Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  RETURN OF THE

  WIZARD KING

  THE WIZARD KING TRILOGY

  DARK HORSE BOOKS

  Return of the Wizard King: The Wizard King Trilogy Book One

  © 2020 Chad Corrie. The Tralodren logo is a trademark of Corrie, Inc. All rights reserved. Dark Horse Comics® and the Dark Horse logo are trademarks of Dark Horse Comics LLC, registered in various categories and countries. All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of Dark Horse Comics LLC. Names, characters, places, and incidents featured in this publication either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, institutions, or locales, without satiric intent, is coincidental.

  Published by

  Dark Horse Books

  A division of Dark Horse Comics LLC

  10956 SE Main Street

  Milwaukie, OR 97222

  DarkHorse.com

  Maps illustrated by Robert Altbauer

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Corrie, Chad, author.

  Title: Return of the Wizard King / Chad Corrie.

  Description: First edition. | Milwaukie, OR : Dark Horse Books, 2020. |

  Series: The Wizard King trilogy ; book one | Summary: “After nearly

  eight centuries, the last wizard king seeks a return to Tralodren. But

  doing so requires the manipulation of some mercenaries oblivious to his

  goals. The gladiator sold his soul for revenge. The knight’s a bigot.

  The dwarf only cares about regaining his honor. Even the wizardess seems

  too bookish for anyone’s good. But they’ve all been hired by a blind

  seer and his assistant to retrieve some forgotten knowledge kept hidden

  away in some jungle-strangled ruins. Get in. Get out. Get paid. At least

  that’s what they thought. Instead, they uncover hidden agendas and

  ancient power struggles threatening to take the world to the brink of

  annihilation”-- Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019051914 (print) | LCCN 2019051915 (ebook) | ISBN

  9781506716268 (paperback) | ISBN 9781506716312 (epub)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.O77235 R48 2020 (print) | LCC PS3603.O77235

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019051914

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019051915

  First edition: September 2020

  ISBN: 978-1-50671-631-2

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed in the United States of America

  THE WIZARD KING TRILOGY

  Return of the Wizard King

  Trial of the Wizard King

  Triumph of the Wizard King

  Chapter 1

  There is only power and the path one takes to attain it.

  —Raston Tolle, Telborian wizard king

  Reigned 34 BV–6 BV

  Valan emerged from the portal’s brilliance into the musty chamber. Once through, he turned to face the mosaic fixed into the stone wall through which he’d passed. The white light had already faded, revealing the azure and violet tiles forming the twelve-foot circle. Small and uniform in shape, they’d been crafted into a swirling twist of color—a whirlpool of polished tiles spiraling into some unknown pit.

  Turning from the wall, he took in the large chamber. As the portal’s lingering glow faded all was lost in a shadowy murk, punctured only by the purple glow from a collection of runes carved into a solid blue marble column, encircled by a wrought iron fence, at the chamber’s center. Valan’s silver robes reflected part of the runes’ light as the mage strode forward, brown eyes seeking out all he could with ardent interest.

  As he walked, he retrieved a clear glass globe from the satchel dangling from his shoulder. Aside from what was in the satchel, all his belongings either were in the pack strapped to his back or stuffed into one of the handful of bulging belt pouches swaying with his steps. The mage whispered a word as he tossed the globe in the air. This birthed a flash of sunlight from the now white and glowing ball that hovered above and to the right of his head.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the light, he shed his pack and set it beside him with careful effort. This done, he took a few steps forward, the glowing ball following him closely as he did so. With its help, he could now clearly discern where he stood.

  Built in a rectangular design, the chamber was about one hundred feet from the base of the stairs opposite him and about eighty feet wide. Its twenty-foot ceiling increased its cavernous feel. It was built from large granite blocks tightly packed one into the other; they formed a near-seamless weave of walls and floor. But as impressive as the sight the stones conveyed was, the real object of interest was that blue column dominating the chamber’s center. Ringed with a fence crafted of spear-point-tipped wrought iron shafts, it was a surreal sight in the otherwise empty room.

  He’d come a long way for it—searched and pressed himself through more than others might have thought possible. But now . . . His booted heels clopped loudly as he made his way toward the skeletal fence, its gate latched by a worn wrought iron bar that slid into an equally worn clasp. The latch was on the outside, keeping anyone or anything inside the fence from straying too far from the column.

  “Finally.” With a slight gesture, the gate swung open, squeaking softly. He cleared the twelve feet between the fence and the column with ease, reaching a slender hand for the cold blue marble.

  “The Transducer.” There was power there. Power to tap into, to use . . . and master. He craned his neck, taking in the majesty of the impressive fifteen-foot structure. Soon enough he’d translate the purple glowing runes stretching its length. It wouldn’t be long now.

  At the column’s base, where he stood, was an eight-foot doorway. He dared a look inside. With the aid of his globe, he discovered a hollowed-out room. It was about six feet in diameter and constructed from floor to ceiling in polished blue marble.

  “Everything’s intact,” he murmured. But any further investigation was cut short by the sound of stone scraping on stone coming from the top of the stairs that snaked up the wall opposite him. The stairs partially flanked the wall and then ducked into an ascending corridor with a brighter opening he took for a doorway just beyond it.

  Withdrawing from the fenced area, he watched a soft white line of light slide down the walls parallel with the stairs. Assuming it was some aid in maneuvering the old steps, he was more concerned with who might be descending them. He wasn’t expecting visitors.

  He whispered another word, dimming the glowing ball’s brilliance to the brightness of candlelight, and tiptoed closer to the stairs. Someone was indeed making his way down. Only one person. Good. He soundlessly bounded up the steps two at a time, keeping a few spells on the tip of his tongue. The point where the stairs made their right turn into the corridor beyond was where he met up with his unwelcome visitor.

  The pointed ears, claw-like hands, and skin the color of a ripe pear made clear he was facing a hobgoblin. He stood a foot above Valan’s six-foot frame and was much more muscled than the mage. But Valan’s magic was more than an equalizer, even considering the sword sheathed at the hobgoblin’s side.

  But the hobgoblin’s steel-gray, short-sleeved robe, accompanied by the brown padded cloth vest, wasn’t quite right for a race said to be more at home in armor or common dress than robes. The Steel Cross he wore as a belt buckle confirmed Valan’s initial suspicions. The twin swords crossed over a round s
hield was a clear sign this was a priest of Khuthon.

  A quick swipe of his hand sent the hobgoblin flying from the stairs and roughly hitting the floor below. While he spoke some Goblin, he didn’t need to be fluent to understand the guttural growls that followed were clearly curses of pain. As the hobgoblin swiftly found his feet, Valan cast another spell.

  “Agris lorim naslee rah!” A sudden burst of aquamarine energy shot out of his hands. An eyeblink later the hobgoblin was frozen solid, a thin layer of ice outlining his frame. The room was encompassed in a sinking mist birthed by the sudden change in temperature, the icy hobgoblin crackling in the seething fog.

  Looking back at the corridor from where the hobgoblin came, Valan found it empty. He waited a moment more—ears tuned for anything while eyeing the daylight streaming in from the new opening with some trepidation. Once confident he was truly alone, he spoke another word of magic, plucked the now dimming globe from the air, and returned it to his satchel. He made his way toward the base of the ascending corridor.

  The hobgoblin wouldn’t have been alone. Not a priest. So that meant there were others above. But how many? And were they all priests, warriors, or a mixture of both? Fishing out a silver medallion from beneath his robes, Valan studied the object carefully, noting the small ancient runes etched around its lip. More than once, the medallion had saved him from death. Many who’d tried introducing him to Asorlok failed—their weapons bouncing off his flesh as if it were hardened iron. The medallion would keep him safe from any physical attack, but if there were any more priests about he could be in for a very real fight.

  Replacing the medallion under his robes, Valan ascended the stairs with more spells at the ready. He could feel the change in temperature as he climbed, growing quickly from a damp chill to a warmer and more humid environment. Of course, he knew from his studies the ruins sat in the midst of the jungle of Taka Lu Lama, but it was one thing to have head knowledge of a matter and quite another to experience the thick, semitropical air firsthand. All the better the Transducer was in the cooler chamber below.

  At the top of the stairs, he discovered that the opening was a secret door hidden behind a statue, which he immediately crouched beside for added protection. The hidden door opened into a column-lined hallway with a row of statues extending forty feet down along the wall opposite the columns. All of the statues—including the one he hid behind—were of powerfully muscled humanoids and devoid of heads, each wearing unique armor and carved into a variety of military stances.

  To his left the hallway turned around a quiet corner with no hint of activity beyond. It was the same on his right. This just left the open door across from him, out of which came the sound of more hobgoblins. Creeping forward, he dared a look inside.

  Twenty hobgoblian priests stood in the center of a rectangular area that must have been an ancient temple’s altar room. The entire area was lit by the late morning light, flooding in from both the holes in the ceiling and the broken stained glass windows on the wall opposite him. Naturalistic images of vines and roses, birds and serpents lived amid the supporting pillars lining the walls, alongside frescoes and mosaics depicting faceless forms, some in scenes from daily life and others devoutly petitioning headless giants. And while the massive space was impressive, Valan’s main interest was with the altar the priests had pooled around.

  The granite structure was square, about four feet tall. Its chipped and chiseled surface was host to a crudely formed set of crossed swords resting over a round shield, etched into the stone on all sides. The bloodstains were also recent additions and hard to miss, stirring his thoughts with darker musings even as he noted the stone lectern a few feet from and facing the altar.

  On the wall to his left, however, was something more interesting: seven bookcases filled with scrolls and tomes. These stood beside a handful of simple wooden tables and chairs—another obviously recent addition to the room. If any of the items in the bookcases had been found in the ruins, they’d be a great boon for work with the Transducer. Pondering the matter, he observed the score or so goblins working in various capacities: sweeping the floor, tending to the bookcases, and assisting priests.

  Goblins were related to hobgoblins—even ogres. All three races had roots in the jarthal, an ancient race said to have been created by Khuthon at the birth of Tralodren. Valan had long studied the various racial lines covering the world. It was essential if he wished to make proper use of the Transducer. In many ways, goblins were similar in appearance to hobgoblins, but with uniformly straight black hair—instead of the hobgoblin’s brown or black—and skin the color of a ripe lime. The biggest difference, of course, was their size: goblins were only about half the height of hobgoblins. Even so, they could still be trouble should any of them notice his lurking. But a hobgoblin would beat the goblins to it.

  No sooner had a nearby priest turned in Valan’s direction than the hobgoblin thrust a thick finger like a spear point right at him. The room teemed with frenetic energy and Valan leapt fully into the open, eyeing the onrush of goblins while the priests shouted back and forth to each other in their native tongue. He could ascertain just enough of their varied shouts to understand they took him for an intruder and that he should be killed. It was all he needed to know.

  “Ackrin-loth gestra!” he shouted as he spread his fingers, expelling a web of lightning that took care of the closest goblins. He took no notice as they dropped, convulsing painfully on the floor before entering Asorlok’s gates. His attention was locked on the priests.

  A spear crafted of searing red energy sailed straight for his heart. It’d been lobbed by the lead priest, who continually barked out commands. Valan instantly sidestepped the prayer made manifest. The weapon narrowly missed his right shoulder. Wasting no time, Valan conjured and flung a set of sharp icicles at the priests. They tried to avoid them but couldn’t entirely prevent their sharp points from piercing their flesh. Now even more enraged, the priests rushed him en masse, weapons tightly gripped and more curses on their lips.

  Valan stood his ground. “Agris larom magalasta urik kane!” Before the hobgoblins knew what had happened, they’d run into and then through a translucent, eight-foot-tall, charcoal-gray barrier which suddenly formed a few feet from Valan’s position. To any casual observer it might have appeared as if the whole structure was made of standing water, which splashed on and off the hobgoblins as they barreled through. But that was where the similarity ended.

  The priests wailed as the charcoal-gray gel clung to them, eating away at their flesh and clothing like acid. Even their weapons weren’t immune, sizzling and melting like butter in a hot skillet. One by one, each hobgoblin fell on his knees, cursing and crawling toward the mage. Though each was intent on doing him harm, none could make good on such claims. Their weapons were useless, and no matter how hard they struggled to wipe it off, the gel would only spread farther across their contorted bodies. A moment later all were fully on the floor, either dead or very nearly so. But that wasn’t the end.

  Valan spun round and found a fresh force of hobgoblins shouting for his death. The hallway he’d first seen apparently led out of the temple. Yet while they had the greater numbers, these hobgoblins were common warriors, their status clear by their chain mail shirts and drawn swords. No magic. No priests. Valan smiled and began casting a new spell. This was going to be fun.

  Hadek didn’t know if he should look into the commotion coming from the temple. Content as he was in his personal oasis from the challenging world that was the Basilisk Tribe, the bald goblin didn’t feel like leaving it for anything. But as the noise grew and the shouts and sounds of fighting reached him, he knew something wasn’t right, and for his own sake he needed to investigate. And so it was he found himself now taking in a most amazing and terrifying sight from where he hid beside a pillar close to the door through which he’d entered, not too far from the bookcases.

  A skirmish was underway, and Hadek was glad to stay out of it. What made the matter all
the more intriguing was that it all appeared to be related to a single intruder standing at the room’s main entrance: a lone Telborian wearing silver robes. The brown-haired human was lean and carried no weapon, but none of the warriors could send him to Mortis. Attacks that should have run him through or sliced off his head instead stopped just outside his frame with a sudden jerk.

  All the warriors could do was slice a bit of his robe here and there. His flesh wasn’t marred in the least. It wasn’t until the Telborian returned the attack that Hadek fully understood the nature of the threat. The human used magic to cut down the hobgoblins with apparent ease. And if seeing him in action wasn’t enough to give one pause, then a quick inventory of the carnage surrounding the wizard was all one needed to heed.

  The slain priests lay in puddles of their own dissolving flesh and weapons, while the goblins had also taken a beating. Most had been killed, but a remnant of their ranks hung back from the fighting—some even hiding, like Hadek. It seemed a wise course of action given the situation, but it wasn’t an enduring one. Eventually the hobgoblins would either die or retreat, and then where would that leave him? Alone with the wizard. And that wasn’t good.

  Hadek pressed himself deeper into the limited shadows afforded him. If he ran, he could be spotted and killed just as easily as he could in battle. His indecision lasted until he spied Boaz rush into the scene. The chieftain of the Basilisk Tribe was leading a fresh force of warriors into the temple even as the last of those who’d challenged the mage were shaking hands with death. Upon catching sight of each other, Boaz and the mage stood still. Hadek supposed each was taking stock of the other. When they’d finished doing so—a time frame measured in heartbeats—the human addressed Boaz in rough Goblin.