Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage

by Paul Freeman

  “Don’t move,” Tomas said.

  Elandrial parted red lips in a smile. Hair so black to be almost blue hung over pale shoulders, exposed by a low cut gown of sky blue silk, green eyes sparkling in a face of almost impossibly white skin. The very sight of her was mesmerising to the blacksmith, none more than the incredibly lifelike tattoo of a third eye printed onto her forehead.

  “Welcome, Tomas,” she said, continuing to smile warmly, as if she were hosting old friends for dinner. She turned full around to face Aliss. “And welcome, Aliss… sister.” She turned back around then. “These three are not so welcome,” she added, her smile falling from her lips as she turned her eyes on Duke Normand’s men.

  They had spent long months hunting their quarry, travelling hundreds of leagues from home in their quest. Now that they’d found her, Tomas did not know what to do.

  Horace raised his bow and drew back the string. The arrow shot forward towards the priestess, an easy target from such a short distance for the experienced tracker. For an instant her eyes appeared to glow, an emerald radiance in the dull light of the chamber. The arrow turned to shadow and passed through her before clattering against the wall.

  The grating sound of shifting stone filled the air around them as black-robed men suddenly appeared from the walls, surrounding them. Aliss quickly slipped past the priestess to join Tomas, while their three companions formed a small circle, back to back as they eyed the robed men warily.

  “We have been waiting on you, Tomas,” the priestess said, the smile returning to her lips.

  “You knew we were coming?” An uneasy thought that the mission had been doomed from the start began to gnaw at him.

  She simply smiled warmly and opened her arms as if to invite him into an embrace.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t trust her,” Aliss whispered in his ear. The priestess turned her gaze on the young witch.

  “And you, dear one, I know what it is that you crave.” She took a step closer. Tomas raised his sword in warning. “I can help you.” The sound of a babe crying in the distance drifted across the chamber.

  “No…” Tomas gasped.

  “The old witch in the woods cursed you when she brought you back from the dead.”

  “I…” Aliss began, but then trailed off, her brow wrinkling in confusion.

  “Haera healed her. She was sorely wounded, but Haera concocted an elixir to repair her hurts,” Tomas insisted.

  “I know what the witch did.” Elandrial took another step closer, and turned her gaze on Aliss. “The blood of an innocent is what you desire. You can feel it deep inside you. You will always lust after it… even if you don’t understand why.”

  “No,” Tomas said without conviction.

  “What does she mean, Tomas? What did the witch do?”

  Tomas turned towards his woman, but he could not meet her eyes. “The babe, the missing babe…”

  “Marjeri’s child? The infant you searched for in the woods? You said it was snatched by wolves.”

  Tomas didn’t answer, as his mind returned to that night in the Great Wood. A life for a life.

  “She never told you it wouldn’t end there, that it would never end. Dark, dark magic brought you back into this world, and without it you will return to the realm of night.” The sound of the baby crying became louder. Tomas could see the strain and despair in Aliss’ eyes. Her hands were balled into tight fists as she faced the reality of the life she was gifted when she ought to have died. He knew she would consider the price paid to be too high. That she would sacrifice herself that the babe would breathe life once again. Too late.

  “And you, Tomas, you find yourself in league with the murderers of your mentor and long time friend.” Tomas’s eyes narrowed. “The priest,” she added, noting his confusion.

  “Josh?”

  “They killed him when they searched for you.”

  Tomas turned towards the three duke’s men. He could see the fear in their eyes. “You killed Joshan?” he asked, his voice low and even.

  “It were the mage, Djangra Row what killed the priest,” Horace said, his voice edged with hysteria.

  “Joshan is dead?” He turned back towards the priestess. She nodded sombrely.

  “He took on the role of father when your own passed,” she said.

  “I…” Tomas stumbled over his words as confusion clouded his mind.

  “He was a good man. Men call me the dream-witch. They say I can turn their nightmares on them and kill with a thought.”

  “That is why we are here. Duke Normand…”

  “Duke Normand is a fool!” Elandrial’s emerald eyes flared. “He and that pet mage he thinks can protect him. He thinks he defies me with his tricks and wards… yet he cannot see who it is who guides his hand. Where did the thought come from that he needed a witch to hunt me down? Why would he seek out a blacksmith and the woman he walked into the flames for?”

  “You?” Tomas asked hesitantly.

  “Yes,” she simply answered.

  “But why?”

  Once again Elandrial smiled her enigmatic smile “Look at them,” Elandrial said, pointing at the duke’s men. “Read the guilt in their faces. Kill Joshan’s murderers, join me and together we will redesign your destiny. Yours and that of your love.”

  Tomas looked again at the three men. He saw Horace as a twisted, craven thing, always looking to see how he could best profit from any situation. He remembered how Ronwald had coldly rammed his sword through the back of the courtesan, a life taken without a second thought… and Horald, was he the one who struck down Joshan?

  The black-robed disciples of Elandrial produced scimitars with wickedly curved blades, from beneath their robes. Only their eyes were visible beneath the head scarves they wore.

  “Kill her, kill the bitch!” Horace bellowed an instruction at Tomas.

  The blacksmith blinked, and suddenly the priestess was inches away from him, close enough for him to inhale her scent of exotic fruits. She placed a hand on his chest. He felt his heart beating rapidly. Just one push and he could skewer her with his blade; end it all there and then.

  “They are not your friends,” she said, leaning in closer. He could feel her breath caressing his cheek.

  “Tomas…” Aliss called a warning. He ignored her as he focused on the cherry-red lips of the priestess.

  “They killed the priest simply because he would not give up your whereabouts. Join with me now. We belong together.” She turned towards Aliss. “All of us.”

  “Let the Hag’s Pit take you then!” Ronwald suddenly roared and ran at the priestess, swinging his sword in an arc towards her head.

  Tomas’s own blade came up to meet the blow. Sparks flew as the swords met. Ronwald glared at him with wide open eyes, his jaw dropping in surprise. Horald let out a roar and hefted his weapon, but before he had time to move he was assaulted from all sides by the black-robed disciples. Curved blades flashed in the orange light of the chamber, slashing down and coming up red, the duke’s man-at-arms cried out sharply as he was forced down by the relentless attack of multiple whirring blades. In moments he was silent.

  “No!” Horace cried and turned to flee. He was grabbed and dragged back, screaming.

  “I can remove the curse afflicting your woman,” Elandrial purred into Tomas’s ear. “Or would you rather feed her the blood of innocent babes that she may continue to live?”

  “Who killed Joshan?” Tomas asked Ronwald, his stare cold and hard as he regarded the warrior.

  “Like he says.” He nodded towards Horace. “It were the mage.”

  “And you were with him,” Tomas spat. Ronwald flinched but had no more time to react as Tomas drove his sword into his chest, memories of the old priest burning into his mind. Ronwald dropped to his knees, his eyes wide. He tried to raise a hand towards Tomas, but failed and slumped forward onto the ground, blood seeped into the flagstones as he lay still.

  “The All Father protect me,”
Horace whimpered.

  “You will make Aliss well again?” He turned towards the priestess. She nodded as her lips curled into a smile. “The mage… Djangra Roe?”

  “I will take you to him, and you can do as you will.”

  Tomas nodded and flicked his wrist. The tip of his sword drew a thin red line across the throat of Horace. The tracker gasped and then made a choking sound, bringing his hands up to his throat, a spray of blood drenched those closest to him.

  “Stay true to your word and we will have no quarrel,” Tomas said, turning back to the priestess. Beside him Aliss coughed and swayed. He caught her before she fell.

  “Oh I will keep my promises, Tomas, I will fulfil your every desire.” Emerald eyes sparkled in the torch light.

  Aknell: The house of Lorian

  Aknell raised the hood of his robe, and bade Rolfgot do the same with a slight inclination of his head as he approached the wider, quieter streets of the nobles and merchants quarter of the city. The road rose gently as the houses became steadily bigger and grander until he reached the final tier. Even the air was cleaner higher up, none of the constant cloud of choking dust, along with the sounds and smells of so many people living closely together. Nothing of the palatial homes of the richest men in the city was visible beyond a solid wall fronting the street. Aknell was well aware of the type of residents hidden behind those dour facades; these were the homes of men to whom money was no object, no luxury too fine. Stout wooden doors were all that marked them as homes, until one stepped across the threshold. Only then was the fabulous wealth of these most powerful of men put on display. Spy holes, where suspicious eyes kept a constant vigil on the street below, dotted each wall. They’re a cautious lot, the nobles of Alcraz, Aknell thought to himself. And why wouldn’t they guard their riches jealously?

  “This way,” he said to the giant Nortman, pointing at an ornately carved oak door. “The house of Lorian Olmet.” He read aloud the script etched into the wall in gold leaf.

  He looked farther up the hill to where the emperor’s palace dominated the skyline, sitting beyond the houses of the wealthy citizens of Alcraz. Its towers and domes dwarfing every building around it. Like a fat hen sitting on her clutch of eggs, Aknell thought.

  He knocked on the door with the edge of his fist, pounding on the heavy, solid wood until a small shutter was pulled back. The doorman wordlessly slammed the peephole back into place and moments later the door creaked open. Aknell and the massive Nortman Rolfgot stepped through the archway into an open courtyard. Several guards, armed with spears and short swords by their sides, lined the walls.

  “It would seem our friend, Lorian, has upped his security,” Aknell said, as much to himself as to his companion. Two guards approached, blocking them from proceeding through the house.

  “Your weapons,” a third said.

  “I am unarmed,” Aknell said, a pleasant smile on his face. “You can search me if you wish,” he added as he opened out his arms.

  “That won’t be necessary, but I’ll need to take your bodyguard’s sword.”

  Aknell’s smile grew wider. The sight of these house guards attempting to disarm the giant Nortman would be most entertaining. He was almost tempted to let them. Instead he nodded towards Rolfgot and the Nortman unstrapped his weapon and handed it over, sheath and all, while his face remained neutral and unreadable. Aknell revelled in the guards discomfort as he took the weapon from the Nortman.

  The gatekeeper led them through the small courtyard towards the main door of the house. Once he stepped onto the tiled-floor of the hallway, the real wealth of the owner was revealed. Artworks adorned the walls of the spacious entranceway, huge pillars propped up the high ceiling. Overhead skylights allowed sunshine to flood the room. Standing in a pool of light was their host, Lorian Olmet. The fat nobleman spread his arms wide in greeting, before clapping his hands together twice in quick succession. Servants hurried to attend him, bearing trays of drinks and bowls of water for his guests to wash their hands.

  “Welcome, welcome to my home, my friend.” He grinned. His chins moved as he nodded his head jovially. A little too good-natured, Aknell thought. He noted, once again, the increased guards hovering, trying to remain out of sight, and how Lorian glanced once at the big Nortman before quickly looking away. His fear of Rolfgot was evident enough. “Come, sit with me on the balcony. It is a beautiful day and there is a wonderful view of the city from there.” He led his guests towards the back of the house without waiting for a reply.

  There was indeed a fine view overlooking the city, likely only bettered by the view from the palace one level higher up. Aknell sat on a cushioned couch, while Rolfgot took up position behind him, standing statue-still, his arms folded across his chest. A small table set before the couches was piled high with various fruits of the empire, as well as breads and cold meats. Lorian dropped into a couch opposite and immediately plucked a duck leg from a platter on the table.

  “Eat,” he said and began gnawing on the drumstick. Aknell noticed how his hand trembled ever so slightly as he reached for the food.

  He smiled graciously and reached for a small loaf of bread, tore off a chunk and bit into it. “Thank you, it is most welcome,” he said. “We have not spoken in many months, my friend. It has been too long.”

  The fat man shrugged, his eyes darting between Aknell and the Nortman standing behind him. “Life has been busy… difficult,” he said, his eyes dropping away from Aknell.

  “Oh, how so? Is there trouble at the palace?”

  Lorian’s eyes shot back up. “Always questions about the emperor, Aknell. Your fishing makes me worry I have allowed a spy into my house.” The fat man smiled at his own joke, although the humour did not reach his eyes.

  “Now I know something is troubling you, Lorian. Are we not friends?”

  “Yes, yes of course, I’m sorry. A cloud of suspicion hovers over the palace. It is as contagious as a plague.”

  “It must have been seismic to have you so nervous, my friend, he who is normally the very essence of calm and foresightedness.” Peddler in rumours and gossip more like, Aknell smiled reassuringly at the fat man.

  “Some months ago, assassins made an attempt on the Princess Rosinnio’s life.”

  “On Rosinnio’s life?” Aknell’s smile remained in place.

  “So I’m led to believe. It was made to look like a coup and attempt on the life of her husband, but I’m told by my sources, the emperor and his closest advisors believe that was a rouse to mask the real reason, that being to murder the princess.”

  “But why?”

  Lorian leaned in closer, glancing around him, as if there were eavesdroppers all around him. “Rumour has it the reason Rosinnio was sent north to marry was to remove her as far away as possible from the palace. The emperor feared so strongly for her that he sent her to Nortland, where he thought she would be safer. Imagine… safer in the Pirate Isles!”

  “But that makes no sense.” Aknell sat back into his couch and looked beyond his host at the city yawning below the balcony.

  “Somebody in this city has the emperor scared enough for his daughter’s safety that he sent her as far away as he could imagine. Who has the power to frighten an emperor?”

  “There are higher orders than that of an emperor,” Aknell said.

  “Higher than an emperor? I don’t follow you,” the fat man said.

  “Are the gods not infinitely higher?”

  “I suppose, but the gods have their own places and rarely interfere directly with affairs of mortals.”

  “That is where you are wrong. The gods take a very great interest in what men are doing. A god is only as powerful as his followers make him… or her.”

  “Anyway it is a moot point. It was men who poisoned the princess, not a god,” Lorian said. “Somebody with enough wealth to hire a company of swords, and enough power to frighten an emperor. Who has that power over an emperor? And why Rosinnio?”

  “Sadly, all things must en
d, my friend,” Aknell said.

  “What are you talking about?” The fat noble fidgeted nervously on his couch, glancing over to where his guards stood silently just inside the house.

  “The time has come for change, Lorian, for the world to be remade.”

  “Aknell?” Lorian smiled unconvincingly.

  “It has been quite some time since your friend Aknell walked among the living, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “His likeness has served me well, these past years, but now I think it is time to move on. I can sense him finally departing. He was most strong, stronger, I think than you will ever be. Alas, I have a long journey to undertake now, Lorian, and I need something from you.”

  “What is that?” The fat man’s words came out in barely a whisper.

  “Your soul.”

  “No!” Lorian backed away from the man he thought his friend. A movement caught his attention as the giant Nortman started towards him. “Guards! Guards, kill them!”

  Guards armed with spears and short swords suddenly materialised, rushing the balcony. The one nearest Lorian stood between the fat noble and the Nortman, his spear raised. Rolfgot snarled and advanced on the guard, snatching the weapon from his hands and turning it on its previous owner. Lorian backed to the edge of the balcony until he felt the balustrade behind him. He watched in mounting terror as the Nortman lifted a charging guard into the air and flung him from the balcony. Another swung a sword at him, but he simply caught his wrist, twisted and the sword fell to the ground with a clatter. The huge warrior grappled the man then, twisting his neck until a sickening crack made him go limp.

  The Nortman turned towards another advancing guard only to have a sabre driven into his chest, running him through until it protruded out of his back. The captain of the guard stood back then, a smirk on his face as he assessed his handiwork. The smile quickly faded.

  Without taking his eyes from him, Rolfgot, with both hands on the hilt, pulled the sabre slowly from his own body. Where a dead man ought to be lying stood an angry warrior with a bloody blade in his hand. The captain of the guard ran.