Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  Still, launching the equivalent of bundled dynamite did get everyone’s attention. I went up and over a big stretch of wall, killed one sentry almost in passing, and kept going. Nobody raised an alarm about me since there were plenty of alarms already going on.

  One of the odd things about some places is the way geography affects culture. Take H’zhad’Eyn, for example. They live down near the Mountains of the Sun, which means they have a relatively hot climate. Technically, they have miles upon miles of desert in the southern half, but only because no one else wants to claim it. The rest of the place is less arid, but feels tropical. I wear a cooling spell all day, every day, without fail.

  Fortunately, the proximity to the mountains—and a peculiarity of the way the Firmament operates—means they also get a fairly high level of background magical radiation. It happens all along the Mountains of the Sun, to a greater or lesser extent based on factors I know not of. You would think with a greater-than-average magical flow through their kingdom, they would have wizards out the wazoo, wouldn’t you?

  Nope. They do have wizards—and visiting magicians, or retired magicians, or just magicians doing research; their motives aren’t clear to me—but their wizards are unpredictable. They use a magical technique I would describe as something close to shamanism. The viksagi have people who deal with spirits as do the People of the Plains. The shamans of H’zhad’Eyn aren’t truly dealing with spirits. They don’t think of spells the way I do, as structures to be built. They always draw a circle, then they chant and wave their hands, so it looks similar, but the way they manipulate the forces is less like circuitry and more like sculpting. It’s a much more elaborate form of spellcasting.

  So when I slid into the palace of Zhoka, I paused to watch the local shaman do his thing in the courtyard. It was most instructive. The way he had backup singers and dancers for his performance was particularly interesting. I counted twenty, far more than most Karvalen wizards can use effectively. They were certainly helping contribute power, leaving him free to concentrate on the effect he was trying to produce. The power level they managed was impressive, a testament to the power of cooperative magic.

  I clung to the side of a tower, up there on the palace’s outer wall, and wondered what he was trying to do. If he would have assembled the spell in a way I understood, I could have figured it out. As it was, I had to wait until he finished. At least I could see the effect.

  It was a nice effect. The energies of the spell shot off to the west, toward the trebuchets. The spell engulfed one, permeated it in less than a second, and split the longest log—the launching arm. It was like watching someone turn a log into a split-rail fence in time-lapse. Most of the framework was okay, but the trebuchet was suddenly out of order. Up on the tower, I had a good view of it.

  After everyone had some water and a brief rest, he started again.

  I wanted to stop him. I wanted to call Seldar and warn him. I didn’t. I had work to do and the shaman was doing a fair job of distracting everyone in the courtyard. Besides, he already took out one siege engine. I had to believe in my guys. They wouldn’t allow it to happen again. Well, once more, maybe, before they figured out how to stop it, but they wouldn’t allow it to continue.

  I crept into the palace like the shadow of death, because I was.

  It did not go entirely as planned.

  Mary would have walked into the place without being noticed, batted her eyelashes at everybody, asked a few innocent questions, and killed everyone who needed killing.

  I had to creep around and stare at people while trying not to get caught. I can be stealthy, but it doesn’t come naturally. It takes too much time for me to waste any—time to sneak, time to find the people in charge, time to bypass their security, time to evaluate their level of addiction.

  The local count or baron or whatever—let’s call him “Earl”—Earl and his wife had retired for the night. Why not? He had a strong city, the walls were manned, and his men were defending the place. If anything went wrong, they would wake him long before the invaders could reach the palace. Presumably, he also had an escape plan if things went seriously wrong.

  He also had no intention of surrendering. The priests hadn’t sunk their claws into him, but his wife was a True Believer. Which is to say, an addict. I could see it in her spirit, the way it glittered and flowed. There’s a warping, a twisting in it, always in the same spot, when they’ve had a few too many hits of artificial bliss. No doubt she was the influence making Earl stand and fight. At the very least, she was encouraging him to resist the invaders, just as the Church wanted.

  Moral dilemma time. Kill the wife and see if he’s reasonable? No, not after killing his wife, he won’t be. Kill them both? With no one to speak for the city as a whole, how could they surrender? And the priests—what few remained—would certainly get involved in the succession. One of them might even step into the power vacuum and assume the mantle of rulership.

  Even if I could fix the wife by removing the addiction, it wouldn’t remove the memory of it. It was possible, with time and experimentation, I might be able to smooth out the distortion in her spirit marking her as an addict. It might—probably not, but might—cure the withdrawal symptoms. Maybe. Even if I did, how long has she been falling all over herself to follow the Lord of Light? True, her choice was probably predicated on the ritual of joy, but removing withdrawal symptoms isn’t the same as altering her beliefs.

  I hate moral dilemmas. I always do. They remind me I’m not very moral.

  Stick with Plan A. Kill everyone with the taint of pleasure addiction and move on. Remove the hold the priests have over people, remove as many priests and possible, and reiterate our demand for any remaining priests. Try, try to keep this a religious conflict, not a political one.

  So I did. The wife was protected by her amulet. I couldn’t touch her with my tendrils. Earl, on the other hand, took his off when he went to bed. Him, I drained to thorough unconsciousness, then used Firebrand to put a hole through her throat all the way to the floor. She woke up for it, but she couldn’t scream. She would have thrashed, but Firebrand is a broad blade and went cleanly—sort of—through her spine. Her blood still hurried to leave, I noticed, crawling madly out of the wound to reach me.

  Once she died, I withdrew Firebrand and cut the chain holding her amulet. With it removed, I waited a moment longer, pressing my hand to her throat to get the last of the blood. Earl was going to have a bad enough time waking up next to his expired wife. Leaving a bloody mess would only add to his anguish. I paused long enough to make sure she was pristine.

  The rest of the palace was less of a moral problem. It was just straightforward killing, and I’m good at that.

  Rethven, Friday, April 13th, Year 9

  They continued the bombardment even after I finished for the night. When it became clear the city wouldn’t make a sortie, my guys started taking the launching in shifts. I came back to a camp full of snoring.

  I was delighted to be noticed as I came back. Wizard-knights on sentry duty. Very handy. We didn’t lower our stealth spells on the way back, but they spotted us anyway. Seldar was asleep in his tent, so I went to sit on the earthworks and watch the bombardment.

  When the sun came up, I was in Seldar’s tent, waiting for it to be over. Malena greeted me by lightly kicking the Crate of Kings.

  “Are you alive in there?”

  “Not yet,” I replied, without lifting the lid.

  “I have breakfast for you. When you have a moment, we have a messenger.”

  “From?”

  “Zhoka. From the Count, he says. He won’t give it to Seldar. Says it’s for His Majesty.”

  “Tell him he’s not going to see me. Then have someone read me the message.”

  “He doesn’t have a scroll. He says he’s to speak to you.”

  “Oh, that sort of message. Well, sit him down, feed him, and tell him he’s going to have to wait.”

  “It will be done.”

 
I sweated my way through the sunrise, unbolted the lid, and Malena helped me up.

  “Do you want to go see the messenger or do you want him brought in?” she asked. I cast a cleaning spell on myself and on the crate.

  “Have the captains report here first, then bring in the messenger.”

  “Immediately.” She stuck her head out and gave orders to a runner while I held an internal debate about armor. Is armor formal attire? At court, possibly, depending on the nature of the event. At a dinner party? Definitely not. How about in a field encampment during the ongoing bombardment of a city? Yes. Yes, I think it is. When it comes right down to it, I feel more comfortable in armor than I do in a tuxedo.

  I dressed myself—I’m a big boy—while Kammen hustled in. Malena moved to stand beside me while Kammen saluted quickly.

  “Sire.”

  “Kammen. How’s the siege going?”

  “It’s going. Pounded the temple building. Backlashed a wizard. Still setting fire to stuff in the temple area.”

  “Glad to hear it. What’s the backlash on the wizard?”

  “Kept trying to split our catapults. Killed two of ’em. We caught his spell and reversed it on the third.”

  “Reversed it?”

  “Sent it back to him. He didn’t send any more.”

  I wondered to myself what his spell would do to a human. Split the bones into toothpicks? Maybe. Probably. Hard to say without analyzing the spell.

  “Got a warning for you, though,” he added.

  “Oh? What is it?”

  “Did my Ribbon work this morning. There’s a cusp coming up today. Looks like a tight one.”

  “Forgive me, but I’m not all that clear on the Ribbon and its usage. I don’t look at it, myself.”

  “Cusps, pinches, narrow spots. They’re decision points. Tipping points. Places where the future hangs on a decision. Maybe yours, maybe someone else if it affects you. It’s a caution.”

  “Got it. So, any thoughts on this cusp?”

  “I dunno,” he shrugged. “It’s too narrow to see through, even for me, and I’m one of the best. It affects everybody I know. You, too.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  Kammen grunted an affirmative as Torvil, Seldar, and Beltar joined us. Heydyl also joined us, but it was clear he was only there as Beltar’s page or gofer. He was armored in steel, of course, but he wore a sword and a sash. I should probably ask what his formal status is, sometime.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Kammen tells me the siege is going well. What are your thoughts?”

  “As usual, he is correct,” Seldar said. Torvil and Beltar nodded.

  “We do have some wounded,” Beltar added, “several more horses, but a few more knights. The magical assaults were rapid, but are now largely ineffectual. Their spells are unusual, but they are badly outnumbered. The wounded are healing rapidly. Sixteen of the horses had to be put down.”

  “Well, we knew things would keep getting harder. No knights?”

  “No deaths. A few injuries. Two have been returned to the Temple of Shadow in… Vios?”

  “Yes.”

  “Returned to Vios,” he continued, “but the rest should be fit for battle by tomorrow.”

  “A testament to their training.”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “I’m told there’s a messenger from Zhoka?” I prompted.

  “Yes. He should be here in moments.” Beltar hesitated, then asked, “Will his message have anything to do with your errand of the evening?”

  “Possibly. Probably. Have we made it clear to Zhoka that we only want the priests and their followers?”

  “We have.” He stopped abruptly as the tent flap flipped back and a young man was ushered in. He was a skinny sort, dressed in breeches, tunic, and tabard. The five interlinked circles on the front were centered on the blade of a point-up sword. Zhoka’s flag—I saw it during my evening escapades.

  “Welcome. You are the messenger?”

  “Lazsal, sir. Are you the Demon King?”

  “No. Yes. Well, sort of. It’s complicated. I am the King of Karvalen.”

  “I have a message for you, sir. Your Majesty.”

  “Let’s hear it, then.”

  He clasped his hands, stood rigidly straight, closed his eyes, and recited:

  “The wars of gods become the wars of men, and you who stand in both may be assailed in either. You are now punished with the wrath of the Lord of Light for your brazen audacity, although the wounds have not yet begun to bleed. Withdraw from the lands of H’zhad’Eyn and enter neither Praeteyn nor Ynar. This is no longer a warning, but an ultimatum. So says Master Direnias, prophates of the Lord of Light.”

  He relaxed slightly and opened his eyes.

  “May I bear a message back to the city?”

  “Is Direnias in the city?”

  “I believe not, Your Majesty, but I cannot say for certain.”

  “Then how did he send this message? How do I know it is from him?”

  “I am told he communicates with my masters, who then give me messages to bear.”

  “All right. Yes, there is a message. Ready?”

  “Please begin.” He closed his eyes and listened intently.

  “Master Direnias, prophates of the Lord of Light… I find I want to demand your surrender, unconditional and immediate, but that is unreasonable. You know I am coming for you and intend to kill you—you and all your kind. Since I see no way we can arrange for a peaceful coexistence, this is a battle to the death. I fear I must give in to my baser instinct, rather than take the high road and claim the moral superiority. Therefore, my message to you is this:

  “I am coming.”

  The messenger opened his eyes and bowed.

  “You have my message?” I asked.

  “I do, Your Majesty.”

  “See him safely out of the camp and send him back to Zhoka,” I said, nodding at Beltar. Beltar blinked at me for a moment before he and Heydyl ushered the young man out.

  “Sire?” Kammen asked.

  “Yes, Kammen?”

  “I need a bit to check the Ribbon.”

  “Thinking that might be the cusp?” I asked. He nodded. “Very well. Let me know what you find out.”

  “I will.”

  “Anything else you need me for?” I asked. They shook their heads, strangely quiet. “That will be all, gentlemen. I’m going to have breakfast.”

  Malena didn’t exactly serve breakfast. She occasionally poured another cup of juice—I’m not sure what sort of juice. It was orangey, but had a hint of some savoury flavor. It was a citrus of some kind, surely, but I’m not up on the fruits of the southern regions. Most of the time, she stood by and watched everything except me.

  Afterward, we went up on the earthworks to watch the bombardment. Someone had shifted the attack from the temple area to the nearest gate. It was taking a pounding from rocks while a squad heated up the next batch of exploding logs. One group had a large rock over the fire, sucking up and saving the heat.

  It was a good idea. I wish I’d thought of it.

  While we watched, I heard my altar ego.

  Ahem.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Sire?” Malena asked.

  “Not you.”

  “Oh.”

  Well, he said, hesitantly, I, uh, I think you better come to Karvalen. The city. Vios, right?

  “I think I remember it that way. We’ll go with it. I’m terrible with names.”

  So that’s where I get it from.

  “You sound tense. Something wrong?”

  Yes. Most definitely yes. And I’d rather tell you when there’s no one mortal around.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  See, there’s a— he broke off as one of the cooking fires flared like a geyser, forming a momentary figure of a fiery woman before fading to ashes.

  The Mother of Flame thinks you ought to hurry. I can’t see into her temples, you know, so I don
’t know the full situation.

  Bronze galloped toward me as I hurried toward her. I swung up into the saddle.

  “What does she say?” I demanded as we galloped toward the logistics tent. Bronze came to a rather abrupt stop and I pretended to dismount gracefully instead of nearly falling. The tent for today was for Carrillon. It took a few moments to fold up and pack itself into a bundle again, then a few more to let the one to Kar—dammit, Vios—unfold and stiffen up.

  She says the Lord of Light is up to his old tricks.

  “That doesn’t tell me anything,” I began, and stopped. The last time we had a major conflict with the forces of the Lord of Light…

  I felt cold.

  We came out in Vios, blew right past the guards around the tent on that end, and turned one fruit stand into fruit salad. We didn’t splat anyone, but a couple of pedestrians might file lawsuits in more litigious cultures. Bronze got me to the Temple of Flame in under thirty seconds, and I think that may be a record.

  The Temple of Flame had quite a few of the City Guard around the property. There was a small crowd and a few worshippers, but no one was actively trying to get in. The smell of smoke was still strong, along with the odor of scorched stone and burned meat. I didn’t see a pillar of fire lancing into the sky, nor was there any indication of the buildings melting into a puddle of lava. Not the best situation, but certainly nowhere near as bad as I feared.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked, dismounting.

  “Lotta fire and screaming,” the guard replied. “It’s been quiet for a while, but nobody’s gone in. It’s hotter than a forge and it’s a temple.”

  “Yes, it’s a temple. So?”

  “Nobody’s risking divine wrath.”

  “Ah. Good thinking,” I agreed. “Now move.”

  He stepped smartly aside and saluted.

  The temple proper—the dome-covered area—was untouched. There were no signs of violence or even disorder. The proper building, the residence, still had a heat shimmer coming from every unshuttered window. They were all unshuttered, now. Wooden shutters burn. They need metal ones.