Silurian’s breath caught in his throat. The serpent’s head emerged from below, its forked tongue sensing the air. He watched in horror as the beast focused on Melody.
A second clawed foot crunched the edge of the ledge along the wall beside her, the force of its grip crumbling layers of shale. Its head lifted above the bridge deck and brushed the cavern’s ceiling.
The serpent shrieked, drawing its head back in preparation for a strike.
Silurian screamed, “Mel!”
Her staff flared orange.
The entire chamber convulsed.
Alignment of Wizards
Helleden sensed it. Everything transpired better than he dared hope. He had finished with his preparations and awaited what must surely come. Wizard’s power.
According to his northern spy, the Kraidic emperor had entered a serpent’s nest, chasing the Wizard of the North to wherever the magic user had snuck off to.
Far to the south, his demon shadow, Barong, reported that the Sentinel had entered the Chamber of the Wise and was dealing with King Malcolm while Barong prepared itself for the imminent arrival of the second Wizard of the North.
Helleden was a man of little emotion. Almost five centuries tended to strip those feeble weaknesses from a person. Hundreds of years of solitude and slavery, bound to the demented whims of the Soul, had flogged any lingering sentiment Helleden might have associated with the people he sought to subjugate. If, indeed, he had possessed such a thing as a soul himself, his master had sucked the life from it long ago.
His conquest of Zephyr had been a long time in coming. Several kings later and the assignment he had been tasked with so long ago by his recently deceased master was finally within his grasp. The irony of where it would be orchestrated from made him smile. High atop the Wizard’s Spike, amidst the ruins of Castle Svelte, he stood within the very chamber denied him five centuries before. Now he stood in that very room, on the cusp of delivering the final killing stroke, eliminating the few bastions of organized civilization left in the realm. Gritian, Songsbirth, and everything below the Undying Wall.
If both Wizards of the North put up a strong enough fight, he might gain enough power to destroy Madrigail Bay once and for all. According to rumours filtering into his camp, a sizable force had landed in the bay area a little over a fortnight after his most recent firestorm. If the reports could be trusted, a new race had sailed across the Niad Ocean—one sounding strangely akin to the pesky Voil.
Nevertheless, Voil or not, if Helleden didn’t miss his guess, one of the two Wizards of the North was none other than Phazarus—the most powerful wizard to practice the arts since Thunor Carmichael—his arch nemesis from days long past.
Helleden’s smile slid from his face. Thunor Carmichael had been favoured over him when the ancient king of the newly founded kingdom of Zephyr had believed in magic users, and used them to safeguard his people from the encroaching Kraidic Empire. King Hammaspaul had held a tournament of the arcane at a time in history when all magic was considered a dark art. To be a practitioner of the mind, five hundred years ago, meant one did so on the pain of death if they were discovered. King Hammaspaul’s decision to entertain the notion of housing a royal wizard at Castle Svelte had been seen by many of his peers as his eventual downfall, but not before he had enlisted Thunor Carmichael and driven the Krakens out of northern Zephyr. Aside from sporadic sea raids and two failed land assaults since, the Kraidic Empire’s ambitions to take over Zephyr had been quashed by the maverick king’s inspiration.
Helleden nodded at the distant memories, their details clouded over the centuries, even to his keen mind. King Hammaspaul had also been instrumental in founding the Chamber of the Wise, but he hadn’t lived long enough to see the Chamber’s inception into the hierarchy of Zephyr’s governance. And now, all that was about to come crashing down. The throne, the Chamber and the Wizard of the North. Helleden would be vindicated as soon as the wizards struck. Instead of claiming his rightful place as Royal Wizard, he would now be king.
The eight-sided chamber atop the Wizard’s Spike basked in the light emitted by eight towering windows. Helleden stepped away from the south facing window, its outside surface covered with dirt and ash, matching the other seven. He paced to the middle of the wide room, furnished with various sized tables buried beneath ancient scrolls and dusty tomes. Candle stubs of differing heights and thickness were interspersed amongst the mounds of clutter—pools of melted wax coagulated around their bases staining the parchment they held down.
An octagonal pedestal sat precisely in the room’s centre, its flat sides geometrically corresponding with the windows. The dais’ top consisted of a concave brass bowl—a map’s compass hammered into its surface—submerged beneath what would look to a novice as water. In each of the eight compass directions, the spokes pointed to a distinctive rune etched along the bowl’s outer rim. It was here that Helleden set himself to wage the last campaign in his war against the kingdom that had forsaken him. If King Hammaspaul had only taken the time to realize who he had messed with.
No matter. Helleden had to concentrate on the semantics of the alignment of the wizards. Usually, when he performed the ritual allowing him to tap into the magical powers employed by another, he only had to concern himself with one source—one direction. Today, however, if everything went as planned, he would have to divide his concentration. The resulting power absorption would be worth the trouble. What complicated the matter was the sources of magic occurred in opposite directions. The extreme distances involved were problematic.
He entertained using just one of the sources so he could centre his ritual on one place and ensure a smooth skimming of the power involved. However, he wasn’t confident that either of the wizards were adept enough to provide him the power he needed to enact the spells he required to create his firestorm. If the wizard in Gritian were indeed Phazarus, he might be willing to chance it.
Helleden’s biggest dilemma was that if he failed in his enterprise, the resulting dormancy his body would retreat into—a direct result of commanding such power—would leave him utterly defenseless until his body recovered from the ordeal. Depending on the power he commanded, he might remain catatonic for days.
He no longer hid on a mountain summit. He wasn’t naïve to the fact that many people, and creatures as well, would take great pleasure in killing him should the opportunity arise.
Concentrating on one of the wizards should provide him with enough of a power draw to unleash his firestorm, but he needed the power of the second wizard to cement the defenses he employed around the Wizard’s Spike—the safeguards vital to prevent anyone, or anything, from stumbling upon him during his subsequent period of unconsciousness.
Claiming his rightful place atop the Wizard’s Spike had been his ultimate goal. The theurgy prevalent within the octagonal chamber high above the ruins of Castle Svelte was palpable to those adept in the lore. Other than the destroyed Soul Forge, there wasn’t a place known to Helleden that radiated more power than this chamber. The tower vibrated under the strain of the arcane power being restrained within its walls. Eight windows, geometrically aligned precisely to correspond with the eight major directional paths of the chamber’s central dais, augmented and focused the earth’s natural power, culminating at the dais Helleden stood before.
Helleden had feared for the tower when he unleashed his last firestorm, but as he suspected, the Spike defended itself well.
The advent of the Wizard of the North coming down from his perch high atop Dragon’s Tooth had been an unexpected bonus. Now, instead of waging a land assault which would require the sacrifice of much of his demon horde, an orchestrated confrontation with not just one, but two Wizards of the North, provided him the catalyst required to launch what should be his final firestorm.
Bile rose in his throat. If not for the unforeseen quickness in which Silurian had risen to the task against the Soul, he would’ve completed the annihilation of Zephyr months earlier. No matter
. It wouldn’t be long now.
The scrying bowl shimmered. It had begun.
A small ripple formed on the bowl’s northeastern lip, undulating toward its centre, followed closely by a second, slightly more agitated ripple, its initial wave length half that of the first. Good, good, he thought, the wizard’s strikes are increasing in power. Now I just need the second fool to make a move on the Chamber.
He pulled back his sleeves to expose deathly white forearms no thicker than the bones his sallow skin clung to. Waggling his fingertips in sequence, his long fingernails rattled rhythmically upon the northeastern edge of the octagonal dais. Several of his rings pulsed and glowed in shades of red, orange and the deepest blues. He threw his head back, inhaling deeply of the ethereal pall forming above the dais and settling around the sorcerer.
A third pulse, more intense than the second, vibrated toward the bowl’s centre. The liquid filmed over, milky white, creeping in from the bowl’s outer rim. It was time.
He sidestepped to face the southern compass point and dipped the point of his forefinger into the roiling liquid. As his nail broke the chalky surface, it parted to create a line of clear liquid that etched its way to the bowl’s centre before disappearing. The ruby on that same finger flared to life. The signal was sent.
Instrument of their Demise
Alhena had no trouble keeping pace with Larina. She looked back more than once, her face filled with surprise at seeing how close he kept to her.
The narrow tunnel curved right and terminated at the doorway leading into the Chamber’s personal quarters. The lack of guards was as much a relief as it was alarming. If the guardsmen had been pulled from their ever-vigilant presence from this door, that could only mean that something momentous happened elsewhere. They didn’t have much time.
Larina stepped aside to allow Alhena access to the door as she readied her crossbow. She pointed it back the way they had come, covering him. Hearing the door’s latch snick open, she spun and waved the crossbow at the door as it swung inward.
The uncertain light glinted off the bronze strapped door at the far end of the corridor as if it had just closed.
Alhena glanced at Larina. She had seen it too.
Approaching the chambermaster’s door, Alhena pushed down on the handle while Larina used her foot to throw the door open, her crossbow trained on the well-lit interior.
A blast of heat met them, but it had nothing to do with the fire burning within the hearth. Alhena smelled, more than felt, his wispy hair shrivelling from the intensity of a fist-sized fireball as it hurtled between him and Larina. They flattened themselves against opposite walls.
The fireball sizzled down the tunnel, detonating against the iron strapped door.
Larina shouted out a belated warning and fired her weapon. The bolt shattered against the mantle. She stared into Alhena’s eyes and mouthed, “Helleden?”
Alhena shook his head. Concentrating, he attempted to sense whoever, or whatever, lay in wait for them. If he was correct, it was the dark creature that had interrogated him at length several days ago and left him in a state of unconsciousness. If that were true, they were no match for it without his staff.
Larina notched another bolt and set it.
“I’m going to draw it out,” he whispered behind a wrinkled hand covered in age spots. “Be ready.”
Larina furrowed her brow. “It?”
Alhena gave her a slight nod, his mind focusing on what he needed to do. Flipping up the hood of his black cowl, he hunched over and stepped across the threshold, making sure to keep his chin tucked against his chest. He vaguely heard Larina asking him what he was doing, but he ignored her. Concentrating on placing one foot slowly ahead of the other, he searched the shadows clinging to the chamber’s back wall.
An orange glow flared to life from a dark recess beyond the fire mantle, quickly growing into a second fireball. Its light illuminated the cloaked creature.
The fire coalesced into a fist-sized ball and hurtled across the chamber.
Alhena lifted an arm over his head and knelt low, his entire body hidden beneath his black cloak. The fireball slammed into his shoulder and exploded, the concussion lifting him from his feet and slamming him into the wall beside the door.
Larina straddled the threshold in time to see the creature release the fireball. She discharged the crossbow into the dark niche as Alhena crumpled to the floor.
The creature emitted a horrific screech. Her bolt had found its mark. Not taking any chances, she threw the crossbow aside and two throwing knives appeared in her hands. Without thought, she threw first one, switched hands flawlessly, and threw the other.
The first knife missed its unseen target, chinking off a stone surface within the dark crevice, but a hollow thump told her the second had hit the target.
A cloaked creature staggered out from a hidden recess, a fletched bolt protruding from beneath the cowl covering its face. As it entered the light, Larina saw her knife buried deep into the thing’s left shoulder. Its affected limb hung limp at its side.
The creature ambled toward her—Alhena’s staff clutched within its claws. The length of wood that everybody thought was nothing more than an old branch, pulsed with orange runes along its length. Strange, she had never noticed the markings before.
Quick as a blink, four more throwing knives slipped through Larina’s fingers to pepper the creature’s torso.
It shrieked and lunged at her, but its injuries made it stagger sideways, toppling over the ornate table between the couch and the chambermaster’s chair. The table shattered beneath it as it fell to its knees. It released the staff, and made a final desperate lunge, its claws extended outward to grab at her waist.
She jumped backward and it fell on its face, the embedded quarrel snapping as its weight drove the bolt deeper into its skull.
She cautiously stepped toward her victim, pulling free the short sword on her back, and hacked at the thing’s neck. Once. Twice. A third time. The dull sword never quite severed the creature’s neck, but it was obvious by the way its mangled body lay askew of its head that she had killed it.
She swallowed, her hands shaking uncontrollably. A cold sweat flushed her body. She gritted her teeth. Now wasn’t the time to go into shock. Damn it!
Taking a steadying breath, she pulled her eyes from the creature’s body, willing herself to calm down. Alhena!
She dropped beside the tangle of the old man’s robes. Of course, robes. He claimed to be a wizard.
The creature’s fireball had smitten him near the top of his back, but his black cloak showed no sign of damage. With the greatest of care, she shook his bony shoulder. Nothing.
She leaned back and gazed down the corridor. The far door clearly showed the effects of the first fireball.
“You get it?”
Larina jumped. “What the…?”
“The beast. Is it dead?” Alhena’s pained voice answered.
“Pops! You’re alive.”
Alhena coughed and struggled to sit up. “Of course I am alive.”
She put an arm around his back to assist him. “But how? I saw you get hit.”
He held out a piece of his cloak between pinched fingers and winked. “Wizard’s cloak. Resistant to fire.” He looked around. “Where is my staff?”
She remembered the creature dropping it beside the broken table. “Here.”
“Help me up. We do not have much time.”
Larina clasped his hand and pulled him to his feet, his body weight insignificant in her grasp. He swayed for a moment, clutching the shoulder that had taken the brunt of the fireball’s impact, and winced. As soon as he claimed his staff, the wooden rod pulsed bright orange—hidden runes sprang to life, seemingly infusing him with strength.
It was like someone had slapped her in the face. So many things about Alhena began making sense. She had never really put any thought into how someone so much older than everyone else kept up the way he did. She took it for granted that was w
ho Alhena was. Just another person. She realized she hadn’t taken him for old, but more as someone experienced. For some strange reason, that had been all it took to mask the fact that Alhena could easily be her grandfather, if not her great grandfather.
Standing within the chambermaster’s quarters in awe, she smiled when he stopped in the hallway and asked, “Are you alright? Do you need a moment?”
The irony wasn’t lost on her. He had been struck full force by a fireball and yet he worried she needed time to recover.
She gave him a mock scowl. “Just a moment.” She rolled the creature over, scrunching her nose at his smell, and pulled the throwing knives free. She wiped them on the creature’s cloak and tucked them into the folds of her tunic. Retrieving the discarded crossbow, she jumped out of the room and followed Alhena down the hallway, neither one of them taking time to marvel at the damage the first fireball had done to the iron bound door as they passed through it into the hall beyond.
She fiddled another quarrel into the crossbow as they ran. Approaching the intersection, they slowed. Sadyra, as usual, wasn’t where she should’ve been. The tunnels were empty.
A dull roar sounded up the Chamber corridor to their left. Larina jumped into a sprint. Robes swishing, Alhena followed her around the long swooping bend in the passage.
She slowed down and threw herself against the righthand wall, her eyes wide. Alhena followed her example, his staff flaring to life. Up ahead, the shattered remains of the Chamber doors lay strewn upon the ground.
“What is it?” Alhena leaned out to peer past her.
Larina couldn’t find her voice at first. She shook her head. “I-I don’t know. A beast. It’s huge.”
Alhena tried to look past her.
She stopped him. “They’re in there with it.”
“It? Who is in there? Sadyra and Olmar?” With unexpected strength, he shoved past her and risked a look around the corner.
Sadyra and Olmar were running towards them. Sadyra swung around and fired at the beast, but it vanished, and her bolt went wide, thudding into a bench.
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