. They appeared smallish among the formidable knights. Alexandria knew better. Her nostrils widened. “Just what we need, more wizards.”

  “Huh, I hardly noticed them,” Holger said, squinting. “Were they sitting there before?”

  “I don’t think they were.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Underneath the pile of bog men, Moth cocked his powerful arm and stabbed. He buried the broadsword into chest after chest. A fighting tiger, he hacked into limbs, cutting a hole through the bog men. He bounded back to his feet and unleashed fury. Webbed hands flew through the air, making a spray of blood. Torsos were hacked in two. A bog man’s leg came off. Still, they came.

  The long claws of the bog men were sharp as fishhooks. Their claws peeled Moth’s skin away. One after the other, they jumped onto his body. The blood-soaked Moth gored them. He stabbed one in the chest and lifted it overhead like meat on a stick. He slung it off to the side then spun a counterswing that took off the head of another.

  The unfettered bog men came at him from all directions. Hanging on for their lives, they locked their bodies around his legs and grabbed his arms. The savage’s raw vitality quavered against the numbers. A bog man bit down on Moth’s wrist. The teeth sank deep. With a bog man hanging on his other arm, Moth drove a thumb into the biter’s eyeball, pushing it in fully. The bog man’s jaw released.

  With his arm free, Moth hacked downward, cutting open the hairy brutes that fought like a pack of wild animals. There was blood all over. His blood. Their blood. Gore and guts. He had no understanding of what held him together. He did not care. The only thing that mattered was to slay and survive.

  The net of bog men finally wrestled him back down to the ground. They pinned his arms in the soft dirt. Rocks smote Moth in the face, busting his no
se. Claws sank into his abdomen, tearing his flesh open. He kicked in vain. His own great strength finally caved to the horde. Claws bared, they went for his throat.

  CHAPTER 76

  Fighting for his life, Moth’s grasping fingers caught ahold of a bog man’s elbows. The hairy arms of the fiendish swamp dweller caught fire. A rousing stink of black smoke started as the fire spread all over the bog man. The bog man let out a wild cry. He released Moth and jumped away, trying to pat out the flames. The fire consumed the swamp-born savage.

  With big eyes, the bog men stared at Moth’s now-free hand. The fist was consumed with flame.

  Moth punched the closest one in the face, setting his hair on fire. With a flaming fist, he punched one after the other. The slightest touch of his hand turned the hairy bog men into burning scarecrows. In their panic, more flames spread from one to another as they fought to pat each other out. The ignorant swamp dwellers spread doom amongst themselves. They burned. They writhed. A black, stinking smoke filled the air. The smarter bog men ran for the water.

  Back on his feet, Moth looked at his flaming hand and fingers. He tilted his head to one side then to the other. Sword still in his other hand, he turned to face the man inside the shell that loomed over Finster. As he gripped his sword in both hands, it caught flame. Using it like a spear, he rammed it into the giant shell.

  ***

  Dizon and Rinny hung suspended in the air, fighting for their last dying breaths. Finster could see invisible fingers needling their necks. The mother’s and daughter’s faces turned deep red and purple. “Stop!” he shouted at Inslay. “Stop!” Inslay’s gloating stare remained transfixed on the women. He chuckled with weird, bubbly laughter. Anger stirred inside Finster. He came up to his knees, concentrating on getting control of his powers. The scarab still throbbed like a burning coal inside his body. He had no command over it.