The Forgotten King (Korin's Journal) (60 page)

To say I was a bit confused would be quite an understatement.  Maybe befuddled would be a better word.  Perplexed?

“Change of plans.  Bring them both inside,” my father ordered sharply, turning with a sweep of his robes and starting back towards the spire, still laughing. 

Two of the soldiers jerked me up from the ground, setting my leg and shoulders aflame with excruciating pain.  As they dragged me between them, I couldn’t help but whimper.  But I was still alive.  As long as I was, there was hope that I could save my friends.  Slim hope is always better than none. 

Chapter 54

The Forgotten King

My father ordered my gloves removed and my hands bound, rendering me helpless despite my piercing anger.  Sal’ and I were dragged through a maze-like network of uniform hallways and doors hidden by tapestries and sliding panels.  It was as if the castle were designed for a paranoid king.  Anyone familiar with the layout of the castle would’ve been able to retreat through the hidden passageways with very little worry of ever being found.

Being presently lugged through those hidden passageways, that was not a comforting prospect.

The austere walls of the castle bore little ornamentation, aside from the occasional tapestry or portrait.  The floor was bare stone, worn from thousands of footsteps over hundreds of years.  Deeper into the castle, where there were no windows to the outside, glowing orbs were recessed in the walls to light our way. 

We eventually came to a series of narrow, twisting stairs leading down into the castle’s depths, the impact from each downward step sending waves of agony through my body. 

Sal’ was being dragged just behind me, but I couldn’t twist around far enough to see her.  I’d been so excited to learn that she loved me.  Now I found myself wishing she’d never met me.  An abusive father, belittling colleagues, and a loveless marriage would be preferable to being an unwilling slave to the monster who gracefully swept down the stairs before me.  The fury that accompanied my view of him was probably the only thing that kept me from passing out.

This wasn’t how I’d imagined my life would turn out.  I’d simply left home to find my birth parents.  I wasn’t supposed to discover that there was an evil wizard trying to end my life over a prophecy.  I wasn’t supposed to get swept into a war waged by a land I’d only recently learned to exist.  I wasn’t supposed to discover that my father was a murderous bastard attempting to conquer all of Amirand.  Yet I did, and now my life was about to end.

There were so many dark factors at work—Soul Crystals, undead, eldrhims, and my father’s “concoction.”  It was humbling to think that I’d even considered myself to have a chance against such immense power, such unbridled evil. 

Our descent ended in a dim corridor, the dank air cloying.  Glowing orbs were spaced sparingly along the walls, casting muted light through the misty air.  Echoes of dripping water in the distance sounded through the passageway, joining the sounds of footsteps and my ragged breathing.  The heavy, moist atmosphere prevented me from pulling as much air as I’d have liked into my lungs.  At least my swollen nose subdued the stench that hovered around us, a stench of rot and human waste. 

The corridor opened into a circular room with a low, flat ceiling.  In the center of the room was a long, polished table topped with a red velvet runner.  Dozens of worn tomes were strewn across its surface, along with several scrolls, ink jars, quills, and loose parchment.  An ornate chair, closer to a throne, sat behind it.  Only one glowing orb lit the room from atop a wooden stand on the table, keeping the walls mostly concealed by darkness.  A soft whimpering sounded from within the shadowed perimeter.

In my periphery, soft green light caught my attention.  A glance to either side revealed the light to be escaping through the neck and arms of the soldiers’ breastplates, painting their faces with an eerie glow.  These men were apparently under my father’s control by means of the rocks.  There was no sign of unwillingness in their expressions, though.  Their faces displayed pure, loyal conviction. 

“Welcome to my study,” my father announced, his commanding tone an acerbic version of the voice from my dreams, like patina on otherwise gleaming bronze. 

My father gripped the green rock around his neck and glared pointedly at the men holding me.  They stepped forward and shoved me down onto a low-backed wooden chair sitting in front of the table.  Crying out in pain as my shattered knee bent, I quickly slouched in the chair to relieve the pressure from it.  I closed my eyes and pursed my lips in an attempt to steady my breathing. 

I lolled my head back to see Sal’, her expression still vacant on her purpled face.  The other two soldiers dragged her to my side and let her limp body drop to the floor.  Her head struck the stone, her eyes blinking once but otherwise showing no reaction. 

With a growl, I started fighting the ropes binding my bare wrists, but two gauntleted hands shoved down on my shoulders, holding me in place.  My blood boiled as my father stared at me with that damned grin. 

“Now, now.  Let us not lose our temper,” my father purred as he stepped around the table.  “Trust me, much worse awaits you.  I would hate for you to think that
this
,” he gestured to Sal’s limp form, “is as bad as it gets.”

My entire body quivered.  There was nothing I could do. 
Nothing.  I couldn’t even form the acidic words that rested on the tip of my tongue.

One of the soldiers revealed himself to be holding my Vesteir-sigiled shortsword as he stepped forward and placed it on the table.  He then turned to me and violently tore my shoulder bag from my back, placing it next to the sword.

“Leave us,” my father commanded.  The soldiers moved to depart but stopped and looked back to my father expectantly, as if he’d called to them.  “Bring me the captured Dragonriders,
if
they survived.”  The soldiers didn’t offer a word in response; they just turned and left us alone in the clammy room, slamming an iron-banded door closed behind them. 

My father placed his hands on the table, leaning forward with a disquieting gaze.  “Would you mind if I changed into something a little more comfortable?”  He chuckled dryly. 

I stared at him with silent, murderous fervor in reply.

“Very well, Ingran,” my father shrugged.  He rose back to his full height, just taller than me.  His eyes closed as he dropped his arms to his sides.  The creepy smile finally melted away and was replaced by a tightening of his mouth and a furrowing of his brow.

For a brief moment I thought I was finally losing my battle to remain conscious as my father’s entire body grew hazy, wavering as if I were watching him through flaming heat.  Though his distorted features began to swirl and undulate, the table before him remained solid and unchanging.  Whatever was happening, it wasn’t a product of my tenuous hold on cognizance.

The indistinct blur behind the table snapped back into focus so quickly that I felt as if there should’ve been a clap to accompany it.  I sat up with a start, sending another wave of stabbing pain through my entire left leg and into my hip.  My father was no longer standing before me.

Instead, the skeletal frame of a much taller body in the same regal robes gazed down at me from a face composed of sharp angles and deep-set lines.  However, his new face held the same sinister expression, the same soulless depth in his dark eyes, bringing me to the realization that my father had never been present. 

The man’s ashen skin was stretched tight over angular bones, the curve of his pale lips seeming to stretch it beyond its natural elasticity.  Lank cinereous hair hung well below his bony shoulders, held back from his face by a crown that was dull, as if unpolished for years. 

“Ah, much better,” the man exhaled in relief, his voice like sandstone rubbed down a rusty blade.  He plopped back into the chair.  As frail as he appeared, I nearly expected his bones to snap.

I was baffled.  This man wasn’t my father.  He wasn’t Raijom either.  That is, unless Raijom liked to refer to himself in third person and had plans of usurping his own power.  With all the insanity I’d been through, even that wouldn’t have surprised me. 

After a few controlled breaths to relax my muscles again, I asked, “Who are you?”

The lanky, emaciated man pointedly ignored my question, leaning forward to rip open my shoulder bag.  He pulled out my leather-bound journal first, carelessly flipping through the pages before throwing it aside.  Next, he pulled out Til’s woodwork.

“This is Kolarin work, is it not?” the man inquired callously.  He grasped the carved stick Max had found back in Geeron, holding one end in each hand.  “I cannot believe such a weak race has survived this long.” 

With an echoing crack, he snapped the stick in half, throwing the splintered ends to either end of the table.  My face heated, my vision turning red as the anger I’d struggled to contain started to flare beyond my control.

“It is a shame,” the man continued, “that those with power are the ones who fall.”  He punctuated his words by slamming Til’s dragon statue to the table, shattering it with a power that belied his frail form.

“Who are you, you bastard?” I snarled, my body trembling uncontrollably.

The man smiled, leaning forward on his elbows, hands clasped with his fingers steepled.  “Allow me to show you something,” he grated.  The ball of light in the wooden stand floated away from the table towards the darkness to my right. 

The light stopped before a squat, rusty cage, revealing the source of the whimpering I’d heard upon entering the room.  Inside, a naked man, knees drawn to his chest, body trembling, sat in his own waste.  His ribs were clearly visible on his gaunt frame, and his dark hair hung limply against his head, matted with filth.  His dirt-smeared face hid his features, only his vacant eyes truly discernible through the grime.  He continued to whimper as he rocked back and forth in his own excrement.

I swallowed, feeling as if a rock was sliding down my throat to land heavily in my stomach.  “Who . . .?”

“Behold Harken, the farcical king of Gualain.”  The ball of light shot back to the table, hovering above the wooden stand for a moment before settling back onto it.  The man’s lips were drawn into a sneer.  “Gualain was once a mighty kingdom, and it was given to this sniveling excuse of a man to rule.  It sickens me to see such a lack of ambition to regain the grand power this kingdom once held.”

I couldn’t even being to puzzle out the situation.  Who was this man?  How had he wrenched control of Gualain from the now piteous King Harken?  Why had he been imitating my father?  Was he the one raising the dead?  What was his connection to Raijom?  What did he want with me? 

The man’s eyes
narrowed, the smirk on his face lifeless.  “Allow me to tell you a story,” he rasped, leaning back in his chair.  “A story that goes back to the final days of the Power Wars.”

Thoroughly annoyed by the man’s ramblings, I opened my mouth to throw out an acidic remark or two.  He lifted a hand, shaking a finger in admonition. 
“Ah, ah, ah.  We have a few hours before my next communication with Raijom.  You have no need to fear a death by my hands, but the same does not apply to your friend here.  Let us keep this cordial.”

Cordial
, he said.  My blood was boiling.  I wasn’t sure why he wanted to keep me alive, but I knew it wasn’t for my benefit.  Again, as long as I stayed alive, I had a chance of helping Sal’, so I shut my mouth and fumed in silence.

“That is much better.”  His satisfaction made me want to rip out his throat.  I kept the mental image of me doing so locked in my mind.  That helped satisfy my anger. 
A little.

“I am sure you have
know the history of King Lyrak Es’Tal.”  He went silent, waiting for me to respond.  I nodded warily, wondering if a connection would be made between his story and the soldiers with Lyrak’s emblem on their chests.  “The world feared his power.  While he should have been revered, he was envied and reviled for his great powers.”

I nearly scoffed.  Lyrak had been a monster.  He hadn’t been envied—at least not according to history.  His use of Contracts to control his armies had been considered an atrocity needing rectification.  The coppery tang of blood oozed over my tongue as I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my words in check.

“Lyrak should have been worshipped.  Instead, he was forced into hiding when his enemies combined forces to strip him of the power they so feared.  He fled to a cavern deep underground, not a dozen leagues from this very city.  There he remained hidden with his closest advisors and personal guards. 

“However, Lyrak was betrayed by those closest to him.  The location of his refuge had been given up to Amirand’s most powerful wizards by his advisors.  For the promise of being allowed to live out their lives with gold-lined pockets, his advisors cast their loyalty aside.” 

The man shook his skeletal head with a chuckle.  “But even the betrayers were betrayed.  Those wizards collapsed the entire cavern, leaving Lyrak and his men to be buried for all eternity.  They did not even have the honor to face Lyrak in person.  Such was the fear created by Lyrak’s power.

“Ironically, the wizards’ cowardice prevented Lyrak’s death.  You see, Lyrak was too clever to place his full trust in anyone.  He had long been suspicious of his advisors’ treachery.  Therefore, he had already prepared for an attack.” 

The gray-skinned man leaned forward, resting his sharp elbows on the table.  “Lyrak and his men had gathered in a large chamber, one furnished with months’ worth of supplies.  With suspicions of betrayal, he ensured his safety by shielding the chamber with magic.  Despite his preparations, he did not anticipate the wizards’ spineless actions.  All tunnels leading to the chamber were collapsed.  Lyrak and his men were trapped, sealed away and forgotten.  The Power Wars came to an end, and Lyrak became a handful of pages in history books.”