Severed Empire: Wizard's War Page 24

  “Where is the dungeon?”

  Terrified, the man gave them directions.

  Mykal drew his dagger across the sheets. He made the couple lie down, back to back. Quill used the strips and secured them together. The remaining two pieces went around their heads, forcing their mouths open. This way, they’d not be able to scream for help.

  Outside of the bedchamber, with the door closed, Eadric said, “You could have given us some warning about what you planned to do.”

  Mykal shrugged. “Wasn’t sure myself, until I saw them.”

  “Now we know where to go,” Quill said.

  Thunder boomed. Cracks of lightning lit the hallway as bright as a midday sun, and then everything went dark.

  “Let’s move,” Mykal said, and for the first time, took point.

  ***

  “There are two of them,” Mykal said.

  The guards stood in front of a single door.

  “I’ve got it,” Quill said, and raised his bow. He loosed the arrow, and immediately pulled another from his quiver, nocked it, and fired.

  The guards dropped. The loudest noise came from swords clattering on the ground.

  Mykal, and Eadric ran forward. Quill slung his bow over his shoulder. He pulled the arrows from the guards’ chests as Eadric opened the door.

  “Stairs. They go down,” Eadric said.

  “It’s dark,” Quill said.

  “I’m not holding back anymore,” Mykal said.

  Holding out his arms, his hands close together, Mykal caressed the air between his palms. A ball of blue fire grew and grew. The dark staircase glowed. There were torches on the wall, iron basins on the stairs. Mykal threw the flame forward, igniting the torches, and the coals inside the bowls. The room danced in cyan light.

  “What if someone is down there?” Eadric said.

  “Then,” Mykal said, and drew his sword, “they know we’re coming.”

  Chapter 27

  King Hermon Cordillera placed his royal red cape around his shoulders, affixing it in place with the gold chain that was taut across his chest. The chamberlain set the crown upon his head. Cordillera readjusted the crown; his fingers delicately touched the black iron and steel band. He took a moment once the crown was properly in place, and stared at his reflection in the standup mirror. He believed this was the last time he’d see himself as a mere king. Soon he would be emperor, picking up where the Emperor Henry Rye failed centuries ago.

  He strode out of his bedchamber, and down the hallway toward the Long Room, his chamberlain in tow. He savored the sound of his boots as each step smacked on the rock floors, and the way the sound reverberated off the walls.

  The important thing was displaying an air of confidence. Inside, he was exhausted. The night, although not over, had taken a heavier toll than expected. He’d never wanted sleep as much as he did now. His legs worked, carrying off his impressive stride, but it was mostly show. It drained additional strength every long step he took. Fluttering eyelids threatened closing on him.

  He was an all-powerful wizard now, and the one thing he couldn’t do was resist the urge for sleep.

  In the Long Room he would address the captains of his ships, and the captains of the knights taking the ships across the Isthmian. He’d been assured all of his vessels in the fjord were stocked and ready for battle. His armies were at the docks, boarding.

  At the Long Room, he pushed open the double doors. His men, seated around the table, rose to their feet when he entered.

  He stood inside the Long Room until the doors slammed shut behind him.

  ***

  Mykal stopped his descent after a handful of stairs. The smell of death was almost visible like a mist rising toward him. There was the pungent coppery smell of pools of blood, and no mistaking the strong odors of feces and urine. The overwhelming stench Mykal most noticed was of cooked flesh. He could not picture the horrors waiting for them in the dungeon, but from the smells reaching his nose, unthinkable images arose. A knot twisted around in his gut, and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and dripped from under his arms. He breathed in and out of his mouth, and continued down the stairs.

  The blue light from his fire revealed swirling clouds of dust, and smoke thick enough that a pass of his hand through the air only sent the soot into a frenzied vortex.

  Mykal had never seen a room like this. King Hermon Cordillera was a sick man. The iron tools mounted on the walls, the shackles, and chains, and the various tables and thorny chairs looked surreal. He couldn’t help wondering if King Nabal had something similar in the bowels of Grey Ashland. The public hangings Nabal held were one thing. The Mountain King’s dungeon was something else altogether.

  Everything around him became more focused, and Mykal saw more than the tools of the trade. He saw the carnage.

  There were five bodies.

  “I think we’re too late,” Mykal said. Breathing through his mouth wasn’t helping. He thought he could taste death on his tongue. The fetor filled his mouth.

  Someone moved.

  The body on the table.

  Mykal stepped forward. He almost laughed. A sense of relief flooded through him. “Galatia!”

  Her body looked broken. Covered in bruises and dried blood, he almost didn’t recognize her. Barely covered in a stained garment, Mykal removed the gag from over her mouth, and sighed in pain as he placed his fingers on cold, clammy skin.

  “You came for me?” she said. Clear tears rolled from the corner of her eyes, streaked down through grime and blood.

  “Of course I did,” he said. He was whispering, his face close to hers. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

  Eadric was at the opposite side of the table working his dagger against the shackle locks. He freed first her hand, and then her leg.

  Mykal stood up and pressed his palm on the steel. It unclasped. He forced the one on her other leg off with a flip of his wrist.

  “My hand,” Galatia said. She sounded very weak, and appeared unable to raise her arm. Mykal unrolled her fingers. In her palm was the amethyst the mermaids had given her as a gift. “I got it back from the king. I want you to have it.”

  Her tongue lapped over dry and cracked lips, but did not seem to bring relief. Mykal wasn’t sure what she was talking about, other than King Hermon must have taken the pendant from her at one point.

  “There is one more thing,” she said. “On the floor, there is a dagger—the one you retrieved from the Gorge Caves under the Zenith Mountains.”

  “Matteo’s dagger,” Mykal said.

  “He was your grandfather. I know that now Matteo was your mother’s father. The dagger is a perfect weapon for a young wizard. Keep it with you always,” she said.

  Quill stepped forward. “Here it is.”

  Mykal stared at the remains of his grandfather. His heart swelled inside his chest. He thought of his mother. Although he never knew this man, he still suffered at the loss. The tears brimmed under his eyes. He swiped them away with his sleeve. “This never should have happened, Grandfather. I am so sorry I could not get here sooner. I am so sorry I failed you.”

  Mykal held the dagger by the hilt, and quickly looked at the gold, forged in dragon’s fire. He dropped his old dagger, and sheathed the one from his grandfather.

  “I’m going to heal you.” Mykal looked toward Galatia.

  She shook her head. “It’s too late. It’s my time,” she said. “I’ve nothing left inside of me. I have no more to give.”

  Mykal didn’t want to lose her. He couldn’t let her slip away without a fight. He’d just lost a grandfather he’d never known. He wasn’t about to give up on his friend. “It’s my fault we didn’t get here sooner. You can’t talk that way,” he said. He used his sleeve and swiped away tears from his own eyes. “I can fix this. I can fix you.”

  “I can’t do anymore,” she said.

  He wasn’t going to let her give up. Not now. They were here. She could be saved, rescued. “Galatia,” he said
, pleading.

  Quill and Eadric combed through the carnage, checking the corpses. “What went on here?” Quill said.

  “He stole magic from the wizards,” Galatia said. “He summoned them. He used me to call them here. They didn’t know. They came unsuspecting. They came because I called them. His ambush was horrific. They never saw the attack coming.”

  Mykal glanced over his shoulder, took in the bodies on the ground. He knew that one of the two dead magicians was his grandfather; he might never know which one. There would be a better time for mourning. Now was not that time. His hand went instinctively to the hilt of his new dagger.

  He shook his head. “Stole the magic? He has it now? It’s in him?”

  “He has become very powerful. More powerful than you or I alone,” she said.

  “We have to stop him,” Mykal said. “I need your help to do that.”

  Her eyes were wide open, and stared into his.

  Mykal waited, but she never blinked.

  “Galatia?” he said. “Galatia!”

  Eadric stood beside his son. “She’s gone.”

  “I can bring her back,” he said, and stood up straight. He went to the foot of the table, placed the pendant in his vest pocket, and raised his arms above his head. Closing his eyes, he breathed in slow and deep. He held the breath for several moments, and then as he exhaled, his magic was released.

  The smoke in the dungeon spun around in a crazy whirlwind. The blue flames flickered and swayed leaning toward him. The hair on their heads rose into the air. A charge passed through Mykal’s body. It was hot like an intense fire burning inside of him. It started at his toes and passed through him like a flash of lightning. Brilliant blue bolts shot out of his fingertips. They zapped Galatia’s limbs. Her arms, legs, and torso bounced on the table. All of her vibrated, and contorted in unnatural angles. She almost fell off the table before Mykal finally stopped.

  Quill stepped forward. He lowered his head near her mouth, and listened. “She’s not breathing.”

  Mykal said, “Stand back.”

  He called on his powers again. He aimed everything he could at her chest. He wanted her heart restarted. The bolts pierced her chest. Once again her body flailed on the table.

  The sustained charge flew from his hands and filled the sorcerer.

  This time Eadric checked on Galatia. He listened for breathing, and placed a hand on her chest to see if her heart still beat. “She’s gone, son. You tried. You did everything you could.”

  “Karyn had been a healer. That might be the difference,” Quill said.

  Karyn. She had brought Mykal back to life. In doing so, she had sacrificed her own. She had acted selflessly, believing that Mykal’s purpose had been greater than hers.

  Mykal’s legs gave out. He fell hard onto the ground, and onto his back. His eyes closed, and a welcome darkness overcame him.

  Chapter 28

  King Hermon Cordillera led his men on horseback through the narrow, snaking trails of the Rames. He could not ignore the regal feeling filling him. He rode with his head high. The need for sleep still persisted, but wasn’t as strong. Once on his ship, Shadow, maybe he’d sneak into his quarters for a bit. He may not need the rest. The adrenaline coursing through him was uplifting, powerful.

  The black sky lit with flashes of white lightning. Thunder boomed, drowning out the sound of horse hoofs on the stony path. No rain fell, but the wind had picked up considerably. Cordillera’s cape flapped, waved, and snapped behind him in the cold, constant gusts. Ahead he saw white caps on the Isthmian Sea, and imagined swells growing by the minute.

  His fingers tingled. The sensation circled around and around in his palm, and then shot up his forearms. He gripped, and re-gripped the reins, to no avail. Magic was going to take getting used to. In all of his wildest dreams, he never expected the power to surge through him the way it surged now.

  His eyes felt the most sensitive. The darkness between flashes of lightning was not so dark. There was a glow around everything, and a radiating red that enveloped living creatures. He wondered if wolves hunting at night saw things this way. He thought he was like a nocturnal predator now. The magic had enhanced more than his sight. His hearing improved. Off to the left he heard a snake slither between rocks, and in a nest above, falcons moving about. His mind reached out and touched on the thoughts from his captains. It was a boggled mess at first, but once he could differentiate between inner voices, he was able to place names and faces with views.

  His men were afraid.

  Fear was acceptable.

  They were headed into battle. Not all of them would return.

  He combed through their emotions, searching for anyone who considered his actions uncalled for or evil. Treason would not be tolerated. So far, he hadn’t picked up on traitors in his midst. Fear was the theme they shared.

  He wasn’t afraid.

  He was their king, their leader.

  There wasn’t room for fear.

  They didn’t know who it was they followed into war, either.

  He wanted to tell them.

  They wouldn’t believe him. People needed proof. If they couldn’t see something, witness it first hand, they doubted.

  He would show them what he could do. Just not yet. The time would come.

  When it did, that would put their minds at ease. They would shed fear like a molting snake slithering out of old skin.

  They would raise their swords in unison and stand with him, unafraid.

  That was what he would do for them. He would take away their fear.

  It wouldn’t be magic he used, either.

  They would witness his amazing power, and their fear would vanish.

  Gone.

  That would be the best part of his ruling, having the support, and loyalty of his men because they wanted to pledge it toward him, and his cause!

  And not only because he made them follow him.

  He almost heard the cheers from his subjects, from his knights, as he removed his iron and steel crown as king of the Osiris Realm, and replaced it with a new, more impressive crown as emperor over the four kingdoms!

  His lifelong obsession with ruling, with righting the death of his brother, was coming to fruition.

  ***

  Mykal opened his eyes. He was moving. It felt as if he was floating. The toes of his boots kicked against stone stairs. Quill and Eadric carried him. They groaned and grunted.

  “I’m okay,” he said. He knew his words were spoken softly. He wasn’t sure if anyone heard him.

  At the top of the staircase, they stopped.

  “I can stand,” Mykal said. He wasn’t sure if he could, or not. He wanted to try. They released him, slowly, holding him in place until he had balance. “I’m okay.”

  “You scared me,” Eadric said. “Quill explained using magic wears you out.”

  “I felt like a castle wall dropped onto my head,” Mykal said. There was a dull throb inside his skull. The backs of his eyeballs ached. He would love keeping his eyes closed. “Where are we?”

  “We need to get back to the servants’ quarters,” Quill said.

  “The castle’s too quiet. I don’t like this.” Eadric looked around. His jaw moved back and forth grinding his teeth. “Dawn is fast approaching. There should be more activity in this castle by now. Servants cleaning, chefs cooking, something. And yet the place is as silent as a tomb.”

  Mykal sensed the urgency in his father’s words. He was blanketed by his own failure. If they could have arrived sooner, he might have saved Galatia. They’d wasted too much time reaching the Osiris Realm. No. That wasn’t accurate. He had wasted too much time. This was his fault. Three times he had failed Galatia. When she was taken, he hadn’t been able to stop King Hermon. When King Hermon tortured her into summoning the wizards, and siphoned their power, he’d been slowly making his way for Osiris. And finally when she died in front of him it was because he’d not been powerful enough of a sorcerer to bring her back. Galatia’
s death was blood on his hands. No one else’s.

  “Shh. Listen,” Quill said.

  There was a buzz of activity. It was dim, but definitely came from toward the front of the castle. Eadric said, “The front foyer? Where the staircase was located?”

  “Yes. It is,” Quill said.

  “Then we should not go back the way we came,” Eadric said.

  “My brilliant brother. Good call.” Quill shifted his attention. “Mykal, will you be able to walk on your own? Mykal?”

  Eadric snapped his fingers in front of Mykal’s face.

  “He’s not here,” Mykal said. “The king. He’s not here. He’s left the castle.”

  “When?” Quill said.

  Mykal shook his head, as if it would make the images inside his head more crisp, and clear. The images, however, were not inside of his head. He used his magic, reached out with his mind, and found the king. He was easy enough to track down. The king’s power was as bright as a lighthouse beacon. It glowed once Mykal knew what to look for.

  Mykal planted himself inside King Hermon Cordillera’s skull, and shared space looking through his eyes.

  The Mountain King either sensed something was wrong, or was aware of Mykal’s presence, because all at once he fought the mental rape with magic of his own.

  A surge of power left the king, and shot straight for Mykal. It moved like a slender cloud of black smoke, slithering and moving like a snake past the knights following the king, and back toward the castle. It traveled with speed, but not stealth, up the path Mykal had created when finding the king.

  Mykal felt the king’s approaching presence in waves as if cold, wet slime traced over his limbs, and immediately broke the connection. It seemed like the link was severed just in time; just before King Hermon could tap into Mykal’s brain. However, the abrupt disconnect sent Mykal reeling backward.

  Mykal’s father and uncle reached out and caught him by the arms, keeping him from toppling over. He was stunned and off-balance for a moment. He couldn’t tell if his feet were planted on the floor. His knees wobbled, and he felt light-headed. Behind his eyes he saw floating white and black spots.