Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  “You can keep throwing your men’s lives away or be wise and surrender.”

  Boaz seemed surprised he’d been addressed in his native tongue. He squared his shoulders and peered around the room. His expression grew dark and he released a snarl of seething wrath when he caught sight of the priests’ remains. Hadek tried keeping as still as a statue.

  “You can’t harm me,” the mage continued, “no matter how much you try.”

  “What do you want?” Boaz eyed the wizard from sole to crown.

  “That blue column in the chamber below. You leave me to it and my experiments, and I’ll leave you to your lives.”

  Boaz was still. Hadek was surprised Boaz didn’t run him through right there. Or at least attempt it. He didn’t take kindly with others trying to prove themselves his better. The handful who had since Boaz became chieftain ten years earlier were quickly shown their place in Mortis.

  “And who are you to demand anything?”

  “I think your dead priests speak to that,” the wizard answered. “The only question that remains is if you’ll join them.”

  Behind Boaz, the remaining warriors, some fifty strong, observed the exchange. The growing unease among them was palpable. They dominated the main hallway extending out of the open room the priests had turned into their makeshift library and altar room. But even the spacious hallway couldn’t comfortably afford so great a company of men. And with them blocking the exit, Hadek wasn’t able to escape. That just left his secret refuge . . .

  “We’re many,” Boaz replied confidently. “You can’t hold back a whole tribe.”

  Before anyone could act, the wizard brought forth a fat shaft of lightning from the hand he’d directed at the hobgoblian warriors. The men howled in agony as the lightning forked and danced between them. Their deaths were gruesome but quick.

  Boaz raised his sword and bellowed, making for the mage like some goring bull. Instantly, the chieftain was lifted from the ground. Hadek could see he was choking. It was like some giant invisible hand had uprooted him and was now crushing his throat. Boaz dropped his sword as he frantically tried to free himself from the phantom vise, but to no avail. No matter how hard he clawed he remained in its grip.

  “Now,” said the wizard, “are you going to join your men or help me?”

  “What do you plan to do?” Boaz croaked.

  “I’ll need help in my experiments.”

  “Wh-what sort of help?” Boaz gave up trying to free himself and instead focused his gaze on the mage. Even at a distance Hadek could hear him struggling for breath.

  The mage’s grin was far from calming. “Test subjects.”

  “How many?”

  Hadek could see where this was going and didn’t like it one bit. Thinking it was now or never, he made a dash for the nearby door, drawing both men’s attention. Even in his present predicament and distance from the hobgoblin, he could feel the hot ire of Boaz’s glare burn into him.

  “He’ll do for a start, I suppose.” Hadek was pulled toward the wizard as if he’d been lassoed around the waist. It was no good resisting. He might as well have been standing in oil as he slid over the stone floor with the greatest of ease. As soon as he reached the mage he dropped to his knees. There was only one option left.

  “Have mercy.” He addressed the wizard in Telboros—the Telborian’s native tongue. The wizard stepped Hadek’s way, letting Boaz drop to the floor behind him.

  “You speak Telboros?” he returned in the same language.

  “Yes,” Hadek quickly replied. “The priests taught me so I could help them.”

  “With what?”

  “Those.” He pointed at the bookcases.

  “You can read too?” The wizard’s respect was rising. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Boaz’s previous ire drift into disgust.

  “What are you saying?” Boaz demanded in Goblin, forcing himself on his feet. He, like most of the tribe, couldn’t speak Telboros. It was the priests who preferred the language when they wanted to keep something private. And, by extension, some of those serving them also had to be instructed to better facilitate their will.

  Any other time Hadek would have quickly responded to Boaz’s question, but now he felt more emboldened to resist—as if he had some protection he could fall back on. It actually felt good in a way. Though it was really more like hiding behind the flat of a dagger’s blade that at any time could show him its edge, for the moment, he welcomed it.

  “Yes, I read and write—”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hadek.”

  “Hadek?” Boaz’s voice was rough from his ordeal but still strong enough to remind the goblin he could be run through if he wasn’t careful.

  “Rise.” Hadek did as the wizard bid. “Your life will be spared as long as you serve me.”

  “What’s he saying?” Boaz nearly cursed as he retrieved his sword, making sure his attention never fully left them.

  Before Hadek could answer, the mage spun around and faced the chieftain, speaking once more in Goblin. “That if you value your life as well as your tribe, you’ll do as I say. I want all of those scrolls and books moved down into the chamber—bookcases and all. Those tables and chairs could be of use too. And then I’ll need those test subjects.”

  “Do you have a name I can curse?” Boaz sheathed his sword with a frustrated thrust.

  “Valan.” The mage returned to Hadek, switching back to Telboros. “Come. There’s much to be done.”

  As Hadek followed Valan he tried not to dwell on Boaz’s searing stare as he passed. Even as they neared the secret entrance to the chamber it stuck with him. He’d been far from cherished before, but now . . . Now he was certain that outside of Valan’s protection he was a dead man. And who was to say how long the mage would be among them, or how long he’d tolerate Hadek’s presence? Or if he’d end up being made a test subject after all? What had he gotten himself into?

  “Interesting.” Cadrith’s words were as dry as his skeletal frame and the threadbare plum robes and gray hooded cloak draped over them. To his left, always at the ready and in reach, rested his staff: a time-seasoned wooden shaft capped with an infant’s skull. His attention was locked on the back of a violet glowing skull clutched in a monstrous obsidian hand a few paces from his throne. Its gaze seemed focused on a far corner of the room, hiding its empty sockets from Cadrith’s eye while small silver runes burned hot across its sides and front. It was through this skull he’d just finished watching Valan’s encounter with the hobgoblins.

  “Now how best to use you . . .” He slid back into his polished red stone seat and looked out onto the small room. Besides the throne and the skull there was only a lonely chest opposite him, allowing both it and the scrying skull to always be within Cadrith’s sight.

  A lone window peered onto the fading twilight outside and the swaying shadows beyond. The occasional breeze rustled a few tapestries, but the centuries-gnawed surroundings were far from his thoughts. When he’d first arrived at the deserted keep after awakening from his longer-than-expected slumber, he’d been mildly curious about the new setting. But it eventually became meaningless in light of his desire to return to Tralodren.

  The original strategy had been to wait out the Divine Vindication’s removal of magic on Tralodren, taking his time to develop his plans and skills as best he was able. Had he known how long it would be until magic finally returned, he might have reconsidered the strategy. If not for his spell somehow extending his slumber for centuries beyond his original intentions, he’d have had to endure all that time in what had proven to be a dismal situation. It’d been vexing enough dealing with the past five years since he’d awakened; he couldn’t even begin to fathom the agony of over seven hundred years staring him in the face.

  Why the spell had gone awry he didn’t know, but he was grateful it did. If he’d been a more religious man, he would have thanked the gods, but Cadrith knew they’d nothing to do with it. If anything they would h
ave kept him in continued slumber, or just killed him. Either that or one of the local denizens could have just as easily destroyed him had the spell also failed to keep him hidden from sight while he slept. Another reason for the religious man to give his thanks. But awakening, he discovered, was the easy part.

  Taking up his staff, he moved toward the window, ancient robes fluttering in the soft breeze. Since entering the Abyss, he’d taken to keeping his hood drawn at all times. There was no reason for it other than it let him pretend there was still something there to cover. It was more a habit now than anything else. A small tongue of azure flame flickered inside each of his eye sockets, which seemed to scan the empty, hilly terrain around the tower he’d taken for his current domain. All was still, but that meant nothing. He’d learned well enough that in the Abyss much of what’s seen can be deceptive.

  He spied movement in the distance, a dark shape fluttering through the clouded sky. Looking back at the scrying skull, he gave a wave of his bony hand, causing it to return to normal bone—albeit with some carved runes here and there. A moment later, a familiar visitor took a perch on the window’s ledge, moving his strong form through it by means of his clawed feet and hands.

  “Sargis is eager for some news.” Akarin finished making his way inside, forcing Cadrith a few steps back so the nine-foot winged demon had his needed space.

  “I’m sure he is.” Cadrith watched the demon case the room, his yellow eyes in stark contrast to his blood-red skin, bald head, and black bull-like horns curving out from his forehead. “But I’d be better able to make progress without so many interruptions. I told him I’d keep him informed of any developments.” The demon’s brawny tail swayed from side to side before stilling itself behind him.

  To say the lich loathed the pointy-eared minion would be an understatement of the highest order. The demon was nothing more than a lackey of his weakened master, who, like Akarin himself, mistakenly thought himself superior to others. And that arrogance and boldness grew more annoying with each visit.

  “He’s aware of what you told him.” Akarin folded his powerful wings behind him as he found Cadrith once again.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To find out what you might have forgotten to pass on since the last time you shared your progress.” Akarin crossed his arms and puffed his chest. Cadrith had never seen the demon clothed in anything other than a short-sleeved scale mail shirt. The armor flowed down to his thighs and covered his black silken breechcloth. A thick segmented plate metal belt kept his sword always within reach.

  “It’s nice to see I still have your master’s trust,” he said, making his way for the throne.

  “Is there any reason you shouldn’t have it?” The demon raised a bushy black eyebrow.

  “You’ve grown a bit bold, Akarin.” He took a seat.

  “And Sargis has grown even more impatient.” The demon tapped a clawed finger on his muscular forearm. “Do you have anything to tell him?”

  “You can tell him I believe I’ve found our key.” Cadrith was once more peering at the silent scrying skull.

  “He might want to know more than that.” Akarin’s tail swished as he again looked over the room, focusing on the darker corners now.

  “He wants to know . . . or you do?” Cadrith peered back at the demon.

  “Does it matter?” Akarin’s smirk pulled back just enough of his lips to show the sharp teeth behind them. When added to his overall physicality, the effect would have been quite terrifying to most. But Cadrith knew a thing or two about theatrics—especially when it came to keeping one’s place in the dangerous social order of which he was now a part.

  “If you value your life, it does.” He glared back, latching on to the demon’s eyes. Though it would have been easier to do so if he still had eyes, he was sure Akarin got the intended effect.

  “I’ll make sure he gets the message,” said Akarin, turning to leave.

  “Please do. And when you see him, remind Sargis that I will contact him about anything he should know.” Akarin didn’t reply, merely leapt out the window and into the spreading night. Cadrith waited a while longer before returning his staff to the side of his throne and casting the spell to reactivate the scrying skull. There was still much that needed doing.

  Chapter 2

  Do good by your fellow human; do good by each other.

  Strife should not be found among you but a unity,

  which would make you the envy of all the races.

  —The Sacred Scrolls

  “Panthora rejoices with you.” Sir Dravin, the grand champion of the Knights of Valkoria, addressed the assembly before him. “Today these dedicates are brought closer into her presence than any other warrior.” His half plate armor, heavily decorated with panther motifs in keeping with tradition, rested beneath a billowing gray cape embroidered with a profile of a golden panther’s head. Clean shaven and broad shouldered, Sir Dravin was in the prime of his life and embodied what one would expect in a man who led a noble knightly order. Those whom he addressed shared the same fair skin with a range of platinum blond to brown hair and lighter-colored eyes. More than a few of the men wore beards, with the knights in attendance clean shaven, as was the custom.

  The two-story square room in which they stood was large enough to allow all the occupants who’d come from across the Northlands—parents of the dedicates and knights alike—to watch the thirty dedicates standing in front of the altar steps get inducted into the knighthood. Above them, a bronze candelabra dangled from the ceiling. Its forest of white candles blazed with an abundance of light that illuminated all below in great detail. But it was the altar and the platform upon which it sat that held the most attention.

  Rowan Cortak stood with the rest of the dedicates. An hour earlier, the sandy-haired, blue-eyed Nordican had been standing atop the keep, looking out over the growing night sky and recollecting everything that had led him to this ceremony. Now he was in the windowless altar room battling his uncomfortable ceremonial vestments and the profuse heat. The coarse, long-sleeved, beige-colored garments had gray emblems of a pouncing panther stitched on their shoulders, thighs, and arms. All the dedicates wore them as a sign of being set apart for the knighthood. But for Rowan, the heavy garb only served to wring even more sweat out of him. He noted all the other dedicates seemed equally uncomfortable.

  He focused on the altar in an attempt to calm his nerves. The small mahogany rectangle was polished to a sheen but plain. On each of its corners sat a panther—carved of the same dark wood and holding aloft the polished granite crowning the sacred object. A golden shield emblazoned with the silver symbol of the faith, which also doubled as the knighthood’s crest—a profile of a roaring panther’s head—stood upon the altar like a miniature sun.

  Sir Dravin gestured for the young men to approach the white quartz steps. “Step forward to receive Panthora’s blessing and enter this sacred trust of service for humanity’s greater good.”

  The young men’s faces twitched with nervous smiles as they slowly drew near the altar platform, forming rows so everyone was allowed a place on the steps. Rowan found a spot on the third step, just a breath away from the grand champion, and within sword strike of the high father beside him. He also found himself near one of the twin smoking bronze braziers that were stationed on either end of the step, permeating the entire area with their incense. Beside each brazier sat a noble-looking gray marble panther.

  Rowan hoped none could see his legs shake nor hear his racing heart and erratic breathing. He’d always pictured himself more calm and noble at his induction, not as scared and excited as he’d become. A quick glance to his right, though, showed even his barrel-chested friend Holvar fared the same. Holvar’s quick grin reassured him and even brought a smile to his own lips as the high father began the invocation.

  Long white tresses hung from the brilliant gold circlet encompassing the high father’s wrinkled brow. And while in some ways his appearance brought a comparison to s
ome wizened old tree, the priest’s bright blue eyes spoke of great vitality and spirit—more so than what might be found in men even half his age. The high father wore a brown robe tied with a cream-colored sash that accentuated his thin waist. His shoulders were wrapped in a white cloak embroidered with golden panther motifs, the garment affixed over his left breast by a golden brooch crafted in the shape of Panthora’s crest.

  “Goddess of all that is right with humanity, hear us.” The high father’s voice was raspy but strong. “As each dedicate steps forth to swear themselves to you, may you take note. May they find honor in your sight, now and always. May they know your truth and walk in it—in this life and the next.”

  This said, each dedicate turned toward their left, forming a line which would take them one by one to the high father, who’d speak a brief blessing over them. The dedicate would then take a few more steps to Sir Dravin, where they’d kneel before him and the altar behind him. The grand champion would then tap his sword first upon their left and then the right shoulder, speaking the old oath said to have been entrusted to the knighthood by Panthora herself. Rowan watched the pattern repeat itself a handful of times until Tomas, a dedicate before him, rose from his knighting.

  “Approach, Rowan Cortak.” The high father’s invitation gave Rowan a small start, but he quickly recovered. A few steps later he was before the high father, who extended his left hand toward Rowan’s head. “Blessed be the human who seeks for Panthora with a whole heart. Blessed be the human who keeps to her ways. Blessed be the human who honors her, for in his doing he too shall be honored.” As the high father spoke Rowan felt all the fear, the excitement, and the rest of the emotional tumult he’d been feeling fade away. Even his sweating had stopped as what felt like a cool breeze flowed over him.

  In a daze, he made his way to Sir Dravin, dropping on one knee with a bow of his head. He felt the flat of the blade tap him on his left shoulder. “To Panthora and her order you are now forever bound.” He felt the flat of the blade kiss his right shoulder. “Arise, to your new life and duty, Sir Rowan Cortak.”