Without another word, he jogged down the alley, darted out into the open, and sprinted toward the south tower at super-human speed. The group behind him split apart as four soldiers drove toward the north tower. As he ran, Broland watched the guards atop the towers. One turned toward him and fired a bolt, taking out the soldier on his left – the other man who was to help take the top of the tower. It’s up to me, now. Gauging the height and distance, he leaped.
The rush was incredible as he rose up in an arc exceeding fifty feet at its apex. He braced himself and landed on the square tower, bending his knees with the impact and stumbling forward before bowling over the retreating guard who had fired the first shot. The man smashed into the low wall surrounding the tower and lay still, unconscious.
The other four guards atop the tower spun as one. The first fired a crossbow bolt, blocked by Broland’s shield. A swipe of the same shield knocked the crossbows from the hands of two others as launched bolts went flying. Crossbows pieces sprayed out from the tower and rained on the crowd below.
When the last guard drew his sword, Broland kicked the man’s hand with a crushing blow, shattering bones and sending the sword sailing toward the sea. The man screamed and held his destroyed arm close as he fell to his knees.
Another man reached for his blade, but Broland caught his arm, his grip causing the man’s eyes to bulge and his knees to buckle. Broland released the man, drew his sword, and faced his combatants.
“I am Prince Broland, come to reclaim Wayport. Surrender and you will live. Declare your allegiance to my father, and you will remain free men.”
The guards who remained conscious blinked in confusion, one asking, “Prince? You still live?”
“Yes, as does my father. Turn around, and you will see for yourself.”
Brock remained wrapped in his cloak, his face shadowed by his hood. He listened as Chadwick spewed words laced with lies. The surrounding crowd was too hungry to care. Chadwick placed the problems of Wayport upon the three men on the gibbet. The citizens took his words as truth, and they wanted blood. Brock suspected they would have accepted anyone atop the platform, but his tenure as king had given him insight. The source of these people’s problems would most likely be found in a mirror.
He turned toward the south guard tower, a shadowy pillar in the midday sun. From the top, five guards watched the crowd below. Where are you, Broland? The man is nearing the end of his speech.
A crack sounded from atop the tower as splintered crossbow parts sprayed over the crowd. Finally!
With Power-augmented strength, Brock turned toward the gallows and leaped, his long, gray cloak fluttering as he sailed through the air. An audible gasp came from the crowd when he drew a sword and fell toward the gallows platform. Chadwick scrambled away, toward the stairs. Sharene stumbled to her knees with a knife in her throat and another in her eye. With a solid thump, Brock landed upon the platform and spun around with his arm extended, the sword slicing through the ropes tied to Pretencia and Hex. The floor on which the prisoners stood fell away before Brock could reach Parker’s rope. The noose snapped tight as a thrown knife sliced through Parker’s noose. Parker, Hex, and Pretencia disappeared in the gloom below the platform.
Brock turned toward Chadwick, who was halfway up the stairs.
“Kill him! Kill the attacker!” Chadwick shrieked.
Brock took a deep breath and added Power to his voice, the anger he felt coming through his shout. “Stop!”
Everyone froze, even Chadwick.
With a flourish, Brock tore his cloak free and tossed it aside. He wore his most renowned outfit, a black doublet with gold buttons, gold trim, and a red Chaos symbol on his chest. The gold crown on his head with the ruby encrusted Chaos rune shone in the mid-day sun. Despite the beard on his face, anyone who lived in Kantaria would know him by description. Everyone had heard tales of King Brock.
“I, King Brock of Kantaria, declare Duke Chadwick Von Durran as a traitor.” Brock spun about as he spoke, his voice reverberating off the citadel walls. “His actions have made him an enemy of Kantaria. Anyone who supports him or obeys any command from his lips from this moment will also been seen as a traitor and a criminal.”
Nobody moved. For a few seconds, nobody breathed. The guards dressed in black stared in shock, including the one holding Tenzi on the ground.
“Release that woman, soldier,” Brock commanded, pointing at the man.
The guard scrambled to his feet and Tenzi did the same. She then rushed toward the stairs and began climbing them. Brock turned and his gaze landed on Chadwick, whose eyes grew round just before he turned and bolted.
Brock turned toward the guards lined before the gallows, placed there to protect the duke and to keep the crowd at bay. “Send the crowd home and keep things under control. We don’t need any more casualties today.”
Tenzi ran past Brock, in pursuit of the fleeing duke.
“Tenzi!”
She slowed and turned toward him. A shadow eclipsed the sun and Brock looked up to find Broland sailing over him to land on the castle stairs beside Tenzi. Brock looked back at the tower where Broland had been standing, a hundred fifty feet away and four stories high.
When Broland turned toward him, Brock shook his head. “That was a risky jump, even with your augmentation.”
Broland stepped forward, “Sorry, Father. I figured a healer was required.”
Reluctantly, Brock nodded. “I understand. Start with Parker. His rope was cut late.” He turned toward the castle, knowing what he must do. “You two need to handle things here. I will deal with Chadwick and Illiri. It’s time for them to discover the price of betrayal.”
An armed squad emerged from the building and blocked the door – undoubtedly sent by Chadwick. Rather than attacking, Brock fled, racing across the stairs and leaping off, landing fifty feet away in the grass of the tree-covered courtyard between the castle and the outer wall. He looked up at the arched, stained-glass window above, the bright metal frame a telling sign it had recently been replaced. Ironically, it is about to break again.
Backed by super strength, Brock threw his sword pommel-first at the window and jumped to follow it. The window shattered, the glass spraying inward with Brock following. He landed inside as glass shards rained upon the tiled floor, benches, and the throne where Illiri sat. The stunned duchess wore a red, shoulderless gown, cut low at the front. Chadwick stood before the throne, covering his head with his arms. When he lowered them, he stared at Brock with frightened eyes.
“Please, Brock…”
“Do you not possess a conscience, Chadwick?” Brock’s gaze shifted to Illiri, who glowered back at him while pulling a shard of orange glass from her bared shoulder, leaving a crimson trail down her arm. “Or, perhaps, it is a backbone you lack.”
Illiri stood, her shoulder dripping blood. The woman sneered, “Do what you will with us, Brock. It doesn’t matter. The Empire has weapons you lack and the backing of those who would rather see Chaos magic gone for good. We are sick of arcanists holding the rest of us hostage with fear.”
Brock frowned, moving closer to scoop his sword off the floor. “When have I threatened you with my magic?”
The duchess tilted her head and raised a brow. “You do so right now.”
“Only after you betrayed Kantaria,” Brock growled. “Treason cannot be suffered, Illiri. If I don’t make an example of you two, I risk others betraying me as well. With what we face, I cannot have a kingdom divided.”
Chadwick remained silent, his eyes flicking from Brock to Illiri, and back, all the while kneading his hands.
Illiri sneered at Chadwick. “Really, Chadwick? Brock was right. You have no spine.”
“What…what would you have me do?” Chadwick whined.
The woman shook her head. “Nothing I suppose. You have always been a disappointment, Chadwick.” She turned toward Brock. “Our king, on the other hand…he has a strength and determination you lack.”
Illiri str
ode toward Brock, her hips swaying overtly in her tight gown. Brock remained still, watching as she approached him and put her hand on his chest.
“Perhaps, we can come to an arrangement, Brock.” Illiri ran her hand down his torso. When she caught his inadvertent glance toward her exposed chest, she followed his gaze and looked at him with a knowing smile. “See anything you like, Brock? Ashland doesn’t need to know.”
Brock didn’t respond.
Yes, Illiri was pretty on the outside, gorgeous even. However, he knew her well enough that her rotten core spoiled anything his eyes might find pleasing. It wasn’t the first time he found himself wishing Chadwick had never married the conniving wench. Besides, he loved Ashland and nothing would make him betray her.
Illiri’s other hand suddenly flashed from behind her back, lunging toward him with a dagger. Blessed with exceptional quickness, Brock leaped backward, the blade grazing one of the gold buttons on his doublet and tearing it free. That’s when he noticed the black on the blade.
Brock raised his sword toward Illiri. “You’ll hang for this, Illiri. The public will watch while you kick and twitch and wet yourself. And then, you will die.”
The woman’s face solidified into a scowl, laced with determination. “You are wrong, Brock. I control my own destiny. I retain my dignity.”
She turned the dagger hilt around and drove the blade into her stomach. Her face twisted in pain as Brock and Chadwick stood in stunned silence.
Stumbling, Illiri fell to her knees, looked up at Brock, and smiled. “You lose.”
With a jolt, Illiri’s back arched and she fell on her side, twitching and foaming at the mouth as the poison did its work. Three breaths later, she settled, her eyes staring into nothing.
10
Scout
Percilus Mebane watched in silence as the sun eased over the ridgeline to the east. His palms rested on two boulders as he squatted between them.
The narrow view of the canyon below revealed Kantarian troops in black and gold armor. Some paced along the wall – at least the intact portion of it. Others moved about the prison, emerging from tents and bunkhouses, entering the mess hall and exiting the latrine. Minutes passed and more soldiers appeared, bringing his count beyond four hundred but less than five hundred.
He had heard stories about the prison from his uncle – the man who had raised him since he was thirteen, the same man who trained him to hunt and shoot. His uncle and many others had spent more than a decade working the mines and living like animals in this very canyon. Percy wanted nothing more than to destroy the place. Now would be the perfect time, he thought. Crush this little army and wipe out the prison all at once.
Having seen enough, Percy backed out of his hiding spot in a crouch, making sure the boulders remained between him and the canyon floor as he climbed along the narrow trail. A few hundred feet up, the incline began to level. He looked back and found the canyon fully obscured, which meant nobody would see him. Breaking into an easy jog, he crossed the top of the ridge and soon spied another ridge to the south.
He continued jogging downhill, watching where he placed each step as he sank into the shadow-covered ravine. At the bottom, he slowed to a walk and began climbing the next hill. The sun rose higher, chasing the shadows and the lingering chill away. While Percy continued south, he considered what he had seen.
There was only one way to get an army or war machines close to the prison: through the opening at the western end of the narrow canyon. The march from Hipoint was more than twenty miles. Pressed, an army could make it in two days, but it would probably leave them exhausted. Even so, the Imperial force greatly outnumbered the Kantarian soldiers. And, then, there were the flashbombs.
Percy crested the next rise and found the view far more expansive.
The morning sun reflected off the Sea of Fates a few miles to the south. Like much of the coastline between Wayport and Yarth, sheer cliffs hugged the sea, defining the shoreline and limiting where one might land a ship. A gravel road ran along the top of those cliffs, stretching west and then curving south toward Wayport. In the other direction, the road would take Percy to Hipoint, where the Imperial Army waited. With the thought of a hot meal in mind, Percy broke into a run, hopping over rocks and navigating twists and turns as the trail took him toward the road below.
The sun was well beyond its apex when Percy arrived at camp – a camp that had grown noticeably in the three days since he had departed. Tents now lined the road for a mile, and thousands of soldiers milled about the area, most in white tabards, some in the brown of musketeers. Wagons waited along the other side of the road, not far from the cliff edge. A glance toward the sea revealed the town of Hipoint, built in tiers along the hillside. The sea was calm today, the water in Hipoint Bay a deep blue. A single pier split the bay, and workers were busily unloading cargo from one of the two vessels moored there. The activity level was a far cry from when Percy had first arrived at Hipoint two weeks earlier.
He spotted a white tent with a listing flag beside it. The banner included a blue Order rune on a field of white – the emblem for the Empire. That tent was the officers tent – Percy’s destination. He briefly considered getting a meal before visiting the tent but thought better of it. Mollis, assuming he remained in charge, was a hothead and might take offense if Percy didn’t report immediately. The man was still stewing about the losses he took in the capture of Hipoint, along with the subsequent desertion of his remaining mercenaries.
He approached the pavilion and addressed the two guards standing near the entry.
“Percilus Mebane here to report to the commander.”
One of the two guards ducked inside while the other eyed Percy. My bow is still on my shoulder, Percy thought, imagining the conversation he might have with the two men. You needn’t worry. Of course, if it were in my hands, you would be dead before you could cry for help.
The guard reappeared from the tent. “Commander Mollis will see you now.”
“Thanks,” Percy ducked inside.
The tent was expansive – as big as the chamber Percy and Iko shared in Sol Polis. Two blanket-covered pallets sat on one side of the space, the rest filled by three tables and a dozen chairs. Mollis stood over one table, looking over a map while, Jorgan, his second in command, stood beside him. Both men looked up when Percy entered.
“So, our scout has returned,” Mollis said as he stepped away from the table. The man had black hair, a black, bushy mustache, and a stern expression. Percy didn’t care much for Mollis, who always seemed more arrogant and self-assured than was justified. “What did you find?”
“It took some searching, but I located the Kantarian force twenty miles west of our location.”
“If they are so close, why was it not easy to find them?”
“Someone who knows what they are about hid their tracks, and I spent time searching further out before doubling back. You see, their position is away from the sea, in a hidden canyon. You may have heard of it.” Percy glanced at Jorgan and found the big, blond man staring at him intently. “A secret prison is located there.”
Mollis’ eyes grew wide. “The same prison that held Kardan and Archon Varius?”
Percy nodded. “The same.”
The man’s fist smacked his palm, his eyes alight as he grinned. “We could crush them and destroy the prison all at once! This is my chance for redemption after…after what happened here.”
Hearing a rustle behind him, Percy turned to find a man wearing a blue officer’s uniform entering. The man stood six feet tall and was bald despite a face with few wrinkles. Behind the officer was a woman not much older than Percy. She was fit with short, dark hair and hawk-like eyes.
“Commander Brillens,” Mollis said. “Your timing is perfect.”
Brillens glanced at Percy and turned toward Mollis. “What do you mean, Sergeant?”
Mollis visibly bristled. “It’s Commander, now. Same as you, Orville.”
The grimace on Brillens�
� face made his unhappiness clear. Percy was unsure if it were a result of the man’s dislike for Mollis or for the use of his first name. Perhaps both.
“Fine. You requested me, Mollis. What is this about?”
“Very well. I had originally requested you join me so we could go over the daily ration plan. With your added troops, we must ensure we don’t run out of food.” Mollis moved back to his table and swept aside paperwork marked with tables and figures to reveal a map underneath. “My scout just returned with important news.” The man looked at Percy. “Come and point out the enemy’s position.”
Percy and the others approached the table, everyone looking down at a large map of the south-central region of Issalia. Hipoint, their current position, was near the center.
Percy put his finger on Hipoint and ran it along the coast, imagining his journey and how it aligned with the mapped terrain. When he reached a low spot in the ridgeline, he ran it up and back east, pointing at an unmarked spot among the hills.
“They are here, in a box canyon that terminates at the eastern end. There is a narrow, difficult trail allowing you to enter from the south at about here.” He tapped on the spot where he had been while spying. “However, the only way to get an army, wagons, and catapults in or out is through the mouth of the canyon to the west. Right about here.” He tapped on the map and lifted his head to find the others studying it.
“They are trapped, Brillens,” Mollis said. “We could advance and take them out with ease.”
Brillens frowned. “Sculdin said we are to remain here until further notice.”
“Yes, but that was based on the information he possessed at the time.” Mollis sounded confident. “If he knew of the Kantarian Army’s position, he would strike.”
“What happened last time, Mollis?”
Mollis shook as if he might burst, his face turning red. “That was not my fault. We were tricked by their magic.”
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