Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Novels from Top Fantasy and Science Fiction Authors

by Gwynn White

Lord Morkat felt an ill wind across his neck despite the garden enclosure. ‘Then the older healers are still—’

  ‘Being ravaged by tens of thousands of frightened, aggressive citizens as we speak.’

  ‘By the gods,’ Lord Morkat exclaimed, clutching his forehead. ‘This plague—’

  ‘Death Plague, My Lord, that’s what the sanctuary officials are calling it.’

  The Lord of Meligna exhaled loudly. ‘Well, the king has handled this entire matter very poorly indeed.’ He touched his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. Who will the king nominate to replace the high priestess?

  ‘We must assist Lightend Sanctuary to help ourselves, My Lord.’

  ‘Your devotion does you credit, priestess. My path, unfortunately, seems clear,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘With the situation becoming worse afar, and the plague now within our city, we require all our resources to combat our own outbreak. Sending the army out of Meligna will see more soldiers afflicted.’ He nodded his head to her, in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. ‘My concern is this. If the king is willing to imprison his healers and force his people into bondage. I believe he will march on Lightend Sanctuary soon. I will not stand in his way. The king is my master, and I wish him to continue looking upon me favourably.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Priestess Yelloza, slumping her shoulders. ‘I shall ignore their request…once again.’

  ‘That is my command,’ he said, turning his mind back to the garden in search of stillness.

  37

  King Cevznik

  King Cevznik stabbed his breakfast mutton with a fork, sliced a piece off with his knife, then shoved it in his mouth. ‘Speak,’ he mumbled around the oily meat.

  ‘My King,’ said the simpering fool sent by his soldiers to dispense bad news. ‘The healers have gone.’

  Rage burned up his neck, locking his jaw. He banged his fist against the table, making goblets jump and topple. King Cevznik dragged his fingernails down the hard wood, saying, ‘How?’

  ‘My King, the guards were drugged. The cells opened. They seem to have left by the stable entrance.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ the king said, grounding his teeth.

  ‘I-I don’t know.’

  ‘Then how many?!’ he shouted.

  ‘All are—’

  King Cevznik jumped up, his chair tipping backwards as he unsheathed his sword and cut the messenger’s arm off at the shoulder. Blood sprayed across the king’s breakfast spread. A flash of shock flared in the man’s previously dull face as he screamed.

  Guards rushed into the room. King Cevznik paid them no heed as he lunged forward, driving his blade into the man, finishing him off. He continued hacking and slicing as the body lay on the ground until the face was unrecognisable.

  The sight of hacked flesh and blood calmed him. He spat on the corpse as he passed by to the exit, bumping his nervous guards with his shoulder.

  At the back of the throne room he descended the winding stairs—ready to punch anyone in his way—leading to the prison. He turned left, past the soldier’s quarters, kitchen, armoury, and into the dungeon.

  The prison guards jumped to attention.

  ‘Were any of you on guard last night?’ he boomed.

  The men swallowed. One of them said, ‘No, My Lord. Captain Buckhorn executed those men already.’

  The king paced the prison checking every cell. As reported, all were empty.

  The escapees did not bend the bars or break the walls. They did not leap upon the guards and overpower them; the soldiers were drugged. A traitor, someone the guards knew and trusted, or took orders from, had betrayed him.

  ‘Treason,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘It is treason that has befallen me.’ Slowly his voice found strength, along with his convictions. ‘It is from within that we are undone; and now the plague will kill us all if I do not act.’

  Captain Buckhorn strode into the prison. ‘My Lord! My men said you were awake.’

  ‘What happened here?’ the king growled.

  The captain swallowed, averting his eyes. The king grabbed him by the throat. ‘Who was here?’ roared King Cevznik, voice rattling in the air. ‘Who was here? Names—I need names!’

  ‘The prince was here last night visiting Healer Eless.’

  A slash of the king’s blade took the captain’s head clean off. ‘Treason!’ he roared, thrashing the corpse with the blade, blunting the end as chunks of flesh went flying. ‘Traitor to the crown! Betrayer of the nation! My son is loyal to Juxon City and to me!’

  When his rage subsided, he pointed the bloody tip of his weapon at the nearest guard, who paled.

  ‘You,’ he said, with careful and deliberate poise. ‘Arrange my army. We will go after the healers.’

  The guard saluted. ‘Shall we leave the diseased soldiers behind?’

  The king smiled. ‘No. They will serve me until their deaths. If they live until we find the healers, then they will be healed. That knowledge will force them to overcome their affliction.’

  ‘As you wish, My King,’ said the guard.

  King Cevznik began the irritating process of cleaning all the blood off his sword while he strategised an attack.

  ‘My King,’ said one of his guards, interrupting his focus. Another one. There were so many, and they all wanted something from him.

  ‘What?’ he barked, cloth poised over the blade.

  ‘The queen,’ he said, bowing his head low. ‘She is… showing signs of the plague.’

  Was she? Or was this more lies? More deceptions? ‘That is unfortunate,’ he said. ‘I must leave with the armies. Tell her where I have gone. If she wishes to see me before her passing, then she should not die before I return.’

  The guard stared at him with pity.

  Anger flooded his veins. Slowly, King Cevznik drew the cloth across the blade, as though to soothe its anger, so that it would not take another life so quickly. ‘Take me to her then.’ He stopped, hesitating. ‘And arrange for food testers for the pair of us. Treason abounds, loyal subject. For now… I shall see my queen.’

  ‘Are you not concerned about catching the plague?’

  He hadn’t considered that. The plague’s dark fingers reached out leaving no surface untouched. Thoughts leapt into his head, so bright and vivid that he could not dismiss them.

  What other effects could the plague cause? Was it limited only to humans, or could it touch animals, too? Or was it an act of witchcraft so that it lived in the stones of the castle itself? There may be spies. He felt eyes on him. Cold stony eyes.

  A king could not have spies in his own castle. King Cevznik took his sword to the walls, slashing and hacking at slabs, ruining his blade.

  ‘My King?’ asked the guard, when his rage had played out. ‘Should… I prepare the queen for your visit, or not? I am unclear as to your orders.’

  Of course. Of course this one was questioning his commands. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes at his subject. ‘I want to see my queen.’

  ‘Then I can arrange that—’

  ‘Treachery!’ roared King Cevznik, flinging the cloth away. ‘You want to expose me to the plague! You want my wife to infect me with the disease!’

  The guard stammered. ‘M-my King, no, I only want to serve you.’

  Should he kill him? Should he let him live? King Cevznik’s hand twitched around the hilt of a dagger. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you wish to deny your king access to his own wife?’

  ‘No, My King,’ said the guard, dipping his head. ‘Forgive me. If you want to see the queen, and do not care for the risk, then I shall arrange it immediately.’

  ‘Then I shall see her when we return,’ King Cevznik said, calming.

  ‘Of course, My King. I will pass along your message.’ There was palpable hesitation in his words, and King Cevznik sensed at some other deception that he thus far missed. The guard was not to be trusted.

  When the man returned, he would be purged of all evil. Treason still floated a
round the king, rotting the mood of his mind, quelling the flames of a nearby torch.

  Flames. They destroyed and purified. But why stop there? The guards were ordinary people trained to fight. They had no noble and pure blood. They could be warped like tree roots springing up from corrupted earth to bear sour fruit. Traitors made the Death Plague. Kill the traitors and the plague would disappear.

  A barrel or two of the most potent poisons tipped into the city’s water supply would cleanse the city. Then fire could burn off the leftover impurities, destroying the weak, turning betrayal to ash. Fire was warm, beautiful, and… pure. Like the healers.

  ‘My horse!’ he shouted at the room, his vision blurring a little as power surged through his body. The gods worked through his might now, feeding his mind, inhabiting his unfailing body. Finally, the gods spoke to him.

  The time has come, King of Senya, to rebirth the lands in our image.

  38

  Abyslam

  Abyslam made his way back through the tunnels leading into Juxon City. In the dungeon, he kept to the shadows. Doors to the cells were empty, the healers gone. He climbed the stairs up to the back of the throne room, stopping in the armoury to remove his filthy clothes and dress in clean garb. He scrubbed off his boots, cleaned his face and tied back his hair. In the reflection of a shield he checked his appearance. Satisfied, he took a deep breath, readied his explanations for being absent, then entered the throne room.

  To his relief, court was not in session though courtiers huddled in groups whispering over fermented wine. They paid him little attention.

  He approached a guard. ‘Where is Prince Erageo?’

  ‘Out riding.’

  ‘Any news?’ he yawned. ‘Just woke up.’

  ‘The queen has fallen ill. The king has taken the army south.’ The guard narrowed his eyes. ‘He only left a handful of soldiers. Why didn’t you go?’

  Abyslam slapped his shoulder. ‘Had a bit too much of the ale last night.’

  The guard smirked. ‘I can understand that.’

  Abyslam laughed and strolled away, out through the castle entrance and into the daylight. On his way to the stables he met the prince.

  ‘Abyslam,’ the young royal said.

  ‘Walk with me,’ Abyslam replied. They went back into the castle, up the south western tower and into the queen’s corridor. ‘How long were you out this morning?’

  ‘Hours,’ the young prince said. ‘Couldn’t sleep after last night. Riding clears my head.’

  Abyslam turned into an empty room and shut the door. ‘Do you know if Hawrald came back?’

  ‘No,’ said the prince, leaning against a wall.

  ‘You were healed recently, weren’t you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then you can’t catch the plague again.’

  Prince Erageo frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The high priestess and I formed an alliance. I intend to leave Juxon City and join her at Lightend Sanctuary when this is over. I have a difficult question to ask you.’ Abyslam hoped the prince was rebellious enough to take him seriously.

  ‘Ask,’ the prince said.

  Abyslam exhaled. ‘Are you ready to be king?’

  The prince’s eyes widened with fear. ‘H-how—’

  ‘Senya will wither and die if your father lives on.’

  Tears fell from the prince’s eyes and he burst into sobs. ‘I know.’

  Abyslam hugged the prince. He’d struggled with his own father’s lack of love. ‘Weep all you can, lad, then be done with it and focus. There is much to discuss.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ the prince said, wiping his face.

  ‘There is nothing to apologise for. My own father is cold and calculating.’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t normally cry.’

  Abyslam smiled reassuringly. ‘There is no shame in it. I intend to visit my father and mother in the Uppers, then I will write a letter to the king. In the letter I will describe how I freed the healers, absolving all others of blame. I won’t mention you.’

  ‘You would do that, for me?’ asked the tired prince.

  ‘The future of Senya is in your hands. You must not be wicked like your father, but kind, fair and just. Serve your people.’

  ‘I will,’ the prince said, determination in his eyes. ‘I promise you I will.’

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘What for?’

  Abyslam put a hand on the boy’s upper back, and led him out of the room to the queen’s quarters. The guards made way as they entered the grand golden room.

  ‘Wait here,’ said a maid, who entered a door beside a hearth decorated with collectibles. Above the fireplace sat a portrait of the queen in her youth.

  ‘Come,’ said the maid from the doorway.

  Abyslam allowed the prince to enter first. ‘Mother!’ he despaired, racing to her bed where the queen received him with open arms. Boils covered her face.

  ‘Oh my dearest, sweetest boy.’ She fixed Abyslam with narrowed eyes. ‘You seem familiar, soldier.’

  ‘My name is Abyslam, my father is the king’s royal treasurer.’

  ‘Emdar’s boy?’

  Abyslam nodded.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

  ‘I bring a message from the high priestess. She has expressed her remorse over this difficult time, but wishes for you to know that if you and your son were to become the presiding rulers of Senya, then you have her support.’

  The queen shuffled up into a sitting position. ‘I’m listening.’

  39

  Priestess Jewlsa

  On the last stretch of their journey, thirty or so heavily armoured soldiers approached the healers on horseback. Although their group had increased to five hundred members, many added from villages and farmlands, they panicked at the sight of the king’s men.

  ‘Wait!’ Priestess Jewlsa called out as they fled into the forests, scattering like disturbed ants.

  A few stood their ground, drawing their swords and standing at her side.

  ‘Put away your weapons,’ the priestess ordered.

  The advancing soldiers kept their weapons sheathed also. Those at the back led mounts without riders; bodies were flopped across the mounts’ backs.

  ‘They’re afflicted!’ yelled the priestess over her shoulder.

  The soldiers slowed the horses to a walk, raising their hands in surrender. ‘We mean you no harm. My men are diseased.’

  ‘We’ll help you. Come down. Leave your weapons behind.’

  The men dismounted, undid their weapons belts and dropped them on the ground. Healers approached, taking their hands and leading them to soft grass. Others gathered around to undo their armour. The men were waifish and exhausted.

  The commander of the unit lay on the ground, eyes covered. Priestess Jewlsa broke through his healer circle, staring down at him. ‘I am Priestess Jewlsa of Juxon City. Where have you come from, soldier?’

  ‘The king sent us on an assignment searching for healers, Priestess,’ he replied, throat croaking. Half his facial skin rotted with boils; in patches the bone was exposed.

  ‘You didn’t get far,’ the priestess remarked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your king had us imprisoned. The entire city is overcome with the disease.’

  The soldier became silent through the healing. When he’d recovered, and dressed, Priestess Jewlsa took him aside for a private conversation.

  ‘How did you escape?’ the soldier inquired, brushing his hair aside.

  Priestess Jewlsa relayed the story in full—she did not mention Hawrald— and the soldier crossed his arms, sighing dejectedly. ‘Bastard.’ He referred to the king.

  ‘We need your protection,’ the priestess urged. ‘Please, just until we reach Old Bow.’

  The soldier stayed silent for a while, scanning her face. ‘Very well. You saved my life. I will confess that I am sympathetic to your cause,’ he said, ‘but my men and I are
bound to honour. We cannot turn our blades on our king.’

  She accepted his answer. ‘But you will defend us against other soldiers?’

  ‘If the king does not ride with them. Aye.’ The soldier gathered his healed men, buried those dead, and presented the priestess and two other healers with horses. They rode at the front of the group.

  They met more soldiers with the plague, and despite the healers saving their lives, they would not forsake the king. The new soldiers joined at the side of the group to escort them south.

  Eventually, tired and hungry, the troupe arrived at Old Bow late in the afternoon. Priestess Jewlsa gasped to see the entire town gathered to welcome them. The people cheered the last leg of their journey, and Priestess Jewlsa wept. Thousands of voices rose into the air, singing the strangers home, and soon, they were eating and drinking.

  A feast had been organised for that evening; a fire pit burned in the center of the village, and upon it, several boars roasted on fire spits. It was a welcoming meal for the new arrivals…but what moved Priestess Jewlsa so deeply was the hundreds of soldiers standing at attention, forming an honour guard by holding their blades high in the air.

  They had soldiers. They had healers. And with Emperor Phoh’s assistance, she might finally be safe.

  40

  Priestess Jewlsa

  After they had eaten, drank and rested in Old Bow, the night gave way to fervent celebrations. Priestess Jewlsa let them revel; they had earned it after such a long and arduous march.

  She barely ate anything. Barely drank. Instead, she retired to a room in one of the numerous Old Bow inns.

  There, she inked the end of a quill and wrote a letter to Emperor Phoh. When she had finished, she called for a messenger. She paid him thirty silver, and had him deliver her letter to a paladin rumoured to always be stationed at the border between Old Bow and Bivinia. She’d allow a day to pass, then traveled south to the border.