K ovax stood before the wall of glass like a man admiring an exquisite painting. Behind the glass sat his prisoner, Maximus, son of Sargos.
Or what was left of the poor fool.
The tree was enormous and straight, held that way by chains that kept it from tilting or drooping. The branches had been propped up using rope to keep the tree looking proud. Kovax wanted the corpse to look dignified. It made his victory over the rebel leader seem more impressive. Maximus had been strong—but Kovax had been stronger.
“Maximus,” he said in a low hiss.
A scientist approached Kovax from behind, stopping a few feet away, obviously afraid of the old, bent necromancer, whose face was now covered in so many wrinkles that the skin resembled a hunk of white wood someone had slashed many times with a dagger. Kovax glanced at the man from the corner of one eye. He scowled, deepening the lines.
“Sir,” the scientist said. He was a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. The red circles around his eyes told Kovax the man hadn’t slept in days, exactly as Kovax had ordered. “You—you were right,” he said in a shaky voice. “It is possible. The tests all came out positive.”
“Of course they did.” Kovax closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. “But it’s a one-time opportunity. If your team messes it up…”
“We won’t, sir. Your theory is foolproof. We should be able to get enough blood ether out of that tree…”
“It’s not a tree. This”—he indicated the remains of his greatest enemy with a sweep of his right arm—“this is the corpse of Maximus, son of Sargos. You should treat it with some respect.”
The scientist cast his gaze downward. “S-sorry, sir. Shall I gather the others?”
“Yes. Let’s begin.”
KOVAX HAD one of his Berserkers haul the tree out into the courtyard.
The Berserker was short and stocky, with a long, braided beard that swung across his chest and bulging muscles beneath gray skin that bristled with curly hair. He was cross-eyed, as ugly as they come. Before letting go of the tree—while Kovax was looking away—the Berserker spit on its bark and sneered.
“Maximus, coward,” he grunted before turning away to stand guard.
It was late evening and the darkening sky was muddled with gray clouds. Rain fell in sharp sprinkles. From somewhere in the distance came peals of thunder.
In the center of Castle Leon’s massive courtyard stood a stone tower that rose to the height of a three-story building. It was not a big tower—not nearly as big as the one being built in the Daryllax fields outside the city—but it was big enough to do the job.
“Drag him inside,” Kovax said, shouting to be heard over the wind and rain.
A crowd of soldiers had gathered to watch the process. The tree must have been heavier than it looked. The Berserker grunted as he dragged it by its chains.
Kovax waited patiently as thunder roared in the heavens. He was admiring the tower; such a perfect, efficient structure, and the hidden machines turning and rumbling inside were even more impressive. The result of decades of his own research into blood ether extraction. The blood crystals alone were worth a fortune.
Grunting and drooling, the Berserker pushed the tree into the tower’s belly, a complicated process as he had to bend and crack the roots to get all of it inside. Samara and Kofi, now inside portable tubes that had been loaded onto a wagon, appeared from one of the gates. Soldiers went about positioning the wagon over an X Kovax had seared onto the stone floor.
“Goodbye, Maximus.” Kovax said as he crossed the courtyard.
After climbing several sets of wooden stairs built into the side of the tower, he reached the top and could look out over the crowd. It now consisted of a hundred people or more. He felt like a god standing there in the rain with the tower’s machines rumbling beneath his feet.
Chaotic red energy gathered beneath him as a thick, juicy current of blood ether was sucked out of the tree. Kovax dug a blood crystal out of his robe. It was the size of a baton and would hold over a hundred thousand blood lumins—enough for a hundred Tier Four spells.
The twin tubes holding his wife and son were the last things he saw before the red light took over.
The sound was of the planet’s core bursting apart. He knew only pain and light and a shrill keening noise that rocked his skull. This was it. His moment.
He began the spell he’d been waiting years to cast, a complex chant involving many guttural growls. Time went by. He didn’t know how much. The chant ended and all the light in the heavens blinked out of existence, leaving him in misty darkness. He had never been more tired in his life.
He collapsed, breathing heavily and coughing as the rain entered his throat. With a grunt, he stood up and stretched his arms and legs. In his right hand, the crystal glowed with a pulsing red light. Beads of cold moisture ran down his face as thunder crashed over the city.
The crystal had been filled. The power of a god in his hand, tied to his own blood, so only he could wield it. He walked to the edge of the platform and looked down at his wife and son in their suspension tubes.
“Stand back,” he shouted.
Soldiers pushed at the people in the crowd to form a circle. In the center of that circle were Samara and Kofi. He aimed the crystal at them and began the spell.
When it was over, Kovax could barely stand up straight.
“It is finished,” he said.
Kovax could barely speak. His voice was raw from all the chanting.
At the base of the tower, a soldier opened the massive doors.
“Nothing left of the tree,” he said. “Not a trace.”
A pair of scientists inspected the tubes holding Samara and Kofi. They set about turning nozzles built into the bases of each one. Luminotic fluid gushed out over the stone floor. Still in a daze, Kovax leaned over the edge of the tower and narrowed his eyes. He kept his gaze on his wife and son’s faces.
As soon as her tube had been drained, Samara opened her eyes and reached up with one hand, placing it flat against the glass. A moment later, Kofi came awake, blinking and turning as if he’d just woken up out of a bad dream. He reached up and touched his mask.
There were shouts from the crowd.
“It’s a miracle,” someone shouted.
They clapped and cheered and whistled. Kovax sprinted down the stairs.
Awake.
His wife and son were awake…
CHAPTER 58
I olus snarled at his own reflection in the mirror.
The bathroom was small, little more than a stall. It reeked of wood and urine. Everything in this damned village was made of wood, it seemed. He was getting so tired of these piss-pot holes in the ground. Today had to be the day.
He hunched over, his hands resting on the wooden sink, only half-listening to the muffled cries of the villagers being rounded up outside. His raiding party was now over a hundred strong, mostly men he’d recruited along the way. Today’s village was called Upsolon. Not that it mattered. Iolus was sure he’d forget the name just like all the others.
He reached down and turned on the faucet. A stream of water plunged into the bowl. He lifted his right hand and commanded the water to fill a ball of space before him. The ball hovered in the air for a moment, cloudy at its core with bubbles, and rose up as he moved his fingers. He closed his eyes and let the cool sphere break against his face, each water drop sliding off his chin and falling straight into the bowl as if it had a mind of its own. It refreshed him for only a moment. He clenched his teeth.
The mirror was stained and pitted, but it showed his features well enough. He looked at his face, the whiteness of it, the rust-colored hair that fell in waves before his wolfish eyes, the skeletal cheekbones. He looked at himself for a long time.
Then he stepped back, grunted, and punched the mirror as hard as he could. It crunched and shattered into a hundred glittering fragments.
A moment later, the bathroom was silent again. He hea
rd something drip and looked down to see his own blood pooling on the floor.
“No, I’m not,” he told the voice. “I’m getting it back.”
He breathed in until his lungs filled and then he released. He walked out of the bathroom, crunching glass beneath his boots and enjoying the sound.
A SPREAD of townsfolk had gathered before the school building, held back by a rag-tag team of soldiers carrying swords and crossbows. Unlike the soldiers, who had missing teeth and black fingernails and faces rough with beards, the people of Upsolon were well groomed. They wore their hair long and tied back, including the men, and their outfits were simple, made from the skins of animals. This village was poor but not without dignity.
“I hate this place,” Iolus said, stepping into the wintry afternoon sunlight.
The sound of crunching snow rose as Basher appeared by his side.
“With good reason,” he said. “They stink of poverty and self-importance.”
“It’s not that. It’s something else.”
“What?”
He glared at Basher. “You had a job to do.”
Basher scratched the side of his head like a confused, overly large boy trying to explain why he hadn’t done his homework.
“Uh—well, sir, I came up here to tell you there’s still no word on Hekesh. He hasn’t come forward yet.”
“He’s in this town somewhere. I can feel his fear.”
Basher shrugged. “We checked all the buildings, like you said. Can’t find him.”
Iolus looked over the faces in the crowd. They were no longer ranting and shouting. Many now stared in awestruck silence at Iolus’s face.
“It’s him,” a woman said.
“The battlemage from Theus,” a young man said. “He’s back.”
Several women in the crowd covered their faces and began to sob.
Iolus grinned at them. “Greetings. Today each and every one of you gets to meet your maker. Have you thought of something to say?”
The townsfolk began to boo. It was an ugly sound that reminded Iolus of certain past failures. Suddenly, he wanted to kill someone in cold blood. He gritted his teeth, narrowed his eyes into slits, and pulled luminether from the churning, boiling pool of hatred in his stomach.
One of his fists erupted into flames. The crowd fell silent.
The flames gathered into a ball. He tossed it from one hand to the other, keeping his eyes on the crowd.
“As you all know, I have your children.”
A hum sounded as people murmured to each other. Women pushed their men forward to challenge the sorcerer, but the men recoiled, horrified at the thought of confronting Iolus.
The sharp voice of a child split the silence.
“Mommy!”
Iolus turned to face the school. From the basement, a boy reached through the narrow, rectangular window by the ground. The fingers of his hand curled as he motioned to one of the women in the crowd.
“Lemme out,” he cried. “I want to go home!”
A woman darted forward, dressed in the simple white and blue clothes of a schoolteacher. Iolus watched her cross the snowy courtyard, with its granite fountain drooling icicles, and its bent and wilted trees. He brought the fireball up to his collarbone, and took aim.
His arm catapulted forward, hurling the fireball over the fountain. The woman hadn’t even reached the school when the flaming orb—which had grown to the size of a basketball—crashed into her, showering her with sparks and light and heat.
When the smoke lifted, the only part of the woman visible was a sooty leg sticking out of the snow, still wearing a blue boot from her uniform.
The boy let out a terrified shriek as the other children pulled him away from the window. The townspeople huddled closer together, many of the men holding sobbing women in their arms. They watched Iolus, waiting to see what he would do.
“Alonso Hekesh,” he announced. Another fireball blinked to life on his upturned palm, the flames like white and yellow rags shivering upward. “Some of you know where he’s hiding, and I want him now. Or the children inside this building will eat fire for dinner.”
He tossed the fireball up into the air and caught it. The crowd watched the hypnotic movement. In that glowing ball lay the possible extinction of an entire future generation of their village.
“I’m Hekesh,” a man’s voice said.
He stepped out of the crowd, covered neck-to-foot in a simple brown robe.
“I’m the mayor of this town and the leader of its people. I was hiding because I know who you are, Iolus. I know you’re here to kill me for supporting the rebellion. If that’s the case, go ahead. Make a martyr of me, but don’t kill our children. Even you are above that kind of villainy.”
The smile on Iolus’s face never wavered. It grew like a wound gaping open.
“It’s been a long time, soldier. It saddens me to see you in such a pathetic state. Fat, bald, wearing what appears to be a potato sack. Tsk, tsk.”
Hekesh let his head droop forward. “Zandra Banks escaped from the king’s castle yesterday afternoon. If you hurt any of us, she’ll come for you. She’ll bring the whole rebel army down on your head.”
Iolus walked the short distance across the school’s front yard until he stood before Hekesh. The crowd backed away, though Hekesh stayed where he was. The fireball in Iolus’s hand and was now the size of a volleyball.
“Is this really what you want?” Iolus said. “To incite my anger with lies? I could easily kill the lot of you, right now, without a moment’s hesitation. I wouldn’t be making a martyr out of you, because everyone who knows your name would be dead. Is that what you want?”
Hekesh looked up at Iolus. His eyes were wide and defenseless.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t hurt them. It would be a waste of your time, my lord.”
Iolus snickered and looked back at Coscoros and Leticia, who had emerged from the school building and were walking down the front steps.
“My lord?” Iolus said. “That’s pathetic.”
He turned toward the school building, motioning for Hekesh to follow.
“Move,” he said.
The inside smelled more like a farm than a school, but it was well built and sturdy. The rooms and hallways were wide and accommodating. A cool breeze ran through the halls, and the windows let in showers of wintry sunlight.
Iolus kept his distance from Hekesh, a fireball hovering dangerously above his palm.
Basher emerged from a classroom, licking his fingertips, which were stained with blood. He looked wide-eyed at Iolus and Hekesh.
“Unh?” he said, and let loose a watery burp. There were splatters of blood on his beard.
“Did you eat one of the children?” Iolus frowned at him. “I thought I told you to wait.”
The words sent a jolt through Hekesh. He gave Basher a hateful look.
“My apologies, sir,” Basher said. “I was feeling dizzy, had to eat something.”
Amusement tugged at the corners of Iolus’s mouth. Soon he was trying to hide the smile from Hekesh, whose face had turned a deep shade of pink.
Iolus was about to speak when Hekesh sprang toward Basher and grabbed him by his armor. There was a loud crash as Basher flew sideways into the wall and broke through into the classroom beyond. Dust shot through the hole, filling the hallway like smoke.
Hekesh stepped into the opening, a silhouette against the room’s windows. The edges of his cloak fluttered above his ankles. He kept his hands in tight fists.
Iolus laughed so hard that he had to bend over and clutch his stomach.
“Serves you right, Basher! Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Basher picked himself up, wiping dust off his face and regarding his surroundings with a comical look of confusion. He gaped at Hekesh, unable to speak. Then, in a burst of movement, he grabbed Hekesh by the front of his robe and threw him backward against the opposite wall. It broke much as the other had, but Hekesh grabbed the sides in time to keep himself from fall
ing through.
He kicked upward, catching Basher in the groin. As Basher staggered backward, eyes bulging, Hekesh performed an uppercut that caught the Berserker on his bearded chin. The force of it sent Basher several feet upward, where his head crashed through the ceiling. He landed with enough force to shatter the floorboards.
“You bastard,” he said, scrambling to get up while rubbing dust out of his eyes. “I’m going to get you, you Sargonaut son of a…”
“Enough,” Iolus said, stepping between them. He looked Hekesh in the eyes. “You still got it, huh?”
Hekesh drew back his fist.
“No, no, Sargonaut.” Iolus grinned, eyes cruelly alert. “You could hit me, maybe even kill me, but not without bringing down this entire building. The spells are all in place. The children would die with us.”
Veins stood out on Hekesh’s red face. He glared at Iolus, nostrils flaring as he breathed his rage in and out.
“Leave us alone. Take what you need—kill me if you must—but leave this place. These people don’t deserve to die.”
“But you do,” Iolus said. “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten all the fun we had, all the lives we took back in the good old days. You and I are both sinners, old friend.”
Hekesh closed his eyes and took several steadying breaths. His color went back to normal, and when he opened his eyes again, Iolus saw that they were calm.
“I left that life, and maybe I haven’t saved my soul, but I left the violence behind and became a servant of Sargos. Who do you serve, Sorcerer?”
Iolus narrowed his eyes at the man. “I serve the pages of history by being a hell of a lot more noteworthy than you, coward. Now, you’d better tell me where I can find Asceranon—and quick.”
“I don’t have that information.”
Iolus lifted his right hand. Fire blazed all around it—white fire, with dancing shreds of orange. “That’s too bad.”
“Wait.” Hekesh stepped forward, his hair almost catching in the flames. He was trying to prove he wasn’t afraid—but he was. He was terrified. “I have something better. I have your sword.”
Iolus let the fire die with a puff of white smoke.
Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series Page 34