“They honour you, Prince,” Luxon muttered in an attempt to make small talk. He wanted to go back to the tent and finish off the fruit that he could still taste on his tongue.
“My people respect strength more than anything, master wizard,” Faramond replied as they walked. “They are bowing to you. Word of your power has spread throughout the camp like wildfire, and rightly so. They see you as a beacon of hope, something that we have not had in a long time.”
Luxon looked at the prince in surprise, before looking up at the sky. Now he knew what the saying having the weight of the world on your shoulders meant.
They passed a coral which housed a dozen saddled horses, and reached a patch of bare ground. The grass which covered the plains had been removed and replaced with sand that had been shaped into an oval.
“The power you have obviously has limits,” Faramond continued. “What happens when your use of magic wears you out? How can you defend yourself without it? There are tales from the past which tell of magic wielders amongst the tribes. As well as spell casters, they were also great warriors. They were known as War Wizards.”
Faramond gestured for Luxon to stand in the oval of sand. He raised his sword.
“Defend yourself, wizard.”
Luxon cried out in surprise as the prince dashed forward and brought his blade down. Instinctively, Luxon raised his own sword and deflected the blow. The impact of the heavy iron blades clashing together reverberated painfully up his arm.
“Good. Use your instincts,” Faramond said as he took a step back and lowered his sword once again. “I am going to teach you how to fight with a sword. Do not think of it as a replacement of your magic but rather a skill that complements it. Let’s try again.”
* * *
It was dusk by the time Luxon and Faramond made their way back to the others. The prince had put the wizard through his paces and had worked him to near exhaustion. At first, Luxon had been hesitant, but as the hours passed he grew more confident in his skills with a sword. He hadn’t been a total novice after all – after Eclin he had spent time with the Nightblades and had learned the basics of swordplay. But Faramond had shown him techniques he had never seen before, and his hunger for knowledge had allowed him to absorb the skills quickly. By the end of the day, Luxon had managed to hold Faramond to a draw in a duel. It had felt good to get sweaty and tired, to use his body as a tool rather than relying on his magic.
“What happened to the War Wizards?” Luxon asked as they walked back to the tent. He carried his cloak in one hand and his training sword in the other. His linen shirt was tied about his waist. The cool evening air felt good on his bare skin.
A dark look crossed Faramond’s face.
“According to the stories, they were all killed during the great purge of magic users which followed the Magic Wars. Inquisitors from the Knights of Niveren swept the plains and slaughtered anyone who possessed magic. Those who could flee did; they ran to the coast and from there are said to have sailed westward across the Wide Blue Sea. Some say they returned to the lands of our ancestors; others say that they all perished.”
“It seems we magic users and your people have a lot in common,” Luxon muttered. “Both have suffered persecution and both are regarded with mistrust.”
“My people are seen as lesser than those who live in their cities and cower behind stone walls,” Faramond agreed. “We were once like them, before the Disaster that forced us to flee across the sea.”
Luxon remembered reading of the Disaster, an event that had occurred over a thousand years ago. Scholars in Caldaria were constantly arguing over what exactly the Disaster was. Some argued that it had been a cataclysm that had come from the stars; others thought that it had been the result of a volcanic eruption. Even the tribes themselves no longer knew. It was common practise among the mages to vigorously debate the matter during their studies.
“My father, the king, is old and ill,” Faramond said quietly his eyes hazy. “I pray to Niveren that he will pass so that he does not have to watch the death of his people.”
Since their arrival in the Keenblade camp, Luxon had only seen the king briefly. The man was ancient and feeble.
“Then it is up to you to lead them,” he said. “I know we’ve not known each other long, but I think you will be up to the task.”
Faramond smiled and ruffled Luxon’s hair.
“It seems we both carry the hopes of many upon our shoulders.”
19.
Sunguard
The city was in chaos. Thick black smoke filled the sky, and swirling vortexes of flame leapt from house to house in the merchant’s district. Men, women and children fled through the streets or tried to hide as the soldiers of the Sunguard Legion rampaged. Davik, their commander and their regent, had been slain. Those responsible would pay the ultimate price for his murder, even if it meant ripping the city apart piece by piece.
Ricard stared out at the carnage occurring far below. He was on the balcony of his quarters in the King’s Spire. In his shaking hand, he held a glass of wine. What had happened? He hadn’t wanted any of this. He leant heavily against the stone railing and stared at the billowing smoke rising in the cool autumn air. He’d had no love for Davik, but to murder him? The very thought made him feel sick to his stomach.
Word of Davik’s poisoning had spread like wildfire, the young Baron of Balnor had practically yelled it from the rooftops, and he, Ricard of Champia had been accused as the culprit. Balnor had stormed out of the city, Robinta close behind. Both men had vowed to take vengeance for Davik’s death.
Civil war would come to Delfinnia once more.
He bit his lip as he thought. Who would gain from such a crime? The people and the barons blamed him of course, but he knew that he had not ordered the deed. Someone was setting him up and deliberately steering the realm towards war. The kingdom was already at breaking point, and now with the barons at each other’s throats once more, its ruin was at hand. He finished his drink and angrily threw the glass over the side of the balcony. He watched as it fell, and shuddered. The door to his chamber shook as someone pounded upon it.
“Ricard. I know you’re in there,” came the petrified voice of Archbishop Trentian.
Ricard rolled his eyes. The people rioting in the city below knew of the role the old man had played at the Grand Council. In their minds, the bishop was just as guilty as he was. Reluctantly, he walked back inside and opened the door.
“Niveren save us!” Trentian cried as he pushed his way into the chamber. “The mob has reached the merchant quarter; soon they’ll reach the Plaza of Kings. Niveren’s cathedral will be burnt to the ground!” The old man was flustered, and his normally pristine robes were crumpled.
Ricard glared at the archbishop.
“Perhaps you should pray to Niveren to spare his cathedral. And whilst you’re at, it ask him to save our hides as well,” he growled sarcastically. “Fear not, Archbishop. I have two hundred of my own men guarding the plaza, and the Ridder Legion has been recalled to the capital.”
He noticed the scepticism on the archbishop’s face.
“The Ridder Legion is loyal to me,” Ricard asserted. “As of now, I will need all of the men I can find.”
Trentian rounded on him, a bony finger jabbing into his chest.
“If it was not for your foolish pride and ambition, we would not be in this situation. If you had been content with Davik being regent, we could have avoided all of this. Our plans against the wielders would have been completed regardless.”
Ricard scoffed at the cowardice of the man. They had been framed by who knew who, and yet the so-called man of religion’s hatred for wielders still came to the fore. He slapped himself as a thought struck him.
“Wielders! Who but they would benefit from me being framed for Davik’s murder? They hope to end the persecution against their ways by discrediting me, by disgracing me. It all makes sense now.”
Trentian gawped at the baron, belief in his eye
s. He paced the room before snapping his fingers.
“Yes, yes it must be them. We were framed by the wielders – that must be it! We must tell the people that this is what has happened. They will forgive us and turn their ire against wielders. We must spread the word through the city at once!”
Trentian turned to leave, hope on his wrinkly old face.
“I will order the scribes and priests to begin spreading the word at once. I fear, however, that harsher action will be needed to get the Sunguard Legion back under control. They were loyal to Davik; they will not back down unless they are stopped by force!”
The archbishop scurried out. Ricard shut the door and poured himself another glass of wine. The archbishop’s words may ease the anger of the populace, but in his gut he knew that Balnor and Robinta would be much harder to convince that he was innocent. Blaming the wielders was their only option.
* * *
The girl ran through the smoky streets. With agile grace, she skipped over the body of a dead city guard. The man’s head was hanging at a funny angle, the iron scythe that had almost took it off still lodged in the neck. His was not the first body she had seen as she made her way from the King’s Spire to the southern gate. A fire had been started in the merchant quarter and the blazing inferno was quickly consuming the western side of the city. The soldiers who were not desperately trying to contain the rioting were all rushing to join the effort to halt the fire’s spread. She sniffed the air; smoke filled her nostrils. It was the smell of victory.
Panicked screams sounded from a nearby alleyway; many people had perished in the rioting. Hurrying through the backstreets, the girl encountered a group of laughing legionaries dragging a girl of a similar age to herself down a side street. For a heartbeat, she contemplated helping the poor wretch, but soon thought better of it.
None of the people in this wretched city deserve to live, the girl thought a wicked smile playing on her lips. They think they know fear; wait until my master comes here with my brethren.
She had played her role to perfection. It had been surprisingly easy for her to infiltrate the royal household as a serving girl. All she’d had to do was bide her time. She reached into the pocket sewn into the inside of her dress and giggled as her fingers played with the bottle of poison she had hidden within.
She rounded another corner and skidded to a halt.
A large bald man covered in tattoos blocked the narrow path. She tilted her head. The man wore the clothes common to the city’s poor; his tunic was filthy and streaked with blood. The body of a small child was at the man’s feet. Whatever foul act that had occurred had happened very recently. It wouldn’t surprise her if the thug had come from the city prison. The rioters had made a beeline for the structure and freed the scum inside.
Upon seeing the girl, the man smiled cruelly. The girl laughed.
“You think that you are scary? How funny,” she mocked.
The man moved towards her menacingly.
“I am scary, you little whore,” he growled. “I’m gonna show ya just how scary I am. I’m gonna make you beg for death before I’m done with ya.”
Again, the girl laughed. “You don’t know what true scary is,” she said softly. “I would like to show you, but I am terribly late.”
The man continued to advance. The girl raised a hand and wagged a finger at him, like a mother scolding a naughty child. With a flick of her wrist, the man was sent flying backwards and crashed into a heap against the wall. He scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide in surprise. The girl giggled again, and rotated her wrist. A sickening snap reverberated up the narrow street as the man’s spine was violently twisted to an unnatural angle. The man screamed as he collapsed onto the ground, his spinal cord severed. The girl admired her handiwork for a few seconds before continuing on her way.
The now paralysed man sobbed in agony.
* * *
No one else bothered the girl. She passed through more scenes of carnage. To her delight, the city was tearing itself apart. It would not be until the night fell that the soldiers would get the rioters under control. More blood would be shed. The more the better.
Finally, she reached the southern gate. This part of the city was quiet in comparison to the other districts. Very few people were out on the streets, and those that were made it clear that they were armed. A woman and her small daughter hurried inside a house. An old man stood outside his property, a rusty old legion blade in his hands.
The girl smiled.
If a riot could instil such fear in these people, then they were going to lose their minds when her master came.
Her smile widened as she spotted the tall cloaked figure stood next to the gate. The cloak was the colour of crimson. At the figure’s feet lay the cooling corpses of the guards tasked with defending the gate.
“Did you encounter any trouble?” the figure hissed.
The girl shook her head. “Nothing that I couldn’t handle. The plan has gone perfectly. Civil war will come. We have sown enough discord that they will all soon be turning on one another.”
“And the mages?”
The girl laughed and clapped her hands in happiness.
“Oh, don’t worry, the mages will be blamed. I made sure to leave a trail that will point the finger at them. Our enemies will be powerless to stop us.”
20.
Five figures moved silently through the long grass. The night was pitch-black save for the dim light cast by the waning twin moons. Luxon, Sophia, Ferran, Kaiden and Drusilla were on their hands and knees, crawling ever closer to the high walls of Stormglade. They had approached the city from the north east, using the marshy lands created by the sea for cover. Drusilla had devised the plan; she had successfully infiltrated the city once before. According to her, there was a small drainage ditch built low in the walls that would provide them with their way in.
Cautiously, Luxon raised his head above the tall grass. He could make out small dots of light moving along the crenulations. Men were on patrol. The enemy was being vigilant.
Aside from the sound of the marsh’s wildlife, he could hear what sounded like hundreds of iron hammers striking stone. He ducked back down as Ferran gave out a low whistle in warning. Ahead, and moving through the long grass, was an animal. The lack of light made it impossible to see, but whatever it was, it was big. As the creature lumbered closer, the damp earth shook slightly. Luxon looked to his right to see Ferran crawling over to him. The Nightblade was covered in mud and his face was painted black just like Luxon’s own.
“It’s a Gargantuan,” Ferran whispered “There’s no way we can take it out without being spotted. We’re going to have to go around. Follow me.”
Luxon nodded and crawled after his friend.
Close behind him was his mother, now dressed in an outfit of black trousers and tunic, and Sophia. Kaiden was just off to Luxon’s side. His limbs were growing tired from the crawling. He narrowed his eyes and focused his magic, channelling the power into his tired limbs, and sighing as the tiredness evaporated. Enhancing physical attributes was a skill often used by Nightblades when they were in remote and often physically tiring situations. He had no doubts that Ferran was using similar magic. He glanced behind and saw that his mother had cast the spell, too. She smiled at him. Kaiden, meanwhile had no talent for magic; he was just using his determination to find his wife to keep him going. They skirted round the Fell Beast without being detected.
It took them another hour before they finally reached the bottom of Stormglade’s walls, but they had done it without being spotted. Cautiously, they followed the wall south until they reached the culvert that Drusilla had described. Dirty water was pouring out of a barred grate and flowing into the marsh. Luxon dreaded to think what horrid things lurked in the foul-smelling liquid. The grate was a good ten feet from the ground; magic would have to be used to reach it.
“You ready?” Ferran asked.
Luxon nodded. As he was the most powerful magic user in the team, he wou
ld be the one to lift the others up to the grate.
“Ladies first,” he said with a smile. Sophia stepped forward and gave him the go ahead.
He closed his eyes and summoned his magic. In his mind’s eye he imagined the witch hunter floating high into the air. Sure enough, Sophia was lifted from the ground by an invisible hand. Slowly, she rose higher until she reached the culvert. Once level with the opening, she stepped forward. One down, four to go.
Ferran went up next. Once at the culvert, he drew his tourmaline blade and went to work on cutting the iron bars. After him went Drusilla, then Kaiden.
Levitation was a spell of the Upper Ring, and one of the most challenging that a mage could do. His thought briefly flickered back to the first time he had used such a spell. He smiled at his naivety. He was a lot stronger now compared to what he was like then. Narrowing his eyes, he cast the spell and floated upwards. By the time he reached the others, Ferran had successfully cut them a way inside.
They were now in a pitch black tunnel which stank of putrid water. Drusilla pulled a fire stone out of her tunic pocket and brought it to life. The walls were covered with slimy green algae.
“Hold onto your noses,” she said apologetically. “The last time I came through this way I was almost overcome by the stench.”
A large metal grate barred access.
Drusilla scratched her head.
“Hmm, this wasn’t here last time,” she muttered.
“Perhaps an extra security measure after your last visit?” Kaiden said.
“The metal is too thick for my tourmaline blade to cut through,” Ferran added.
Luxon stepped forward and rubbed his hands together. The space between the bars was too narrow for a person to squeeze through but not for a small animal. He shrugged his robe from his shoulders and took off his clothes, before handing the bundle to his mother who looked away in embarrassment.
War for the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga Book 2) Page 16