Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web - Volume 1 (35 page)

A clash of swords echoed in the darkness as another half dozen blue flaming arrows sailed overhead, all descending upon one particular storehouse inside the compound. In seconds, flames burst from within the building, spitting out from windows and the rooftop as panicked shouts of alarm rippled behind the walls. Caldurian listened closely as the sword fighting intensified, a few screams and muffled words punctuating the moment. As the first hints of dawn intensified, the wizard smiled, hearing the one sound he had been eagerly anticipating. The main gates had been unbarred by the Enâri from within and flung wide open. He imagined the same thing happening at all the lesser gates as the sounds and voices of the fighting suddenly magnified.

Seconds later, soldiers from the Northern Isles charged inside the compound while the Enâri overwhelmed their outnumbered opponents near the wall. Commander Jarrin’s troops bolted toward Red Lodge as a slew of King Rowan’s guards scrambled down the wide front steps. Swords were drawn and the fighting commenced at once, but most of the royal guard was quickly defeated by the tidal wave of Island men and a stampede of Enâri who joined the clash as the fighting near the gates diminished. The remaining members of the King’s Guard retreated inside and tried to bar the main entrance, but the sheer weight of Jarrin’s men slamming against the thick wooden doors like an avalanche of boulders was no match for the opposition. The doors burst wide open and the invaders spread through the royal quarters like wildfire.

Outside, Caldurian passed through the main gates in triumph with Gwyn and Jarrin at his side as the sky brightened in the east. The long, wide courtyard dotted with trees, shrubbery and gardens contained a sea of Enâri soldiers. Many had made their way into the smaller buildings, fighting whoever opposed them. The garrison had long since been emptied while the fire in one of the storehouses continued to burn. Slain bodies of Montavian soldiers lay about, their spilt blood slowly reddening in the growing light. A few of the Enâri had been killed, though their lifeless corpses were devoid of any bloodshed and their eyes had turned the color of dark stone.

“At last a success I can report to Vellan!” Caldurian said as he marched up the front steps of Red Lodge, the first distant cries from within the city reaching his ears.

“The alliance between Kargoth and the Northern Isles has succeeded beyond my expectations,” Commander Jarrin pleasantly admitted.

“You had doubts?” the wizard remarked as they entered the building, walking down the main hall illuminated by oil lamps attached to wooden pillars decorated with garlands of autumn leaves and berries. “Surely they are erased at this point. Don’t you agree, Gwyn?”

“Absolutely!” the Enâr replied with a satisfied grunt, thrilled with the taste of victory after a long, tiresome confinement in the Spirit Caves. “I had no doubts.”

“Well, the doubts are behind me now,” Jarrin said. “Now let’s see what lies ahead instead, shall we?”

“Indeed we shall,” the wizard remarked lightheartedly. “And the first item on our list is an appointment with King Rowan.”

The clash of swords resonated throughout Red Lodge as the first rays of sunlight seeped in through the southeast windows. Most of the royal guard had been killed or taken prisoner within the hour, though a few skirmishes still raged in some of the rooms. Enâri guards were posted throughout the building, including near the kitchens and offices, instructing all workers to continue performing their jobs. The flash of a sword blade or the threat of a wooden club kept the civilians in line.

Havla, one of Jarrin’s soldiers with a mop of long, stringy hair, had located King Rowan who was now engaged in a battle on the second floor and protected by a stalwart group of his guardsmen. Caldurian instructed Havla to lead the way there at once, and soon they were rushing down a wide hallway whose walls were carved with elaborate woodworking bedecked with tapestries and flickering light. Throaty shouts and the striking of metal against metal were audible inside a room at the end of the corridor. A dead soldier from the Northern Isles lay sprawled upon the ground near the doorway.

“Hurry!” Commander Jarrin cried, drawing a sword.

A moment later, he and Havla burst into the room with Caldurian and Gwyn close behind. Several dead bodies were scattered near a stone fireplace, the wooden floor stained with blood. Two of King Rowan’s soldiers were ushering a man out of the room through a second doorway in back as Jarrin entered. The soldiers immediately closed ranks in front of the man whose fierce brown eyes matched the color of his short hair. He wore a silver waistcoat over a black, gray and white checkered tunic, brown boots and trousers. A sword in his ornate scabbard hung lifelessly at his side.

“We’ll hold off the intruders!” one of the guards shouted to the man. “You must leave now.”

“Nonsense! I’ll fight to save my house to the end,” King Rowan cried, urging the guards on.

The two men sprang forward with swords drawn, fighting Commander Jarrin and Havla. Moments later, one of the guards was struck dead by Jarrin. Havla was seriously wounded shortly after, earning a swift death. The King then drew his sword, glaring wildly at Caldurian and Gwyn as he advanced. Gwyn unsheathed a sword, preparing to rush forward, when the wizard held him back.

“Not necessary,” he softly said, glancing at the Enâr who looked up at him in puzzlement. But when King Rowan advanced in a fiery rage, Caldurian raised an arm and extended his fingers, causing the sword to fly out of the King’s hand. The wizard pulled out a dagger at his side an instant later and flung it at King Rowan, sending him collapsing to the floor upon his back. The second guardsman fell dead at the same moment as Commander Jarrin pulled his reddened blade from the man’s body.

The King stared at the rafters, feeling dizzy as he listened to his pounding heart. He turned his head, noting the dagger handle sticking out of his shoulder. Blood had begun to cake on his checkered tunic. The wizard advanced toward him with slow, deliberate steps that cast dull echoes off the high ceiling.

“Will you kill me now, scoundrel?” King Rowan said with contempt.

Caldurian looked down. “If I had wanted you dead, I would have pierced your heart. After all, my aim is impeccable.” He reached down and pulled out the knife, causing the King to wince. The wizard placed a hand over King Rowan’s wound and the pain temporarily subsided. “Still, I’d have your court physician examine that wound if I were you. We’ll talk afterward.”

The late morning sun slipped through a window in the King’s upper study. Outside, the Gestina River sparkled in the distance as the remaining leaves from a thicket of white birch trees fluttered onto the flowing water. King Rowan gingerly slipped on a dark blue waistcoat over a clean gray tunic, both of which had been supplied to him after his physician attended to his wound. The King sat down in a chair in front of a large pine table that served as a desk. Caldurian had allowed the physician to be brought in after King Rowan was confined to his upper study. Two soldiers from the Northern Isles stood guard outside the door.

A few moments later, the wizard walked into the room accompanied by a woman wearing a beige dress with decorative embroidery and a blue woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She was in her mid-thirties, her long blond hair set in a thick braid. As soon as the woman saw King Rowan, she rushed to his side.

“Are you all right, Father? I had feared the worst,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice as she took his hand.

“I’m quite fine thanks to Elwood,” he replied, indicating his physician with a slight turn of the head. He then glanced at Caldurian. “Thank you for allowing my daughter-in-law to visit me. I didn’t want her to worry.”

“Vilna may stay here as long as you cooperate,” Caldurian said before gazing at the young woman. “I’m sorry to hear that Prince Kendrick is no longer with you. I heard of his passing a few years ago when I was on the Isles. An accident, was it? A rockslide?”

Vilna scoffed at him with an icy glance. “You care not a whit for my dead husband, wizard, so why pretend?”

“Vilna, please,” King Rowan whispered, patting her hand.

“I’m sorry, Father, but I will not pretend to be civil with this invader. Let him lock me up in a garrison cell if he must.”

“Perhaps not yet,” the wizard replied dryly.

“We will cooperate,” the King promised. “But the death of my son is a family matter, so allow us to keep it such. Do not upset my daughter-in-law any further.”

“My apologies.” Caldurian pointed to a fireplace in the corner of the room. Suddenly the low flames ignited with a roar, the rush of warm air swaying a set of thick red drapes adorning the adjacent window. “That’s better. It’s damp in here.”

“Some hot soup would do His Majesty a world of good,” Elwood piped up, glancing cautiously at the wizard. “Just a suggestion.”

“Then make it happen, physician. Alert the kitchen to your request and have them bring lunch for all of us. I could do with a bit of soup myself.”

“As you wish,” he replied, nervously raking his fingers through a head of gray, straw-textured hair before fishing through a leather medicine bag that rarely left his side. Elwood removed a glass vial containing a coarse, dark powder and handed it to King Rowan. “And if it would please you, sir, sprinkle a bit of this ground rasaweed in your tea before bed over the next few nights. But just a bit, mind you, as it is quite potent. It will help you to get a deep, recuperative sleep which is most necessary after your injury.”

“It
doesn’t
please me, Elwood,” the King gruffly replied, grabbing the vial and slapping it down on the desk. “But I would like some soup.”

“Of course,” he said with a nod before hurrying out the door.

“He performs his duties admirably, though is a bit tiring to be around,” Caldurian quipped a moment later. “Like a busy child that has to be constantly watched.”

“Elwood has been in my service for years. He’s earned my respect and admiration countless times,” King Rowan said. “But now that he is gone, I will speak freely. Surely you’re not here just to pass idle chatter with my daughter-in-law and me, are you?”

“You could have endured a worse fate,” Caldurian said, “had Vellan himself invaded your domain. So be thankful for that bit of fortune. But what’s wrong with some conversation? And speaking of children, where are yours?” the wizard remarked, focusing his gaze upon Vilna. “Where are the heirs to the throne of Montavia?”

Vilna scowled with disdain, countering his potent stare for a moment before glancing at King Rowan for solace. The King sighed, addressing Caldurian.

“Brendan and William have been in Arrondale for six weeks. They insisted on accompanying some of my troops who’ve been traveling in rotations to train in Morrenwood with King Justin’s finest,” he explained. “Arrondale has a far superior military, and I am not ashamed to say that I welcomed their training and knowledge. My men have enjoyed visiting our neighbor to the west and returning as superior soldiers.”

“I must admit that you faced our initial invasion with a much heartier resistance than I had expected,” the wizard replied.

“You beat us in numbers only,” Vilna said. “Were we more evenly matched, the Island men and Vellan’s pitiful creations would not have stood a chance.”

“Perhaps.”

King Rowan’s face tightened as he took a deep breath. “Know this, Caldurian. When word gets out of Montavia about your attack–and trust me, it will–reinforcements will arrive and drive you and your host out of here. And my two grandsons and the remaining Montavian troops still training in Arrondale will be leading the charge. Mark my words!” The King leaned back in his chair, his dark mood somewhat lessened. “No matter how many of your troops infest my lands, you cannot guard every house and road and woodland in the kingdom. Patriots young and old will sneak through your nets and plan a resistance. Your stay here is temporary.”

Caldurian nodded as he paced about the room, briefly admiring a painting of the nearby countryside. “That’s one way to look at it. Yet more men from the Northern Isles will eventually pour onto your shores, and Vellan is most certainly going to march additional columns of Enâri this way, transforming Montavia into something you will not recognize.” He turned and faced King Rowan. “That is another way to look at it, sir. And if you were a realist, you would admit that that is Montavia’s fate. But deep in your heart, I think there’s a part of you that has already admitted it, that has accepted defeat. It’s just a matter of time until your mind accepts the same truth.”

King Rowan grunted. “Your words may dishearten the souls of others, but I am not easily discouraged. Montavia has suffered a grave defeat, but my nation is not dead yet. Help will soon arrive–” A knock on the door interrupted him. Three individuals from the kitchens entered, carrying trays of food and a pitcher of cold milk for the King’s lunch. “–and arrive when least expected. No, Caldurian, the people of Montavia will not give up so easily! Word of this outrage will reach King Justin’s ear in Morrenwood and the resounding reply will crush you.” The King looked at Vilna who returned a steely, yet barely perceptible smile.

“We shall see,” Caldurian said. “But at the first sign of any revolt, my response will be swift and deadly. Your garrison cells will be filled up with more than just your soldiers. That is why I am having the leaders of your largest villages brought here tomorrow. You will demand the cooperation of their communities on my behalf if you want to keep any semblance of peace in this realm. You will have only one chance.”