“We must refill our water here,” the seer said. “It will be another day and a half before we encounter another water source.”
Brogan climbed down, feeling a chill in the air. He peered up at the trees, the underside of the branches covered in ice. “Why is it so cold?”
“This forest is unlike any other,” Xionne replied. Hadnoddon knelt beside the stream to refill three waterskins. “Can you not feel it?”
Frowning, Brogan turned toward the others as they led their horses to the stream. Rawk’s face appeared haunted, as did Algoron’s. Narine seemed wary, Blythe and Adyn alert.
Brogan shrugged. “This place is creepy, but that still doesn’t explain the chill. There is even ice on some of the trees.”
Salvon stated, “The ice will only grow worse. When we reach the heart of the woods, everything will be frozen. When the sun shines upon those trees, it is beautiful, the layer of frost on the branches appearing like crystal. However, what Xionne refers to is not the temperature.”
“It feels…,” Algoron started, appearing to search for words to describe it. “It feels as if the forest is alive…but dying.”
“Worse,” Rawk replied. “It doesn’t want us here.”
Xionne sighed. “The forest is not malevolent. It is sad.”
Jace snorted. “What nonsense is this? How can a bunch of dead trees be sad? They are trees.”
“Have you heard of the Cultivators?” Salvon asked.
“Of course, but those were just stories.” The thief squatted and filled his two waterskins.
“I see. Just like dragons and wyverns, right?”
Grimacing up at Salvon, Jace said, “That’s different. Yes, I have heard the tales, the Cultivators being a race of people with some sort of plant magic.”
“Yet you believe in Makers.”
Jace stood and capped a skin, his gaze landing on Rawk. “How could I not?”
“So you see my point.”
Xionne interrupted. “This forest used to be quite different. Thriving, beautiful, and teeming with life, it was a Cultivator home a long, long time ago. You see, winter never came to the heart of the forest, nor did the heat of summer. Instead, it was always mild, often sunny, and rarely disturbed. Until the Upheaval. The world changed, a massive shift in the balance. When that occurred, the Cultivators disappeared.
“Cultivator magic is bound to the forest, and the forest to the Cultivators. With the Cultivators absent, the forest fell into slumber…dormant, yet not dead. Even now, it dreams, longing for the return of its people.”
Brogan’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t explain the cold.”
Salvon replied, “What you see here is akin to hibernation. The magic in the forest once controlled the weather, the season forever spring. Now that the forest sleeps, the fallen temperatures create an endless winter.” The old man gave a wistful smile. “At least until it awakens.”
The conversation fell away, and an unsettling silence reclaimed the forest. The eyes of everyone seemed to constantly scan the surroundings. Now aware of the odd nature of the forest, a cloud of anxiety darkened Brogan’s thoughts. His hand went to his sword, gripping the hilt for reassurance.
When his surroundings brightened, he gasped. Every tree glowed with a faint, milky white aura of magic. Transfixed, he spun around, feeling as if the trees were about to come to life. He yanked his hand from the hilt, and his vision returned to normal.
When the noise from the drinking horses stopped, only the bubbling brook could be heard. Brogan suddenly realized the absence of other noises – no birds, no animals, not even the wind. Nothing dares to live here. Yet they were to sleep in the forest for the next four nights? The thought troubled him as he climbed back into his saddle.
Following Xionne and Hadnoddon, Brogan and his companions guided their horses across the bubbling brook and continued east, deeper into the eerily frigid forest.
11
Challenge
Parsec crossed the palace receiving hall, Lang at his side. The big bodyguard was unarmed, having to hand over his weapons at the door. But being weaponless didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. The man hardly needed a weapon to intimidate others, the true reason Parsec always had him at his side, even today.
The hall was busy with clerks, stewards, and guards milling about. An open set of double doors waited ahead, bracketed by four guards and a clerk dressed in black. Parsec approached the clerk, the short man holding a ledger and peering down at it through rectangular spectacles.
“I will speak with Charcoan,” Parsec demanded.
The clerk looked up at him and blinked. “Good afternoon, Master Wizard. The High Wizard is currently holding court.” He gazed over the ledger for a moment. “It appears there are five citizens ahead of you, I can slot you in–”
Parsec pushed past the man and walked into the throne room. I have been waiting for this day for two decades. I will wait no longer.
Sunlight through stained glass windows lit the massive room, the high, arched ceilings adding to the spacious impression of the large chamber. The benches at the rear were empty, the first eight rows occupied by more than two dozen people. Parsec walked down the center aisle, following the purple strip of carpet. Ahead, upon a dais, sat a solitary throne occupied by Charcoan, who leaned back as he listened to a pair of men argue before him.
“…land has been in my family for near a century,” one man said. He wore a hat encircled by a wide brim, his shirt sweat-stained, trousers patched at the knees, boots worn.
The man beside him retorted, “My family settled there three hundred years back. The land was just not being used on account of the creek dividing it. With the bridge in place, we can now–”
Speaking over his shoulder, Parsec said to Lang, “Nobody interrupts us.” He then strode forward and bellowed, “Charcoan Kayal! I invoke the oldest and most sacred law of Ghealdor, challenging you for the right to rule. Concede the throne and crown me as High Wizard of Fastella.”
Parsec stopped ten strides short of the throne, the two startled farmers caught between him and Charcoan. The men looked at each other and began backing toward the side of the room.
Charcoan’s eyes narrowed. “You dare challenge me, Parsec?”
“I do,” he said with a nod. “Here and now.”
The room had fallen silent, the air thick with tension.
“I bested you once many years ago.” Charcoan’s tone was dismissive. “It was a simple thing, my power outstripping yours by a fair margin. Back then, we were students and a duel of magic held far less risk.” The wizard leaned forward, his dark eyes filled with fire. “This time, there is no restriction against deadly spells. I offer you one chance to rescind your challenge. For once I accept it, you will not leave this room alive.”
The audience in the room gaped in shock, every person waiting on Parsec’s response. He suspected they had heard stories of wizards battling for positions of power, doubting any of them had seen a challenge first-hand.
A smirk tugged on his lips. Will any dare to remain for the battle?
He clenched his fist, his thumb rubbing against the ring on his finger. Knowing it was there filled him with confidence.
“I am sorry, Charcoan, but I will kill you if I must. The throne will be mine.”
In a rush, everyone scrambled from the benches and fled toward the doors. Parsec ignored them, his gaze affixed on the man on the throne. Neither wizard held magic. Not yet. As soon as one drew it in, there would be no turning back.
Charcoan held one deformed hand up and glanced at it before his gaze returned to Parsec. “I have paid dearly for this position. I will not, cannot, capitulate for you or anyone else. The right to sit here is mine, earned by blood and by deed.”
“The only rights we have are in displays of power. It is who we are, why we wizards rule all of mankind.” Parsec shook his head. “You were once a great wizard, but your scars have changed you, weakened you…damaged you. The price was too steep, and you
are unfit to rule. Someone must take a stand for the good of Fastella and Ghealdor. We cannot allow the foot to remain at our neck, bending to the will of a tyrant.”
Charcoan stood and sneered. “You self-righteous worm! You think you can stand against Farrowen? You neither have a tenth the power of a wizard lord nor the numbers required to stop the Thundercorps from sweeping over us. Rather than seeing my people dead, I had the vision to see the way of things and kept my people alive.”
“You mean kept yourself alive!”
“I have had enough.” Charcoan glowed as magic rushed into him, an energy construct forming around his hand, a construct of heat.
Parsec responded, drawing in magic augmented by the ring on his finger. He hastily formed a construct of protection, expanding it to a shield. At the last moment, Charcoan’s construct morphed. Rather than releasing fire, a frozen wave blasted toward Parsec, penetrating his shield, coating him and his surroundings with ice.
The cold was intense, stinging Parsec’s skin and leaving him shivering. Distracted, he almost missed Charcoan’s construct shifting again. Just in time, Parsec altered his shield, grounding it as a bolt of lightning arced between the two wizards. The lightning struck the shield and traveled to the floor. A portion of the electricity carried through the coating of ice to shock Parsec, his body convulsing violently, burning him and filling the air with the scent of ozone. He fell to his knees and shook his head, attempting to clear it. His muscles twitched involuntarily as he fought to recover, the pain leaving him gasping for air while he climbed back to his feet.
“Is that all you’ve got, Charcoan?” Parsec panted as he pulled in more magic, far exceeding anything he had held before.
Charcoan scowled at Parsec. “What have you done?”
Parsec lifted his hand, eyeing the ring on his hand, his new prize. “I have gained the advantage. You may have more experience in dueling, but I now hold the power to counter anything you might attempt.”
“I will not give up the throne.”
“Then I will take it.”
Parsec wove a pair of constructs, one for heat, the other for physical manipulation. Charcoan crafted a shield, but rather than holding it fast, the shield burst forward. With haste, Parsec used his magic to move a bench across the aisle. The shield struck the bench, launching it into other benches and sending it spinning through the air. Parsec ducked, forcing the bench higher, using the heat construct to set it ablaze. With a hard wave of his arm and the use of the manipulation construct, the bench altered its direction and flew back toward Charcoan.
The wizard in black dove to the floor as the bench smashed into the throne, sending broken, burning shards of wood in all directions. Still holding his magic, Parsec latched an invisible rope to the throne and yanked it forward. It flipped through the air, toward Charcoan. The wizard rolled out of the way, the throne narrowly missing him.
Lightning arced from Parsec before Charcoan could shield himself. His body shook and convulsed as the full strength of the electricity ran through him. The wizard’s black robes burst into flames, and he collapsed onto the floor.
Still holding onto his magic, Parsec stalked toward the high wizard. Charcoan’s eye sockets were blackened holes, eyebrows gone, robes still burning. With another construct and a wave of his hands, Parsec formed a box of solidified air around the burning body. In moments, the pocket of oxygen within was consumed, suffocating the flames. He released the spell, the pocket of smoke billowing toward the ceiling.
“Sorry, Charcoan. There can be only one high wizard in Fastella.” Parsec clenched his fist, eyeing the ring. “Soon, I will be wizard lord and Ghealdor will be mine to rule.”
It was evening, the full moon bathing the palace balcony in pale light. The city streets were further illuminated by the azure light of enchanted lanterns and the amber of burning torches. When Parsec had last stood on the balcony, he was a guest. A week before that, the balcony and adjacent room had been occupied by Eldalain Killarius. Weeks before that, it had been the home of his father, Taladain.
Four different wizards in such a short time, he thought. The world has truly gone mad.
A beam of blue light shot across the sky, connecting to the tower above and causing the blue flame to flare brightly. Throughout the city, the humming rhythm of Devotion arose. Parsec refused to participate. The thought of his people turning to another god sickened him. I must discover a means to reclaim the tower in the name of Gheald. If possible, he could become the next wizard lord of Ghealdor, a dream he had held close for most of his life.
A knock came from the corridor door.
He turned toward the open balcony door and shouted, “Come in.”
The chamber door opened, light from the corridor seeping into the dark room. A shadow approached, the man’s features becoming visible when he stepped into the moonlight.
“You wished to see me, sir?” Ruthers asked.
“Yes. I wanted to thank you.” Parsec stared at the back of his hand, the polished, dark stone in the ring reflecting the moon. “The information you provided was helpful in my rise.”
Ruthers bowed. “It was for the good of Ghealdor.”
“I am not concerned with your motives, just with results.” He looked up at the blue flames in the tower. “If only I understood how they have turned the Tower of Devotion toward Farrow, perhaps I could reverse the process.”
“I may be able to assist, sir.”
With an arched brow, Parsec turned toward the head of his palace staff. “If you know anything about this, I would very much like to hear it.”
Ruthers gazed up at the tower. “As you may have noticed, Farrowen engineers constructed a scaffold around the tower. You see, only a wizard lord with the magic of Gheald can work the lift that leads to the top. The scaffold enabled the Farrowens to circumvent the issue.”
“Yes, yes. That much is obvious. Anyone with eyes could determine that.”
“I know who climbed the tower. The man’s name is Garvin, a lieutenant in the Midnight Guard. He and a group of engineers were left behind when the army marched north. Once the scaffold was complete, the man climbed the tower, and the flame rekindled.” Ruthers’ face twisted in disgust. “It still burns, tainted with a blue hue rather than the purple of Gheald.”
“This man… He did something to the tower,” Parsec said.
Ruthers nodded. “If you can find Garvin, you will likely find the key to reclaiming the tower.”
12
A Puzzle
Lightning crashed, a resounding boom of thunder immediately following. Rain fell in sheets, adding to the puddles along the gravel road. Garvin kept his hood up, but water ran down his face, his cloak soaked and no longer able to fend off the rain.
Riding hunched forward, straining to see the road ahead through the gloom, he was cold and wished for a nice, warm place to sleep. Dorban cannot be far now. I must reach Henton and the army soon.
Through a low, flooded area, he guided his horse along an embankment alongside the road. Once clear of the pool, he steered back onto the road and the horse trudged up an incline. A few minutes later, the ground leveled, the heavy rain lessening to a sprinkle, extending his vision.
A bay lay before him, the seawater rough, capped with waves of white foam that crashed upon the rocks below. To the north, he spotted distant lights across the water. Dorban.
The road descended, curving west, around the bay. Near the bottom, hundreds of tents occupied a field to the inland side of the road. Beyond the tents, the Dorban Wetlands waited – a swampland west of the bay. An elevated causeway ran north to the city, dividing the wetlands from the sea.
As Garvin rode down the hill toward the tents, he considered the location. Setting up camp at the bottom of a hill was less than ideal. Low ground was almost always less defensible than high ground. Gravity tended to work in favor of elevation, as did the ability to see at a distance. Still, with the hilltop mostly covered in trees and the wetlands preventing an advance,
without the use of a ship or exposing the army on the causeway, it seemed a prudent option. After all, the enemy had to deal with the same impediments should they attempt an attack.
As he drew near camp, a line of guards formed across the road, the soldiers armed with spears, swords, and nocked bows.
Garvin waved and shouted, “It’s Lieutenant Garvin. I need to speak with Henton.”
One of the soldiers turned and shouted, “It is Garvin. I recognize him. Stand down.”
Slowing his steed, Garvin stopped beside the man. “Greetings, Sergeant. Poor weather for traveling.”
The sergeant grunted. “Poor weather for anything, unless you are a fish.”
“True. I need to see Henton. Where is his tent?”
The man pointed. “Center of camp. Look for the flag.”
“Thanks again.” Garvin nodded as he kicked his horse forward.
The camp was a muddy mess. Garvin hated a campaign in the rain even more than snow. At least the ground remained firm when it was cold enough to snow. With rain, mud became slippery, stuck to your boots, and followed you inside, the interior rarely much better than the ground outside.
At an easy walk, he rode through camp and surveyed his surroundings. Here and there, fires burned, the flames struggling against the rain, a mixture of smoke and steam rising. Soldiers huddled around the fires, the men appearing cold and weary. Little heat would come from those fires until the rain stopped.
By the time he reached the tent with the flag posted outside, dusk had given itself to night. He climbed off his horse and approached a large, white tent positioned on a small rise.
“It’s Garvin, returned from Fastella,” he said to the guards posted outside the entrance. “I am to report to Henton.”
“Took you long enough,” one man replied.
Irritated from the weather and a long day in the saddle, Garvin took a moment to swallow a harsh reply. He preferred to present a calm exterior, something he had learned from Despaldi. “I had a job to do and couldn’t leave until it was complete.”
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