Severed Empire: Wizard's Rise

by Phillip Tomasso

  Phillip Tomasso

  MIRROR MATTER PRESS

  AUSTIN, TEXAS

  www.mirrormatterpress.com

  Mirror Matter Press

  Austin, TX

  www.mirrormatterpress.com

  February 2016 “Wizards Rise” © 2016 Phillip Tomasso

  This is a work of collected Fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.

  Cover Art by Jim Agpalza

  Book Design by Frank Walls / Travis Tarpley

  This book is for my kids. They are everything that is important to me, and they know it.

  Chapter 1

  Light flashed above and behind thick clouds, as if silent war waged in the heavens. Like the cannons discharged by the Voyagers, each electrical surge illuminated the raging sea revealing growing swells. The wind blew from every direction. Harsh gusts swirled, shot upward, and crashed back down against angry black water.

  The Isthmian Sea was a natural boundary dividing the two main, remaining kingdoms of the Old Empire. On the west was Grey Ashland, and to the east, the Cordillera Realm. In the center of the sea, just south of the Zenith Mountains and Crimson Falls, were the islands the Voyagers called home.

  Captain Sebastian barked orders. Helix, the boatswain repeated them back. Cearl, the captain’s lieutenant, worked with the rest of the crew raising black sails and tying them off. Some worked soundlessly, but furiously, doing what needed to be done before the storm crushed, or capsized the vessel. Others shouted across the deck over the sound of crashing waves.

  Cearl had sailed all his life. This storm was unlike any he’d ever seen. When the rain started, its salty drops pricked like bee stings against exposed flesh.

  A crack of lightning escaped the clouds and splintered across the sky, igniting the darkness. It sparkled as if backlit by the sun shining illuminating shards of broken glass. A rolling growl fell from the heavens and echoed off the sea before bouncing back up to the clouds. As that thunderous rumbling faded, another blast of lightning froze for a moment in the sky splayed like bony fingers on the hand of a skeleton.

  The sea danced as if giant monsters rose from the bottomless depths. Each swell threatened to crush their ship. Cearl feared they’d not survive. He could not ever recall a sea so angry. The shouting across the deck had ceased. Everyone soundlessly concentrated on their job, and perhaps thought about loved ones at home.

  The silence didn’t last. A sailor, or tar, screamed. It came from above, from the yardarm.

  “Man overboard!” Someone shouted.

  Captain Sebastian stood at the helm with two spoke handles of the ship’s wheel in a death grip. His body bent to the left, using his strength and weight in an effort to hold her straight and steady. “Cearl!”

  Even seasoned sea legs couldn’t provide balance as the lieutenant crossed port to starboard, searching black seas for the lost man. He held on tight as the ship rose on a wave, and even tighter as she fell. The sea slammed down from above. Holding his breath, eyes closed, he desperately grasped the railing.

  He saw no one in the water. It was far too dark a night, and the sea was as black as death.

  The storm had erupted from nowhere; there had been no gradual change in climate. Clouds had appeared in an eye blink, and sped across the sky. They darkened, and grew thicker, heavier, as they crossed from the Rames Mountains over the Isthmian. The sun never stood a chance; the blanket of clouds brought darkness. If asked, Cearl would have said; The storm appeared out of nowhere, as if by magic. And now, on deck, the captain, the crew, and Cearl scrambled to save the vessel, and themselves.

  Wood crunched by the bow. It sounded like a giant tree snapping, and falling over. If the hull was compromised, they’d go down.

  ***

  On the eastern shores of the Isthmian Sea, in the Osiris Realm, a massive castle sat wedged into the cliffside, and rose above the summit of the Rames Mountains. Within the center tower, the tallest—from which the Cordillera flag flew—Ida stood over flames that danced in an iron bowl set on a tripod with polished steel legs. Only the fire and the lightning outside lit the small room. The sleeves from her long black cloak hung loose off her wrists, and swayed as she moved her hands back and forth above the blue, orange, and yellow flames.

  With the hood pulled over her head, the fire created dark shadows making her face seem more alive, animated. Stray clumps of white hair framed a face of sagging grey skin, a long crooked nose, and eyes completely black set inside sockets knuckled like the bark of the tree. King Hermon Cordillera saw what the firelight revealed, and cringed away from it.

  King Hermon kept his distance from the witch. She frightened most people, even him, but that was not why he stayed back. He simply did not want to get in her way while she focused her magic. Familiar with her power, her antics, he knew to stay shy of those unpredictable movements.

  Watching intent with interest, King Hermon waited quietly, but impatiently. He folded his arms across his chest and stared taking in everything she did. He ground his teeth to keep from groaning when so much time had passed. He needed assurance that everything was going as planned. The storm over the sea had roiled for an hour, and all Ida had told him was that she was the one who manipulated the weather. He already knew as much.

  Secretly, he was fascinated by spells, by the implements of magic gathered about the room and the potions stored in bottles stashed on wooden shelves lining the rock walls. Sorcery had captivated him from the time he was young.

  He looked at the indistinct contents contained inside small glass jars; the unique cuts and quality of precious stones; and the colored liquids that appeared alive swirling inside those vials. Ida kept her things in cluttered disarray, filling every inch of space on each of the hundreds of mounted planks. Dust and spidery cobwebs covered everything, a sign of long lapsed use or perhaps disinterest. It was how she worked, and she got things done. It bothered him not; results were all that mattered.

  Ida backed away from the fire and lowered her head. Her arms dropped to her sides, long sleeves hiding her hands. The fire flickered. With a whoosh, the flames rose, and then went out. Only hot embers remained burning and crackling at the bottom of the iron bowl.

  The king could no longer see the witch’s face, for that benefit, he did not mind standing in darkness.

  He uncrossed his arms and took one tentative step toward her. “Ida? Do you have something for me? Did you see something in the flames? You did, didn’t you?”

  She was silent.

  He cursed. “I can’t be patient. Not anymore. Whatever it is, whatever you saw, I need to know. You must tell me, now!”

  Ida’s hands went to the mouth of her hood and slowly pulled it away from her face, and to her stooped shoulders. She stood by the sole window. On a clear day she could see as far as the sea—but not across it to the Grey Ashland Kingdom. “She heard what needed hearing. She’s on her way out. As soon as she uses her magic, we’ll find her.”

  King Hermon felt his left eye twitch. He knew better than to doubt the sorceress. She had made predictions, shared prophetic visions. He needed events to align perfectly. This was the beginning. He didn’t simply want to wage war, he wanted assurances that he would win. It’s what Ida promised. “She is out, then?”

  “She is.”

  King Hermon, The Mountain King as he was often called, fought the urge to smile. It was far too early to celebrate, and even too soon to smile. “The storm?”

  “It is as
I have said. She will sense the magic behind it. She’ll tap into me and my strength.” Her tone of voice was flat, monotone, annoyed at having to repeat herself. “She will know I am here.”

  “And which way has she gone?” King Hermon hated getting ahead of himself, yet he couldn’t deny the anticipation, the excitement building within. All the time spent preparing would pay off. The empire would be his. He could taste it like citrus on his tongue.

  “That I do not know. Yet. Until she uses her magic, I am in the dark. It is just a matter of time, though. I assure you.”

  He hated her voice, so deep and sounding of gravel grinding gravelly. It seemed to echo in the small room. No voice should echo without cause, but hers was especially disconcerting. “She will know my plan?”

  “As you commanded. Once tapped into my magic, she was able to read my thoughts, because I allowed it.” Ida did not hide her pride very well; she wore it like a sigil. “She knows what you intend, every last detail you wanted shared. She is aware.”

  To see her smile was painful. King Hermon did not look away, though. It wasn’t out of respect, but because it demonstrated his fearlessness. She didn’t scare him. No one scared him. “But you will be able to find her?”

  Ida sighed, as if answering his questions annoyed her. “When she uses her magic, it will shine like a beacon for me to see. She will track down the other wizards for us. She will feel the need to protect them, to warn them, perhaps to gather them with the hopes of defeating you.”

  King Hermon shook his head, delighted. He was going to get the war he wanted. “And the ship under the storm? What of it?”

  “It may be an unfortunate loss under the circumstances.” Ida’s arms rose and pointed her hands at the window. Her fingers twitched, and bent back at an unnatural angle while the knuckles cracked in protest. She aimed her magic out of the one window. “Their fate is not yet known. They may sink, or not.”

  King Hermon watched the movements silently. There was an electric charge in the room. The hairs on his arm stood. He considered what she said. The Voyagers could prove a powerful ally. Their ships and skilled crews alone were invaluable. No matter. They would either willingly bend a knee before him, or he would break legs forcing them down. In time, the vessels and their crews would acknowledge his command.

  They couldn’t know the storm was his doing, yet once they learned of his army of wizards, it wouldn’t be difficult connecting dots. Not worth worrying about now. “If you can save them, save them. If not, so it goes.”

  It has been far too long since the surrounding kingdoms were unified under a single emperor. The foolishness of rulers past had all but wiped out the use of magic, killing wizards and magicians with little regard to their usefulness. King Hermon would change all of that. It began with this single wizard.

  He’d have his war, and rule the kingdoms without long, drawn out battles. With magic behind him he would rule over more than just the old empire. His power would be limitless. The lands he’d conquer countless.

  The idea of being unstoppable and invincible had occupied his thoughts and dreams long before his head was adorned by the royal crown. “I will have my men ready to go where directed. When you have any indication of the wizard’s whereabouts, I want you to tell the guard at your door. Immediately!”

  Chapter 2

  Mykal didn’t like the idea of leaving his grandfather alone. Although he’d had time to milk the cows, feed the livestock, and clean a few stalls in the barn, there was always more to do.

  Their parcel of land was outlined by a rickety wooden fence that always begged repair. The animals grazed separately in sectioned off areas. Lush green grass grew outside the fenced perimeter. Dirt with patches of thin blades of grass, but mostly weeds, covered Mykal’s land within. The cattle, sheep, and horses ate dandelions, and anything green. Occasionally, he let them graze beyond the fences. It was dangerous, because that land belonged to the king, but at times necessary.

  Though Mykal wanted to stay home and finish the chores, Grandfather insisted he go. Clearing the breakfast table, Mykal decided to protest one last time. “I think I should stay here. There’s too much to do. If we jump every time the king says jump—”

  “If you don’t jump every time the king says jump you could very well find yourself next in line to be hung.” Grandfather was seventy-two years old, and except for bushy white eyebrows over deer-hide brown eyes, he was bald. Heavy around the middle, the loss of abdominal muscle was not grandfather’s fault. His left leg was missing from above the knee. He’d been grievously injured when he raised a pitchfork fighting alongside King Nabal’s army. The battle had been against an enemy that encroached from the northwest trying to increase the size of their kingdom’s footprint. King Nabal claimed an easy victory, with minimal Grey Ashland lives lost. Grandfather received nothing in return for his patriotism, for his volunteering to join the fight, and nothing for the loss of a limb. The only thanks came in the way of higher taxes to afford more knights in the king’s army. “Besides, I want to know the names of the men being hung this morning.”

  Grandfather always wanted the names of those sentenced to death.

  “I don’t know why King Nabal demands villagers attend hangings.” Mykal set the wooden dishes and spoons inside a bucket of water on the counter under the kitchen window. He stared out of the single pane of glass. On the right was the barn, and fenced property. The cows chomped at the few remaining patches of long green grass. Above, a blue, cloudless sky showed no sign of last night’s storm.

  “Hangings serve layered purposes, Mykal.” Grandfather pushed away from the table. Mykal had replaced the legs on an oversized chair with four wheels; two big wheels in the center of the arms, and two smaller ones by his feet, for balance. Grandfather kept a blanket in his lap and over his legs, regardless of the temperature. It was as if the stump didn’t exist if he couldn’t see it.

  Mykal turned around and leaned against the counter, his arms folded. They were muscular from long days spent working the farm, and continually repairing sections of fence. His hair was copper-colored, like the king’s coin, and too long for summer weather. When not pulled back and tied off in a tail, it hung just past his shoulders. Grandfather threatened taking a knife to it while he slept if it weren’t trimmed soon. “It shows the people they have a just king, a ruler who will not tolerate crime?”

  Grandfather nodded. “That’s right. Don’t you think that’s important?”

  “I do. It is important. When he hangs these men for their crimes, word will spread. No doubt. I just don’t see the need to demand we all attend. I don’t need to see men hung to obey laws.” Mykal sighed and turned back to the bucket. He quickly scrubbed a dish with a brush. “If I stayed home, no one would be the wiser.”

  “If you stayed home and someone, for some reason, told someone else, you’d risk spending time in the stockade. If that happened, I’d be prone to wheel myself down to the keep and through the gates just for the pleasure of throwing rotted cabbage at your head,” he said, and humphed.

  Mykal set the clean bowl aside, and laughed. “You would not! Besides we don’t grow cabbage.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t? You don’t want to find out. Trust me. And for you, I’d buy old cabbage just for throwing. Now go get changed,” Grandfather said.

  “Changed? I just put these clothes on.” Mykal pulled at the waist of his tunic. Dirt and grimy handprints spotted the otherwise white fabric.

  “You smell like pig.”

  “I work with pigs, Grandfather.” Mykal sniffed the air around him, as he waved his hand wafting the scent toward his nostrils. “And I believe it is more of a cow patty aroma than pig that I detect.”

  Grandfather pointed toward the bedchamber. “Do not make me ask again.”

  Mykal knew his grandfather was serious, but also having fun. “Grandfather?” Mykal pulled off his shirt. “What are the king’s other reasons for forcing his people to witness hangings.”

  “There is just
one other.”

  “Fear?”

  Grandfather nodded, his lips pursed. “Fear. A king wants to be both respected and feared by his people. Combined, these tend to keep uprisings to a bare minimum.”

  Mykal stuck his arms and head into a fresh tunic, but left on the same pants. They were the only cleanish ones left. He would wash laundry when he returned from the hangings. “I’m going, Grandfather. Depending on how long I’m gone, I will fix a meal as soon as I return. Or would you like me to mix something up quick?”

  “I think if I get hungry while you’re gone, I can make something to eat,” Grandfather said, the smile gone. “I’ll be fine, Mykal. But the names, don’t forget the names,” he said.

  Grandfather was excused from attending the hangings. His missing leg the reason. Regardless, Mykal didn’t think his grandfather wanted to witness the executions. “I won’t forget.”

  The old man nodded. “Thank you, Mykal. Thank you.”

  ***

  Unraveling wisps of near-transparent white shredded the blue sky. The strips of clouds sat suspended and seemingly motionless. For the end of autumn, it was an unseasonably hot few weeks. Today was no different. The day’s heat already apparent; it caused a mirage that resembled smears of shimmying oil on the ground further down the path. The sun was barely over the eastern horizon and the air already felt stifling and almost too hot to breathe. Mykal stopped by his favorite tree on his way to the castle. It wasn’t the tallest by any means, and neither was it the strongest. Mossy growths on the bark and branches suggested the tree might be sick and dying. His grandfather had planted the tree when he first married Mykal’s grandmother and they settled the land given to them by the king.

  He often thought about climbing to the top, imagining the view would be spectacular. He bet from up there he’d be able to see the Isthmian Sea to the east, and Nabal’s castle to the west. Getting even a few feet off the ground stopped him cold. His body broke into a sweat. He’d look down and the ground would become unfocused immediately, forcing him to climb back down. Heights troubled Mykal.