Severed Empire: Wizard's War (2 page)

King Hermon remembered when they hung Boxman by his feet from a rafter. He’d murdered a neighbor’s child. The man was not right in the head. You saw it in his face, the way his eyes drooped, and his mouth was always open. He didn’t talk as much as grunt. Two torturers were needed for this particular contrivance. The guard and the dungeon master used a crosscut. They set the teeth of the blade on Boxman’s groin, and then sawed back and forth slicing through the man until they reached the navel. Blood, feces, and intestines spilled from the gaping gash. The stench reached unbearable levels and the king was forced to retreat out of the dungeon.

Galatia hung upside down and spread-eagled against the jagged rock wall. Her face was red. Her face was so red it seemed likely that her whole body’s blood was pooled inside her brain. A large silver ball had been stuffed into her mouth, and was held in place with a strap that secured like a belt with a buckle behind her head.

The Mountain King stopped whistling and made a show of pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time. Lifting the pear off the hook on the wall, he sat on the edge of the rack and turned the crank on the instrument. His eyes widened, as if surprised, as the four leaves opened.

“That unnaturally green hair.” He walked closer to his prisoner. He brushed his fingers through the strands, and stopped when the tip touched the purple teardrop amethyst around her neck. “And this. A keepsake? Spent some time living with the mermaids, have you? They’re a nasty bunch. Filthy, smelly race of creatures.”

The sorceress watched him with wide, terrified-looking eyes.

He yanked the necklace off, and cupped the rare jewel in his palm. “Whether you realize it or not, you will answer my questions; you will follow my commands. You think keeping silent will show me how strong you are? It won’t. I’ll break you. And between you and me, I will enjoy the work. That’s right. Me. I will not have someone else steal away from me the pleasure of making you scream. The right is mine. Those talismans? You will summon the other wizards. You will call them here.”

She shook her head. Her lips were chapped. The woman was dehydrated. He wondered if offering water in exchange for compliance would work easiest, but buried the idea. What fun would that be?

The king grinned, and leaned in close. His face was right in front of hers. He stared into her eyes for a moment, until his vision blurred, and then backed away a few inches. “Oh, I am confident you will. Quite confident you will do everything I ask of you.” He held up the iron pear. She didn’t know he wouldn’t use the device. He wanted her mentally broken, not physically destroyed. Keeping her somewhat intact was an essential part of the plan. “What kind of damage can a king do with a toy like this?”

He laughed as the restrained wizard pulled and tugged at her chains, writhing, and moaning, desperate for freedom.

The dark was nothing to fear. King Hermon laughed.

***

Curled into a ball, Mykal shivered. When he opened his eyes he saw he was lying down in freshly fallen snow. The flakes covered his body like a cruel blanket. He shook off the snow, brushing it off of his shoulders and legs as he sat up. He hugged himself, drawing his knees up to his chest, and continued shivering. The fire had gone out. The wood in the small fire pit looked frozen over, the burnt brown bark was coated in a thin layer of ice. He remembered the wind had howled during the night, although at the time, he’d have sworn it had been part of a nightmare where he was chased by werewolves. Thankfully, wind, and
not
werewolves, made much more sense.

His dear friend, Blodwyn, and his Uncle Quill slept soundly. He saw their chests rise and fall. The three of them wreathed the fire pit, and had perhaps sucked every last bit of warmth out of the flames. He reached for the wood stacked in the pit, and with his magic blew on it. The ice melted, and flakes were whisked away. He dusted the remaining signs of mountain weather off with finger tips. Re-stacking the wood, he sat back and stared intently at the teepee he’d constructed and watched as the wood magically caught fire. Small tendrils of grey smoke snaked upward into the night sky. Orange flame flickered and danced as the wood below crackled, and sparked. Cherry embers moved in the pile of ashes under the wood. In just moments the fire was awake and burned hot. Mykal rubbed his hands together and then held his palms out by the flames. Heat radiated off the split logs. It felt wonderful.

Blodwyn had been a friend of the family since before he had been born, so the two had known each other for seventeen years. Like with his mother, Blodwyn promised to protect and teach Mykal to defend himself. At the time, Mykal hadn’t understood the necessity. Only during this journey did he learn the truth about his past, and his mother. They were wizards. Ironically, Blodwyn taught them both—his mother before he had been born, and then him, after she’d gone away—how to use swords, daggers, and their hands in combat, instead of relying on magic. King Nabal’s decree still proclaimed that wizards receive death sentences.

Blodwyn, who always wore a tan tunic under his dark green cloak, also always carried a six-foot-long cedar wood and iron staff. It was his weapon of choice. His black hair was long, and thin. His eyebrows, however, were thick and bushy as if fat caterpillars had fallen asleep above his eyes. His moustache was far tamer. The sides drooped down past his jowls, and the triangle patch of hair from his chin was neatly braided. The man was something of a mystery, and never talked of his past. He’d alluded to days of mischief before he’d met Mykal’s mother, but without specifics. Mykal was thankful for his teachings, but more so for Blodwyn’s friendship.

When Mykal met Quill, the head of the Archers, he’d been surprised because he’d never known his father had a brother. It was not something his grandfather ever mentioned. Quill lived above the trees in the Cicade Forest with a small army of men who once served King Nabal, either as knights, or part of the Watch. The Archers were considered bandits, rebels, and ultimately an enemy of the crown. The time limited time Mykal spent with the Archers proved otherwise. The first encounter hadn’t gone smooth. He’d exercised his magic without much control, and the outcome would haunt his nights forever.

Mykal and his uncle looked very similar. Quill was about seven inches taller, but they were both broad shouldered, and bulky from large arm and leg muscles. They kept dark beards trimmed close to their faces, or
had
kept them trimmed, since there hadn’t been much time for shaving the last month or so. Quill wore a hat, with a large brim that was bent, curled on the sides, and pulled down in front. While Quill wore a mossy green cloak that was more like a cape, and was secured over the shoulder with a large dragonfly pin, Mykal had on a vest he’d made himself with brown leather, and a high collar.

Staring at the flame, Mykal’s mind reeled from events of their recent past. Blodwyn had used sellswords, who were also
his
friends, to keep an eye on Mykal’s grandfather and the farm. The farm was a small home on a few anorexic acres of land on the west banks of the sea, but east of Nabal’s castle, which was well within the Grey Ashland Realm.

Mykal still worried. Grandfather was old, and crippled. He’d lost a leg fighting for King Nabal, and was given nothing but grief in return. Grandfather would be worried, as well. They had been gone so long Mykal lost count of the days and nights. It was impossible not to feel defeated. He and his friends had gone on this journey, to retrieve items hidden by ancient wizards. Galatia was going to use the items to summon those wizards. She explained that King Hermon Cordillera planned to use wizard’s magic to start a war. The king wanted to expand his land to encompass the entire Old Empire. In essence, he wanted to trade in his crown and become the new emperor.

He thought about Karyn. It was near impossible to accept her death. He wore her opal broach on his vest. It had been all she possessed from her father’s kingdom. He would keep it close to his heart forever. She’d given her life to save his. He’d not been strong enough to bring her back from the beyond. What made his life any more valuable? Nothing. He kept expecting he’d see her again. Oftentimes on their trek back across the Zenith Mountains he’d look back, but she wasn’t there. She couldn’t be there. They’d buried her by the Balefire River. The spot looked peaceful enough. It was a small grassy knoll under the million drooping limbs of a Weeping Willow. He didn’t need a marker. There was no way he’d forget where she was laid to rest. As she was an orphan no one else would visit the spot. Still, they marked the head of her grave with a half-buried flat stone.

When King Hermon stole the talismans from them, and kidnapped Galatia, there was little they could do. The king had an army with him, and an evil sorcerer. Her control of magic was nearly immeasurable. They’d been ambushed, caught off guard, and lost the battle against the king.

The snow fell, and kept falling. The wind blew, but without howling. The smoke from the fire swirled and rolled and rose. Blodwyn’s snoring masked the crackle from the burning logs. Mykal tried hugging himself tighter. His arms wrapped around his legs. He couldn’t get warm. Although it was too dark to see the Zenith Mountains, he could feel them. They were large and foreboding, and seemed to close in on him. They towered above like giants, as if gods from childhood stories he’d once heard.

Were the mountains watching him? He must be like an insect to their eyes if they could, in fact, see. He thought of how he sometimes treated insects as a child. Without warning, too often he crushed bugs underfoot for no other reason than to do so. What if the mountains squashed him like a spider?

Spiders didn’t count. They were more than just bugs. And despite what anyone said his fear of the arachnids was not irrational, but qualified. Why did they come with eight, hairy legs, and pincers like fangs? How many eyes did those creatures even have? Nothing about those monsters made any sense at all!

He felt suddenly claustrophobic and in danger sitting by the fire, the only one awake. His senses were on high alert, and probably for no reason.

He’d never fall back to sleep.

Mykal closed his eyes, regardless. He wanted the anger he felt to go away. He’d lost his parents when he was just a child. He knew now that his mother left because she was a wizard, and feared persecution. His father went after her. When he couldn’t find her, he was too ashamed and never came back.

They’d left him in the care of his crippled grandfather, and then they both died. He kept the feeling of betrayal inside. Having only recently met his Uncle Quill, Mykal blamed Blodwyn for keeping the secret. It was difficult not talking through clenched teeth. Eventually, they’d have it out. He could not think of a worthy reason for sheltering him. Even if tortured he’d never give up family. Blodwyn must know as much!

He grew up thinking that way only to learn back by the Balefire River he’d been wrong. Uncle Quill knew where his father was. Blodwyn took responsibility for hiding his mother from King Golan Nabal’s crusaders.

They were both alive.

Now, the three of them—Mykal, Blodwyn, and Quill—were on a new quest, embarking on the second leg of their journey. They were going to find his mother and father. They needed to warn King Nabal of the Mountain King’s plans, and then rescue Galatia.

Somehow they needed a way for restoring order, and stopping a seemingly inevitable war.

King Hermon Cordillera won the battle two weeks ago, having stolen the talismans, killing Karyn, and kidnapping Galatia. There was no question. He had won that battle. Hands down.

The war wasn’t lost.

It was just beginning…

Chapter 1

They walked single file, Blodwyn took point, Mykal stayed in the middle, and Quill was just a few feet behind. Blodwyn’s cloak billowed, waved and snapped in the wind. The narrow path lead down the side of the west face of the mountain. Each step sent loose stones plummeting off the side. They stayed on the inside, hugging the mountain with a shoulder, and remained vigilant about not walking too close to the edge. Quill kept his bow and quiver slung over a shoulder, and his hands free so he could pull his cape tight around him in what seemed a futile attempt at keeping warm.

The wind picked up with the rising of the sun. Far to the east the sun sat alone in a blue sky. However, above low grey clouds pressed down on them. Gusts came from the west and pressed them against the mountain, then from the north, as if in an attempt to knock them off. Snow whipped around. The cold air bit at exposed skin. The hair inside Mykal’s nose was frozen, and it felt as if sharp pins wedged his nostrils open. His unkempt beard and moustache were decorated with icicles born from the moisture of his breath, and a runny nose. His teeth chattered, and his entire body shook. The key to staying warm was moving fast, and working up a sweat but, unfortunately, the makeshift trail didn’t allow for it.

Blodwyn stopped and turned around. He shouted so he could be heard above the wind. “I see Ironwall Pass. We’ve made it!”

The top of the small coal mining town was below them. Blodwyn’s assessment that they’d made it was premature. It would still take several more hours to traverse the terrain. The most encouraging sight was the smoke rising from stone-hearth chimneys. The idea of getting inside and out of the storm finally felt like more than a far-fetched dream, but an actual possibility. Mykal grew anxious, but as Blodwyn began walking again, his steps became far slower, and more calculated. Impatient, Mykal shuffled in close behind him, wanting another look at the town below from over his friend’s shoulder.

Rocks crumbled off under his right foot and tumbled down the face of the mountain, and then a good size chunk of ledge broke free. Mykal’s right arm pin-wheeled, his left reached for Blodwyn’s cloak, and his right continued whipping about above his head. He stopped himself from latching on, though. He did not want to pull his friend over the side with him.

As he fell backward, his feet kicked up, and made loose more rocks. His fingers curled in around nothing except air. He might have screamed. He wasn’t sure, but his mouth was opened wide.