The Sword and the Sorcerer

by John Phythyon

  The Sword and the Sorcerer

  The Usurpers Saga, Volume I

  A Novel by:

  John R. Phythyon, Jr.

  Copyright 2013 John R. Phythyon, Jr.

  Cover Design by:

  Jill Jess

  Map by:

  Anne Patterson

  For Jill. I love you.

  Prologue: Power Play

  Gothemus Draco dropped his chalice and grasped his throat. The golden cup hit the marble floor with a clatter, splashing red wine over the pristine stone like spilled blood. Lord Vicia grimaced at the image.

  Gothemus fell from his chair at the grand dining table and went to his knees. His long, white beard dragged the floor. His grey robes seemed to be chains binding his old body to the ground. He stared up at Vicia in horror and surprise. He looked very old, older perhaps than he was, although no one knew his age for sure.

  Then a cruel smile crept up his face. Recognition and delight danced in his cold, blue eyes. Vicia panicked. Was he somehow immune to the poison? Elmanax had sworn it would work!

  Gothemus fumbled under his beard with his right hand. Vicia pushed back from the table and leaped to her feet. He might be dying – He was dying, right? – but Gothemus Draco was still the most powerful sorcerer in the Known World. He might have some magic left in him, and Vicia was not about to let him use it. She reached out and summoned her staff. It flew across the room and into her hands. Several of the other lords at the table gasped as she struck a defensive pose.

  Meanwhile, Gothemus had retrieved what he was searching for. It appeared to be a tiny scroll, no bigger than his pinky, and it was attached to a long, gold chain. It rested in the palm of his hand. Now, he was grinning maniacally at her.

  Vicia raised her staff and summoned its magical energy. She had no idea what spell might be effective against him, but she planned to start blasting him until he was truly dead.

  Before she could do anything more, though, the scroll in his hand caught fire. It burned with purple flame and was quickly consumed. The tiny blaze congealed into a small ball and rose out of his hand. Vicia changed her spell to a defense shield, expecting the thing to attack her.

  Instead, it popped just over Gothemus’s head and sent a shower of sparks in every direction. Had she not been afraid, Vicia might have thought they were beautiful. She finished her shield spell and prepared to counterattack.

  But the sparks simply faded away. Gothemus cackled. He leered at her as though he knew some funny secret. Then his eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell over.

  For a moment, no one moved or spoke. They all just stared at Gothemus’s immobile form on the stone floor. Lord Vestran broke the silence.

  “By the gods,” he croaked in his ancient, old man’s voice.

  Vicia wanted to sneer. It wasn’t the gods who did this; it was she. She said nothing, though. She couldn’t overplay her hand.

  “Is he dead?” Lord Festria simpered.

  Vicia shook her head in disgust. She had no respect for her. She was so naïve, so easily manipulated, it was impossible to take her seriously. Festria’s magic might have made her powerful, but she didn’t belong on the Council of Elders.

  “It would appear so,” Lord Hedron replied.

  Vicia knew it was time to act. She needed to take charge of the situation before Hedron or someone else capitalized on the opportunity. This was her plan, her move. She wasn’t about to let that power-hungry bastard, Lord Hedron, take advantage of it.

  She waved her staff to dispel the defense barrier she’d cast. Then she snapped her fingers at a guard who was standing slack-jawed at the door.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she ordered. “Get over here and check him.”

  “Right away, my lord,” he said, recovering himself.

  He dashed across the room but stopped short of Gothemus’s motionless body. He looked once at Vicia, swallowed hard, and then knelt over it. He examined the famous sorcerer for a moment or two. Then he rolled him over and put his ear to the wizard’s chest.

  “He appears to be dead, my lord,” he pronounced.

  Vicia felt a surge go through her. She’d done it! She’d actually done it! She’d murdered Gothemus Draco! Where others had battled him and failed to defeat him, she’d laid him low with a simple cup of wine.

  It wasn’t time to celebrate yet, though. She could toast her victory when she’d mastered the Eye of the Dragon and ascended to the Council presidency. For the moment, there was more work to be done. She put a serious look on her face.

  “Remove the body,” she ordered the soldier. “My lords, we must inter Gothemus Draco on site and keep news of his demise secret until we have the Eye of the Dragon. We need to make sure everything is as we wish it before the world realizes the balance of power has changed.”

  “And just how do you propose we get the Eye without anyone knowing about it?” Hedron said.

  Vicia had to be careful here. Elmanax had been cagey about what was going to happen after Gothemus’s death. He was supposed to help her break into the famous sorcerer’s tower to get it, but he had provided few details. She didn’t want the Council knowing she had an ally, nor would it be good for them to think she didn’t have every part of the plan worked out.

  “I have studied Gothemus Draco’s tower and magic for some time,” she replied. “I have also researched the history of the Eye of the Dragon since it came into his possession. I have spells that will allow me to summon it here from its home.”

  A gasp of astonishment went through the other lords. She was suggesting sorcery of a sort none of them possessed. Of course, it was a lie. She knew no such magic. Elmanax was in charge of the next phase of the operation. But the Council didn’t know that, and it was best for them to think she was more powerful than she was.

  “Impossible!” Hedron said. “There is no such spell.”

  “But there is, Lord Hedron,” she countered. “And I will prove it by delivering the Eye of the Dragon to the Council.”

  Hedron snorted his disdain and doubt. He glared at her through a mane of long, grey hair.

  “Even if such magic did exist,” he said, “Gothemus Draco doubtless protected the Eye. I do not believe you could pry it from his stronghold.”

  “And that,” Vicia said, implying by her tone that he was very stupid, “is why it was essential to murder him first. With his death, his spells expire. The tower may be defended by all sorts of safeguards we don’t know about – wardens, fiends, who knows what? But with my sorcery, I can transport the Eye here without having to overcome them.”

  Several lords looked astonished at her claim, Festria among them. Lord Vestran appeared hopeful. Vicia knew he hated Gothemus Draco. It was why he’d been so easy to persuade to go along with her plan. Hedron was nonplussed.

  “And suppose for the sake of argument,” he said, “your spells fail. Suppose there are wards and dangers you cannot overcome?”

  “Then I will take Gothemus Draco’s key from his dead body, and I will journey to his tower,” she said. “I will defeat whatever guardians he has left behind and claim the Eye of the Dragon for the Council, bringing it back here to Eldenberg for us to master.”

  Hedron’s ruddy face darkened. He glared at her a little longer before turning to face Lord Vestran.

  “My lords,” he said, “I do not believe Lord Vicia can do what she claims. I believe she is boasting of abilities that far exceed her actual talent. As you know, I have been against this plan since she first proposed it. I suggest I take a detachment of soldiers to Gothemus Draco’s tower and procure the Eye myself.”

  “Wait just a moment,” Vicia protested.

  “You’ve executed your part of this plan masterfull
y, Lord Vicia,” he said, his voice full of sarcasm. “You’ve killed Gothemus Draco. I think it would be best, though, if we spread the work on this mission around so as to ensure it benefits the Council of Elders and not just you.”

  Vicia gripped her staff tightly at the accusation. She was less offended by the fact that Hedron’s insinuations were true than that they masked his own selfish ambition. He was only trying to steal her power play away from her.

  Still, she knew what to say to undermine him. She’d gotten this far by swaying the other Elders to her cause.

  “I can only guess that the stress of murdering the Known World’s foremost magician would cause you to accuse me of treason, Lord Hedron,” she said, putting a pleasant smile on her face. “Under the circumstances, I forgive your insult.

  “I have a simple solution to the conflict. I have claimed to be able to procure the Eye of the Dragon through spells known only to me. Why not let me try? There is nothing to lose. Gothemus Draco is dead. He cannot harm us anymore. If I cannot produce the artifact as promised, then you can take your detachment of soldiers to the tower and get it your way.”

  There was an immediate chorus of agreement from the other lords. Hedron scowled, defeated.

  “Lord Vestran,” Vicia said turning to him. “You are president of the Council. Does this proposal meet with your approval?”

  “It does,” he said. “As it seems to with the other Elders save Lord Hedron.”

  “Very well then,” Vicia said. “I shall move forward with my plan. I will deliver the Eye of the Dragon to the Council of Elders, we will master it, and Eldenberg will become the foremost power in the Known World.”

  She smiled at the hear-hears she got from everyone but Lord Hedron. Now she just needed Elmanax to do his part. As long as the gnome could deliver what he promised, she was going to be president of the Council of Elders and the most powerful woman in the Known World.

  Chapter 1: A Canticle to Knavery

  The great hall of Duke Boordin’s castle in Dalasport exploded in laughter. The happy sound rang like bells off the high, arched ceilings. The flying buttresses sent it cascading back down to the floor, where it again bounced up off the flagstones.

  Calibot smiled. This was going even better than he’d hoped.

  “Trembling, Drake gave the wand a wave,” Calibot read, continuing the premiere of the third canto of his comic epic, Drake and Drudger’s Journey: A Canticle to Knavery.

  “He shut his eyes, awaited fire.

  “But none came. ‘Speak the words, you knave!’

  “Yelled Drudger, making plain his ire.

  “Drake opened one eye, saw no flame,

  “Then blushed red, admitting his shame.

  “‘I forgot,’ said he. ‘Must have been

  “‘The cold. The Fairy Queen instructed,

  “‘Say, “Alakaboom,” like you mean

  “‘It, and, the magic conducted,

  “‘The rod will blaze bright with strange fire

  “‘Warming us now, as we desire!’

  “Drudger rolled his eyes. ‘So do it!’

  “Said he, and Drake nodded and waved.

  “‘Alakaboom!’ he then shouted,

  “And fire sprang forth. How it blazed!

  “But Drake yelped as it burned his hand –

  “For the knave did hold the wrong end!”

  More laughter forced him to pause again. He was unable to suppress a broad smile. Everywhere he looked, people were guffawing. Courtiers in rich, soft coats, silken shirts, and matching leggings were bent over with laughter. Ladies in gowns bedecked with jewels put their hands to their mouths to chuckle demurely. Some of the crowd laughed sycophantically to please their lord, but the vast majority were beside themselves. Calibot saw one man wipe tears from his eyes.

  Duke Boordin’s laugh rose above all the others. It was loud, booming, and jolly. Lord of Dalasport and Calibot’s patron, he leaned so far back in his throne, Calibot feared it would topple over. The duke put his hands on his great stomach, which shook with his amusement, and kicked his feet out into the air. The chair was barely large enough to contain his considerable frame and, despite being made of stout oak, looked as though it might crack under the strain the duke inflicted on it.

  “Oh, Calibot,” the duke said between giggles. “Oh, you’ve outdone yourself this time!”

  Calibot knew he looked smug. He knew he should appear surprised or staid, but he couldn’t manage it. He’d been laboring for weeks on this poem, and he was immensely pleased his liege was enjoying it.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Calibot drawled.

  He shot a glance at Devon, whose rich, brown eyes practically glowed with admiration and joy. His shoulder-length, blonde hair sat on a red coat and framed a long but handsome face. No one had ever looked at Calibot with that much pride and desire. Calibot felt his heart flutter.

  “Please, Calibot,” the duke said, breaking the spell. His fat cheeks, covered in a red-brown beard, were flushed with amusement. “Don’t stop. I simply must know what happens next.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” he replied.

  He stole another glace at his love. Devon smiled back warmly. He was beaming. Calibot felt his heart skip another beat. If he didn’t focus on the poem immediately, he was going to lose all ability to concentrate. Damn Devon anyway for being so beautiful, so supportive, so perfect.

  He smiled inwardly at the mock curse. Then he cleared his throat, raised the manuscript, and resumed reading.

  “‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’ cried poor Drake and flung

  “The burning shaft to his brother,

  “Who caught it also, and yet stung

  “Was he when he too the other,

  “Flaming end grabbed. Thus, he too threw

  “The torch. He knew not what to do.

  “Back and forth went the rod from knave

  “To knave. Neither catching it right,

  “Neither fool was able to save

  “His hands from a burning, a fright,

  “A wounding. ’Til it fell at last

  “In some dry leaves, which did burn fast.

  “The two fools stood gaping as trees

  “Became enflamed. The Enchanted

  “Forest in just seconds was seized

  “In fire the Fairy Queen granted

  “To knaves. A deadly blaze begun,

  “Quoth Drake to Drudger: ‘You fool! Run!’

  The duke was laughing again, but he didn’t interrupt this time. Calibot kept going, raising his voice as he accelerated to the climax.

  “From burning tree to blazing bush

  “The brothers did weave and did flee.

  “To the river they came, hearts flush

  “With fear, and dove in to avoid

  “Death, then stared at what they’d destroyed.

  “Elves, sprites, and fairies all will weep

  “For the loss of their golden home.

  “Dryads won’t sing; glow worms won’t creep,

  “Nor aught will there be found a gnome.

  “Children no stories have for bed.

  “The Enchanted Forest is dead.”

  Calibot fell silent. The duke clapped his thick hands loudly as he giggled more and leaned back on his great chair. The rest of the courtiers applauded appreciatively. Devon threw him a wink. Calibot tried not to blush.

  “Marvelous!” Duke Boordin exclaimed. “Simply marvelous! Oh, Calibot, how do you give such fine voice to knavery?”

  “It’s a gift, Your Majesty,” Calibot replied.

  “And a fine one,” the duke agreed. “Please tell me there is more.”

  “Well, not yet, Your Majesty,” Calibot answered. “I have to write the next canto.”

  Duke Boordin grabbed his great stomach as he sat forward and gave Calibot a look of mock pain.

  “Well, how long will that take?” he protested. “You made me wait nearly a month for this latest installment.”

  “I’m so
rry, my lord,” Calibot said with a smile. “I write the words as swiftly as my muse whispers them to me.”

  “Hmm,” the duke said. “Perhaps I need a magician to cast a speed spell on you.”

  Then he collapsed back into his chair chuckling, amused at his own joke. Calibot grimaced. The thought of anyone using magic on him disgusted him. The vile memory of his father flashed through his mind, spoiling his triumph.

  “I wonder, Calibot,” Boordin continued, not noticing Calibot’s reaction, “how these two dimwitted heroes of yours can possibly hope to rescue a princess from an evil sorcerer. Surely, they can’t be expected to defeat him in battle. They’re buffoons!”

  “Indeed they are, Your Majesty,” Calibot replied, flushing the thought of his father from his mind with an effort. “But there is no guarantee their foe is any brighter than they.”

  Boordin sat bolt upright at the suggestion. A look of joy and surprise was locked on his face.

  “Do you mean the wizard is an idiot too?” he said.

  “Well, it is ‘A Canticle to Knavery,’ my lord,” Calibot teased. “But that would be telling. You’ll just have to wait to find out.”

  Boordin threw him another look of mock anger. He pointed a chubby finger at the door.

  “What are you doing here then,” he asked. “Go get writing!”

  Calibot froze for a moment. He was pretty sure the duke was jesting, but he didn’t want to give offense. Before he could decide what to say, though, Boordin spoke again.

  “But before you go anywhere, we must toast this poem of yours,” he said. “I was wise to listen to Devon and make you my poet laureate, Calibot. You are not only gifted in your turn of phrase, you never fail to amuse me. So long as you continue to write such things, you will enjoy my friendship and my blessing.

  “And you, Devon, how lucky you are to have found such a man. I am grateful you consent to share him with us.”

  “So long as I only have to share his poetry, my lord,” Devon said, shooting Calibot a suggestive look. Boordin guffawed loudly.