by Jon Bender
“I thought you would be in bed, your majesty,” Jaxom retuned, wincing a little at the edge in his voice.
“You’re not supposed to think. Only do what you are told.” The king stared into Jaxom’s dark eyes. A moment of awkward silence settled over the small room as Jaxom struggled to think of what he had done to cause such anger in his friend. Then the firm line of the king’s lips broke into a smile, and he began to laugh loudly from his stomach.
“I swear by the goddess,” he said between laughs. “You should have seen the look on your face.”
“Yes, your majesty, a good joke,” he said lamely.
“How many times have I told you, Jaxom. Call me Corin when it is just us. We’re friends after all.”
“Fine… Corin, would you get out so I can dress, or would you prefer I give my report in the bare?” Jaxom instantly regretted his words. The jovial man might decide to make him do so to further his little joke.
Thankfully, he didn’t take the bait. “Meet me in my quarters, but make it quick,” he said. As he reached the door, the king turned around. “People have been whispering tales of a man on a demon horse terrorizing the city,” he said with a mischievous smile before shutting the door behind him. Sighing, Jaxom relaxed back into the water, berating himself for riding in on that horse. He would never hear the end of it now.
The king’s chambers were located at the center of the castle. Jaxom passed six guard posts and two patrols on his way there. Before the large ironbound double doors of the king’s chambers stood yet another pair of armored men wearing the king’s blue livery with the golden falcon embroidered on their chests. These men were the king’s personal guard. Their only job was to protect their sovereign at all costs. These one hundred men had been specifically chosen for their martial abilities and their loyalty. Seeing him approach, one knocked on the door. From within, a voice shouted roughly, “Come.”
Inside, Corin sat at a table, pouring over papers, most likely reports from scouts moving throughout the kingdoms. Standing, he poured wine into a pair of glasses and handed one to Jaxom, gesturing for him to take a seat on one of the couches. The king remained standing and began to pace back and forth, which Jaxom suspected was a habit he maintained because it seemed to make those sitting more uncomfortable.
“Well, get on with it! What did you see?”
“Denra lost,” Jaxom said.
“That’s it? They lost?”
“More precisely, they were destroyed.” Jaxom heard the anger rising in his voice. “The fort was razed, and none were left alive.”
“Then the Kelran’s don’t intend to occupy Denra. That makes sense. They have enough to deal with in their own lands. This new bandit lord has been causing them trouble,” the King said.
“Bandit Lord?”
“Yes, apparently he’s not your average bandit. He has organized enough to attack some of the minor nobles on the borders of Kelran. The reports say that he started off as just another thief, but rumors claim that he has designs on the throne.”
“Then why would the king of Kelran send his army to destroy Denra?”
“King Dillion has always been rash. Perhaps he considers this bandit a nuisance that he can ignore for the moment while he weakens Denra.”
“Could this bandit have been responsible for the duke’s murder?” Jaxom asked. King Dillion’s uncle Henrick had been murdered in his bed four weeks ago, and evidence had been found that Denra was involved. The murder was just one more in a series of noble killings that had set the world on the path to war.
“I doubt it. This bandit would gain nothing from killing Henrick. The duke had no real political power; he was only responsible for trade in and out of Denra. If anything, the duke’s death will hurt the bandit, disrupting trade and making it more difficult to fund his coup through robbery.” Letting out a long sigh, the King took a seat opposite Jaxom, draining his glass in a swallow. “Do these idiots who call themselves rulers not see that they are being played for fools? Can they not see that there is a pattern to all this? Someone wants us weakened.”
“We must focus on what we can do about it,” Jaxom replied in a steady voice. He did not envy his friend the decisions he was going to have to make. Ale’adaria could not remain neutral much longer unless they were to watch the world tear itself apart. “Have you found out anything about who is committing the murders?”
“Not much. There are a few reports of black-clad assassins who seemed to be able to meld into the darkness itself,” Corin said.
“Do you suspect casting?” Jaxom worried that this vie for power could be coming from mages. Hundreds of years ago, mages had ruled as kings and queens. Most of the histories had been destroyed in the Mage Wars, but those that remained described a time of great suffering. No mage had ever sought power of that sort again.
“It would seem that some form of casting was involved, but I have never heard of any mage being able to disappear into shadows. Have you?” the king asked. Jaxom shook his head.
Letting out a great sigh, the king stood again. “I guess that’s it for the night. Jaxom--” a knock at the door interrupted him. “Come,” Corin shouted.
General Nelix Blackburn was a short boulder of a man whose head came in just under Jaxom’s chin. What the general lacked in height he more than made up for in girth. His arms were the size of most men’s thighs, and his shoulders could be used as anvils. The grizzled war veteran bore streaks of white in his once black hair, and a long scar ran from under the collar of his blue tunic up the right side of his neck, stopping at the blocky features of his face. His grey eyes scanned the room, pausing momentarily on Jaxom to whom he gave a slight nod. For Nelix, it was the equivalent of a pat on the back.
“What is it, Nelix?” Corin asked.
Bowing at the waist, the general handed him a letter with a broken falcon seal. As the king read, his expression changed from apprehension to anger.
“Dradon and Azuria have started moving north,” the King said without looking up, his voice quiet with rage.
Dradon and Azuria were Ale’adaria’s southern neighbors. The two kingdoms had been allies for generations, even in the midst of war. The southern kingdoms were not as fertile as Ale’adria, with its many rivers that sustained the land even in times of drought, and they had always been envious. Even without the alliance, they had never dared to attack for fear that other kingdoms would join against them to protect the abundant trade they enjoyed with Ale’adaria. With the other kingdoms preoccupied, they must have decided to make their claim on the more prosperous northern lands.
“When?” Jaxom asked.
“Five days ago.” Corin looked up. “If they’re making good time, they’ll be at our border in nine. Nelix, assemble the army and inform the mages. Their services will be needed.”
“Already done, Your Majesty,” the general replied.
“Good. Send messengers to the southern nobles with orders to gather their men–at-arms and provincials. Instruct the nobles to bring them to the capital. From here those not essential to the war effort will be sent to other holds that are not in harm’s way.”
The general paused. “Some of the nobles will not leave their holdings without a fight, your majesty.”
“I am their King, and they will obey!” Corin snapped. Nelix showed no emotion at the outburst. The king stared hard at the older man for a moment then seemed to snap himself out of it. “Forgive me, Nelix. Convey my message. Those who do not comply will be dealt with at a later date. If they survive.”
“As you command, your majesty,” the general said, turning on his heel to leave. Half way through the door, Nelix paused and looked back. “You get your temper from your father. He, too, often spoke in anger. However, he never apologized when he saw the fault in his words. I am proud to see that the son has surpassed his father as a leader.”
After the general was gone, Corin looked to Jaxom. “Well, my friend, are you ready for this? I doubt any man, soldier, or mage will have eve
r seen your type of casting before.”
It was true. Many knew he was a death mage, but few even among other mages had ever seen his true abilities. They may have heard stories or read books on what such casting was capable of, but reading and seeing were two different things. As far as he and Corin knew, Jaxom was the only living Death Mage. The line was thought to have been wiped out during the Mage Wars.
“Whatever comes, I’ll be where you need me. Besides, you know what you’re like when I’m not around,” Jaxom said. “Without me to reign you in, you’d charge into the evil horde alone, and Ale’adaria would be short one foolhardy king.” Jaxom laughed at his own joke.
Corin joined in. “Says the man who once thought it was a good idea to sneak into the great hall, so we could sit on my father’s throne.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Jaxom replied.
“Father was so angry,” he paused, his laughter fading. “You know, he considered you a son. He would not have punished you himself had he not. Just as I consider you my brother.”
Jaxom knew that and was grateful for it. He had been found on the side of the road by the king while traveling to one of his noble’s holdings. The monarch had taken in the small, raggedy boy, about five years old, with no one around to claim him. Messengers had bent sent to search the surrounding towns for Jaxom’s family, but none was ever found. After that, the king had raised him as his own.
Jaxom had discovered that he could cast around his fourteenth year. Those born with the ability were a part of a bloodline passed down from their ancestors. It was the first clue as to his ancestry.
The first time it happened, he and Corin had been in the palace gardens playing near a large pine. Corin had discovered a dead squirrel at the base of the tree. Being boys, they had examined its still body, wondering what had killed it. Jaxom could feel something, an energy vibrating around its small body. On instinct alone, he tried to touch what was there and found he could pull that energy into himself. Not understanding what he was doing, he directed what he had gathered back into the squirrel. Both boys started from shock when the remains began to twitch. Soon the squirrel was standing on its four small paws.
Because the last death mage was believed to have died hundreds of years before, the king assigned a storm mage named Elaine to instruct him in how to control his gift. A kind woman, Elaine did what she could, teaching him how to draw energy, an ability common to all mages, and telling him what she knew of death mage stories that had been passed down from mage to mage. Jaxom still thought kindly of her for the compassion she had shown him, though it was obvious that he sometimes made her uncomfortable. After that, Jaxom had learned what he could on his own. He practiced his new abilities away from other people so as to not upset them, discovering the limits of the energy and his own body. Over the years, he learned more control and subtlety, gaining confidence in his skills. Traditionally, mages were tested by others of their school to determine whether they were ready for the title of Magus. When he brought the matter up to his adoptive father, the king said that Jaxom would receive the title when he felt he was ready. Three years later, after endless hours of practice and experimentation, Jaxom said that he was. On the following day, the King called his court together, inviting all the mages in his service to attend and decreed by royal proclamation that Jaxom be given the title of Magus. Only Elaine congratulated him.
“Didn’t you hear me, Jaxom? I asked why you have never wished to take our surname.” Corin’s question brought Jaxom out of his ruminations.
“You know why, Corin. I’m not of your blood.”
“That’s a weak excuse. Everyone in the kingdom knows that. They also know we were raised as brothers and would think nothing of you taking my name.”
Jaxom shrugged. He could barely admit to himself that he still held out hope, however small, that one day he would find his family. Corin let out an exasperated sigh. “Very well, I’m sure you’re tired after your journey and would enjoy some sleep.”
“Yes, I would.”
“There will be a war council in the morning. I assume you’ll be there,” Corin said.
“Of course” he said, standing.
“Good, this council may be part of the decision as to whose kingdom Ale’adaria will be,” the King said.
“You have a poor sense of humor, but I guess even the threat of war can’t remedy that.”
Corin chuckled as he turned back to his desk and the reports. Jaxom let himself out into the quiet halls. Turning a corner, he ran into something slight and soft that gave a startled yelp. The young woman who had fallen unceremoniously onto her rear looked up at him, piercing blue eyes regarding him with a look of irritation and annoyance. Even on the ground with her long blond hair in disarray and her dress crumpled beneath her, she maintained an air of elegance that marked her for a lady of the court.
“Well, are you going to help me up?” she demanded.
On her feet again, she smoothed the nightgown and gave him a glare that could wilt flowers.
“I heard you were back, so I came all the way down here to welcome you. The first thing you do is knock me down without an apology. I swear, Jaxom, it’s like you leave and come back with no manners at all.”
Jaxom waited a beat to make sure she was finished. “Hello, Celia. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“Oh, so now I’m beneath your notice.”
Jaxom let out an audible sigh. “It’s not like that at all, and you know it.”
“I suppose I can forgive you,” the scowl gave way to a smile. “I guess you’ve just come from my cousin. I swear to the goddess, he can put anyone in a foul mood lately. I bet he didn’t even tell you I was here.”
“No, he didn’t, but I am glad to see you,” Jaxom said truthfully. When he was younger, Celia had been often at the castle, learning the ins and outs of court life. Lately, she spent most of her time at her father’s hold, learning how to run his lands. An only child, she was expected to marry and secure her family’s holdings. At twenty-three, she had so far avoided an arranged marriage: what she termed a fate worse than death. Her father had decided that if she would not marry, she would have to learn how to lead. “So what did the King want?” she asked.
“My report from Denra.”
“Of course. Not even considering how exhausted you must be,” she said annoyed.
Jaxom hesitated. “It was just as well. He received a message from a scout while I was with him. Dradon and Azuria have declared war. They began marching north five days ago.”
Celia stared at him as if he had sprouted another head. “What does he intend to do?”
“He’s holding a war council tomorrow.”
Celia settled her shoulders. “You’ll need your rest, then. I’ll see you tomorrow at the council.”
Before he could explain that she was not invited, she turned and began walking away down the hall. Jaxom shrugged. She was the king’s cousin, and he could deal with her. Entering his room, Jaxom removed his boots and pants before falling into bed. Sleep quickly found him, but rest brought him no comfort as he dreamed of dead men in a field, calling out his name.
Chapter 3
Jaxom jerked awake at the sound of the alarm bell and found himself sitting upright in his bed. The castle was under attack. He quickly dressed and retrieved his sword from the armoire. Securing the belt around his waist, he rushed through the door and out into the hall. The bell continued to ring as he ran toward the king’s quarters. Members of the Guard ran past him in different directions. Rounding a corner, he encountered men engaged in battle. Six of the castle Guard faced four men in black. Eight men of the Guard were already down, the floor slick with pooling blood. The black figures moved like smoke, their attacks flowing around the Guards’ defenses.
Drawing his sword, Jaxom advanced through the hall. In the stories, men raised their swords and yelled as they charged the enemy line. However, this was not the stories. You killed your enemy quickly, and if he never
saw you coming, so much the better. As Jaxom snuck up behind one of the black clad men, he turned. Raising his curved blade, the invader moved to meet Jaxom, slashing down and forcing Jaxom to block the attack. Before the weapons made contact, the curved blade changed direction, going wide of Jaxom’s defense. He barely managed to deflect the blow. The shade recovered with impossible speed and slashed at Jaxom’s side, forcing him to jump back.
As they circled each other, Jaxom peered at the man’s face, trying to discern his features. At first, it appeared that the man wore a cloth mask of solid black that clung to his face with no obvious holes for him to see or breathe through. Looking closer, Jaxom could see that it was not cloth but pure shadow that hid the man’s features. Someone had molded darkness itself into a disguise. Jaxom swung his sword in controlled strikes, which the shade easily blocked. Continuing the flurry, Jaxom worked the shade’s blade a little higher and out, slowly forcing his opponent’s guard further away from his body. When the opening he had created was large enough, Jaxom lashed out with a boot meant for the knee but struck only air. The man seemed to flow back a step without moving his feet. The shade chuckled behind his curved blade, a wispy sound like wind down an empty hall. His anger building, Jaxom raised his hand and channeled at the body of a guard near the shade.
The dead guard’s hand flashed out from the ground, grabbing the shade’s ankle. The shadowed figure slashed down, severing the hand, but it was too late. Jaxom advanced, swinging his sword in arcs and forcing the shade to block his attacks as the dead guard rose to its feet. Thrusting with the tip of his sword, Jaxom aimed for the man’s heart. His opponent moved to block the thrust, but this time he was too slow. Jaxom’s blade slid halfway into the man’s chest. The man fell to the floor in a heap, gasping a few more short breaths and then going still. The dead guard stood staring blankly at Jaxom, awaiting instruction. Looking into the bloodied face of his creation, he was thankful it was not someone he knew.
His animation picked up a fallen sword in its good hand and turned to the other shades. Two more of the guards had already been killed, and the rest would soon join them. Instructing his creation to attack, Jaxom left the risen guard to use the skill and knowledge of fighting it had known in life to fight his killers. Jaxom could control every movement if he wished, but it would be a waste of his concentration to do so. As one of the shades turned to meet the attack, Jaxom drew the energy of death into himself. Raising a hand, he cast out to the other dead men in the hall. Five more of the fallen guards began to rise, grabbing up weapons from the ground as they did so. His first animated soldier had already lost its other hand. The shades had quickly discovered that stabbing and slashing would not bring it down. Even handless, the risen guard continued to attack, swinging its stumps as clubs and forcing the invaders to defend themselves.
