Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Lang added, “I wonder who else fell to this attack?”

  Parsec’s eyes widened as concern for his wife struck. “Please, not Gilda…”

  His wife was fifteen years younger than he. Fit and pretty, yet among the least skilled wizardesses in the city. Could she handle an intruder on her own? He feared the answer.

  Lang pushed the door open to the empty dining room and led Parsec to the receiving hall. It was dark and quiet. The three men climbed the stairs, two with weapons ready, the third holding tight to his magic. Rather than bothering looking around the second level, Parsec pointed toward the third. Again, the three men ascended carefully.

  The doors on the third floor were all closed. Parsec ignored all save for the double-doors at the end of the corridor. He gripped Lang by the shoulder, passed him, and crept toward the doors to the master bedroom. Rather than using his hands, he sent a burst of compressed air at the doors, blasting them open. What he saw next caused him to stagger.

  Gilda had been stripped naked, her shapely figure dangling from the chandelier above their bed. Her hands were bound behind her back, her eyes blindfolded. A rope had been wound around her neck, run over the chandelier, and tied to the desk. In the pale blue of the enchanted lantern, her pale skin appeared ghostly.

  Parsec’s grip on his magic faltered and slipped away. He scrambled to the bed, climbing onto it to wrap his arms about Gilda, cradling her as tears blurred his vision.

  “Don’t just stand there,” he screamed. “Cut the rope.”

  Damon rushed across the room and sliced through the rope, Gilda’s body sagging in Parsec’s arms. Gently, he knelt and laid her on the bed. He pulled the blindfold away to find her green eyes open and bulging. Desperate, he drew on his magic and formed a construct of repair, but when he tried to heal her, he found nothing but an empty shell.

  Choking sobs came out as he stroked her brown, curled hair. He had recently agreed to her request to have children. His dream to rule with her at his side and children to succeed him was now crushed.

  “Whoever was behind this will pay, my love.” He continued to stroke her hair while tears dripped onto her face. “This is my promise to you.”

  12

  Threats

  Rhoa, Rawk, and Salvon rode in a carriage, the three of them shackled across from an armed guard and the wizard, Thurvin. When presented with the option to be gagged, bound, and strapped to the back of a horse or to ride in the carriage, the choice was easy. The caveat was a promise to fully comply and to remain quiet. For Salvon’s sake, Rhoa acquiesced.

  Rhoa stared out the window as the carriage traveled past Lionne. Beyond the city, ships sailed in and out of the harbor, free to come and go as they pleased. Rhoa didn’t know what her future held, but freedom appeared to be a thing of the past. Ever since she began her quest to kill Taladain, it felt as if her life had been on a course over which she had no control. She worried where it might lead. Worse, she worried it neared its end. There was a time she had resigned herself to dying in her pursuit to see the end of Taladain. Perhaps her escape from Fastella had merely delayed the inevitable.

  The carriage turned south, where a massive, white tent occupied a field outside the city. Emotion flooded in as Rhoa leaned close to the window. Near the cluster of wagons outside the tent, she saw Juliam walking with Sareen, the big man pointing toward the city as he said something. Her heart ached to reach out to the couple, to hug them, to speak with them, to let them know she was alive. The tent and the troupe slipped into the distance. It wasn’t meant to be. She wondered if she would ever see anyone from the troupe again.

  They continued south. The days were long, the carriage silent. Even Salvon seemed to have given in to melancholy, the normally outspoken and enthusiastic man appearing worn, old, and tired. In the evenings, they would pull to the side of the road and sleep in tents. With her ankles tied together, wrists behind her back, and body staked to the ground, Rhoa found little comfort at night, sleep coming in fits and starts. They fed her, though less than needed to fill her stomach. If she was hungry, what of Rawk? He matched her in height but carried twice the weight and certainly needed more food than she. Salvon’s weight was difficult to guess, with his patchwork cloak and loose clothing, but he was surely hungry, as well.

  Finally, four long days after leaving the Farrowen Army camp, the walls of Marquithe appeared.

  Built on an expansive hilltop and surrounded by fields, the city was easy to spot from a distance.

  Walls of blue-veined granite, a hundred feet tall and many centuries old, encircled the great city. Beyond the walls, tall buildings built on the hillside jutted toward the sky, the tallest of which was the Marquithe Tower of Devotion, the center of Lord Malvorian’s power.

  Rhoa had intentionally sought out Taladain because of the unwilling sacrifice he had made of her parents and countless others. Malvorian was likely no less guilty, yet she dreaded meeting the man. Her encounter with Taladain had been planned, with her in control and him unaware. Neither would be true with Malvorian, a man who was infamous for harsh treatment toward anyone who crossed him.

  Worry transformed to panic, and she began to gasp for air. If I run, perhaps I could hide. Marquithe is a big city. Her gaze then landed on Salvon and Rawk. The old man appearing defeated, the Maker watching her with his purple eyes hidden behind tinted spectacles. What would happen to them? Could I live with the guilt? This is all my fault anyway.

  She knew she could not run, not if it meant leaving them behind to pay for her crimes. Cowardice, she could accept. Betrayal, she could not.

  The carriage drove through the city gate, and Thurvin stuck his head out the door, calling to the driver. “Head east. Take Tardis Lane up to the palace.”

  As the carriage turned, the man sat back, his gaze settling on Rhoa. She had often seen the wizard staring at her and wondered if he intended it to cause her discomfort. If so, it worked.

  Avoiding the man’s gaze, she watched buildings and traffic pass by, the city as full and alive as always. After a few minutes, the carriage turned again and began a gradual ascent. The incline increased, the carriage slowing as the Enchanter’s Tower came into view. Rhoa leaned closer to the window and stared up at the imposing structure – tall, dark, and foreboding. Breaking into the tower to steal the amulet had been the first step leading to her current predicament. While she had been successful in killing Taladain, surviving the ordeal despite impossible odds, she couldn’t help but feel the amulet carried a curse. Since the moment she first held it in her hands, she had been pursued by others who wished to use it for themselves.

  Jace has the real amulet. If there is a curse, it follows him. She then began to wonder if the amulet Despaldi wore was the real one. What if Jace swapped them again? It is just the type of thing he might do.

  She sat back and noticed Thurvin staring at her again.

  “Were you the one who broke into the Enchanter’s Tower?” he asked. “Did you steal the amulet before Landish could?”

  Rhoa blinked. “You know of that?”

  He smiled. The expression chilled her. “I know many things. This city…” He stared out the window. “It is not only the heart of Farrowen, but the center of all eight wizardoms. Malvorian may rule here, but I control the information flowing in and out of the city.”

  A frown crossed her face. “I don’t understand.”

  The man leaned forward and sneered. “Understand this. Anything that occurs in Marquithe does so with my blessing. If you so much as stole a copper off a bar top, I would hear of it.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “When we arrive at the palace, I expect you to cooperate fully. No matter what Malvorian has planned for you three, your lives are in my hands. If you do as I say, I will do my best to spare you from the gibbet…or worse.”

  The lump in Rhoa’s throat made it difficult to swallow. “You would execute us? For what crime?”

  “Don’t be so naïve.”

 
“For killing Taladain?”

  “Taladain?” He sneered. “Please. In killing him, you did Malvorian, Farrowen, and me a favor.”

  “What then?”

  The wizard shook his head. “You still don’t get it.”

  “Just say it, wizard,” Salvon said in annoyance, his first words all day.

  “Very well.” Thurvin pointed at them. “You three know of the amulet. Know what it can do. Think on this.” His gaze shifted toward the window as a wizard’s mansion slid past. “How would others react if they knew of the amulet’s power? There is a balance in society. Wizards rule, and everyone else follows. The balance is dictated by power and fear. The wizards wield magic, and those who cannot fear them for it.” He turned to lock his gaze with Salvon’s. “What would happen if that fear were erased? The very knowledge that magic can be rendered useless by an object would shake the foundation of our society. What if the amulet were replicated? What if everyone on these streets could purchase such an item? It would destroy everything we wizards have built, which cannot be allowed.”

  The carriage interior fell quiet as Rhoa considered the man’s words. She knew of the amulet, and for that knowledge alone, Thurvin would see her dead. What if he discovered the truth about her? Her natural immunity to magic was even worse than the amulet. They would see her as the beginning of a new race – ones over which wizards would hold no power.

  Since her capture, Rhoa had been uneasy and uncomfortable. Now, she felt an urgent need to escape.

  Following Rhoa’s and Salvon’s lead, Rawk had remained quiet and complacent during the journey to Marquithe. As they approached their destination, he found his curiosity piqued. Even from his seat in the middle of the carriage, he could see the city’s magnificence, the walls and buildings crafted with the perfect blend of artistic skill and practical precision of a Maker. The fountains, buildings, mansions, and towers all shone with beauty in the late afternoon sun. All the while, the carriage continued an ascent toward the heart of the city where the palace was located.

  The Marquithe palace was a network of interconnecting buildings, which together equaled more than the sum of their individual parts. At one end, the Temple of Farrow stood, a building in the shape of a peaked arch, the front adorned by a massive circular window facing the moon in the eastern sky. Like the domed Temple of Gheald in Fastella, that building alone was large enough to hold thousands.

  Connected to the temple was an arrangement of buildings and rounded turrets, bridging the temple to the palace itself. The palace was three or four times the size of the temple, consisting of arched buildings and spires reaching toward the sky. The tallest tower stood at the center, the top of which glowed with a deep blue flame. The view was mesmerizing.

  After pausing outside a gate, the carriage entered an area surrounded by a wall, fifty feet tall and built of the same stone as the city wall. The carriage came to a stop and the door opened. One of the soldiers in the dark blue capes held the door while the wizard climbed out.

  “Come along now,” Thurvin said. “Your accommodations await.”

  Led by Rhoa, Rawk and Salvon climbed out, the angle of the sun forcing Rawk to squint, even with his tinted spectacles. They stood in a dirt courtyard. To one side, the palace loomed. To the other stood a low building, doors open wide to reveal horses and carriages inside. The soldiers who had escorted the carriage had dismounted. Guards tended to their horses while Despaldi had a brief conversation with a man who had appeared from the stables.

  Despaldi then walked over and addressed the wizard. “I suggest we place the prisoners in a cell until Malvorian is ready to receive them.”

  Thurvin stared at the man, his mouth drawn in a frown. After a long pause, he nodded. “Very well.”

  Turning toward his guards, Despaldi barked out a number of names before telling them they were dismissed for the evening. The rest of the Midnight Guard lined up to each side of Rawk, Rhoa, and Salvon, appearing ready. When Thurvin and Despaldi walked toward the palace entrance, the guards prodded Rawk and the others, urging them forward.

  As he neared the building, Rawk got a sense of the structure. He could feel empty chambers within the stone, both above and below. Somewhere beyond those open spaces, he sensed something pulsing.

  They stepped inside and followed a long corridor to a set of stairs. Thurvin and Despaldi led the way as they descended. Rawk followed, but his mind was elsewhere. He could feel something speaking to him, drawing him like a melody just beyond listening range, the song increasing.

  A long, narrow corridor led them to another torch lit stairwell. Rawk didn’t notice the path they took, nor did he inspect the material or skill with which the walls were constructed. He couldn’t focus on anything but the haunting song calling to him, drowning out all other thoughts.

  When they reached the bottom, they followed a corridor to a large room, open at the middle, closed doors lining the walls to each side and straight ahead. A man stood from a desk beside the entrance and thumped his fist to his chest. He had a quiet conversation with Despaldi, but Rawk didn’t hear a word. All he could hear was the music demanding he listen, commanding him toward the source.

  “Move.” A man shoved Rawk in the back, causing him to stumble.

  The man and two others steered him toward an open door, holding him with firm, painful grips as they unclasped his shackles. He worked his shoulders and massaged his wrists for a moment before he was shoved again. Stumbling into the cell, he righted himself and turned toward the door as it closed. Darkness invaded. Movement could be heard from outside, but soon, that also faded. All that remained was the song in Rawk’s ears, compelling him to obey.

  He sat on the pallet with his hands over his ears, rocking and humming in a futile attempt to drown out the haunting aria. Yet it lingered, enticing, enchanting, ensorceling him. If it persisted, he would lose. He lost himself to the song every time. The last time had led to his exile from Ghen Aeldor.

  To give in to the song would bring shame. Again. It was only a matter of when.

  13

  Diplomacy

  The Thundercorps, or at least the Lionne Garrison, rode north for the fourth consecutive day. As a pleasant change, today’s journey consumed merely half a day, the army approaching Starmuth while the sun remained near its apex.

  Trey Garvin rode near the vanguard with only a handful of horses in front of his own. At the fore was the standard bearer, a one-armed man who proudly displayed the flag of Farrowen. The sea breeze caused the dark blue flag to ripple, the white lightning bolts emblazoned on it shimmering in the sunlight.

  Just behind the standard bearer was Captain Henton, the man in charge of the army. His two lieutenants rode to each side. All three wore silver armor, their helmets adorned with a dark blue crest.

  Next came Garvin, among the few wearing the dark blue cape of the Midnight Guard. His compatriots, five men whom he trusted, rode with him, while the remainder of the army trailed behind – twelve hundred cavalry, thirty-eight hundred infantry, and over fifty wizards riding in carriages. A wagon train carrying supplies brought up the rear.

  As Garvin crested a hilltop, the city of Starmuth came into view, barely visible above the trees. The white haze of sea spray lay over the harbor, obscuring anything beyond. A downslope followed, the trees once again blocking the view. As he had numerous times over the past few days, he set his mind to the task of capturing the city. Having wizards in the army expanded the tactical options, a subject he, Henton, and the other lieutenants had discussed at length. More than once, they had brought Palkan Forca into the discussions to better understand how they might leverage the wizards. Unfortunately, few had trained for battle, and not one of the wizards had ever actually participated in a duel, let alone full combat.

  The surrounding forest thinned until it reached a rolling field outside the city. Enemy soldiers waited, two thousand strong, armed and ready.

  Henton called a halt, drawing his steed to a stop, others following suit.
Garvin’s horse settled beside the captain’s.

  “So much for surprise,” Henton said as he removed his helmet.

  “Moving an army without attracting attention is a complex task,” Garvin said. “Garrisons exist beside border cities for a reason.”

  “True,” Henton replied. “I see two white tents with Ghealdan flags. Do you think Charcoan is among them?”

  Garvin considered the idea and what he knew of the high wizard. “The man is reputed to be fierce, perhaps the third most capable wizard in Ghealdor…behind Taladain and his son. With Taladain dead, Charcoan may see this as an opportunity.”

  “I agree.” Henton wiped his brow. “I have thought about your proposal. Given the welcome waiting for us, diplomacy might be the most expeditious approach.”

  Garvin felt relieved. Based on Henton’s initial reaction to the idea, he had been unsure. “If this works, we can advance to Fastella sooner and without losing any soldiers.”

  Henton turned toward his lieutenants. “Walker, Joplin.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Ride to the rear of our force and tell the army to make way. I want carriages brought to the front.”

  The two men spun and rode back along the line, shouting orders to move aside, the sergeants of each regiment repeating the orders.

  While he waited, Garvin surveyed the area.

  Stakes had been cut and buried in the ground, the pointed tips jutting up at an angle. They stood halfway between the opposing army and where Garvin waited. It was a classic precaution taken to discourage cavalry attacks.

  Ranks of enemy infantry stood ready, staring toward Garvin and the force behind him. Among the Ghealdan ranks, archers waited with bows in hand, ready to rain arrows should any attack come. Toward the rear, not far from the two white pavilions, a Ghealdan captain, a purple plume on his helmet, sat on his horse, surrounded by cavalry. The sight screamed of a tension ready to break should the Farrowen force show aggression.