Severed Empire: Wizard's War

Phillip Tomasso

MIRROR MATTER PRESS

AUSTIN, TEXAS

www.mirrormatterpress.com

Mirror Matter Press

Austin, TX

www.mirrormatterpress.com

June 2016

“Wizard’s War” © 2015 Phillip Tomasso

This is a work of collected Fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.

Cover Art by Jim Agpalza

Book Design by Travis Tarpley

Dedication

This one is for my kids. You always amaze, and inspire me!

Prologue

King Hermon Cordillera knew everyone called him the Mountain King. It was a fitting name, so he didn’t mind. His castle was like an illusion that tricked the eyes. Built into the peaks of the Rames, and blending perfectly with the grey rock and dark clouds, the magnificent structure was even more camouflaged under often brooding skies. This, of course, was the obvious reason behind the name, a way people could talk about him without allegations of treason. He knew his being called the Mountain King also came from fear, and maybe a sliver of respect. While he’d never heard rumor of civil unrest, if there were ever an uprising he would crush everyone involved, the people within the Osiris Realm knew as much. If pressed, content, he would settle for ruling over nothing but rock and his valleys of land behind the mountain.

His was the only kingdom still standing on the east side of the Isthmian Sea under the Old Empire. He ruled the Osiris Realm in a way much different than his father. His father and grandfather had been happy with just their jagged piece of the pie. Hermon aspired to greatness, and saw no reason why he couldn’t expand his reign. Each day he was closer to realizing his dream. Yes,
yes
, blood would be shed, lives lost, but that was a necessity of war.

The last several weeks had proven beneficial. With many of his goals met, what he’d acquired would help him begin his work toward becoming the new emperor of the Old Empire. In his possession were three charmed talismans: a chalice, a dagger and a mirror. These he could use to summon three powerful wizards who had been in hiding for centuries. The items were locked away in Ida’s room. They were safe there under her protection. His sorcerer had proven herself time and again. Her reward, if she stayed the course, would be just and potentially limitless.

The prize, however, was locked away in the dungeon. Inside, the wizard, Galatia, was bound and gagged. This prevented her from waving her hands around and speaking magic into existence. Even if she found a way loose of her bindings, the dungeon and very cell she occupied were enchanted. Ida had helped cast that particularly powerful spell. It prevented Galatia from ever escaping. Crossing the threshold would kill her as surely as a bolt of lightning through the skull.

Ida impressed him; her magic continually became more potent by the day. For now, she was the strongest sorcerer in the Old Empire, and perhaps across all empires.

He strode through the halls of his castle. Nothing was better than the rhythmic sound of his heels stomping on rock floors. Banners bearing the family sigil hung on walls between tall, thin stained glass windows. Mounted torches burned from evening until dawn, letting his shadows flicker as they walked beside him. He stretched out his fingers in black leather gloves, pulling the ends up past his wrists. Standing guard in front of the bolted door, the captain saw him approach and stood at attention.

“Sire.” Captain Mansel looked as if he might be holding his breath. He wore an inverted triangle of hair on his chin under his lower lip. The mustache under his nose was long, and thin. His helmet sat by his feet; the steel dull, and dented from use, and therefore acceptable in appearance. The captain held a spear in both hands, angled from the floor by his left foot, to past his right shoulder. The hilt of his sword was easily accessible, if needed. The captain was well trained and more than a capable warrior. He might consider protecting the dungeons a menial task, but if he understood the value of the prisoner below, the compliment would be far more apparent.

“Evening, Captain Mansel. How is our
guest
?” The Mountain King arched an eyebrow, curious, but not really expecting a report to suggest anything other than normal.

“Fine, sire. Not so much as a sound from her.” The captain smirked. He was a head taller than the king. His long hair touched his shoulders. The man’s eyes were dark, and closely set, a little too small for his face. When he smiled they became tiny slits, accented by the wrinkles at the corners by his temples.

“That’s good to hear. Stand aside, captain.” It wasn’t that Hermon didn’t trust the guard’s word because he did, but there was no way Galatia could be anything other than silent. Last time he checked the iron shackles had chafed skin on the wrists of her outstretched arms, and the ankles of her spread legs. Savoring the flavor of her magic made his mouth water. The time to harness power unto him was fast at hand. While Ida made the necessary preparations, they still needed the wizard’s participation. She alone knew how to utilize the talismans, which was what made his prisoner invaluable.

Given enough time, she’d break and bend a knee in his presence. The problem, however,
was
time. His impatience for power grew thin. With everything he’d desired since the death of his brother now being so close, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait. The only way to speed up breaking someone with a strong will was by increasing the level of discomfort.

Time was up.

The countless chances, opportunities, and bargains he’d afforded her were now off the table. It was unfortunate she’d forced him to take this path, but he wasn’t too terribly disappointed. Her muffled screams were often a symphony to his ears. Before long, she’d surrender the instructions, even if at the cost of her very life.

The Mountain King whistled a loud and nearly tuneless melody as he descended the uneven and damp staircase. Spotted moss-covered walls leaked water, reminding Hermon of perpetual tears. The core of the dungeon was frigid because the dungeon was deep in the bowels of the mountain; the walls never accessed the warmth of the sun’s rays. The pungent odor of sweat, spilled blood, and mold assaulted his nostrils. There was another scent, too. This one was perhaps stronger than the others, and far more distinct.

He smelled fear.

One torch burned at the bottom of the stairs. The light it provided barely penetrated the darkness. The dark was almost alive in the dungeons, as if a breathing entity. The mind naturally feared the dark, saw shadows in it that might or might not be there. There always seemed to be something moving just ahead, and behind. If one listened closely, sounds accompanied the dark. Scraping. Whispers. Moans. As a child Hermon was always convinced something lived in the darkness around him. As an adult, a king, he knew better. The dark no longer scared him. He didn’t allow it to have that kind of power over his life. The danger didn’t come from the shadows; the danger came from him.

King Hermon lifted the torch from its bracket. He held it out in front of him as he walked past closed and locked solid wood doors. He continued whistling. Each step was slow and calculated. His heels still echoed on the rock floor, but the echo was killed off almost immediately. The sound became flat, almost menacing.

The cells were carved out of the rock; small rooms with low ceilings and jagged walls. Eye level on each door was three iron bars, with just enough opening for a guard to check in on a prisoner. Food—if food was permitted—was merely slid into the cell underneath the door. At the end of the block in a recessed room were barred cells, and the dungeon itself.

The rack sat in the center of the room, a long imposing table. Hermon loved the device. With prisoner’s arms and legs secured by rope, or chains, the dungeon master spun a crank. Eventually limbs were dislocated. If the cranking continued, they were torn off the body. Unlike footfalls, down here screams did echo.

In the far right corner was a large crudely constructed chair where the seat, back, and arms were covered with hundreds of spikes. Leather straps secured arms, chest and legs to the seat so that one could not lift off the spikes until the treatment concluded. Death was almost certain. While there was a lot of blood, it seemed like infection from untreated wounds was the bigger culprit.

The iron pear hung on a hook near the second wood table. The dungeon master told the king time and again he favored this tool. Four closed leaves were inserted into an orifice, chosen depending on the crime. The master turned a crank opening the leaves. When used in the mouth the jaw and teeth broke, and the gums shredded. Gretta, a peasant who was found guilty of adultery, had suffered a hideous fate. The dungeon master thrust the pear into where her sin originated. She’d never bear children. Death might have been preferred for her actions. The pear did more than tear skin, it permanently mutilated prisoners. Gretta still walked with a cane.