Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle)

by Siana, Patrick

  Reckoning

  The Empyrean Chronicle

  Book I

  By Patrick Siana

  Copyright © 2013 Patrick M. Siana

  Published by author, 2013

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Bias Design

  Cover image by Christopher Scio

  Map design by Bias Design

  Map digital image by Modern Renaissance

  Innumerable are the people that have contributed in some fashion to the completion this book, but there are two people without whom this project never would have leapt the gap from my imagination to the page – Kathleen O’Donnell and Krista Siana.

  Many others have contributed to the creative process of this book, including Mathew Maul, Tim Bannock, Nicky Molbury, Brian Ouellette and Barbara and Bob Siana.

  Special thanks are in order for Christopher Scio who created the cover with Krista’s design

  Map

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Map

  Prologue: Troubled Dreams

  Chapter 1: An Unwelcome Proposal

  Chapter 2: Duel

  Chapter 3: The Woman in the Red Dress

  Chapter 4: Waylaid

  Chapter 5: Bishops, Queens, and Pawns

  Chapter 6: Strange Awakenings

  Chapter 7: Return to Mayfair Manor

  Chapter 8: Palaver

  Chapter 9: Bryn's Story

  Chapter 10: Audiences

  Chapter 11: Marshal Rising

  Chapter 12: Night Terrors

  Chapter 13: Battle Lines Drawn

  Chapter 14: Leavetakings

  Chapter 15: Night Caller

  Chapter 16: Lucerne Palace

  Chapter 17: Snake in the Grass

  Chapter 18: The House That Shall Not Be Named

  Chapter 19: Signs and Portents

  Chapter 20: Behind Closed Doors

  Chapter 21: The Hartwood

  Chapter 22: A Strange Encounter

  Chapter 23: Calm Before the Storm

  Chapter 24: Secret of the Dark Covenant

  Chapter 25: Shadow's Fall

  Chapter 26: Unmasked

  Chapter 27: The Man Without a Face

  Chapter 28: Autumn's Prayer

  Chapter 29: Escape

  Chapter 30: Cursed

  Chapter 31: Fevers

  Chapter 32: Visitations

  Chapter 33: Ghosts

  Chapter 34: Fever's Break

  Chapter 35: Spirit Duel

  Chapter 36: Return to Peidra

  Chapter 37: Unlikely Bedfellows

  Chapter 38: Wytchwood

  Chapter 39: Reckoning

  Chapter 40: Bound

  Epilogue: First Marshal

  Prologue

  Troubled Dreams

  The King surveyed the iron-hulled barge and the score of bedraggled men and women who stood barefoot upon its deck, defiant to a man, bound in shackles wrought from true-steel, and with golden collars fast about their throats. Wind whipped the King’s crimson cape about him, its satin face gleaming with firelight cast from the half-dozen torches held aloft by the six high lords of Galacia. The fluttering light turned back the twilight gloom of dusk—the hour for binding black hearts in black fate.

  “You are hereby exiled,” said the King. “You, who fell to the dark hunger. You, whose hand is stained scarlet with your brothers’ blood. You, final remnants of a once great House fallen into shadow for your addiction to the black pestilence of the fell arts. With the Deep Arcanum I do bind thee and bid that never again shall you set foot on the lands of your birth!”

  The King raised a hand and spoke the ancient words of binding as he drew arcane sigils in the air with fingertips haloed with silver fire. A shining, faceted sphere drawn in lines of golden light formed in the air before him, its many planes lambent with fiery runes—one for which to bind each of the twenty necromancers.

  With a gesture the spellform streaked toward the assemblage, expanding to envelop them all, then burst in a paroxysm of golden sparks, which rained upon the deck like molten ore. Lighting arced across the captives’ golden collars, and at once they fell to their knees—all, save one.

  As the barge drifted into waters crimsoned by the dusking sun, the dark Lord of the banished House threw back the hood of his cloak and fixed black, baleful eyes upon his king. “Mark my words, Mathias King,” he cried, “we will find a way to endure, through all the ages of this world if we must, and then we shall sup our vengeance to our fill. We will break your geas and return for Agia, for Galacia. We will come for your descendants and wipe every last get of House Denar from creation. It will be as if you never existed at all. Mark my words, Mathias King, we will have our vengeance!”

  †

  The old wizard woke with a start. He shivered despite the mid-summer heat as he swung his legs out of bed. The details of his dream had already begun to dissolve as he grew aware of the familiar surroundings of his chambers, but a pregnant dread stirred deep in his chest and the voice of the Golden King reached across the centuries and echoed in the troubled recesses of his mind.

  There would be no more sleep for him this night.

  He padded wearily to his desk and took out his writing quill. Even now one of his agents rode hard to the south to chase the ghost of a lead, though the Vanguard knew not what evil she, and Galacia, may yet be up against. Still, it was high time he notify his brethren, those who had taken the secret, sacred oath of remembrance, for he sensed the scions of the forgotten, cursed seventh house had begun to stir and test their bonds.

  No, thought the old wizard, as he set a shaking quill to parchment, there would be no more sleep for him this night.

  Chapter 1

  An Unwelcome Proposal

  Elias Duana sprung back from the four-foot arc of steel that scythed at him from the shadows of the dimly lit barn. Sword turned leaden, his arm muscles screamed in protest as he mustered a high-guard. His opponent flashed him a lupine grin, then lunged.

  Elias ran.

  His retreat led him through a maze of white oak barrels, past the delivery wagon, and up the barrel ramp which led to the second floor and the narrow walkway that ran the inside perimeter of the rickhouse. The swordsman, who had barred Elias’s escape by blocking the foot of the staircase, took the shorter route and bounded up the stairs, leading with his rapier.

  Elias caught his breath and his adversary’s blade at once, then flicked out a reflexive counter. His opponent, whose sword seemed alive in his hand and slippery as a serpent, brushed aside Elias’s hasty riposte even as he pressed his relentless offense.

  Elias’s heels hung precariously over the edge of the walkway as he circled his foe in an attempt to gain advantage. Instead, he found himself driven down the staircase on numbed legs and pinned against the rickhouse wall. Thus cornered, Elias’s focus narrowed to a single task—parrying his opponent’s whirring blade, which crept ever closer to landing a decisive, final blow.

  He sank into an awkward lunge against the wall to turn aside a low thrust. The strike, however, proved a feint and forced Elias into a clumsy sidestep. The swor
dsman, with a flick of his wrist, fluidly changed course and delivered a deft backhand cut at his head. His heart stuttered as the point of the sword swept a hair’s-breadth from his brow. With clenched teeth and the strength born of desperation, Elias countered with a slanting overhand stroke, making use of all the power his solid, thick frame could muster.

  Elias felt a poke a hand’s-span above his belt, and his fencing foil cut naught but air.

  His opponent had dropped into an evasive lunge so deep that it required him to place his free hand flat on the ground to maintain balance, ducking Elias’s oncoming blade even as he extended his own sword in the match ending thrust.

  “You did well,” Padraic said as he straightened from his acrobatic lunge.

  Elias grunted and lowered into a crouch, resting his back against the barn wall. “The hell I did.” He looked up at his father. “What was that move? I’ve never seen you use it before.”

  Padraic produced a case from his back pocket and withdrew a couple of cigarettes. He lit them with a click of his flint and steel lighter and then took a knee, offering one to his son. “It’s called the passata-sotto gambit. I learned it from one of the old gentry, before you were born.”

  “A fellow Marshal?”

  Padraic shook his head and exhaled a blue plume of smoke, which was illuminated by slants of light that sliced through the cracks in the barn’s roof and walls. “I picked up that little trick from an exchange with a duelist in Peidra.” He pointed to a fine scar on his cheek, which ran halfway between his eye and ear. “She gave me this.”

  “She?”

  “Mmmhmn. Your mother.”

  Elias coughed around his cigarette. “Mom? A duelist?” Elias conjured an image of his mother—a feat that had become increasing difficult over the years—noting her slight build and delicate boning. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Deadly. Your mother was many things, and, yes, she had skill with a blade. She taught me the value of speed and grace over strength—a lesson that has just been passed on to her son.”

  The junior distiller offered his father a wry smile and the two fell silent, each alone with their thoughts.

  Elias took a final drag on his cigarette and ground it out beneath the heel of his boot. His father rarely spoke of the past. Most of his time spent in service to the crown and his life before returning to Knoll Creek remained shrouded in mystery.

  Elias exhaled slowly, savoring the sweet taste of the tobacco and said, “Phinneas would not be pleased to learn you’re still smoking.”

  “Bah. Phinneas would do well to remember that he is my friend first and my physician second.” Padraic rose and cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something he alone could hear. “In any case, it’s usually out of our hands when we are destined to be called home,” he said, and then, brightening, added, “besides, I’m still hale enough to best you, son!”

  Elias brandished his fencing foil. “Again?”

  “Again,” Padraic said and, without further preamble, attacked.

  Elias turned his father’s opening, but only just. His arm tingled up to the elbow, numb with the shock of impact. By the One God’s beard, but his father was pushing him hard today. Elias parried and riposted, but Padraic slid around the thrust, closing the distance between them.

  A blur of motion attracted Elias’s eye from outside the barn door. “Dad, someone’s riding up through the prairie,” he said, lowering his foil.

  Padraic retorted with a snap from his elbow, which sent Elias stumbling backward to avoid a blow that would have bloodied his brow, practice sword or not. “You must...not...let yourself...become...distracted,” Padraic said between cuts and thrusts as he continued to press the attack, punctuating his final word with a rising slash that stymied Elias and struck him inches below his breastbone.

  “Dad!” cried Elias, who was unaccustomed to his father fencing with such ferocity.

  Padraic lowered his weapon with a sigh. “Elias, if you ever find yourself forced to defend yourself, you must focus entirely on the task at hand, and ignore all impertinent distraction.”

  “If we suppose this to have been a real fight,” Elias said a little hotly,” that rider could have been a threat that I needed to be aware of.”

  “While I have taught you to be ever aware of your surroundings, the quicker you deal with the blade at your throat, the better able you will be to deal with the one at your back. Awareness of a new element will not help you in the least if you have a foot of steel in your guts.”

  Elias exhaled a steadying breath and conceded the point with a nod. “Point taken.” His father had once been renowned as one of the crown’s finest swords—a fact the entire populace of Knoll Creek seemed all too aware of—and he spoke from experience.

  The two men made their way out of the rickhouse. “I may not always be there to protect you,” Padraic said.

  “Dad?” Elias wondered at his father’s sudden turn for the somber, but his inquiry fell on deaf ears as the rider arrived, reining his horse in sharply and bringing his canter to a skidding stop. Elias looked up at the rider, an involuntary grimace darkening his features as he recognized him, not that he couldn’t have named him from a league away. Only one man would ride the prairie dressed in such an elaborate costume—Roderick Macallister.

  Macallister tossed his crimson riding cloak over a shoulder and dismounted. “Greetings, Padraic,” he said, then nodded to Elias. “Young man.”

  “Elias,” the distiller supplied, forcing a polite smile, rather certain that the rancher had not forgotten his name.

  “Mmmhm, yes.” Macallister adjusted his brocade vest, which did little to conceal his prodigious girth, and brushed away the prairie dust that clung to the gold filigree. “You’ve grown to be quite a strapping lad. Your mother, God rest her soul, would be quite proud, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure,” Elias said and exchanged glances with his father, who kept his expression neutral.

  Macallister gave Elias’s foil a pointed look. “I see you and your father have been practicing your swordplay. Were you planning on trying your luck in the fencing contest at the fair tonight? My boy, Cormik, is entering—I think he’s about your age—and if I may say so, his form looks rather exceptional. Still, your father, being a retired Marshal, is no doubt an excellent teacher.”

  “I hadn’t planned on competing tonight.”

  Macallister raised an eyebrow. “Ah, I understand. Fencing with the entire town as an audience is a daunting prospect, no?”

  “It’s not that...” said Elias, who felt his cheeks warm despite himself, as he struggled to find the words to put the topic to rest without looking a coward. “It’s just that...I have no interest in competing is all.”

  “No shame in that, son,” Macallister said but the smug tilt to his smile belied his words. “Truth be told, I’m glad you’re standing this one out. I think you’re the only one that could give Cormik a challenge.”

  “We fence as a diversion, and to stay fit, seeing as we have little use for practical application,” said Padraic. He looked Macallister dead in the eye. “A corn farmer and distiller have no need of true steel.”

  Macallister cleared his throat. “Right you are, and a good thing, too. Peace times are good times. Although, as I say, sometimes they can make men soft. A man who has nothing to fight for forgets how to fight.”

  “And that, as you say, is a good thing,” returned Padraic.

  “So,” Macallister said, shifting on his feet, “Padraic, how does the day see you? You are well, I trust?”

  “I am well, Roderick, thank-you.” Padraic affected a warm smile. “What brings you out our way?”

  “A little exercise. I was cooped up at Arcalum in Peidra for the better part of a week for the Summit Arcana—you know, the convention for wizards and those interested in discourse on the arcane, the varying schools of thought, theories, et cetera.”

  “Yes,” Padraic said, “I know.”

  “Well, in any c
ase, my ride brought me your way so I figured I’d stop by and see my old friend.” Macallister paused and surveyed the grounds, although Elias suspected the rancher was giving himself time to organize his thoughts. “Distillery ‘s looking good. Still in tip-top shape. How many generations has it been in your family?”

  “Four,” Padraic replied in an even tone, though Macallister knew full well how long the Duanas had owned the land on which they stood.

  “Four.” Macallister whistled and wagged his head from side to side. “Quite a legacy and a mighty fine glass of whiskey you make here, Padraic. Yes, indeed. It’s a shame, however, that you don’t have more hands on your payroll so as to produce greater quantities. I daresay, if you could mass produce this stuff, you’d become as famous for your whiskey as your tenure with the Marshals, and quite well-off to boot. Well, if you did, I think the queen herself would be drinking it in Peidra!”

  “Right you may be, Roderick, but distilling knoll-whiskey in small batches ensures a higher quality and a refined flavor.”

  Macallister offered a conciliatory nod as his only acknowledgement of Padraic’s deft dismissal, and then pressed on. “Furthermore, with Elias’s engagement to the Bromstead girl—not bad, by the way, boy, hooking the Mayor’s only daughter—he’ll no doubt be looking for a piece of land all his own, and then how will you manage? Your daughter—Danica is it?—will be no help what with studying to be a scribe and all, and what do women know about distilling anyway?”

  “Whatever the future brings, Mr. Macallister, I plan to stay on to help my father run the family business,” said Elias, “and, my sister is at the University training to be a doctor, not a secretary.”

  “Huh,” Macallister said and stroked his copious mustache, seemingly oblivious to the bite in Elias’s tone. “A White Habit, eh? I forgot they were letting women become physicians these days.”

  Elias inhaled sharply, preparing another retort, but Padraic laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “I thank you for your concern, Roderick, but I think we’ll manage just fine.”

  “All the same, my original offer still stands, if this place ever becomes too much for you, that is. I will of course keep the Duana name on the bottle, and in addition to the handsome figure I have named, I am willing to grant you royalties to the tune of ten percent of all profits, so that you would be seen after in your dotage.”