Severed Empire: Wizard's War (6 page)

“Did you get to eat?”

“Yes,” Mykal said, sullenly. “And your family?”

“They’re upset, mourning.”

“And you?”

“I’m doing okay,” Quill said.

“We’re family. We have to be honest with each other.” Mykal chased thoughts of Blodwyn out of his mind, remembering instead countless days spent together not just training, but as friends fishing, or going to the market for his grandfather. The good far outweighed anything else. Keeping that in mind was easier said than done, though.

“I’m doing okay, really,” Quill said, and nodded. “Now, do you want to rest, or do you want me to take you to see your father?”

He was here. His father was really here. Mykal looked around taking in the expanse of the village on the canopy. “Is he inside one of these huts?”

Quill shook his head. “Eadric lives alone. He didn’t want to live up here with me, with the Archers. Didn’t think he deserved it. He has a modest dwelling that sits at the west end of the forest, alongside Lantern Lake. It will take us a while to get there. Babe is being cared for, and if you don’t mind, you can ride one of my horses.”

Mykal followed Quill through the woods. The horses needed little guidance. They avoided trees and stepped over, or jumped raised roots, and fallen limbs. Mykal ducked under low-hanging branches. His breathing was quick and shallow. His breath puffed in front of his face in wispy plumes, and was gone. Although there were shafts of light here and there, the heat from the morning sun did not touch the inside of the forest.

Just ahead, where the trees thinned, Mykal saw smoke rising from a stone chimney. The small house sat twenty yards back from a placid lake. The aroma of wood on a fire filled the area. An axe blade stood lodged in the center of a tree stump with the handle up, split wood littered the grass and weeds around it, but also there were piles stacked neatly along the side of the house.

Mykal’s horse neighed. He leaned forward and petted the side of her long face. He told her: “Shh, shh.”

“Forgive me if I don’t stay,” Quill said. “You know the way back? No matter. Your horse does. Just tell her to take you home. She will.”

“You’re going?” Mykal’s mouth felt dry. His tongue was like cotton. He couldn’t swallow.

“I think what has to happen needs to take place between just the two of you,” Quill said.

Mykal opened his mouth in protest, but closed it again. Uncle Quill was right.

“Take as long as you need,” he said.

“Quill? Thank you.”

Quill gave Mykal a two finger salute, and then rode off.

For a long moment, Mykal watched his uncle. He stared into the forest long after Quill was no longer visible. He was afraid to turn around. Although he had already seen his father’s house, he didn’t know if he could handle seeing it again. It was tiny compared to the ranch Mykal shared with his grandfather.

His grandfather. Mykal missed him.

“Are you just going to stay outside, or do you want to come in for a cup of tea?”

Mykal closed his eyes. He had no memory of his father’s voice, but knew for certain who the man behind was. “I could go for a cup of tea.”

Chapter 4

Mykal slapped the horse’s reins over the wood post fence and followed his father toward the front of the small house. The porch was worn, the wood warped. Eadric walked through an askew doorframe and disappeared into darkness; the screen door squeaked and creaked as it banged closed. Mykal took a moment on the porch and looked around. The sun reflected off the lake as if it were a mirror. A large seagull swooped down, flew low, its talons skimmed the water. Snagging a small fish out of the water it rose back in the air and passed over the top of the house.

In the corner sat a rocking chair. It looked well used; the wicker was frayed over the arms, and on the back, and beside it was a pail filled with smoke butts, and empty brown glass bottles. The mandolin rested on the porch rail, and of the eight strings it looked as if three were snapped, and rolled up toward the pegs. He didn’t know his father played the mandolin.

“Don’t be shy. Come on in,” Eadric said.

Mykal wasn’t sure shy was the correct word. He felt fearful. His heart hammered away inside his chest. Reuniting with his father was something he dreamed of all of his life. The fact he now stood on his father’s porch felt surreal. Crossing the threshold into the house would not be simple. Turning around and running back into the forest seemed easier. There were so many questions. He thought getting answers was what he had wanted. Now, he wasn’t so sure. As a kid he was able to generate—fabricate—answers that suited his mind. It had been impossible not to see his father as a hero, off in search of his mother, ready to free her from enemy hands and return home to their son…

The screen door did not have a handle; there was just a hole in the mesh. The wire scraped the back of his knuckles as he pulled open the door. Inside he saw a flicker of candle light. It was directly ahead of him. He shuffled forward. There was a small room to the right, stairs on the left. The place smelled of mold and urine. The kitchen area was tiny. The table holding the candle was pushed against the back wall. Eadric sat with elbows on the table, his forehead pressed into his hands.

“Sit. Please,” he said.

Mykal thought about running. It wasn’t too late. He pulled back the chair, and sat, instead. “So, you know who I am?”

“They informed me you’d been to the forest back some time ago, and that Quill and another joined you on some quest,” he said. “Your uncle must have gone thinking he was doing a favor for me, but I’m not sure.”

“You knew I was here before, in the forest?”

Eadric looked up. He could barely look his son in the eyes. “Not until after you’d gone.”

Mykal wished he could control his questions. He wanted them calculated and pointed, and not just bursting from his lips the way a small child talks. “Would you have come to see me, if you’d known? Would you have joined us on the quest?”

Silence filled the room as thick as the darkness that threatened the single flame.

“Father?” Should this feel so… awkward? Mykal knew something like anger was getting the better of him. Part of him, however, craved a touch. He wanted to hug his father. No. He wanted Eadric to hug him.

“Have you taken a look at me? Have you seen this place?” Eadric said. His voice was gravely, and rough. He ran fingers through long, greasy dark hair, and set as much as he could behind an ear. He needed a shave. The beard was long and unruly. “I am in no condition for traveling, not fit for quests. Sometimes the memory of a person is far better than the reality.”

Mykal stood up. He didn’t push the chair back in, but left it out in the center of the small room. It wouldn’t matter. The place was in disarray. Something scurried across the floor. Its long tail whipped left and right. “Why are you here?”

Eadric looked around, as if confused. “This is where I live.”

“How long have you been here? How long have you lived in this place? Grandfather and I have been home; you know? We’ve been running that farm, struggling to make ends meet. We could have used your help, father. I could have used your help.” Mykal was not going to lose composure. He bit down on the inside of his cheeks.

“What did you want me to do?” Eadric whispered. His voice was hollow, a whisper. It fell flat as the words rolled off his tongue.

The rat scurried into a different corner.

Mykal kept his arms straight, and stiff, at his sides. His fingers rubbed at his palms. “I wanted you to come home. I expected you to come home. One night when I was in bed, Grandfather must have heard me crying. I was maybe eleven years old. He came in and sat on the side of the bed. He told me that we had to stop hoping you’d return that we needed to accept you had passed on. He wanted me to believe you were dead. Doesn’t that sound strange? I asked him why, why couldn’t I keep wishing you’d return one day, and he told me because it made moving forward impossible. So we said a prayer for your soul that night, and we said goodbye. In my mind I buried you, Father.” That silence returned. It lingered. “You should have come back to us.”

Eadric shot out of his chair. It tipped backwards, and crashed onto the floor. The rat scampered out of the room, into another, and most certainly into hiding. “How could I return? I made a vow; I pledged that I would save your mother. I had bent a knee to you, held you by the arms and promised I would not return without your mother by my side, Mykal.

“And I failed. I followed a lead for a time, confident I was close behind the men who stole her. It never changed, I always felt close. I never found anyone. No signs of anyone. I searched the bordering kingdoms, the mountains, the valleys. I crossed the river and went beyond.” Eadric pressed his hands together in front of his face, by his lips, and sighed. “I was lost. I’d not given up, but I didn’t know where else to look. I researched place I’d been a hundred times. I got into fights when they mocked me in taverns, calling me crazy, and touched in the head. The name-calling never bothered me, but I beat them, I hurt so many people because I was angry at myself, upset because I couldn’t find your mother.

“How could I come home, Mykal? After so many years and nothing to show for it, how could I come home?”

“I would have known you had done your best,” Mykal said. “And I would have been proud of you for trying.”

Mykal wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Uncle Quill thought this man would be an asset on their current quest? How was Eadric, a prisoner to the bottle, going to help them?

“I want to know about you.” The words came out in a whisper. Mykal wasn’t sure if he heard them, or imagined them. “I want to hear about how you have been.”

“Will it make a difference, Father?” Mykal said.

“A difference?”

Mykal shook his head, and turned his back on his father. His eyes had adjusted to the dimness. He didn’t see any furniture in the room now on his left, just a blanket on the floor, more empty brown bottles, and second pail similar to the one out by the rocking chair. He could smell the smoke butts from where he was, and cringed.

At the screen door, Mykal stopped. “She
is
alive, you know. I am going to see her next. Blodwyn coordinated her escape. She was never kidnapped. Did you even talk with Wyn before you took off and left us?”

There was no response.

“We’re headed out in the morning. I don’t know how I feel about you joining us, if I’m honest. I think I’ll leave that up to you.” Mykal threw back to him, and walked out onto the porch. The fresh air filled his lungs. He hadn’t realized how stagnant it had been inside the house until he was back outside. It was… freeing.

He walked up to the lake, bent down and picked up a round flat stone. He skimmed it across the surface; five good hops and then it plopped down into the water. When he turned around he half expected to see his father on the porch.

The porch was empty. The house looked abandoned. Mykal climbed up onto the horse’s saddle and trotted away from Lantern Lake and back into the forest.

***

Galatia hung on a wall outside of her cell. Her wrists were shackled to the rock wall. Her legs hung freely. The way she dangled made her chest hurt. Her shoulder blades ached. It felt as if her lungs were being pinched shut. Every breath she drew was painful.

Her hands throbbed. The Mountain King had used heated forceps and clamped them onto her fingernail. When he ripped the nail away she thought she might pass out. She hoped she would. It wasn’t until he’d forcibly removed the third fingernail that her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and thankfully unconsciousness took her.

When she came to, she realized the dungeon was not just dark, it was absent of all light. Someone had put out the fire in the bowls on the stone staircase. Dried blood from her fingers streaked her forearms. The walls were too damp, and moldy. She knew infection spread inside her body. She could not remove the gag from her mouth, or she would heal herself. Completely incapacitated, slowly decaying, Galatia began to welcome death.

Surviving even this long was not her choice. She’d surrendered to death long ago. The Mountain King’s witch kept her alive. King Cordillera would torture her for hours, and Ida would heal her just enough so she would not die. It was vicious, and psychotic. Galatia had no idea such evil actually existed. Too many times she wanted to call out to Mykal with her mind. She always stopped short of trying; afraid Ida would pick up on the use of telepathy.

She had given King Cordillera nothing. Sometimes he didn’t even ask how to summon the other wizards he just seemed more intent on the method of torture, as if it got him off hearing her muffled screams.

When she writhed in agony chained to the table, when her eyes found his, she saw nothing but black in them. Lifeless and black eyeballs. If his body possessed a soul it was lost, or covered in blood, and dripping with nothing but darkness.

He was not a man, not a person. The Mountain King was a behemoth. If he succeeded in obtaining the magical powers he sought, there would be no hope for the rest of mankind.

That was the single thought that kept her from talking.

So far…

Something moved in the darkness. Galatia opened her eyes wide. She worried her eyeballs would pop free from the sockets. It made no difference. She could not see a thing. Grunting, she attempted to ask who was there. Her words were not audible. Drool spilled from the sides of her mouth like syrup.

A scraping noise came from her left, or from directly in front of her. She wasn’t sure which.

She closed her eyes and violently shook her head from side to side. She just wanted this to be over. She just wanted this nightmare to end!

Something brushed across the top of her foot.

She opened her mouth; the wad of rags kept her from making a sound, but screamed anyway. It could have been a feather, a finger, a tail. She had no idea what traipsed over her foot. Not knowing was what made it worse. Her imagination took control of her mind. She saw things that didn’t exist hiding in the dungeon. She knew beyond a shadow of any doubt she was always being watched, stalked.