Severed Empire: Wizard's Rise

by Phillip Tomasso

  Mykal pressed forward a few more steps. “That fire. . .”

  “We’re turning around. If you want to come back through here, fine. But clear it with everyone else before we do.”

  “Quill, wait,” he said, and moved a few more feet forward. “The fire, it looks like the same one we passed earlier. Maybe this is just another way back.”

  Quill didn’t say a word.

  “I’m going ahead,” Mykal said.

  “I knew you were going to say that,” Quill said.

  Mykal stepped out from between the tight gap in the rocks. Only then did he realize that he’d gone the entire distance without having a panic attack. His claustrophobia hadn’t impacted him the way it had earlier. He hoped it was a sign that he was getting better at handling the issue.

  Bent forward with hands on knees, he sucked in a deep breath, and held it for a moment before exhaling. When he stood, he looked around. The fire pit was encircled by smooth rocks. The path wound around it. Above looked like the place where his friends waited. “I think this is the same fire.”

  Quill emerged. He blinked several times, and rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Looks like it. But, if it is the same place, then where is everyone?”

  “They were up there,” Mykal said.

  “We got turned around, kid. This can’t be the same fire. There were four. . .doors back in that round room, right? Maybe there is a fire at the other end of each of them. Remember, this is like a hub. That room, that was the very, very center.”

  “So why did the orb lead us this way?”

  And then someone screamed.

  Chapter 36

  Mykal had a surge of varying thoughts run through his mind. He recognized that it was Karyn who had screamed. He wondered if the orb brought them this way to avoid trouble, or if she’d brought them this way to help their friends. Perhaps both. He pulled his jian sword, and listened closely for more noise. The scream had echoed, bouncing off the rocks, seeming to come from every direction.

  Quill nocked an arrow. He held the bow in his left hand, arrow held in place with a finger. Two fingers on his right hand curled around the string, ready to draw in an instant. “It came from the other side of the fire,” he said.

  Mykal noticed the playful uncle was gone. A warrior now stood beside him. His jaw was set, eyes focused, body tense, ready. “What do we do?”

  “This time, you follow me. Stay close. Be ready,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Anything.” Quill offered a nod of reassurance and was then moving.

  Soundlessly they edged their way around the pit, backs to the walls. Quill leading. Mykal watched their back.

  A clamor erupted from in front of them. Loose rocks falling? It was hard to tell. The noise, at least proving they were headed in the right direction.

  Mykal’s breath misted in front of his face, then disappeared as it rose past his eyes. The chill had returned. The small round chamber where he’d recovered the dagger had been hot, almost steamy. He hadn’t really noticed until now, where the cold made small bumps rise on exposed skin.

  Listening to Quill’s slow, steady breathing, he wondered if his uncle was anxious at all. The man had been a knight, lived with a bow in his hand, and slept with his quiver for a pillow. He must have seen things over the years. Nightmares. Horrors.

  They reached a corner. Quill stopped standing tall. Mykal waited for the next move. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth tried swallowing. His mouth was far too dry.

  Quill raised a hand and counted off one, two, three.

  Mykal didn’t want his inexperience exposed. On three he wasn’t sure if they were storming ahead, ready to fight, or cautiously rounding the bend. He was holding his breath, and despite the cold air, was sweating profusely.

  He didn’t have to wonder long. Quill stepped around the corner, dropped to a knee. He had his bow raised, string drawn back, his thumb against his cheek, the shaft on the rest, and panned the area.

  At this point, Mykal drew his knife, as well, and held it in his left hand. He stood directly behind Quill. It seemed impossible being ready for anything. He thought of his training with Blodwyn. In his wildest dreams, Mykal had never seen himself leaving the farm, and certainly never imagined he’d embark on such a quest. Grandfather, the animals, and the farm are all he’d ever known. He missed those things dearly, and they were what he thought about now.

  The cave opened wide before them. Lit torches were hung from sconces attached to the rock walls. Firelight flickered and danced. Shadows moving like ghosts. All around dripstone made Mykal think of nothing so much as the gaping maw of a mammoth dragon. If they were within the mouth of a monster, then the center would be the tongue. Though stalactites hung like icicles from above, the oblong area of ground was devoid of stalagmites.

  Those were the first things Mykal noticed.

  In that open space, on the tongue, his friends were surrounded. He could only assume the assailants were Cavers. It was difficult to discern their skin color. It looked as though it might be dark, black. They were covered in a white powder, though, and thick red, and seemingly random stripes were painted across their chests, and on their faces. They all had blue eyes. Bright, blue eyes. They wore no clothing, except for short strips of cloth strung around their waists covering genitalia. They wore head piece made from dead flowers, weeds, and bones, twisted in wreaths, liked horrific crowns.

  Blodwyn’s head hung low, his hair dangled, wet in front of his face. Anthony lay flat on the ground, unmoving. He couldn’t tell if the Archer was breathing. Coil’s arms were up, fingers hands laced behind his head. Even from a distance, Mykal could see that his eyes were swollen, already beginning to turn purple.

  Galatia and Karyn were at separate ends from each other. Cavers stood behind each of the women. One held Karyn’s hair in a fist, pulling her head up and back. He held a long-bladed knife under her chin, against her throat. The man behind Galatia held her tightly, his arm encircling her neck. She held onto his forearm with both hands, apparently struggling to breathe.

  Mykal counted fifteen Cavers on the tongue. The spears they carried with their chipped-stone points were pressed against his friends’ ribs. One Caver stood over Anthony, his spear tip just above the spine, prepared to drive it into the man’s back.

  Movement caught his attention.

  A Caver on the left, and right, attacked.

  Mykal dropped his weapons and thrust his palms in front of him.

  A surge that began in his toes coursed upward through his legs, gut, chest and arms. He felt the power leave his hands as the magic discharged. A bubble of purple and blue shot left, and right. It moved like lightning, struck the Cavers, sending each man through the air, slamming them against cavern walls. They crumbled to the ground.

  The Cavers in the open area yelled, and chanted. Their grunting echoed inside the large chamber. Howls and intonation.

  Quill remained at the ready. “What the hell was that, kid?”

  “They were going to kill us.” Mykal said.

  He retrieved his sword, and knife. These were not the weapons that he would use in this moment. He was beginning to learn his true strength. He needed training, wanted to read books on the art, but his confidence was growing.

  “I bet they’ve never seen anything like—”

  A Caver shouted above the din. There was authority in his voice. Quill stopped talking. The other Cavers fell silent as well.

  Wearing a necklace of small bone charms, the Caver standing behind Blodwyn poked a spear into his back. Blodwyn looked up.

  His face was cut above the brow, and on his left cheek. Blood dripped from his mouth, and nose.

  “Their chief wants you to stop,” Blodwyn said.

  “He understands their language?” Quill said, he spoke quietly. It didn’t matter. Every sound carried across the room.

  The leader of the Cavers spoke again, and waited. When Blodwyn was silent, he poked him with his spear, and
yelled at him.

  Blodwyn looked over his shoulder for a moment, then back at Mykal. “Listen, Mykal, their weapons are coated in poison. It’s deadly. They are angry at us for trespassing. He wants your magic. You will fight one of his warriors. If you win, we are free to go. If you lose, he takes your magic.”

  “How can he take my magic?” Mykal said. It wasn’t arrogance that made him ask, it was surprise. He didn’t know something like that was possible.

  Blodwyn spoke in the strange language. The Caver replied. “No,” Blodwyn said.

  The spear jabbed him in the arm, tore through his cloak, and drew blood.

  “It is a fight to the death. When you are dying your magic leaves your body. They believe they can capture it, and share it among their people.”

  The weapons are coated in poison. Blodwyn was cut by a spear. “You’re bleeding,” Mykal said.

  “I’m fine,” Blodwyn said.

  “The poison?”

  The leader shouted. He smashed the spear over Blodwyn’s head.

  Mykal lifted his arms, ready to wreak havoc inside the belly of the mountain.

  The Cavers all yelled at once, pressing knives and spears against their hostages’ skin. The cacophony of voices was like a brilliant roar that bounced around the room, ricocheting off the rock walls.

  “Unless you know you can kill them all at the same time, think this through,” Quill said.

  The Caver spoke again.

  Blodwyn said, “They are going to kill one of us now to demonstrate that you have no options.”

  Mykal knew Blodwyn wasn’t defeated. He was beaten, hurt, and poisoned, yes. Not defeated. He was a strong man. They’d get out of this. Maybe Karyn could heal him. He knew she could. She just needed the chance, the time to use her powers.

  Somehow the Cavers got a jump on them. It looked as if Blodwyn and Anthony put up a fight, but were outnumbered.

  The situation wasn’t much different now. There were too many Cavers for he and Quill to handle, especially considering the fact that their party was held hostage.

  Quill stood up. “I will fight in Mykal’s place.”

  “Uncle,” Mykal said.

  Blodwyn told the leader.

  The Caver spoke.

  “Mykal will fight,” Blodwyn said.

  The leader nodded at one of his warriors. The man poised over Anthony raised his spear.

  “No, wait!” Mykal said. He thrust his arm out. A bolt of electricity crossed the cavern and struck the warrior. He fell backward, away from Anthony. His body shook violently as currents passed through him. Urine ran pooled around him.

  The chief struck Blodwyn in the head once more. Blodwyn dropped. The chief stepped over him, grabbed his hair and hoisted Blodwyn to his knees. He shouted the entire time.

  Blodwyn attempted to translate; his words slurred.

  “Tell him, I’ll fight,” Mykal said.

  “It’s a fight to the death,” Quill reminded him.

  “I understand that,” Mykal replied. “Tell him I will face his warrior.”

  Blodwyn sighed. He told the leader.

  The Cavers cleared the open area amidst the stalagmites, dragging their victims with them. Others removed the stunned Caver, and Anthony.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Quill said.

  “Do you have a better one?”

  Quill remained silent.

  ***

  They stripped away Mykal’s weapons. The gold dagger held their interest. The leader snapped his fingers. The dagger was given to him. He looked it over for a moment, and then slid it carefully between skin and loincloth. Mykal did not want to let that dagger out of his sight. If they left the mountain without it, all of this was for nothing.

  Mykal saw that the knives, like the spears, were made of sharpened rock. The weapons were crude, but obviously deadly. Though Karyn had not stopped crying, she did so silently. Tears streamed down her face. Her eyes were red, and her nose running.

  Galatia looked helpless. It confused Mykal. Her power hadn’t prevented the attacks, nor been used to protect any of them. How could she let this happen?

  Judging her, nor questioning her unquantified abilities would change nothing.

  Coil remained silent, arms behind his head. Would he be ready to move, and attack if the opportunity presented itself?

  Quill’s bow and quiver were discarded. He was forced to his knees, and surrounded by three Cavers who looked more than willing to spear him, repeatedly.

  Anthony remained unconscious.

  Mykal feared he was dead.

  Once standing in the center of the cave, he saw more Cavers than he could count in a short time. Perhaps it was these numbers, so many enemies, that had prevented Galatia from acting? He wasn’t sure he could disarm those around his friends, and then everyone else at the same time. Someone would likely get hurt. He wouldn’t be able to cope with that outcome.

  “Who am I to fight?” Mykal said. He held his arms out, palms up.

  The Cavers took a half-step backward.

  He liked that. The fear, the respect, worked in his favor.

  The leader spoke.

  “You cannot use magic in this fight,” Blodwyn said. “If you use magic, we will all be killed.”

  Mykal locked eyes with the leader. “I don’t need to use magic.”

  Blodwyn translated.

  A large man stepped into the center of the cave. His sneered at Mykal, chin down, blue eyes glowing under the shadow of his brow. His hands were already balled into fists. Although a foot taller than he, it was the man’s sheer mass that intimidated Mykal. The warrior had arms bulging with muscle. His wide neck disappeared into the hunched arches that comprised of his shoulders. Thick veins throbbed at his temples. When he snarled, his mouth revealed rows of pointed, triangular teeth.

  The two remained a few feet apart. They circled each other, staying out of range while sizing each other up.

  Mykal felt ready for anything.

  The warrior charged. He bowled into Mykal, slamming his shoulder into Mykal’s stomach and wrapping his arms around his back. Driving him into the ground, the air was driven from Mykal’s lungs.

  The warrior moved until he had Mykal’s arms pinned using his knees. He landed punch after punch striking solar plexus, ribs and chest. Claustrophobia overcame him. He couldn’t move, or breathe. It was like he was being buried beneath a rock slide. The warrior’s fists were boulders crashing against his body. He knew ribs were going to start cracking under the constant onslaught.

  Mykal kicked out with his legs, trying uselessly to buck the warrior off. He twisted his body as best he could. Nothing worked.

  The warrior locked hands around Mykal’s throat. His thumbs pressed against his windpipe.

  Mykal couldn’t remember the last breath he’d taken. He felt light-headed. He was going to pass out.

  No. He was going to die.

  His eyes closed. His body went limp.

  Karyn screamed. “No!”

  The warrior pressed hard against Mykal’s throat for a moment longer.

  And then, making his first mistake, eased the pressure, loosened his grip.

  Mykal threw up his hips, and twisted to the right. He raised his arms, and pushed. The warrior rolled off.

  The fight hadn’t turned in his favor, but at least Mykal managed to get to his knees. He coughed, and fought hard for breath that wouldn’t come. He wasn’t giving up that easily.

  The warrior looked angry. He snarled, speaking words in his incomprehensible language.

  When the warrior charged once more, Mykal dropped to his stomach. The warrior flew over him, arms wrapping around air. Mykal leapt to his feet, though it cost him. His brain needed oxygen, and his chest ached. He was dizzy, off balance. He lifted fists, taking a defensive stance.

  The warrior stood. He grinned, and raked his jagged teeth over his lower lip. Blood rolled down his chin, scarlet against white.

  Mykal sucked in a deep breath, finally. He cringe
d. It felt like needles jabbing into his lungs.

  The warrior raised his arms, held them in mimicry of Mykal’s stance.

  They circled each other. When the warrior came close, Mykal threw a jab with his left. He connected with the warrior’s chin, smearing blood. He tagged him with another.

  The jabs didn’t hurt the man. Stung, maybe. The rhythm from the lessons returned. Mykal bounced on the balls of his feet. Jab. Jab.

  The warrior watched Mykal’s feet while they danced, and mimicked the steps, unaffected by the punches. It was as if he were more concerned about learning a new way of fighting, than by the fight itself. He was even smiling. He looked up at Mykal, and appeared. . .happy.

  Mykal smiled back, and then stepped forward with his left foot and swung hard with his right. The punch landed hard against the warrior’s temple. He stumbled, legs wobbling, but he didn’t fall.

  His smile vanished, though, and he growled once again.

  Mykal threw two more jabs, fast, hard, catching the warrior off guard.

  While he had his opponent stunned, Mykal stepped in again. The uppercut slammed into the warrior’s jaw. Blood sprayed from his mouth. Too much blood. Mykal knew the warrior must have bitten his tongue. Those chiseled teeth might have severed the tip clean off.

  Mykal didn’t want to lose the edge. He moved in closer, and pummeled the body. The blows lifted the warrior off his feet. Blodwyn called the style of fighting boxing, said it was an ancient form once used for entertainment.

  The warrior certainly wasn’t having fun.

  Mykal threw a roundhouse, hoping for a knockout.

  The warrior wasn’t having it. He ducked under the swing, wrapped his arms around Mykal’s waist and lifted him in the air. Mykal gripped his hands together and pounded on the warrior’s back. The punches did little, and when he was slammed against the rock wall, he groaned. At least one a rib snapped. Maybe two, or more.

  Mykal set his feet against the rock, and using the muscles in his legs, pushed off, wriggling free of the warrior’s grasp. He spun around, arm straight, and clubbed the warrior in the back of the head. He dropped low and swept the nearest leg. The warrior fell back, with a resounding, “Oomf.”