The Five Kingdoms: Book 04 - Crying Havoc

by Toby Neighbors

  But not now, he thought, now I need rest. He raised himself from his chair, and for the first time in centuries he felt fear. He shook off the fear, angry with himself. This upstart boy had some skill, but no one could stand before Offendorl. For over two centuries he had been the most powerful wizard in the Five Kingdoms. Tomorrow he would prove that he still was.

  “Ready your troops,” said Offendorl. “We attack at dawn.”

  Chapter 33

  Mansel was in his room. One of the wenches had been enlisted to tend his wounds. Mansel had removed all his clothes except for his undergarment which he had pulled down on one side. He had a deep cut on his hip, and the gash on his lower leg was even worse. The girl, not quite as old as Mansel himself, washed the hip wound with cool water. Her eyes kept darting up to his wide shoulders and the thick muscles in his chest. Then, she began to stitch the wound with practiced movements.

  “You’re good at that,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “My mother taught me to sew,” she said in a flirty tone that was completely lost on Mansel. “She took work as a seamstress but made me and my sisters do all the sewing once we learned how.”

  It took half an hour to stitch up Mansel’s hip wound. When the wench turned to the leg, she frowned. The muscle was swelling and bulging out of the gash.

  “I can’t stitch this one,” she said. “You need a healer.”

  “Just sew it up,” Mansel said, taking a long drink of the innkeeper’s strongest wine.

  “I can’t, the muscle is sticking through.”

  “Daft girl!” Mansel shouted at her.

  He raised his leg up, groaning with the pain, and poured wine over the wound. Then he used his fingers to push the swollen muscle back into the skin. Blood poured onto the floor.

  “Start stitching,” he said, his voice straining from the pain.

  The girl looked woozy, as if she might pass out at any moment, but she stitched up the wound as neatly as she could. The wound was bright red and looked hideous as it curved up his calf.

  “That’s a damn ugly job,” he said in a hateful tone. “No wonder your mother sent you off to be a whore.”

  The girl ran from the room, and Mansel took another long drink of wine. The alcohol didn’t numb the pain, but it dulled his senses enough that he didn’t notice it as much. He was about to curse that the girl had left the door open when a man stepped in. He was around the same age as Mansel, but not as big. He had long, curly, blonde hair that fell around his shoulders and a boyish-looking face. He had a neat mustache that he obviously trimmed and combed daily. His eyes were bright and he wore a military uniform.

  “Are you Mansel?” the man asked.

  “Yes, what’s it to you?”

  “You’re wanted at the castle.”

  “By who?”

  “A lot of people, actually. The King’s at the top of the list, though.”

  “As you can see, I’m busy at the moment. I’ll swing by in the morning.”

  “Oh, no,” said the stranger. “That won’t do. I’ve been sent to fetch you. I wouldn’t want you trying to slip away since you’re wanted for murder.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Mansel said.

  “I have it on good authority that you killed a man on your way to the city. Almost killed another one in the stable. I’ll have to take you in,” he said. He was talking so nonchalantly that it was hard to tell if he was serious or joking.

  Mansel reached over for his sword.

  “Oh, I was hoping you’d do that,” the stranger said.

  “Who are you?” Mansel asked. “I like to know the names of the people I’m killing.”

  “I’m Commander Corlis, of the King’s Heavy Horse. I come bringing tidings of your friend Zollin and his father.”

  “Go to hell,” Mansel spat, rising to his feet.

  “Oh, no, I’m a gentleman. We go to heaven.”

  Mansel drew his sword from its scabbard in one quick motion and attacked, swinging a vicious cut toward the commander’s thigh. Corlis jumped back and drew his own weapon. It was a longsword, well made and light, much like Mansel’s.

  “It’s too bad you’re wounded,” Corlis said. “I was hoping for a fair fight.”

  “You’ll get more than you can handle,” Mansel said.

  He lunged forward, thrusting his sword out in front of him. Corlis parried with his own blade and thrust out a light slap of a kick that landed on Mansel’s bandaged hip. He cried out in pain and staggering back.

  “Ah, just as I suspected,” said Corlis. “This is going to be easy.”

  Mansel’s vision went red. All he could hear was a roaring sound in his ears. He grabbed the wooden chair he had been sitting in and threw it at the Commander, who side-stepped out of the way. It was exactly what Mansel expected the soldier to do; in fact, he had thrown the chair wide to the far side so that his opponent would dodge toward Mansel, who flicked his sword forward and up, slicing through Corlis’s shoulder. The commander cried out in pain and staggered backward, but Mansel showed the man no quarter. He hammered Corlis with blow after blow from his sword. Corlis blocked the blows but was pushed back into the corner of the room. His shoulder was bleeding, and he was forced to fight using both hands to counter Mansel’s power.

  After several hammer-like blows, Mansel feinted high then shifted to a low thrust that cut across the Commander’s thigh, skidding off the thick femur bone. Corlis cried out, almost dropping his weapon, and Mansel moved forward wearing a wicked grin.

  He didn’t feel the dagger stab him at first; he just realized that something was wrong because his sword seemed too heavy in his hand. He looked down at his hand, and saw Corlis yank the narrow blade free. Then fire erupted in his gut and Mansel’s legs gave out underneath him.

  “You stabbed me,” he said in surprise.

  “You’re lucky Zollin wants you alive, you bloody oaf,” Corlis said.

  Then he spit on Mansel, who wanted to fight back, but his body wasn’t obeying his commands. He felt warm liquid running over his thigh, and he realized it was his bladder emptying itself.

  “Try not to die, bastard,” Corlis said as he hobbled from the room.

  Mansel laid his head back on the wooden floor of his room. The ceiling was plaster and a bit dingy from candle smoke. He thought of Nycoll for the first time in months. Nycoll with her little cottage by the sea. He wanted to go there, to be with her, but he was in Orrock. He was dying on the floor of an inn in Orrock and he didn’t know why. What had happened, he wondered to himself as the room began to spin around him. His stomach lurched, and he rolled over to vomit, the bile burning his throat and smearing across his cheek when he couldn’t hold his head up any longer. The lights were going dim and there was a ringing in his ears. Mansel knew he was dying, and his biggest regret was that Nycoll would not know what happened to him. He had promised her that he would return.

  * * *

  “You’re wounded!” the innkeeper cried when he saw Commander Corlis. “You’re bleeding on the floors.”

  “Not as badly as your patron,” Corlis said in vile tone. “He’s bleeding all over your precious floor. I think I smelled urine too. That’s too bad for you. I’ll send some men to collect him soon. Try to see that he lives.”

  Corlis staggered out of the inn and was met by several soldiers who helped him toward the castle. It took six men to carry Mansel, now unconscious, to the castle. Commander Corlis was helped into a room where Quinn’s father was already being examined by healers.

  “You’ve got another patient coming, but it may be too late for him,” Corlis said bitterly. “The fool gave me no choice.”

  A few minutes later Mansel was hauled in and laid on a table.

  “He’s alive,” said one of the healers, “but there’s precious little we can do for him, Commander.”

  “Send for Zollin,” Corlis said. “He’ll know what to do. And give me something for the pain.”

  Zollin was on his way to t
he makeshift infirmary to check on his father when a healer hurried him into the room. Mansel was unconscious, and Zollin looked over at Corlis angrily.

  “I told you not to kill him,” Zollin said.

  “He’s still alive,” the commander said. “He gave me very little choice.”

  “Yes, it looks that way. Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live, although I won’t argue if you want to heal me the way you did the King.”

  “Give him something for the pain,” Zollin said to one of the healers. “I’ll get to him when I can.”

  Zollin let his magic pour into Mansel. The wound in his stomach was deep. Blood was flowing into his abdomen, and his small intestines were lacerated in several places. It took nearly half an hour to stop the bleeding. When Zollin was finished knitting together Mansel’s abdominal muscles, he was forced to sit down. He was tired and hungry.

  “I need wine,” Zollin said. “And some food, please.”

  One of the castle servants ran to get the food as King Felix entered the room.

  “Well this is a fine mess,” said Felix. “At least your plan with the dragon worked.”

  “Partially, I meant to kill the beast,” Zollin said.

  “At least you know how to fend it off,” said the King. “I don’t suppose either one of these two fools was able to save Wilam.”

  “I don’t know,” Zollin said honestly. “I need to work on healing my father. Mansel should come around shortly. You can question him, but I’m not sure you’ll get any useful information.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he lied to me. He told me that my father and your son had been captured in Lodenhime. Now my father shows up here. I’m just not sure what is going on.”

  “Well, we can be sure of one thing,” the King said. “Those troops will still be outside in the morning. We need a plan to defeat them.”

  “That’s not my highest priority at the moment,” Zollin said.

  The King’s face grew red. His eyes narrowed, and he stepped close to Zollin and spoke in a low voice.

  “Well then, you’d better get your priorities straight,” he said. “Orrock isn’t your personal playground. Either get on board with what we’re trying to do, or I’ll hand you over to the Torr myself.”

  Zollin looked at the King in surprise.

  “You did a good job with the dragon,” the King said loudly, “but this is war, not some demonstration or parade. Those soldiers outside these walls have killed your countrymen. They have burned homes, stolen crops, done unspeakable harm to the innocent. Yet here you sit, like a spoiled child who only cares for himself. Yes, I understand your father is gravely wounded, but people died in this city tonight. Don’t you care?”

  Zollin stood up. He was so angry the blue, electrical power began snapping up and down his body. When he spoke, his voice was supernaturally low and forceful.

  “And what have you done, oh King? You hide here and push others into a fight they had no part in starting. What did you do to your son, Prince Simmeron, after he poisoned you and sent assassins to kill his older brother? After he recruited a wizard from the Torr and kidnapped an innocent girl to force me into his service? Has Simmeron been brought to justice, or does he live in luxury in one of your many palaces? I am not your slave. I am not in your service. Do not speak to me again, King Felix,” he said the ruler’s name with such disdain that the King cowered back. “Your presence is not required here.”

  “This is my castle,” the King said.

  “No, this is the castle of a king, not a sniveling, selfish coward. Don’t think I was not aware of your greedy attempts to bring me into your service. You are no different than your son. You wanted to use my power for your own gain. You could have stopped this war, but the truth is you wanted it. You want me to wipe out that army so that you will rise in power among the Five Kingdoms. I am no fool. Stop treating me like one.”

  “Zollin,” came a weak voice from behind him.

  The wizard turned quickly and saw his father, looking at him through glazed eyes. The power that had been building in Zollin waned, the energy stopped flowing, and his voice became normal.

  “Father,” he said, rushing to Quinn’s bedside. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I should be dead,” he said.

  “I need to do more work on you,” Zollin said.

  He started to send his magic into Quinn again but his father stopped him by taking his hand.

  “Wait,” he said. “You need your rest. Tell me what is happening.”

  “Brianna is gone,” Zollin said. “The dragon took her.” There were tears in Zollin’s eyes. “Mansel is here, but he killed Kelvich. What has happened to him?”

  “There’s a witch in Lodenhime,” Quinn said. “We were there looking to sail north with Prince Wilam.”

  “Does my son live?” King Felix asked from over Zollin’s shoulder.

  “Yes, he lives. But he has been bewitched. We all were. She casts some type of spell over men, and they forget everyone and everything else but her. She sent Mansel and me to bring you to her, Zollin. She wants you. You have to stay away from her.”

  “I will, I promise,” Zollin said.

  “We will deal with this witch once we have pushed Offendorl back into the sea,” King Felix said. “See to your people, Zollin. I will see to the defense of our kingdom.”

  The King left the room and Zollin felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He wasn’t proud of the way he had acted. It seemed like the world was against him. At one point, not long after he had discovered his powers, when he was still living in Tranaugh Shire, he felt as if the world was his for the taking. He had never heard of anyone who could do the things he was able to do. But now, despite all his powers, he felt helpless. Brianna was gone, his father was still not well, and Mansel had betrayed him. Now, he had been forced to confront his own King and fight a war he did nothing to start.

  “Kelvich told me something about you, Zollin,” Quinn said. “He told me you would wake up the magical world. Everything is changing and change can be hard, but you aren’t alone. You can make the world a better place, but it won’t be easy. Making things better takes work, but you’ve never shirked a task, son. I’m very proud of you.”

  “Oh, no,” Zollin said, as tears came pouring from his eyes. “I’ve ruined everything,” he moaned.

  “No, you haven’t. Sometimes you have to clear away the rubble before you can rebuild something good. We have to do what we can to make things better Zollin. You and I.”

  “I can’t do it alone,” Zollin said.

  “You aren’t alone. I’m here. I’ll always be here for you. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, dad.”

  Quinn feel asleep after that and once Zollin had eaten he healed his father, Mansel, and Commander Corlis completely. It was late, well past midnight, when he finished. He was tired but he knew that he couldn’t rest until had made one thing perfectly clear.

  He climbed slowly up the steps to the King’s personal quarters. The big, wooden doors, both elaborately carved with horses, were still open. The King sat with a goblet of wine, staring into a fire that had been kindled in the large stone fireplace.

  “May I come in?” Zollin asked.

  King Felix looked up and then nodded.

  “What do you suspect the army will do?” Zollin asked.

  “I don’t know,” the King said. “Offendorl is a powerful wizard. He may have plans up his sleeve that we can’t imagine.”

  “If I take him out, what will happen?”

  “Again, that depends,” said King Felix. “If Baskla or Ortis sends troops to reinforce the armies from Osla and Falxis, then we’ll be lucky to survive at all.”

  “How did this happen?” Zollin asked. “Is it really all because of me?”

  “You know, I’m not a very wise man, Zollin. I’ve had the benefit of being King, but I didn’t earn this position, I inherited it. My choices, good or bad, have long-lasting con
sequences that impact thousands of people, most of whom I don’t even know. That’s just the way life is for me, and for you.”

  “We have to stop the fighting,” Zollin said. “Do you think the army will leave if you turn me over to the Torr?”

  “Not without exacting a great number of concessions from Yelsia.”

  “Still, people might live,” Zollin said.

  “Surrender would allow people to live, that is true. I thought we could beat that army. I thought you would come in and fight for us, but that was foolish of me. I’m afraid I haven’t been very kingly when it comes to you, Zollin. I thought I could use you to elevate Yelsia, but what I really wanted was to elevate myself. To do something my father and his father hadn’t been able to do. I wanted to stand up to the Torr and be truly independent once more, like the kingdoms of old. Yet here I sit, defiant and surly, but still just a man. I don’t know what I want anymore.”

  “I know what I want,” Zollin said. “I want peace. I want to live my life without being hunted by the Torr. I’ve wrestled with what to do since Branock led the wizards of the Torr to my village. It seems like death and destruction follow me wherever I go.”

  “I don’t know what is best for you, Zollin,” the King said. “But I know this: Offendorl rules the wizards of the Torr like they are his slaves. I don’t know much about magic, but I doubt you’ll find what you’re looking for with him.”

  “So how do we get out of this mess? I don’t want to slay armies. That’s a road I’m not willing to walk down. I know that in the past wizards were used to fight battles, but I don’t want to kill people. That’s not who I am or who I want to be.”

  King Felix looked at Zollin for a long time without speaking. Then he sighed and nodded his head.

  “No, it isn’t. I’m sorry I pushed you toward that, Zollin. I let my own ambitions cloud my judgement.”

  “And I have let my grief cloud mine. I’m sorry too,” Zollin said.

  “I will send messengers to seek peace in the morning. I would appreciate your help in that matter,” the King said, “if you are comfortable serving as a counselor to your King. I promise I won’t force you to do anything against your will.”