Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening (35 page)

He shook his bowed head. “No, sire.”

“Excellent, then I shall look forward to your return,” he added politely. He then stood and raised his voice to the entire hall. “Let it be known throughout the land that I, Glidewell, sovereign King of Ryga, will never cease to keep my people’s best interest at heart.” He paused, holding everyone’s attention. “I will not part with my gold foolishly, and I will have the head of anyone who tries to steal from my purse through trickery, but I will never hesitate to bestow my help to those who need it.” The peasants toward the other end of the vast hall waited silently, not knowing what to make of this proclamation, while those of more fortunate birth in front wore smiles and clapped in a vigorous though insincere fashion a short while before slowly returning to talking amongst themselves.

Before sitting back down, he glanced instinctively to find the arm of his throne and, already knowing where it was, instead caught a glimpse of the queen smiling at him. He smiled back at his loving wife. She seemed to enjoy moments like these when he asserted himself.

He did these though, not for the sake of pleasing her alone but because it was what a wise ruler should do. His father had always taught him that protecting the people, ensuring their well being and prosperity, was the way to gain their loyalty. And to a king, loyalty was everything. His subjects in turn would thrive and multiply, contributing more to his treasury and when need came, lay down their lives for him without hesitation. A greedy and selfish ruler, one who took without giving, gained neither loyalty nor gold. He merely sat on what he had, reaped what he could off the destitution and suffering of others, and then was finally expunged by the discontented masses who could bear it no more. Often throughout history, the forlorn would throw their lot in with a powerful noble seeking the throne, one who promised them things that their king should already have been giving them.

More though than any token of logic, Glidewell had seen his approach obtain tangible results time and time again. It was unheard of, a king who served his subjects was in turn served better by them, yet that was the reality. He had seen too the effect that his benevolent actions always had. A self-satisfied grin spread on his face at the remembrance of the look on the old peasant’s face when he acquiesced, a desperate soul who would return to other desperate souls with their king’s generosity, happy and content, ready to live their full lives unabated once more. And it was not the first time he had seen it.

A steady beat of noisy clanks that he could not mistake approached from far to his left, echoing throughout the hall. They were from none other than the boots of General Wainwright, one of his most trusted. The general did not frequent the audience chamber unless it was to bring some new threat to his attention.

Glidewell rose prior to his arrival and held his hand up to halt the servant who was about to hand him the next petition. Wainwright’s metallic steps grew closer until he loomed in the left side of Glidewell’s vision. The Rygan king turned and looked toward him.

General Wainwright stood before him with a serious, perhaps almost angry, expression on his tight-lipped, muscular jaw, and cold blue eyes. The black mustache under his big nose drooped down each side of his mouth and only seemed to amplify his look of displeasure. His short hair was dark with gray on its sides, attesting to his many years of service. In his view, he stood more than the normal two inches shorter because of the stone step Glidewell was still standing on. The armor he wore was well-crafted plate after well-crafted plate of shiny, well-polished steel, with a raised lion head roaring from the center of his chest. Wainwright wore it comfortably like a second skin, appearing unimpeded by the weight. A wide black cape that draped loosely behind him was affixed to his shoulder plates by two round, flat gold discs that served as caps for the bolts. While on duty and not sleeping, his general never took any of it off, nor did he ever forget to wear
his sword. Today, like other days, it rested in the gold embossed black scabbard at his side that was wrought with flowing designs.

There was a curious vellum scroll rolled up in his fist.

Glidewell’s eyes went to it before returning to that of his general. “Yes?”

“Highness,” he began in his deep voice, “there is something I wish to speak with you about. Privately.”

He nodded and made a flick of his hand, beckoning him toward the fireplace on the right of the room where no one else was standing. The general was silent except for the clanks from his feet as they both strode to it. It was not far from the two thrones. When they were both standing near the hearth, Glidewell turned to him. “What is it, general?”

“A letter, your majesty.”

“Many letters are brought to my attention daily,” he reminded, “why does this one trouble you?”

“It makes an unusual threat on your life, my king.” Wainwright handed him the rolled up scroll, the vellum of which looked to be made from a curious material.

Glidewell untied the leather string and unfurled it. It read:

-THE LORD OF DEATH

His hand shook with rage before he finished reading. He thrust it back toward the general, who took the mashed yet flexible letter back in his hand. His back was to him while he stormed toward the throne. He felt his face redden in anger while he rose a clenched and shaking fist. “This is an insult!” His queen looked at him with a concerned frown, wondering what was the matter. “Who wrote this!” He demanded. “Where did it come from!” He turned around, standing in front of the queen’s throne. “Who delivered it!”

Everyone became silent and stared, it was unheard of to see him to lose his temper so.

“No one knows, my king,” his general answered.

“How can no one know!”

“It appeared mysteriously, highness. I checked. I had my men check. No one can verify how it came here. It’s as if it were borne on a wind.”

He turned and took a step to stand before his own throne, taking a deep calming breath before turning around once more. It wasn’t the written threat that bothered him. The letter had obviously come from a madman, an upstart necromancer, or both. Regardless, the insufferable fool could never hope to back such wild claims. Glidewell was more infuriated over the insult it’s existence conveyed, someone daring to offend a monarch such as he and wasting his time with such filthy libel, than by the insane
ranting. Gradually though, the outrage was wearing off; written words could not harm him.

“What do you want done with it, my king?”

He finally came to sigh in indifference. “Throw it in the fire,” he ordered while sitting down.

His loyal general did as told, crumpling up the parchment in his strong hands and tossing it aptly toward the center of the hearth. An eerie darkness settled over the vast chamber, causing all gathered to cease their activities in alarm. The huge roaring flames changed to blue, casting a chilling hue across the dark hall.

Everyone waited silently.

As the luminescence slowly changed to a bright green, there were several sharp flashes of light accompanied by sparks. A voice deeper than any imaginable laughed
“HA, HA, HA...”
and then was quiet. The king then began to hear another sound. It was faint at first but then grew in intensity. It sounded like an unearthly wailing, the wailing of souls from beyond the grave. What was a few quickly became hundreds and then became the deafening roar of thousands. White streaks flew out of the fireplace, screaming and adding to the cacophony. His blood chilled.

The specters unleashed from the netherworld flew about his hall, killing at will. Their sleek forms sliced through their victims as though a sheet of the underworld itself. There were some that began flying dangerously close to his throne. After flinching back past one, he immediately came to his feet and jumped atop his queen, shielding her with his body.

General Wainwright kept his back flattened against the stone wall left of the fireplace, keeping out of the path of the screaming ghosts that continued to spew forth one at a time. He gritted his teeth in horror as he watched people in the audience chamber be slain on contact with the apparitions. As the bodies of noblemen and women, peasants and servants alike fell, blood was thrown across the floor. Everyone else in the packed hall began to panic and run for the exits, causing pandemonium. One of the court wizards dove behind a pillar for protection. Soldiers in red uniforms rushed into the room from different directions, accompanied by a handful of wizards. They kept their distance, yet a few of the less quick or wary were claimed.

The wizard behind the pillar yelled at the top of his lungs. “Someone pull that thing out of the fire! It’s the only way!”

Many guards wanted to, even a servant to the left of the queen’s throne kept testing how far he could get, but none could come close. Wainwright peeked past the stone edge and glared at the green flames in contempt, eyeing the crumpled vellum in the center of the blaze and ran his right thumb across an itch on his mustache. He inched in as close as he dare, waited until right after a ghost had passed, and then shot his hand in.

Hot burning agony like he had never known tore through his left hand. Not letting it force him to clench, he held it open until just the moment he could grasp the crumpled ball. Another specter flew past, barely missing him and leaving a gash in his breastplate, barely missing his flesh. With a growl of rage and pain, he threw the letter out onto the floor, where several of the wizards rushed forward and stamped it out with their feet. It had not even been singed by the fire and appeared the same as before.

Wainwright recoiled from the flames, which had returned to normal, sweating profusely from the heat of having been so close. Natural light crept back into the vast court, replacing the dark. He looked around, his eyes searching for more of the wailing ghosts. Finding none, he returned his attention to his burnt hand. All was quiet once more. The pops of wood in the flickering flames of the hearth was the only sound.

The smell of blood, smoke, and his own burnt flesh lingered in the air.

Glidewell slowly turned from covering his queen to take a look. Everything had returned to normal. Normal, that was, aside from the corpses littering the floor of his audience chamber which was now otherwise completely empty.

More than an idle threat, he thought. In his forty-two years of life, he had never seen the like of it. He stood to his full height and surveyed the scene. Bodies were everywhere. Blood was everywhere. To his left stood his palace guards in red tabards, wielding swords, shields and halberds, and bearing his black lion crest on their chests. Beneath metal helmets he saw pairs of blue and brown eyes looking on worriedly over the carnage, a few looking his way, almost as if seeking assurance. It was an assassination attempt that they, men with steel and iron, were helpless against.

Glidewell’s eyes shifted to something he saw against the far wall on his left, beyond the pillars. It was a young boy of perhaps twelve, one of the pages, still standing with his back against the wall, trembling in fear.

The Rygan king would not be daunted by this magician’s cheap tricks. This so called
Lord of Death
would soon get his answer. And it was going to start with this boy.

“You there, page! Come here!” He commanded irately while curling the fingers in his left hand repeatedly in a beckoning gesture. The frightened boy remained frozen. “Now!” He yelled.

The boy ran across the blood strewn hall, maneuvering past the rent bodies and putting his hands over his mouth to keep from vomiting. His smaller red tabard jostled with him as he moved, and he almost slipped after stepping in one of the pools of blood. He tracked red footprints on the floor leading up to his king. When he came closer, he knelt down on one knee and swallowed back his bile. He kept his head bowed, holding his arms slightly off to the sides, palms up. Before he knelt, Glidewell caught a glimpse of a disgusting wet stain all along the crotch and legs of his light gray pants.

“Y-yes, sire?” The frightened lad asked in a shaken voice when he was finally able to.

“Fetch my scribes!”

“Yes, your majesty.”

The boy took off running. “And get changed once you’re done!” He called out to him, trying to return his mind to practical matters. “You!” He shouted, pointing at one of his red robed wizards. “Bring me someone who can read the spells on this infernal letter!”

“Right away, your highness,” he answered dutifully before leaving.

“You men!” He yelled, addressing his palace guards.

“Sire!” They responded as one, straightening up and clanking their weapons in salute.

“Fetch the servants to clean up this mess! And then summon the undertakers to the palace. I want to make sure
everyone
is given a proper funeral! Even the peasants!” Their eyes went sideways toward each other, confused by that last bit, not quite sure how to go about finding the relatives of the impoverished and nameless deceased. It was also a private matter, but they had died in his hall, and so he was responsible. “Now hop to it!” He shouted to hurry them along. They all began scrambling in different directions at once.