Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  The soldier who had tried to kill Garvin was on one knee, wincing in pain as he held his side. Suddenly, blood burst from his mouth and he fell to ground, convulsing.

  Garvin waved his sword at Rindle. “I will hear the reason for your presence. Answer immediately and truthfully, or you will die.”

  “I wish to be like you,” Rindle said, the words hurried.

  “What?”

  “I… I am not a very good thief. However, I am skilled with this blade. Perhaps I can do some good with it. You fight for a cause, something you believe in. I have never had such a thing in my life. The idea…intrigues me.” Surprisingly, the words were not a lie.

  Garvin glanced back at the man Rindle had stabbed. His convulsing stopped and he fell still. At that moment, Garvin’s three squadmates returned at a run, slowing as they entered the stable yard.

  “What happened to Dillard?” one asked.

  Another pointed at Rindle. “Who is he?”

  “Dillard tried to betray us and died for it.” Garvin gestured toward Rindle. “As for him, he is another sword, something we need if we are to succeed. What’s your name?”

  “Rindle.”

  “All right, Rindle. We have a gate to open. If you can obey orders and survive the night, we will see what tomorrow brings.”

  The biggest man of the group looked down at his fallen comrade. “What about Bean?”

  Garvin shook his head. “Sorry, Korm. Bean is dead.”

  A thump came from the direction of the garrison, the sky above it glowing with the telling orange light of fire.

  “That is the signal.” With his face tinted orange by the glow of the flames in the sky, Garvin said, “Here we go.”

  “Enjoy yourselves. You’ve earned it,” Captain Ingas Flair shouted, waving to his crew as they descended the plank to the docks.

  The men laughed and shouldered one another while on their way toward the city gate. Their jokes and laughter were audible in the distance, even as they reached the guards inspecting anyone entering the city. Flair shook his head, still wearing a grin as he turned toward his ship.

  The sky was dark, just a hint of purple to the west, soon to fade to black. The only light on the ship came from the lantern hanging from the main mast, the amber light of the flames flickering in the breeze. He headed toward the lantern and lifted it from the hook. It dangled from his outstretched hand as he headed toward the quarterdeck one last time.

  He ran his hand along the rail, stained dark, sanded smooth, and coated with shellac. It was a good rail, solid and reliable, just like the rest of the ship. When he reached the stairs, he climbed up slowly, savoring each step, the sound of his boots on the wood echoing in the quiet night. Upon the quarterdeck, he gazed up at the rear mast, the sails furled, the rigging tied off to prevent them from coming free.

  Gripping the wheel with his free hand, he turned it slowly and imagined himself on the sea, the wind driving the ship forward, the swell beneath sliding across the hull…just man, the wind, and the sea in a dance of perfect harmony.

  “I will miss you, old girl,” he muttered. “You have been a fine mistress, but all affairs must come to an end, and ours has reached its moment of passing.”

  He released the wheel and crouched down, searching the floorboards in the light of the lamp. The captain’s cabin was directly below where he stood. If anyone had inspected it, they might discover a particular ceiling cabinet door that refused to open, maybe assuming the wood simply too swollen from moisture. In truth, that cabinet was nailed shut from the inside, impossible to open. The only way in was through the floorboard above.

  When he located the tiny knothole, he wedged a finger in and pulled. The board resisted but eventually came free, the wood creaking noisily against the neighboring planks. Inside, he found a bag and pulled it out, the coins inside clinking a glorious tune that made him want to whistle.

  He rose to his feet and tucked the bag beneath one arm while drawing his dagger. It only took a moment to cut through the line for the lowest sail, the sheet dropping down to unfurl. The wind caught and filled the sail with a snap, rippling in the breeze. As expected, it came from the northeast, as it did most of the time in Dorban. He had counted on the wind blowing in that direction. The entire plan relied on it.

  Flair descended to the main deck, holding the lamp in one hand, his dagger in the other as he crossed to the hatch near the bow. The bag of coins remained pinned against his side the entire time. It was a wonderful discomfort, the kind he could endure without end.

  When Flair reached the hatch, he crouched down and pulled it open, the light pouring through to reveal an empty hull, save for two barrels labeled stewed apples. The rest of the cargo had been unloaded, claiming the remaining barrels as something he had bought specifically for Ariella, Lord Raskor’s wife, eager to deliver it to her upon his return to Illustan. The lie held just enough truth to sound plausible, which was the best kind of lie…at least that was what Flair had discovered during his thirty years as a sailor.

  “This is my kiss goodbye, Tide Crawler. May the gods treat you well.”

  He dropped the lantern into the hull, the glass shattering, flames spilling out onto the wooden floor.

  Closing the hatch, he rose to his feet and headed toward the plank. He moved with a quickened step now, for timing was important and night had fully claimed the skies.

  When he reached the pier, he walked toward the end and immediately began sawing at the thick rope with his dagger. The line snapped, and the stern began to drift away from the dock.

  He then rushed to the line secured to the bow. The thick rope took an effort to cut, finally breaking away from the post when he was only three quarters through it.

  Tide Crawler drifted off, away from the dock and into the bay, the single unfurled sail full and taut in the sea breeze.

  Flair watched for a short time, ensuring his ship would find its final port. Finally satisfied, he gripped his bag of gold and headed toward the gates.

  Dockworkers and sailors were lined up, each one undergoing a brief interrogation before being allowed into the city. He waited his turn, hoping it would come before the chaos. The timing worked out, but just barely.

  “State your name and reason for entering the city,” a guard asked.

  “My name is Captain Ingas Flair. My ship, Tide Crawler, delivered food for the citizens of Dorban, per High Wizard Heldain’s request. I wish to go inside and have a few drinks with my men.”

  Another guard pointed. “What’s in the bag?”

  Flair looked down at the bag and realized he had forgotten to hide it from view. How do I explain forty gold pieces?

  The sound of a collision carried from across the bay, wood grinding on wood, planks breaking, poles snapping. A flash of orange lit the area, followed by a tremendous explosion.

  “We are under attack!” a guard shouted.

  “Everyone in the city. Now!” The guard nearest to Flair pushed him forward, into a cluster of bodies rushing through the gate like frightened cattle.

  Once inside, Flair slowed and melted into a cluster of dockworkers. The guards were busy trying to get everyone inside so they could close the gates. Flair just wandered along, allowing the crowd to usher him down a dark street. A taproom would be waiting, and he intended to celebrate.

  When a tower of flames illuminated the docks outside the Dorban Garrison, Churles put his mouth to the tube running from beside the helm to below decks and shouted for the men at the oars to double their efforts. The distraction would last only so long, and his ship still wasn’t in position.

  The dark line of the causeway waited just to the west, his ship running parallel to it. Sighting the opening ahead, a gap a bridge had occupied a short time ago, Churles turned the wheel, angling his vessel toward it.

  Shadows moved on the causeway road, marching toward the city. It would be close, but he was sure he could position the ship before the soldiers reached the opening.

  Ahead and to th
e starboard side, shouts of alarm and the pounding of boots came from the garrison docks as they filled with armored soldiers. Churles grinned, knowing that every moment spent worrying about the docks bought him time.

  When the ship reached the causeway, he cranked the wheel, shouting another command into the pipe. Oars reversed direction, slowing the craft. The next command issued had sailors on the port side of the ship rowing forward.

  He focused on the bow, then glanced toward the portside stern. It would be close, but there was no going back now.

  The prow struck one bank, the vessel lurching to a stop, the jarring impact just about tossing him over the wheel. Ribs bruised, he turned toward the stern again just before it struck the other bank. This time, the collision did send him sprawling. He rolled a couple times before stopping against the port rail as dirt sprayed across the deck, pelting him and everything else.

  When the ship settled, Churles sat up to discover the rear of the vessel wedged hard against the causeway, the surface of the road just above the freighter’s rear rail. From the darkness, soldiers emerged, the man in front calling out in the night.

  “Churles?”

  Climbing to his feet, the ship’s captain replied, “Yes. I am Captain Churles. Are you Henton?”

  A big soldier, dressed in full armor, leapt onto the deck. “I am. Well done, sailor.” He turned toward the soldiers lined up along the causeway. “All right. Squad leaders to me now.”

  The ship’s deck began to fill with men, perhaps two dozen, all gathering around Henton.

  The army captain then said, “Remain as quiet as possible. Get across and reform in ranks of twenty on the far side. Once ready, rush to the city. With shields up over your right shoulder, steer as clear from the garrison as possible. Remain wary until you are beyond bowshot. Do not engage the garrison soldiers unless they leave the stronghold. We only care about the city.”

  The squad leaders hurried across the ship, climbed the bow rail, and began gathering on the far bank of the causeway.

  “Squads One, Two, Three, Four, and Five, cross!” Henton shouted, the soldiers launching into action.

  Churles leaned against the portside rail as hundreds of soldiers rushed across his ship, a freighter a hundred feet in length, as if it were nothing but a bridge. With the damage taken on tonight, she is nothing more than a bridge. He had been paid well to beach the vessel and could easily retire, even after he paid the sixteen sailors still below decks.

  “Retirement.”

  The sound of the word made him smile.

  He wondered if Flair had ever considered settling on a quiet island in the shoals. The two captains had known each other for over a decade, spending many a night together in some dockside tavern in one city or another. As a result, they had learned to get along quite well.

  His wishful reverie was disturbed by a ruckus arising from the city.

  28

  Assault

  Here we go again, Garvin thought as he led his team along the streets. People rushed in every direction, most exhibiting panic. The clanking of armor warned him of approaching guards. He rushed into an alley, followed by his five remaining men, including the thief from Fastella.

  The noise from the soldiers grew louder until a squad of armed guards rushed past, the soldiers heading toward the harbor gate. He stepped out of the shadows and hurried in the opposite direction, knowing his men would follow.

  At the end of the street was an open square and the gate. The portcullis remained down, the city closed off. Unlike the situation in Fastella, the square was not filled with soldiers, only a group of four armed men remaining stationed outside the lift tower. How many remained inside the tower, he could only guess.

  Without turning around, he said to his men, “There is no time for discussion or surrender. We must take them quickly.” Grunts of agreement were all he needed. “I’ll take the guard on the far right. The other three are up to you. Rindle, trail behind and wait outside the tower door. Anyone opens it, prick him with that poker you carry.”

  “Uh… Yes, sir,” the thief replied.

  “Good. Now, hold your weapons behind your back and act nonchalant until I make my move.”

  He advanced with his sword behind his back, the tip just inches above the street. When he reached the square, one of the city guards turned toward him, the man’s brow furrowed as he scrutinized Garvin.

  Garvin called out to the guards. “Thank, Gheald! I hoped I would find you here.”

  “Why? What is this about?” the guard asked, his three companions turning toward Garvin.

  “I came from the other gate.” Garvin continued toward them, walking at an easy but steady pace. “A wizard was there, casting magic, his fire blasting through the bars and burning men alive. It was horrible. We thought you might wish to warn the garrison.”

  “A wizard?” The guard at the far right, Garvin’s target, glanced toward the man beside him.

  The brief moment of distraction was just enough.

  Garvin brought his blade around in a wide arc, extending his arm for maximum reach. The tip raked across the guard’s face in a streak of blood, the man spinning away as he cried in pain. The other guards reacted, drawing swords and stepping back to make room. With a thrust, Garvin finished his wounded opponent and stepped aside to gauge the situation.

  Daggett faced the second man in line, the two trading strikes as one attacked and the other blocked. Garvin struck Daggett’s opponent in the back, his blade shearing through his mail and digging into his flesh. The man staggered, and Daggett finished him with a thrust through his stomach. The man fell, joining his already dispatched brethren.

  The door to the tower burst open, a soldier coming through with a shout, his sword held high and ready to strike. The man stiffened and stumbled when Rindle’s rapier took him in the ribs. Another guard followed, the man meeting his end when a mighty blow from Korm’s blade took his head off.

  Everything fell quiet. The six Dorban guards were dead, as was Ghirbladi, another man lost.

  Rindle leaned forward and peered into the doorway. “Nobody inside. Just a counterweight hanging from a chain and an empty stairwell.”

  Waving the thief forward, Garvin said, “Let’s go up and open this thing.”

  “Not so fast.”

  Garvin spun around at the vaguely familiar voice. Briggs and the other soldier who had escaped the ambush at the stable yard entered the square, trailed by a company of guards. Worse, there was a wizard with them.

  Rindle froze in the doorway of the tower. Sixty armed soldiers faced Garvin’s small crew, weapons drawn and ready to fight. A wizard stood among them, a man with long, black hair and a black beard with two distinctive white streaks framing his chin. The wizard’s description was well-known in Ghealdor, a man whose reputation mirrored that of his recently deceased cousin.

  “Heldain.” The name slipped from Rindle’s tongue. Does he know I killed Eldalain?

  Garvin turned toward him. “The high wizard?”

  “Yes,” Heldain’s deep voice boomed. “Where is the wizard who attacked my men?”

  Forca. They needed him to face Heldain. Without his magic, they were doomed.

  Garvin must have reached the same conclusion because he shouted, “Into the tower!”

  Rindle darted inside and pinned himself to the wall, out of sight. Daggett and Steck ran past him, the two men climbing the stairs. An angry roar came from Heldain as Garvin dove inside. A burst of amber flames lit the square, enveloping Korm just outside the doorway. Screaming, the burning man stumbled against the door, collapsed to his knees, and began to flail on the ground. The wooden doorframe caught fire, the tower filling with smoke to the echoes of Korm’s tortured screams.

  Garvin rose to his feet and shouted, “Daggett, Steck, open the gates. It’s our only chance.”

  The two men rushed up the staircase as Garvin turned to Rindle, gesturing toward the rapier in his hand. “I hope you are good with that thing, because we need t
o hold the stairs and buy them time to raise the gate.”

  Shouts came from outside the tower while flames licked the doorframe, Korm’s burning body blocking the opening. The man’s screams had ceased.

  Rindle followed Garvin up a long flight of stairs, the two of them stopping at the second landing where a small window overlooked the square. Peering through it, Rindle saw Heldain issuing orders, a squad of armed soldiers cautiously approaching the tower. Turning to gaze toward the uppermost floor, Rindle saw Daggett and Steck working to release the winch. The lever seemed to be stuck.

  A bolt of white lightning burst through the window near the winch, arcs of electricity crackling across the chain and the men gripping the winch release. Their bodies shook violently, eyes bulging, hair bursting into flames. When the lightning ceased, the two men fell. Steck’s corpse rolled down the stairs. Rindle and Garvin dodged out of the way, his body settling on the landing. Rindle stared down at the dead man at his feet, hair smoldering, eyes burned out. The smell was horrible.

  Voices and the clanking of armor came from the tower entrance, followed by the rush of boots on the stairs. Four soldiers appeared at the landing below with weapons brandished and faces grim.

  “What do we do?” Rindle asked.

  “We fight,” Garvin replied.

  Dismissing his worry about the wizard outside, Garvin focused on the enemies in the stairwell. While he needed to get the gate open, he could not do it if he was dead.

  He backed away, stepping over Steck’s corpse. Rindle did likewise, their actions luring the men on the landing below to advance. When they were halfway up, Garvin squatted and shoved Steck forward, the man’s body rolling and bouncing down the stairs. The first man leapt over him and slammed his shin into a step, crying out in pain. The next two each dodged to the side of the stairs, one narrowly missing Steck’s head, the other getting kicked by Steck’s feet but keeping his balance. The fourth man was not so lucky.