by Dan Neil
The Scorpion Knight demanded, “Who goes there?”
“I was about to ask the same thing,” the young man replied. He clutched at his strange, glowing spear.
“My name is Scipion Gannala II. We represent King Logan, Crown Regent of Madros Relia.”
“Madros Relia? Am I lost?”
This fellow was odd. Scipion’s head tilted as he said, “That is the name of these lands.”
“I must be truly lost,” the young man lamented. He turned to his spear and said, “I thought you told me she was this way!”
Matalo’s head cocked. “Who are you talking to?”
The young man looked up and shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I’m on my mission, so if you would kindly move, I won’t bother any of you.”
Matalo immediately drew his sword, and the young man readied his spear.
Through clenched teeth, Matalo said, “He said it himself: he’s on a mission! He must be with New Dawn.”
“New Dawn?” the young man asked. “What is that?”
“I think he is traveling by himself,” Scipion said. “Anton would not waste a soldier by sending him to fight us alone.” He turned to address the young man. “Where exactly are you traveling?”
“I’m trying to find Freeport, but I have no map. And my, eh, companion, is quite awful with directions.” He then addressed the spear once more, “Yeah, well, it’s true! Oh, don’t give me that.”
Matalo sheathed his sword and demanded, “Why are you going to Freeport?”
The young man’s chest puffed out as he said, “I’m going to the Land of One King to find someone very important. Someone who might need my help.”
Scipion asked, “Find who?”
“Who else? Lady Rhiannon.”
Scipion’s eyes widened. He was familiar with the legends that prophesied her return but put little faith in old legends and myths. Matalo was less skeptical but still doubted he’d live to see her return.
Matalo’s eyebrow raised. “You’re telling me she’s back now? I doubt it.”
“She is back!” the young man said. “I was given a mission by the gods to serve her and help her win the coming war.”
Matalo sheathed his sword with a sigh. “What coming war are you talking about? War is already here. It has come and gone and made itself a home. War has been here, my friend.”
The young man’s expression was serious. “You call this war? This is nothing. I’m talking about the Great War. This war will decide the fate of humanity, or so my friend tells me.” He gestured to his spear. “History is about to repeat itself, and soon, the lines will be drawn.”
“I think he might be crazy,” Matalo whispered to Scipion as the young man whispered to his spear. “Actually, I think he’s full-on mad.”
Scipion nodded, then addressed the stranger. “If you want to get to Freeport, you need to travel the other way. The Madros can be crossed at Centara. From there, you could go north and travel through the Gozdus Desert or along the Madros’ northern channel.”
The man groaned. “The other way?”
“Yes, you were going the wrong direction. You would need to go the way we’re going if you wanted to get there,” Scipion said.
“Are you sure?”
“I am fairly certain, yes. In fact, if you wanted to accompany us, we would be able to take you as far as Bottleneck Pass,” Scipion said. “There is a rather nasty person we’re meeting there—the kind of person Lady Rhiannon would want to kill.”
“Lady Rhiannon would not need to kill him. She could banish him,” the young man replied.
Scipion extended a hand and said, “What do you say, nonetheless? You can travel amongst us, even help us defeat our enemies if you wish.”
The young man thought about it for a moment and talked things over with his spear. He chatted furiously with it until suddenly he came to a conclusion.
“I could not possibly join you. I am on a mission of the utmost importance, and you all will slow me down. But fear not—if you still fight for what is good in this world, she will welcome you into her ranks when the day comes.”
Matalo rolled his eyes. “Of course. Go on, then, and tell the good lady hello when you find her. We could certainly use her help.”
“I will do just that!” the young man said. “Thank you, Scipion, for telling me the way.”
“Make haste,” Scipion replied. “I’m sure she has no shortage of enemies in wait—I’m sure she could use an ally.”
The young man nodded and turned to travel in front of the Oathsworn. He would not let them catch up but was not fast enough to widen his lead, either. He often looked back at them, confused, but every time, Scipion and Matalo would wave harmlessly. Eventually, they camped for the night, but the young man pressed on. Soon enough, he was out of sight while the others slept.
Scipion could hardly sleep. His army was making better time than anticipated; it would not be long before they met their enemy on the battlefield—the worst kind of enemy: a desperate one.
Chapter 28
Gladios
Day 7 of the Season of Life, 1020 YAR
The force of the first round of explosions knocked Keia to the ground. Her chest tightened from the sheer concussive force; her heart felt like it was bursting open with each rapid beat. The ringing in her ears made her brain feel as if it were trying to crawl out of her skull.
Am I dead?
Keia opened her eyes. Blurred rubble, and smoke were the only things visible. Screams of every kind—anguish, confusion, sadness, pain, hysteria—hung in her ears, loud enough to penetrate her dulled senses.
Entire swathes of the stadium were covered in flames. Keia saw a man sitting amongst the chaos. Then, casually, he stood with a wand lowered at his side. The next moment, everything near him was engulfed in fire.
There was a bright flash, and distant, echoing booms. Another wave of smoke and dust clouded her already blurred vision. The only thing her eyes could focus on was her hand grasping at a pool of blood.
Is that—mine? Move—move, move, move—she thought, and the hand twitched. Keia tried to turn her head and felt a sharp pain. After it subsided, she tried again, slower.
The Royal Booth came into sight. Between flashes and blurs, she made out the king and his nobles evacuating. A civilian ran at them from the upper rows of seating, but he was violently jerked into the air before exploding. Keia heard that one for half a second before the dull ringing returned. A second charging civilian was captured and bound before the booth was completely emptied.
Keia turned her head once more and saw total chaos. Limbs and blood splattered the stands, and charred corpses bathed in a sea of flames. Cries of children and screams of parents echoed throughout the stadium. Some people trampled others to escape; others pulled their scorched loved ones from the raging flames, and some pulled others into the fire with them as they begged for help, desperately clinging to any sort of life at all.
The stench was otherworldly—a putrid mix of sweat, fecal matter, and charred meat mixed with iron. Smoke billowed up from the stands, and ash rained down on every inch of Gladios Arena left untouched by fire. Tears streaked down Keia’s face as her guts heaved. Acid burned up her throat and out her mouth as her stomach ejected its contents on the stage floor. She tried to stand but fell over. Pushing herself back up, she struggled to her feet. Amidst the death were mothers crying for their children and children crying for their mothers.
Why?
Someone stepped out of the haze.
“Rory?” Keia asked nervously. His eyes weren’t right; they were glazed over like the eyes from her dream. The malice was gone. Now, there was nothing—not even Rory.
“R-Rory?”
He’s not there.
Rory’s wand flashed red as a fire spell consumed both of them. First, there w
as a bright flash, then a rush of hot, suffocating air, and then the crackling boom accompanied by a second wave of energy. Only a timely ward saved Keia’s life, though she was still knocked backward and rendered briefly unconscious—and her opponent was reduced to ashes.
Keia swam in an ocean of darkness—for how long, she had no idea. Her lungs itched and ached as smoke poured in through her nose and mouth. Whatever light broke through her vision was blurred and distorted by the smoke and tears filling her eyes.
“KEIA! KEIA! GET HER OUT OF HERE!” Oliver’s voice floated by, but it was miles away. The world was dimmed by interwoven shadows. Smoke seeped into her eyes, prickling every inch of them.
Fingers pressed on Keia’s shoulder, and Sir Kaine screamed, “Get those fires out! And you, get up!”
“Devin—Gilfried—” Keia mumbled. “Raya—Jisaazu—Carter—Aliya…”
“GET THE FUCK UP! NOW!”
Keia fought to get her legs under her, but her muscles shook, her knees buckling. A sudden sensation of lightness flooded her. Was she falling, or was the ground coming up to meet her? It didn’t matter; with a dull thud, her face met it.
Sir Kaine threw her arm around his shoulder to support her weight and led her to the Hall of Mages. The world was swirling. Oliver was casting water to extinguish fires, and Sir Tristayne and the Medic Divisions were swarming the stands to find survivors. A child held his mother’s arm, digging for the rest of her amidst the rubble. It all faded in and out.
Keia collapsed as soon as they reached safety. Sir Kaine signaled one of the medics to attend to her and left to help the others. The shadows crept from the edge of her vision to form a tapestry. Every sound was muffled and chaotic as the last light was extinguished.
—
Lord Locke Halcion and Nevii Dannicos were the last to arrive in the throne room. King Symon stood across from them, facing a stained window that depicted his victory over Midraude Le Faye. Multiple colors were cast over him, though none so prominently as red.
Everyone in the room was shaken, even the immovable Lord Stern Keenig. The usually high-spirited Lord Halcion stood grave and silent. Most nervous of all was Nevii, who was attuned to the emotions of everyone in the room. To feel the most powerful people in Gaddeaux gripped by terror and uncertainty discomfited her.
“What the fuck happened?” Lord Haik Larkkson asked. “Who the hell was it that attacked us?”
“It must have been the Wild King!” Lord Anarda said between unsteady gulps of wine. His hands trembled as he raised the chalice to his lips, spilling some on his expensive robe. “They almost killed us all! Pay—they’ll pay! Why, I’ll not stand for this!”
“Silence, drunkard!” Lady Vandor spat. “Don’t let fear, along with the booze, cloud your mind. We know nothing yet.”
“My king—” Sir Brandon Gladwell said. “Sir Kaine just reached me. They have one of the suspects in custody—the one Lady Dannicos bound. He’s bringing him here.”
“And Gladios Arena?” Symon asked, his back still facing the room.
Sir Brandon reported, “The fires are being extinguished. Medics are treating the wounded. The militia is on standby in case of more attacks. Everyone else available is overseeing the evacuation. Civilians have been put under martial lockdown. The Crown’s Guard has cleared the streets and is moving into the underground to quell riots.”
“Gaheris,” King Symon said. “Fetch Gaheris, now. Then return.”
“Yes, my king,” Sir Brandon bowed his head and exited the room.
Lord Sylbian stepped forward. “My king. We will find out who is responsible for this. We will have just—”
“Justice?” King Symon turned. His face was dark, his eyes cruel; his expression silenced the room. He faced the window once more. Nevii felt Lord Halcion’s heart rate rising. She kept her magical gaze from Symon. Within him, she only saw fire.
Sir Kaine and the captive arrived before long. The man was thrown before the king.
“We found this on him, my king,” Sir Kaine held up a note written in an ancient language. “We believe these notes are how they cast the spells. He claims not to know anything.”
“I-it’s true, my king!” the man begged. “I-I swear, the last thing I remember, well, the last thing was—it was falling asleep last night, I don’t remember anything beyond that, I swear! I don’t know what’s happening!”
Symon faced the man and drew Hellfire, holding it at the whimpering captive’s throat. The man cried out from the blade’s heat.
“What’s your name?”
“Iseldius!” the man cried. “M-my name, my name is Iseldius!”
The king cast a look at Lord Anarda. “One of yours?”
The lord replied, “I’ve never seen him.”
“Please, you have to believe me! I didn’t know; I didn’t—I don’t remember it! I don’t remember anything!” Iseldius begged. “I came here from Vertan to sell spells, and I don’t—I didn’t—” He fell silent at King Symon’s glare. Iseldius stared at the floor in disbelief as tears flowed from his face. “My—my family, someone has to tell my family; it—it wasn’t me—”
Symon took the note from Sir Kaine. “Can anyone read this language?”
The lords and ladies gathered for a look, but none could identify it. The king did not speak again until Sir Brandon returned with Gaheris.
“My king—” Gaheris began, his eyes wide and his brow covered in sweat.
“Read this,” Symon interrupted, shoving the note into his adviser’s hands. Gaheris examined it and scratched his head.
“It’s ancient Itheran,” he announced, “the only known language to descend from the Language of Gaea. But how could this man know a language that died over six centuries ago?”
The king twitched. “Ancient Itheran? What does it say?”
“It’s the written incantation for a fire spell. Not just any regular one—a fire storm,” Gaheris replied.
Symon turned to Sir Kaine. “How many were killed?” he asked.
“Hundreds, my king, if not thousands,” Sir Kaine replied. “I counted at least ten explosions. We won’t know the full extent of the casualties until the arena is cleared. If I had to estimate, I’d say at least eight hundred.”
The king sheathed Hellfire. The entire room watched on in silence as Symon sat upon his throne and stared at Iseldius.
“This man claims to have no memory of the attacks. Gaheris, verify whether he is telling the truth.”
Gaheris nodded. He approached the inconsolable Iseldius and cast telepathy, probing his innermost thoughts.
After about ten seconds, Gaheris pulled his hand back and gulped. “He appears to be telling the truth, my king. Not a single memory of planning or carrying out the attack—almost as if he were asleep while it happened. H-he must have had some sinister form of telepathy cast upon him.”
“I can attest to his telling the truth, too,” Nevii chimed in. “When I sensed the attackers, their minds were devoid of consciousness. Perhaps they were controlled by someone—”
Symon interrupted, “I know exactly who they were controlled by! The only man I know to be fluent in ancient Itheran—the only man capable of making us vulnerable to shadow telepathy. The one and the same who absconded with the King’s Spellbook and changed the Eternal Laws to open us to this very attack—Myrddin! Myrddin the traitor! That rat bastard wizard!”
Gaheris and the king exchanged a look. Nevii sensed the adviser’s nervousness rise.
“What are we to do, my king?” Lord Keenig asked.
“Go back to your homes,” Symon said. “The King’s Tourney is over. Take your families to your keeps, and say your goodbyes. Each of you is to gather twelve thousand of your finest soldiers and converge upon Genievon in three months’ time. This attack upon my people will not go unpunished. The Long Peace is over; now we are at war. Myrdd
in’s last known trajectory was toward the Wild King—surely they conspired. We will go up there, and we will kill them all!”
“Yes, my king!” said the lords and ladies in unison. They bowed and exited. The room’s mood was somber.
“My king,” Gerhardt Rheinley began, “none have ever crossed Greerwood, but diplomacy could be valuable—”
The king interrupted, “Everyone, out. Go to your tasks. I must speak to Gaheris alone.”
“My king,” Sir Brandon asked, “what of Iseldius? Is he free to go?”
The king stared coldly. “See to his execution.”
“Wh-what? No! My king, please, I never did it, I don’t remember anything—please! I have a family. Please!” Iseldius threw himself at the king’s feet as he stared on, eyes devoid of pity.
With a single movement, Symon drew Hellfire and split the man in two. There was no blood—both of Iseldius’s halves turned to ash before the throne.
“I said,”—Symon sheathed his blade and took his seat once more—“everyone out except for Gaheris. Attend to my orders immediately.”
The master knights and advisers left in a hurry. Gaheris alone stood before his wrathful king. Once they were alone, Gaheris spoke first. “My king, I would like to apologize for—”
“Silence!” Symon spat. “I am taking a great risk in keeping you alive, Gaheris—I’m sure you know why.”
Gaheris gulped. “Yes, my king.”
Symon’s hands were curling into fists. “No one can ever know—understand? Neither about our tampering with the laws, nor about Keia’s warning.” Symon shook his head. “If they do—by Aion, if they do...”
Fiddling with his fingers, Gaheris said, “I agree, my king.”
The king sighed. “That fucking girl was right—the one who can’t even use fucking fire. What did she know that we didn’t? How did she know about it?”
“She claimed to see it in a vision.”
In a low voice, Simon said, “She knows something—and worse, she knows we were warned. I want her silenced. She may try to leave Genievon—under no circumstances can that be allowed to happen. Understood?”