Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  “I call upon the applicants!” Moargan shouted. “Those who would place their souls in Pallan’s care, knowing they forfeit their lives should another be chosen. Applicants, please join me on the dais.”

  Delcor emerged first, the tall, broad-shouldered man striding with the confidence of a warrior, his white robes shimmering and immaculate. He appeared every inch a wizard lord.

  Next came Bretton, the man lacking Delcor’s height, but matching his confidence. With well-groomed brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and hazel eyes, he also looked the part. In contrast to Delcor, his robes were black, his sash the ice blue of Pallanar.

  Last was Arvid, the man’s green eyes flicking about the room, his pale cheeks flush, his gait uneven. Ariella winced. He cannot even walk with confidence. Her gaze followed him as he climbed the stairs.

  Amid the circle of altars on the upper dais, the three applicants gathered before the high priest. The room fell dark, all light doused save for the ice blue torches held by the clerics. Through the window in the roof, the dark moon had blanketed the sun, surrounded by a halo.

  “Light the sacred fires!”

  The clerics circled, lighting each of the eight torches before hastily dashing down the stairs. From the island of pale blue light, the high priest issued the next command.

  “Sacrifices, prostrate yourself upon the altars!”

  The old men climbed onto the stone surfaces, each lying on their back.

  His hands stretched toward the moon, Moargan chanted. “Great Pallan, bless us. Grace us with your light, your honor, your power. We present you with three applicants, each steadfastly believing themselves worthy, each prepared for your measure.”

  Ariella remained focused on Arvid, her brow furrowing as the man’s form flickered and wavered. His image then became something else.

  She gasped. “No!”

  No longer necessary, Priella dismissed the illusion. She had fed it with the slightest bit of magic, which was nearly impossible to detect, particularly with her own appearance sharing much in common with Arvid. The spell had worked as planned, gaining her entrance to the ceremony. Now, as the sacred fires began to blaze, trails of ice blue fire swirling about the dais, she had no need for deception. She would face her god as herself with faith in her heart. Pallan would choose her.

  Moargan’s gaze lowered to her and he jerked with a start, his eyes going wide with alarm. Delcor and Bretton reacted similarly. Then the cyclone of flames blotted out all else.

  Searing pain burned through Priella, tearing her apart, consuming. Her entire existence was agony, all thoughts blotted out, save for the wish that it would end. Rather than bending to that desire, she embraced the pain, believing it would cleanse her tainted soul. Her own screams ceased but those of Delcor and Bretton continued. Above their shrieking cries, she heard a voice whisper, “Come to me if you possess the will.”

  In the darkness, she saw a flame, perfect and ice blue. Bodiless, she reached for it, extending herself on will alone. The flame leapt at her, filling her with awareness so vast she shuddered. It was as if she touched the mind of every human in Pallanar, filling her head with an endless jumble of ideas, thoughts, and emotions. At the edge of madness, she struggled against the rush of mental images, eventually finding refuge in the flame.

  Her eyes flickered open as the ice-blue tornado of flames dispersed, revealing the dais empty, the altars vacant, and her standing completely alone. The power filling her was intoxicating, begging to be harnessed. A being materialized, twenty feet tall, its towering body consisting of angular facets, looking as if carved from a glacier. More so was the presence, weighing down on the room, smothering all thought and demanding everyone’s attention.

  “Pallan,” she breathed out.

  Leaning forward, Pallan spoke without moving his mouth. “Greetings, daughter. Govern well, for your people need you. I fear dark times lie ahead.”

  The god stood upright, held his hands to his glistening chest, and faded away.

  Priella glanced down at the robes she wore and sneered. She wove a construct and tore them away, masking her naked body with an illusion – a beautiful, frost-blue dress, her shape that of a goddess, her button nose longer, slimmer, her small eyes larger, brows preened, the lines of her face reshaping, hair brightening from dull red to a blaze of crimson. She turned toward the stunned crowd, all eyes on her.

  Shock held Ariella captive. Her daughter had been chosen by Pallan, the first woman gifted with the power of a god since Pherelyn many centuries earlier.

  Priella cast a construct of illusion, her appearance altering before Ariella’s eyes, her daughter’s homely visage reshaping into one of beauty. Fiery hair, bright green eyes, red, pouting lips, her pale blue dress sparkling like ice, the cut of it low at the front to expose the line of a full bosom. She was stunning.

  Striding purposefully toward the edge of the upper dais, Priella gazed out over the quiet crowd. “You will worship me.” Her tone was more of a command than a statement.

  The woman wove another construct, a pattern Ariella had never before seen, resembling one of mental manipulation. A wave of magic blasted out in all directions, Ariella’s head jerking backward. She stumbled and almost fell. Many in the crowd did fall, others crying out in pain.

  Light began to fill the temple as the eclipse receded. Priella rose up into the air and hovered above the dais, bathed in the dawning beam of sunlight, the glow making her appear a goddess come to life.

  Your Lordess is prepared to accept your adoration. Priella’s voice echoed in Ariella’s head, each word demanding attention and forcing a response. A devious smirk drew on Priella’s lips when her gaze locked with Ariella’s. “Yes, even you, Mother.”

  Spreading her arms out in an open embrace, Priella commanded, “Begin Devotion!”

  Everyone in the temple dropped to their knees, hands high in the air, and began to chant.

  Deep inside a corner of her own mind, Ariella railed against the magic holding her hostage. She could sooner dry up the ocean, for her body did not acknowledge her presence. Inwardly, she screamed while her voice repeated the words along with the entire city.

  “Pallan, guide us and bless Lordess Priella with your power so she may protect and lead Pallanar to a better future.”

  32

  Seed of Doubt

  The mid-day sun was bright, forcing Rindle to squint as he rode out of the Dorban city gate. The garrison loomed ahead, the archers upon the wall eyeing him warily. Still dressed in the simple tunic, breeches, and leather coat he had worn on the ship, he was unprotected. If any arrow found him, there was nothing to stop it from piercing his body. He glanced back at the horse tied to his own, the dead wizard’s body littered with arrows.

  Not a look I would choose to mimic.

  Turning away from Heldain, images flashed in his head – a horse wandering from the garrison to the city gates on its own, a headless corpse strapped to the saddle, the man’s head stuffed into a blood-soaked saddlebag. That same soldier who had departed the city less than an hour earlier, demanding the Ghealdan force lay down their weapons and evacuate the garrison. The opposing commander had sent a clear message by decapitating the man.

  Hours had passed before the next attempt. When it became clear Henton would have to force someone into the task, Rindle volunteered. It had been on impulse, a chance to erase any doubt Garvin had about him. Now, alone in the gap between the city and the garrison, the choice seemed ill-planned.

  What was I thinking?

  As Rindle drew nearer the quiet enemy gate, he feared he had acted in haste and prayed he would return to the city intact. My face may not be handsome, but I am rather fond of my head. The light tone of the thought was intended to ease his worry. It did not work. Instead, he hovered on the edge of wetting himself.

  Stopping the horse before the gate, Rindle gazed up toward the battlements and shouted, “I have a gift from Captain Henton of Farrowen. As a peace offering, he returns the body of your
high wizard, allowing you to provide Heldain a proper funeral.” He had been forced to memorize the words.

  Moments passed without a response. Cold sweat ran down Rindle’s ribcage, his palms slick with it, his breath ragged. Finally, the portcullis began to rise.

  Dozens of soldiers stood inside, all dressed in full armor. The ranks parted and an armored man emerged. Unlike the others, he wore no helmet, his black hair tied back in a tail, his goatee pointed at the chin.

  “I am Captain Ilsup. The garrison is under my command. Who are you?”

  “I am…” Rindle’s voice cracked, his throat suddenly parched. He swallowed and tried again. “I am a simple thief. Nothing more. I was forced to ride out and deliver High Wizard Heldain to you.”

  The man’s brow furrowed, his scowl deepening. “I assume you have a message, as well?”

  Nodding, Rindle reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it toward the man.

  Ilsup shook his head. “No. Read it to me.”

  Biting his lip, Rindle unfolded the parchment and began to read aloud.

  “To Captain Ilsup and the Dorban Garrison,

  “As you are aware, we have captured the city. Within Dorban’s walls, we have enough armed men to withstand a siege. In addition, an army exceeding three thousand Thundercorps soldiers and dozens of wizards wait just to the south, prepared to attack from behind and grind your force to nothing should you attempt to retake the city.

  “Heldain is dead, as are Taladain and Eldalain, ending the Killarius line. Change is upon us, with Farrowen rising to become the greatest wizardom of all time. Resisting will only result in more meaningless deaths, for the outcome is assured. Dorban will remain ours, and soon, Tangor and Westhold will be drawn into the fold, destined to become Farrowen cities with the prayers of the people flowing to Farrow and Wizard Lord Thurvin.

  “We await your response and are prepared to welcome you with either open arms or the points of our swords. The decision is yours.

  “Captain Philius Henton”

  Rindle lowered the parchment, his eyes on Ilsup, who stared back with an intense gaze. Whether it was frustration or defiance in the man’s eyes, Rindle was unsure. Either could end poorly for him, so he sought to end the conversation.

  “I have delivered the message, along with your high wizard. Please, let me return to the city while you consider your response.”

  Ilsup grunted. “Henton doesn’t leave us much of a choice.”

  Shrugging, Rindle said, “I didn’t have much of a choice, either. I either rode out to deliver the message or they were going to slice parts off me until I agreed to do so.” The lie came so easily. Years of practice.

  “You appear whole.”

  “I prefer it that way. Like I said, I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  Finally, Ilsup nodded. “I see your point.” The man waved. “Leave the other horse and return to the city. Tell Henton I’ll have a decision to him by nightfall.”

  Relieved, Rindle untied the other horse, turned his own, and rode back to Dorban.

  His back itched as he imagined archers loosing arrows upon him. The sensation remained until he was beyond the range of their bows and the city walls drew near.

  He headed straight for the open gate, eager to be within the safe confines of the city.

  Evening was approaching, the sun peering over the city wall painting the battlements of Dorban Castle pink. The square outside the castle was occupied by soldiers clustered around tables and others who stood and stared up at the obelisk as if attempting to solve some great conundrum.

  After a long, sleepless night, followed by the stressful encounter with Captain Ilsup, Rindle had purchased a room at an inn and slept the remainder of the day. Waking to find the sun low in the sky, he dressed and set off to find Garvin, which had proven to be no easy task. An hour of meandering the city and asking dozens about the man’s whereabouts had been fruitless. Finally, as his gaze swept the busy square, he spotted Garvin leaning over one of the tables.

  He approached, catching Garvin in mid-sentence.

  “…take too long. This structure is tall, but it’s nowhere near the size of the tower in Fastella.”

  The man beside Garvin, a muscular soldier with a thick mustache, shook his head. “If anything, the narrow build of the obelisk makes the task more challenging. It’s too tall for any ladder we can craft. At least none I would care to climb. The chances of it tipping or collapsing are too great.” He smoothed his mustache, appearing to ponder the situation. “In lieu of some magical means, I would use a scaffold, just as we did in Fastella.”

  Garvin peered up at the obelisk with narrowed eyes. Finally, he nodded. “Do it. Get me a list of materials, and I will sign the order.” He looked at the other man. “How long will it take?”

  “With the same crew as last time, I’d say four days. Five at most, assuming materials are readily available and the weather complies.”

  “Very well.” Garvin turned, his gaze landing on Rindle. “Oh, there you are. Did you get some rest?”

  Rindle nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He waved Rindle to follow. “Come with me. I’d like to get a view from the wall.”

  The man marched across the square and toward the castle. The last bastion of resistance, it had fallen under Farrowen control sometime while Rindle slept. Thundercorps soldiers stood outside the open gates, the men saluting Garvin as he walked past unchallenged.

  Garvin led Rindle into the tower beside the gate, the structure frighteningly similar to the tower from the prior evening. The assault replayed in Rindle’s mind, highlighted by fire, lightning, and blood. He and the lieutenant had come close to dying a number of times but had somehow survived.

  Perhaps I have acquired some of Landish’s luck. Rindle smiled at the thought as he climbed the stairs.

  When they reached the winch room, Garvin led him up a ladder and opened the trap door. They climbed out to open air, the tower roof connected to the castle battlements. While leaning against a chest-high merlon, Garvin gazed down at the square. Rindle did the same and asked the question that had been burning inside for days.

  “The fire in the obelisk is dormant. You are going to do something to it, aren’t you? The flame will come back, but it’ll be blue like the Tower of Devotion in Fastella, right?”

  While still gazing at the obelisk, Garvin nodded. “Yes.”

  “How is that possible? How can you shift the prayers of a city from one god to another?”

  Lowering the pack from his shoulder, Garvin opened it and removed a fist-sized, stunning sapphire. Rindle gasped in awe.

  Garvin twisted the gem, the reflected sunlight twinkling within. “This gem will replace the amethyst in the tower. When that happens, the flame will rekindle.”

  “It cannot be that easy.”

  “Getting to the top of the obelisk is no easy task, but swapping the gems…” The lieutenant shook his head. “I have no idea how, but it works. The flame will burn blue and the prayers will be channeled back to Wizard Lord Thurvin in Marquithe.”

  Marquithe. So far away. A city of another wizardom. A city I have yet to visit. The thought stirred wonder, tainted by discomfort. “Is Lord Thurvin a good man?”

  Garvin’s head jerked back as if struck by force. “I… He appears no better or worse than Malvorian, his predecessor.”

  “That is no answer.”

  “It’s an answer, just not the one you would like to hear.”

  “I don’t understand. If this wizard lord is not a good man, a man you admire, a man who will help the people of Ghealdor, why help him? Why would you allow the prayers of my people to feed this man’s power?” An even more disturbing thought occurred to Rindle. “And what of Gheald? What happens to a god when nobody worships that god?”

  The wall fell silent, the lieutenant staring at Rindle, then the massive sapphire in his grip. From what Rindle had seen so far, Garvin was focused and decisive. Now, though, dou
bt lingered in the man’s gaze, shifting to concern, then pain.

  Garvin shook his head. “I have spent my adult life following orders, holding up to a higher ideal and following the lead of men I admire. At some point, the faith you place in your superiors becomes absolute and you forget to question their motives.

  “Somewhere deep inside, I have had doubts about this campaign, but Despaldi gave me orders. I have executed those orders while turning a blind eye toward the repercussions.” The pain in the man’s voice mirrored the look in his eyes. “Perhaps it is time to reassess my role and the reasons behind my actions.”

  In silence, the pair stared at the pale obelisk as the last remnants of the setting sun shone upon the pinnacle. The sun dipped below the horizon as shadows crept across the square.

  If he switches one gem for another, he must possess the amethysts from Fastella and Starmuth.

  Rindle wondered at their worth and where Garvin kept them. He would wait to ask. There was no need to disturb the man now that Garvin questioned his purpose.

  33

  Shock

  Sisters Yinette and Jionna led Brogan and his companions down the stairs, as they had done most days since their arrival at Kelmar. From Brogan’s perspective, what began as a place of wonder had changed during that time. The toll of each day stole a bit of luster until the shine of the city and the beauty of the Temple of the Oracle became dull and monotonous.

  “I am no scholar,” Brogan grumbled under his breath. “I am a man of action, not words. This must end soon.”

  He ached to draw Augur, to feel the weight of the falchion in his grip, to hear the whir of it cutting through the air, to sense the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Most of all, he ached to use its magic. As they crossed the receiving hall, he noted Blythe’s sidelong look, her brow arched.

  Realizing she had heard his complaint, he shrugged and whispered, “Sorry.”