A Rising Darkness

by Nikki Dorakis

  I turned to the cohort. “Now, bury these people decently.” I turned to the youth beside me. “What is your name?”

  “Jason, if it please you, young lord.”

  “You are now under the protection of the Ez’n of Zetaria. You need have no further fear for your safety. And you have my word that your family will receive King Janir’s justice but it will not be this day. Now, come with me.”

  As we regrouped at the edge of the square I gave Jason over to one of the hoplites. The boy was to be taken out of the fray back to the safety of the main camp and to my quarters. Iannos would make the boy comfortable and see to his needs until such time as I could speak with the youth and decide what was to happen next.

  †

  CHAPTER 42

  THE MAGISTER

  WHEN WE reached the main gates of the citadel the mangonels were already set up and firing Dragon’s Breath grenades over the walls and from the shouts within it was obvious that the chaos caused by unquenchable flame was spreading and proving a great distraction to the wall archers and other defenders who, rather than hurling rocks or pouring scalding oil through the gargoyles and machicolations were leaving their posts to assist in fighting the fires.

  The desertion of the wall forces made attacking the front gates child’s play. The portcullis gave way within a very few strikes of the crystal blades and the reinforced gates surrendered to the battering ram shortly thereafter.

  We moved through the streets of the upper city more swiftly than we had through the larger area below; there seemed to be fewer soldiers in the citadel and I supposed that the Legion’s commanders had assumed that committing the main part of their army to the defence of the lower city would be sufficient to stave off an attack and hold us at bay. Having seen the size of the army massed against them, the commanders would have had to be mad or stupid to think they would be able to win, for once we had breach the main curtain wall it was only a matter of when we would gain total control of the capital and not a matter of if.

  When the citadel finally fell it was with a whimper. There were so few Legionnaires inside the main palace that Markos and I and the others simply walked in, despatching any guard who resisted, but as we approached the throne room resistance became much stronger and more determined.

  Markos turned to me with a wry smile. “Of course, we should have seen this coming shouldn’t we?”

  “I suppose we should have,” I answered, “but we do have a slight advantage.”

  “Well yes,” the young monarch agreed, “we have a wizard.”

  “No, Markos, we have the shiv your father bequeathed me.”

  “And that helps how, exactly?”

  “Draw your crystal blade and see.”

  Scarcely had the shiv left the sheath than the blades of the Kyr-Garrin began to glow, pale gold at first and then to bright, blinding white as the transformation from ornament to shorts word completed.

  The crystal blades of the legionnaires shattered against the white blades and the soldiers wielding them vanished in a sheet of silver fire. Our adversaries began to pull away from us and following a second onslaught broke ranks and fled leaving the throne room undefended.

  The huge, ornately carved doors were barred and latticed with gold and even though the white blades were not affected by the metal, I reasoned it would take us too long to hack our way through them and by the time we had breached them, our target would likely be long gone. There was only one thing for it.

  Dthor caught hold of my hand. “The king?”

  “So long as I am more restrained with these doors than I was with the Qor-hadthim, the king will be fine.”

  I let fly with as much force as I could safely spare and the bars on the doors gave. The doors themselves swung open with such speed and force that the top hinges gave way leaving the portals leaning drunkenly against a couple of the hypostyle pillars.

  At the far end of the hall a lone figure reclined in a lazy slouch on King Varrin’s throne. He remarked our approach with noticeable disinterest, as if he was watching insects crawling up a wall. He rose slowly and sauntered down the steps of the dais as if he was taking an afternoon stroll. He was so clearly unthreatened by us that I instinctively slowed my pace convinced that some kind of trap was about to be sprung. I began to cast about with my thoughts, straining into the far recesses of the audience chamber to see if I could detect any other presences. I suddenly felt two distinct heartbeats behind the chancel screen at the back of the throne. I signalled the men to stop. Dthor raised an eyebrow, his face asking the question his lips did not.

  “Ambush,” I said quietly.

  The men began to fan out forming a shield around me. Two the Morlan lancers who had come with us linked their scutae and stepped in front of me, forming a human shield.

  The mage regarded me haughtily. “So! You found me. Pendar said that you would.” The man gave a wry smile, “The old bastard is always annoyingly accurate with his predictions—or should that now be in the past tense?”

  “Pendar is dead,” I confirmed, “And tell the men you have hiding behind the screen to come out.”

  The mage sneered at me. “I do not have men hiding there.”

  “Then the women,” I replied curtly.

  “Neither are there women hiding there,” the mage responded suavely. “Illias, Gort, introduce yourselves!”

  There was a slight rustling from behind the screen.

  “What in the name of Creation are those things?” Faedron gasped as two figures appeared.

  The couple were stripped to the waist, clearly male and equally apparent was the fact that they were not men; at least not any kind of men that we had seen. They were shorter than Dthor by a head, but at least half a head taller than I. They were lean and athletic armed with two-handed blades. Their eyes were large, feline and as green as the Medran veldt. Their hair was long, silken and white as the winter frost. Their ears, long and knife-like, slanted back protruding very slightly outwards. Each was tattooed, one in red, the design climbing from below the waistband of his red deerskin trousers and spreading across his chest and along his slim, muscular arms like flames. The other was marked in blue, his patterns likewise rising from below his blue buckskins flowing out across his chest in swirls and waves and descending from his shoulders to his fingers like cataracts.

  “Serav Illios at your service,” said the blue marked creature, bowing slightly.

  “Serav Gort,” said the other bowing likewise. “It shall be our duty and our pleasure to kill you all for our illustrious Master the Magister Caerlon.”

  “And in answer to your question, human,” Illias growled, “We are bhain-coedi of the Sylvani.”

  “From the forest lands of Brescia,” Caerlon added. “They are frightfully ferocious warriors by nature. My pets here are more so; they have been—shall we say—augmented.” The magister turned slightly. “Illias, kill the lancers.”

  The creature took a step forward. His markings began to glow and he was enveloped in a shimmering orange aura. The air around him became a smoky grey and before any of us could think to move the lancers in front of me burst into flame. The men did not even have time to cry out—they were nothing but smouldering ash in less than a heartbeat.

  The magister raised a hand, signalling to Gort. The air around me grew suddenly chill and then became so bitingly cold that I could feel myself freezing. There was a sudden rush of air past my head and a bright flash of gold.

  Kylos’ dart struck the blue Sylvan in the shoulder and shattered. The force of the blow threw the warrior off balance and the cold around me dissipated almost as suddenly as it had formed. I did not warm up so quickly, however, but sluggish though I was I managed a thought blast powerful enough to knock both of the Sylvans and their master off their feet, giving the Kyr-Garrin chance to go on the offensive. The exertion left me feeling weak and sick. I staggered and fell to my knees. Caerlon brought his stave down on the marbled flooring with a resounding crack and twenty legionn
aires burst through the doors on either side of the royal dais. I forced myself to my feet and drew the shiv shouting at the men to draw their blades. Though I was not able to fight alongside my men at that moment, I was determined that I would at least defend myself in the event of attack and my men should have the support of The First Blade.

  Illias took two swift steps forward, drawing his sword as he moved. Turning his blade he executed a blindingly fast pirouette the momentum transferred to his blade so effectively that it cut the swordsman to my right in half. The strike was only stopped by Jae’nt’s shield, but the blow sent the prince sprawling. The Sylvan did not even miss a beat as he launched himself towards the fallen prince his blade raised over his head. The height and power of his jump was breath-taking. I was still too chilled to focus my ability effectively enough to stymie the attack and I knew in that moment that if the blow connected Dthor would be split from head to groin.

  Before I even realised it I had grabbed a javelin from Faedron’s quarrel and hurled it. The spear took the blue-marked fighter in the centre of his back, the impact skewing his path sufficiently that he fell in a crumpled mass just to Jae’nt’s left. The prince scrambled to his feet.

  “That was some throw, Meriq,” Jae’nt said as he ran to my side.

  “More from luck than skill, my prince,” I confessed, “I am momentarily unable to focus properly to aid you, but I have noticed that the Sylvan’s skill is not a natural ability. It has a cool-down period and cannot be called on at will. Get the men to engage the legionnaires; you keep that other Sylvan occupied and off-balance—kill him if you can. Do not give him a chance to focus.”

  When the first of the legionnaires fell to white blades I heard Caerlon utter a curse. He began to cast around, his questing gaze finally come to rest on me. His eyes locked on to the weapon in my hand and with a deafening cry he cast a spell over the fray, covering the fighters in a green-black mist. Almost immediately the men began the thrash wildly, screaming out and slashing at the air as they fought off imaginary foes.

  As the magister approached me his staff transformed into a glowing yellow crystal glaive. A lance of fire shot from his free hand. I absorbed the flame easily and the mind-numbing cold that had been so disabling me retreated and faded away. The strength flooded back into my muscles and the cold haze in my brain was replaced by an energising warmth.

  Caerlon was almost on me when my focus returned fully and I only just managed a barrier spell when blade fell. The blow stopped abruptly, the shock of the deflection knocking Caerlon back a couple of cubits. The delay gave me enough time to drop my shield and deal my own counter-blow. Whether he reacted from instinct or shock I do not know, but rather than dodge Caerlon tried to parry my attack with the crystal shaft of his glaive. The First Blade shattered the stave, cut through his breast plate and slashed his chest to the bone. The mage collapsed with a cry.

  The remaining ten legionnaires vanished in a silent storm of silver fire. Gort, hearing his master’s let fly with a searing pulse of heat that threw back the soldiers surrounding him, and as the men threw off smouldering cloaks and garments the Sylvan ran to the mage’s side, knocking me to the ground with the flat of his blade.

  Dazed and somewhat bruised I staggered to my feet just in time to see the mage and his Sylvan fighter disappear through one of the many side doors of salle. Hauling myself fully upright I stumbled over to where Dthor was wrapping a Zetan hoplite in a drape torn from one of the pillars to extinguish the man’s burning tunic.

  We pulled the soldier to his feet. “Now then, let us see how well these devils fare trying to fight steel with glass.”

  We hurried out on to the king’s balcony overlooking the main square. I frowned. The Legion was still fighting with the crystal swords and doing very well it seemed.

  “I do not understand,” I muttered more to myself than anyone else, “Pendar said destroying the stave would break the enchantment on the blades.”

  “But the staff is not destroyed, Meriq,” Faedron said as he joined us on the gallery carrying

  The two halves of Caerlon’s glaive. “It is only broken.”

  “That is soon remedied, “I replied taking the pieces from him.

  Holding each at arm’s length I let go a crushing mind blast. The crystal pieces shattered with a flash of bright golden fire, the dusty residue vanished taken by the light wind.

  Below us the racket of battle became shrieks of terror as legionnaires were swallowed up in a storm of blue and yellow fire. And suddenly afraid that they would share the same fate, Zetan and Morlan alike dropped their own swords and drew their conventional arms continuing their offensive against the black-clad soldiers who had managed to discard the enchanted blades before they, too, were incinerated.

  From our lofty vantage point we had a clear view of most of the city and before us shafts of yellow flame and clouds of pungent black smoke erupted as if a toxic volcano had just given vent.

  “Well that worked!” Faedron observed as the square below filled with fire.

  “Indeed,” Kylos agreed. He turned to Aenar. “Do you think we might toast some sugar loaf on yon blaze?”

  The Provost gave the younger man a pained looked. “I so doubt that the flames will last,” he answered.

  Kylos pulled a couple of the small loaves from his satchel. “What if we run?”

  Faedron looked aghast. “You are truly horrible—even for a Morlan!”

  “I assume your mission was successful, Ez’n,” Janir said gesturing to the black slurry dotted around the main square.

  “Not entirely, majesty,” I replied, irritated, “The mage escaped with the aid of a disturbingly interesting fighter. I will tell you later, my king,” I added quickly as Janir opened his mouth to speak. He snapped his jaws shut and dismounted.

  We walked slowly to the palace pausing only as Janir stopped to give words of encouragement to the wounded me we encountered en route. At the main doors Janir stopped again, turning back briefly to watch as battle-weary men trudged into the square and slumped on the benches and parapet walls of the planters. He turned to me, a slight smile just touching shaping on his lips. “Well, little wizard, against all odds you have successfully brought me to the end of the campaign.”

  I gave a slight bow. “It has been my honour to do so King Janir.”

  The king scowled slightly as Balten and his pack “wolves” rode into the square. “I suppose now you must prepare your final enchantment.”

  “As you command, my king.”

  Janir put up his hand. “No, no, Meriq. You stay with your consort. I am certain there is much for you to discuss—and I think you must make the most of the time you have left with each other.”

  When the king was gone Dthor held up his shield arm and we strolled arm in arm through the city until we came to a quiet little park a few blocks distance from the palace. Dthor put his arm around me pulling me into a tight embrace. I looked up at him. He stared straight ahead, not really focussing on anything.

  “Janir will die soon will he not?”

  “Yes, Dthor. It will only be a matter of a few days once the spell is ended.”

  “And Balten will take the throne?”

  “No, ‘b’zaddi, he will not. The king does not wish it.”

  Dthor was silent for a moment. “I know.” He fell silent again and we sat cuddled together on the bench listening to the hush of the wind in the trees and the intermittent sound of the birds starting to sign again as they began to emerge from the shelters they had sought during the battle. “What are you going to do?” Dthor asked quietly, still looking straight across the park.

  “I will do nothing but what my king has asked of me, Dthor. Balten will be his own undoing.”

  “But not before he strikes his brother down.” Dthor said quietly.

  “Probably not.”

  Dthor grabbed me suddenly and kissed me with such passion that the pressure of his lips on mine was almost painful. “I love you, Meriq—so much. You
know that?”

  I nodded. Of course I knew. “And I love you, Dthor. I always will.”

  We rose then and headed back towards the palace. “I am not afraid of dying, Meriq.” Dthor said suddenly as we reached the palace doors. “I do not want to die,” he continued, “not because I am afraid, but because I will be leaving you. The Reaver’s Halls will be so empty and dark without you and your smile to light them.”

  Janir narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously. “Why should you want Jalin to serve you and the Elite of the Kyr-Garrin tonight, Ez’n”

  “I should like him to serve me one last time, your majesty, because when you pass on I will be leaving here for pastures new.”

  The king nodded understandingly. I did not intend to remain in the service of a king known for his ruthlessness and depravity. Janir looked puzzled for a moment and then caught on to my gambit. “I understand. Of course Jalin will serve you and your friends tonight.”

  With that organised and Jalin striding along beside me I returned to the apartments I had commandeered to make the final arrangements for our celebratory meal.

  Jae’nt and Tariq arrived first bearing a flacon of porter and a batch of the Morlan spiced cakes I was so fond of. Kylos and Aenar came next carrying a basket of various breads and a selection of cheeses. Faedron and Maegor brought a pannier of local fruit obtained from the market and Markos arrived—fashionably late so he claimed—with two bottles of his late father’s Aggregio wine.

  The meal passed quickly it seemed and before any of us realised it we were sitting around a low table with our quaichs full of wine picking at the bread, cheese and fruit. Jalin set down a pitcher of water and a flacon of porter giving me a short, covert nod as he left.

  “I seem to recall, Markos, that you asked me for an explanation about Dthor and his injuries after the throw-down bout between Jae’nt and Tariq.”