A Shattered Empire

by Mitchell Hogan

  Fumes of charred grass and earth floated around them like mist. Caldan pressed his sleeve to his face. It came away damp with sweat and ash. He was alive only because of Gazija’s intervention. And the old man had likely doomed himself.

  Caldan felt Kelhak draw more power. It was a buildup that far exceeded anything Caldan could handle—more than a score of sorcerers would struggle to match Kelhak.

  “The lich is going to absorb him,” Quiss said. “There’s nothing we can do. Oh, Gazija!”

  Kelhak stepped toward Gazija. “Why do you not plead for your life, slave?”

  Gazija shook his head and backed away. Another pulse of power came from him. Another signal. “What use is begging?”

  Kelhak’s laughter cut through Caldan like a blade. “All vessels beg at the end. Pitiful, mewling animals.”

  Gazija opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. Through the shield, Caldan saw the old man’s face screw up in pain, and a hand dropped a cane to clutch at his chest. Gazija staggered and fell to one knee, still holding Caldan’s altered smith-crafted figurine. Gasping, he drew a breath. Then another. Gazija opened his eyes.

  Kelhak stepped nearer. “You feel it, then: the fear. I remember . . . eons ago, I was once something like you.”

  Gazija blinked rapidly, tears streaming down his face.

  He knows he’s failed, Caldan thought. He knows he’s a dead man.

  “Do it!” Gazija roared at Kelhak.

  Silence greeted his outburst. Caldan’s arm hairs stood on end as power built around him.

  The lich began a slow walk toward Gazija, its eyes shining with an inner glow. As it approached, its mouth opened, lit by an incandescent light.

  Gazija stumbled backward, hand clenched around the automaton, knuckles white. Power flooded through him.

  “No,” Quiss whispered.

  A great rending threatened Caldan’s eardrums. Behind Gazija, the air split in two. Through the crack poured a scalding heat laced with fumes of sulfur and putrefaction. Even at this distance, Caldan’s skin could feel the baking temperature. And through his sorcerous senses, he realized that somehow Gazija had opened his well outside of his mind.

  “Run, then!” shouted the lich. “There’s nothing alive there. I know. I scorched the world, then came after you. Your essence will not survive, not without a life to cling to.”

  Gazija threw himself backward into the searing gash.

  Quiss screamed with horror and rage.

  The rent snapped shut with a screeching crack, closing Gazija’s well from this world.

  The shield dome winked out, and Quiss took a step forward, as if about to confront Kelhak, then faltered.

  Kelhak howled with glee, a terrifying sound, as though it were uttered from a multitude of throats. Above him, his sorcerous design recoiled in on itself. Caldan sensed it pull back, like a drawn bowstring. It was about to disengage.

  Kelhak raised his arms and sent his power upward to join with the storm. A funnel of clouds came down and snatched him up. For the third time that night, reality bent to a sorcerer’s will.

  CHAPTER 32

  The vibration returned with a vengeance, threatening to shake Felice’s teeth loose. She winced at the sensation. Bloody sorcery.

  She placed her eye to a spy hole. The talon shifted as well. Roiling threads had returned. Heat shimmered from the gold-and-silver rope. A section jerked, buckling. Lightning arced along it, then traced a dome in the air.

  Felice averted her eyes just before another bright flash.

  Kelhak reappeared. One moment the chamber was empty, the next he was there, crouched and screaming with agony, limbs outstretched and mouth agape. He slumped to the floor, eyes squeezed closed, gasping like a fish.

  “Now.”

  The talon burst through the wall. Plaster chips and white dust covered its rags and filled the air. Razor-sharp trinket daggers flashed toward the flaccid figure of Kelhak.

  Felice whimpered and followed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Izak do the same.

  The talon shouted in frenzied thunder. Felice found herself responding with a cry of her own, pent-up tension venting itself.

  Silver blades aimed for vulnerable flesh. Kelhak’s eyes opened. Two sorcerers shouted alien words. Kelhak and the talon. Glimmering chaotic lines coalesced into precise geometries. Sparks erupted as lines warred with others.

  Felice pressed forward, all the while expecting Kelhak to shield himself, then end their lives. Izak screamed in terror.

  Knives met flesh and sank deep. Two from the talon, hers, and Izak’s.

  Kelhak didn’t flinch. A raised palm, and the mountain of rags was flung across the room. Bones cracked as the talon crashed into a stone wall. Frescoes shattered with the force, dust and fragments erupting into the air.

  Felice tried to pull her dagger out for another thrust but couldn’t. Kelhak smiled at her, blood dripping from his mouth.

  Someone wailed like a baby. Her. The trinket blade slid free from Kelhak’s flesh with a sucking sound.

  Izak backed away, fear on his face, blood-smeared dagger in his hand. Booted steps thumped along the corridor outside.

  They were done for. Rebecci’s plan had failed. Four trinkets aimed at capturing Kelhak had no effect.

  Felice retreated a step. Flee! she urged herself. Where? she answered back. Volcanic heat rose from the gem-studded rope behind her, scorching her back.

  Out of nowhere, a mound of rags barreled into Kelhak, knocking him from his feet. They brushed Felice’s shoulder, and she spun with the force.

  Kelhak slammed into a wall and slid to the floor. Immediately, he regained his feet and let loose a growl. Felice noted with stunned shock his four puncture wounds no longer bled.

  Scratchy mustiness enfolded Felice. Her head and stomach lurched. She felt folded, somehow. Reality twisted. Thoughts spinning, she reeled. Embers filled her eyes, then faded.

  FELICE LANDED FACE-FIRST. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes opened slowly. She was lying outside on the ground. On sparse grass and dry leaves. Beside her, Izak clawed at the dirt, sucking in lungfuls of air.

  Felice wobbled to her feet. A black circle surrounded them, scorched into the earth, still smoking.

  Where were they? What had happened to Kelhak?

  A chattering behind her, followed by a rustle of rags. The talon.

  It stood just inside the scorched circle. Their plan had failed. Kelhak had been about to kill them. The talon had done something, transported them here. It had saved them.

  “You idiot!” Felice shouted, storming up to the talon. “You said you could kill it! What happened?”

  The rags rippled. The talon’s cowled head tilted to look up at the sky. Dark clouds stirred above them. “We weakened it.”

  “Enough to make a difference?”

  A long pause. “Perhaps. We captured some of its power.”

  Izak levered himself to his feet. “Felice. Are you . . . are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m fine.” She realized she still clutched her trinket dagger, as did Izak. Of the talon’s, there was no sign. She offered hers to the creature. “Yours, I believe.”

  The hood moved, left then right. “Keep it. You will need it.”

  “Gazija!” A shout echoed around them. A man yelling.

  Cloth snapped, and before Felice could say anything, the talon shot away from them. In moments, it disappeared into the trees.

  “Lady Felicienne!”

  Felice turned to face who’d spoken her name.

  Two men came toward her, on the other side of a stream. One was tall and spindly, and the other she recognized: Caldan.

  Felice collapsed to the ground. She couldn’t help herself. Tears flowed as she half sobbed, half laughed with relief.

  CHAPTER 33

  Smoke rose across a desolate landscape covered with rock fragments and pebbles—gray and black and dull. Cracks in the ground spewed gases, orange light, and heat. Lightning flashed from dark
roiling clouds, but no rain fell. It wasn’t sorcery, but neither was it natural. Craters spotted the ground as far as the eye could see, pooling with water no animal could drink. And irregularly spattered about the landscape were night-black circles as smooth as glass. It was . . . desolation. There was no movement, save for the wind and smoke. No animals moved. No ants, no insects. Not the faintest speck of green. No life of any kind.

  One of the craters was recently formed. Raised edges of overturned ash hadn’t yet been blown away by the wind or washed away by toxic rain.

  In the center of the depression shone a glint of gold—something metal covered with a layer of fine dirt. A swirling current of air brushed the object, and more metal was revealed.

  It moved, desiccated gray dirt falling from it. Shiny, rune-covered rods shook and twisted.

  The smith-crafted figure sat up, gemstone eyes flashing with life.

  GAZIJA GAZED ABOUT him. For a long time, he contemplated his surroundings: his world, shattered. Despair drove into him, hard and edged and furious. If he could have wept, he would have. If he’d had a voice, the hills would have echoed with howls of anguish. Anger began to build, overlaying the grief that threatened to swallow him. He pushed it aside. No longer did he have the strength to fight. It returned, and he shoved at it again.

  Leave me. Let me be.

  But it would not. It niggled at his misery. Poked and prodded him. His world was dead, consumed by its own private Shattering.

  But he was still alive.

  Eventually, his thoughts returned to his own body. Kelhak had been right: there had been no life here to sustain his essence. Only one option had been left to him. He hadn’t known whether the sorcery would work. A way to contain a sorcerer’s essence was known to him, but to allow the captured sorcerer control of its prison was fraught with danger.

  His own improvements combined with Caldan’s smith-crafting had worked to fashion a vessel of sorts for him, though his mind recoiled at the use of the word vessel. It was apt, but reminded him of the lich’s existence.

  Gazija lifted an arm and took in the pattern-covered brass limb. He lurched to his feet and wobbled upright, unsteady.

  He was indeed now a vessel.

  Which left the question: Am I still Gazija?

  CHAPTER 34

  Caldan stood at the end of a black circle scorched into the ground. Above him, the agitated clouds had dissipated somewhat. The concentrated scent of sorcery pervaded the air, so strong he felt it seeping into his clothes: hot metal and lemons, overlaid with something else . . . a putrid stench.

  Quiss was overwrought, stumbling around the circle, tearing at his hair and garb. Words tumbled from his mouth in a tongue Caldan didn’t recognize.

  Felice looked like she’d taken a tumble off a cart and rolled in the dust. And considering that she’d seemed to appear out of nowhere, he could only imagine she had gone through something much worse. Her clothes were dirty, and every inch of exposed skin was covered with grime. And was that . . . yes, a splinter of aged bone stuck out from the cuff of her pants. Where had that come from? Clear trails ran down her cheeks from tears washing away the dirt. And Izak looked just as bad. Their eyes had a wild yet tired look to them, as if they’d stayed awake all night only to see the spirit of an ancestor pass in front of them.

  Both carried silver trinket daggers with gemstone pommels, and both blades were streaked with blood.

  “What happened?” he asked Felice.

  She held up a hand, asking him to wait, while she drew deep breaths and wiped tears from her cheeks.

  As a precautionary measure, Caldan expanded his sorcerous sense, searching around them, through the trees and bushes. Nothing. Apart from himself and Quiss, there wasn’t a sorcerer close. The trinket blades, though . . . they virtually buzzed with suppressed energy, although, as with other trinkets, he couldn’t find any familiar patterns or runes to latch onto. There was something . . . an odd power in them, unlike any he’d felt before. Questing, Caldan pushed himself deeper. It was supremely smith-crafted, a dense metal bound and held together.

  Bound . . .

  That’s what was so different. The blade felt like a conduit . . . a drain. To where? He forced himself toward the opening. The closer he came, the harder it was. The crafting was corrosive, washing against his mind like burning acid. But he persisted, struggling to a point where all that existed was himself and the sorcery.

  Filaments of power led from the blade down into the hilt, ending at the gemstone pommel. Caldan let his senses envelop the jewel. It was almost perfect, structurally. Only a few tiny flaws marked the crystal lattice. But there was something else . . . an ephemeral power throughout the stone. He had a sense of . . . confinement.

  Caldan wanted to explore the gem more, but the caustic nature of the power was too much. He couldn’t hold on anymore. With a gasp, he pulled himself clear and shook himself. He felt wrung out like a wet rag.

  Those daggers were intriguing. Not only for the fact Felice and Izak carried them, but for their purpose. Something other than just killing.

  Something somehow even more sinister . . .

  “Caldan!”

  Caldan jerked his head up at the sound.

  Felice.

  He blinked distractedly. “Sorry. I was . . . never mind. Lady Felicienne. What . . . how did you get here?”

  “I . . . I’m not entirely sure,” Felice said. Her hair looked like she’d stood in a strong wind. Leaves and a fine white dust clung to it. She kept looking about her, as if she’d lost something, or expected someone to appear from behind a bush. “Where is ‘here’?”

  “Riversedge.”

  “Riversedge?” She looked at Izak. “Pignuts,” she muttered. Izak gave a coughing chuckle.

  “I didn’t know sorcery could do such a thing,” Izak said. “That’s quite a trick.”

  Felice’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “What are you—” began Caldan.

  “Later,” Felice said. “Give us time to recover. We’ve been through quite a bit.” She ran her hands through her hair, pulling out leaves and dust.

  Caldan approached Izak. Though he grinned at Caldan, it was a sickly smile. Caldan clasped his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Izak.”

  “And you,” offered Izak weakly. “I’m just glad I’m alive. Any chance of a drink around here?”

  Caldan smiled, pleased to see Izak hadn’t lost his cheer. “No, but once we get you two to safety, I’m sure we can arrange something. Sir Avigdor isn’t with you?”

  At his words, a bleak look came across Izak’s face.

  “Avigdor . . . well, he didn’t make it.”

  “They killed him,” Felice said. “Hacked his feet off and left him for dead.”

  Caldan felt the blood drain from his face. The brutality—and finality—of her account left him cold. Eventually, he said, “Who did?”

  “A sorcerer calling himself Savine.”

  Quiss lurched over to Felice, face twisted with grief. “Savine, did you say? Where is he?” His words were urgent, intense.

  “Another sorcerer named Rebecci did for him.” Felice looked Quiss up and down. “You’ve the look she had. Half-starved. I take it your name is Luphildern Quiss?”

  Quiss moved closer to Felice, wringing his hands. “Where is Savine?” he hissed, ignoring her question.

  “Rebecci captured him, but someone killed her as well, and took the crafting that confined him.”

  Quiss dropped his arms to his sides, as if in defeat.

  Another of Quiss’s people dead, with another, Savine, captured . . . by a crafting?

  Thoughts and impressions snapped into place in Caldan’s mind, like the tumblers of a lock. The binding trinket daggers, capturing with craftings, the wrongness of Quiss when he’d first met him . . .

  “How was Savine trapped?” Caldan said.

  “The daggers,” Quiss said, making the connection at the same time.

  “No—it was a di
amond,” said Felicienne. “What—”

  Quiss stepped up to Felicienne and held his hand out. She slowly handed her dagger over, as if reluctant to part with it.

  “Here,” Quiss continued, showing the trinket to Caldan. “This must have been part of Gazija and Rebecci’s plan. There’s a way to imprison someone’s mind using coercive sorcery, and they tried to capture Kelhak. Though I don’t know where these trinkets came from. Gazija thought one of us was a traitor, reporting to Savine, and he obviously kept his plan to himself.” He gave a sad smile. “Except for Rebecci, of course. Gazija knew I’d join him if I knew. He . . . he excluded me to ensure one of us survived.”

  “I’m sorry,” Felicienne said. “The daggers were given to us by a . . . friend.”

  Izak gave her a puzzled look. There was obviously a story there, and one Caldan would have to question Izak about later.

  Izak took a step closer, glancing over his shoulder, back the way Caldan and Quiss had come. “Er, excuse me. Who are they?”

  A group approached, hurrying toward them. Men and women all dressed in black.

  Warlocks.

  Hastily, Caldan extended his sorcerous sense. At least five wells. He didn’t want to confront them just yet, but it seemed they had other ideas. One well was particularly wide and smooth: Devenish. And he’d warrant Thenna was by his side as well.

  As the assembly of warlocks neared, they split into two separate groups: sorcerers and Quivers. For each warlock, there were two Quivers, armored and armed to the teeth. Five sorcerers and ten veteran soldiers. There seemed no alternative but to wait for them to approach. Running or fighting would get them nowhere, except possibly an early grave.

  As Caldan guessed, Devenish led the pack, with Thenna a step behind. The Quivers spread out to surround them.

  “Well, well,” said the warlocks’ leader. “When we felt the focus of the powerful sorcery end up here, I didn’t expect to find you, Caldan.” He pointed briefly at Quiss. “And I see your new owner is here. Perhaps you’re following him around like a puppy?”

  Thenna glared at Caldan, and it looked like it was all she could do to remain silent.