Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web - Volume 1

by Prestopnik, Thomas J.

  “We’ll head into the wilderness and take cover now as we make our way toward the capital,” he told Caldurian and his captains. “We’ll halt about three miles from the city’s edge before breaking up to surround the perimeter. We attack at dawn.” He eyed Gwyn who stood dutifully at the wizard’s side. “Your Enâri troops will make the initial assault of King Rowan’s compound. I and the remaining hundred of my soldiers will follow. Understood?”

  Gwyn snarled under his breath, tugging at the snug collar of his leather jerkin. “Don’t fret, commander. My troops will do as they’re told. Worry about your own.”

  “It is my job to worry about everyone, Enar. Now let us slip into the trees and move on,” he said, wading through a patch of goldenrod spread out before a distant wilderness of maple, oak, elm and pine. “With luck, this time tomorrow we’ll be feasting on King Rowan’s store of venison and ale.”

  Before the first gray light of dawn touched the slumbering sky, Commander Jarrin guided his remaining one hundred troops and the Enâri soldiers the final three miles to the capital city. His other troops had departed last evening to take their positions around various parts of the city, waiting for the signal to move in. The commander emerged from nearby hilly woodlands, greeted by a few slumbering farmhouses of stone, sod and wood.

  Triana was the largest city in Montavia, having spread outward in a lazy circle as its population grew. Thin columns of blue-gray chimney smoke drifted above log and thatch rooftops into the awakening sky. Candlelight flickered from home windows of the earliest risers. Soon barn doors were opened, forge furnaces stoked and bread dough on bakeshop tables vigorously kneaded.

  King Rowan’s residence, affectionately dubbed Red Lodge by the locals, occupied the center of Triana near the Gestina River which flowed down from the Keppel Mountains. The long main building with a series of gabled rooftops rose three stories high, its base built from the redstone quarried in the mountains coupled with solid oak posts and beams harvested from nearby forests. Several smaller structures, including storehouses, additional residences, horse stables and a garrison, were laid out in the vicinity, all surrounded by a thick outer wall of stone rising the height of two grown men. The main gate faced south, with several smaller gates built around the perimeter. A series of oil lamps hung at various spots above the wall burned steadily throughout the night year round. Sentries guarded each gate, which were barred every evening, and patrols walked along the top of the wall from sundown to sunrise.

  Before Triana’s residents had taken to the frosty streets, Commander Jarrin funneled his men into the city, leading them swiftly to Red Lodge along hard, rutted dirt roads past strings of houses and shops. Caldurian, Gwyn and the other Enâri closely followed. Vellan’s stone and soil creations were especially eager to avenge their forced twenty-year sleep on anyone. The pale light from the Fox Moon, three days past full, dipped toward the mountains in the west, casting a dull sheen across the rooftops and sky.

  The trek to the center of town went uninterrupted until the inebriated ramblings of a man stumbling out of the shadows caught their attention. The stranger, who had just awoken moments ago in a pile of hay after a night of merriment in a local pub, looked up at the approaching soldiers from the Northern Isles pouring into his city. He rubbed his eyes and stood frozen in place, wondering if he were imagining the surreal scene of invading troops scattered before him. But the man hadn’t a moment to raise a hand or open his mouth to question his senses. He instantly fell backward, landing on the road like a sack of dirt, an arrow sticking out of his chest. His opened eyes gazed lifelessly at the shimmering morning stars drifting overhead.

  Caldurian nodded in approval at the soldier who had fired the arrow upon his command. The troops then silently moved on to the center of town, arriving at King Rowan’s residence a few minutes later. Red Lodge lay still under the freshening gray sky, the sputtering oil lamps the only sound carried on a slight breeze. They kept watch from a safe distance, hidden in the shadows of nearby buildings and trees, making sure the way was clear. With a raised hand, Commander Jarrin dispersed his troops to each entrance of the outer wall. Gwyn, likewise, signaled for the Enâri to take their positions at even intervals around the wall, each of his soldiers armed with a length of rope tied to a metal hook, preparing to fling it over the stone wall.

  Caldurian and Jarrin, who had remained back in the shadows with a handful of soldiers, glanced at one another. After Jarrin nodded, affirming his readiness, the wizard placed his hands over the tip of an arrow one of the soldiers had at the ready and whispered several words that none could understand. Soon the arrow tip glowed blue and burst into a ghostly flame. In one sweeping move, the soldier raised the bow and aimed at the sky, launching the burning arrow high into the air directly above the center of the Red Lodge compound. The signal was sent. The invasion of Triana was at hand.

  “What was that?” a voice on the wall called out in the gloom. “Did you–”

  But a moment later he was silenced by another arrow, as were all of King Rowan’s men who patrolled atop the wall, each targeted by Commander Jarrin’s best archers. Their bodies fell over the wall to the shock of any guards standing below inside near the gates. At that instant, the Enâri troops hurled metal hooks over the wall and scrambled up the ropes, climbing in seconds to the top of the wall like insects. Nearly five hundred of Vellan’s mountain creatures now surrounded Red Lodge from the top of the wall before jumping into the courtyard just as a warning bell clanged repeatedly in the darkness. The raid was no longer a secret.

  A clash of swords echoed in the darkness as another half dozen blue flaming arrows sailed overhead, all descending upon one particular storehouse inside the compound. In seconds, flames burst from within the building, spitting out from windows and the rooftop as panicked shouts of alarm rippled behind the walls. Caldurian listened closely as the sword fighting intensified, a few screams and muffled words punctuating the moment. As the first hints of dawn intensified, the wizard smiled, hearing the one sound he had been eagerly anticipating. The main gates had been unbarred by the Enâri from within and flung wide open. He imagined the same thing happening at all the lesser gates as the sounds and voices of the fighting suddenly magnified.

  Seconds later, soldiers from the Northern Isles charged inside the compound while the Enâri overwhelmed their outnumbered opponents near the wall. Commander Jarrin’s troops bolted toward Red Lodge as a slew of King Rowan’s guards scrambled down the wide front steps. Swords were drawn and the fighting commenced at once, but most of the royal guard was quickly defeated by the tidal wave of Island men and a stampede of Enâri who joined the clash as the fighting near the gates diminished. The remaining members of the King’s Guard retreated inside and tried to bar the main entrance, but the sheer weight of Jarrin’s men slamming against the thick wooden doors like an avalanche of boulders was no match for the opposition. The doors burst wide open and the invaders spread through the royal quarters like wildfire.

  Outside, Caldurian passed through the main gates in triumph with Gwyn and Jarrin at his side as the sky brightened in the east. The long, wide courtyard dotted with trees, shrubbery and gardens contained a sea of Enâri soldiers. Many had made their way into the smaller buildings, fighting whoever opposed them. The garrison had long since been emptied while the fire in one of the storehouses continued to burn. Slain bodies of Montavian soldiers lay about, their spilt blood slowly reddening in the growing light. A few of the Enâri had been killed, though their lifeless corpses were devoid of any bloodshed and their eyes had turned the color of dark stone.

  “At last a success I can report to Vellan!” Caldurian said as he marched up the front steps of Red Lodge, the first distant cries from within the city reaching his ears.

  “The alliance between Kargoth and the Northern Isles has succeeded beyond my expectations,” Commander Jarrin pleasantly admitted.

  “You had doubts?” the wizard remarked as they entered the building, walking down the main
hall illuminated by oil lamps attached to wooden pillars decorated with garlands of autumn leaves and berries. “Surely they are erased at this point. Don’t you agree, Gwyn?”

  “Absolutely!” the Enâr replied with a satisfied grunt, thrilled with the taste of victory after a long, tiresome confinement in the Spirit Caves. “I had no doubts.”

  “Well, the doubts are behind me now,” Jarrin said. “Now let’s see what lies ahead instead, shall we?”

  “Indeed we shall,” the wizard remarked lightheartedly. “And the first item on our list is an appointment with King Rowan.”

  The clash of swords resonated throughout Red Lodge as the first rays of sunlight seeped in through the southeast windows. Most of the royal guard had been killed or taken prisoner within the hour, though a few skirmishes still raged in some of the rooms. Enâri guards were posted throughout the building, including near the kitchens and offices, instructing all workers to continue performing their jobs. The flash of a sword blade or the threat of a wooden club kept the civilians in line.

  Havla, one of Jarrin’s soldiers with a mop of long, stringy hair, had located King Rowan who was now engaged in a battle on the second floor and protected by a stalwart group of his guardsmen. Caldurian instructed Havla to lead the way there at once, and soon they were rushing down a wide hallway whose walls were carved with elaborate woodworking bedecked with tapestries and flickering light. Throaty shouts and the striking of metal against metal were audible inside a room at the end of the corridor. A dead soldier from the Northern Isles lay sprawled upon the ground near the doorway.

  “Hurry!” Commander Jarrin cried, drawing a sword.

  A moment later, he and Havla burst into the room with Caldurian and Gwyn close behind. Several dead bodies were scattered near a stone fireplace, the wooden floor stained with blood. Two of King Rowan’s soldiers were ushering a man out of the room through a second doorway in back as Jarrin entered. The soldiers immediately closed ranks in front of the man whose fierce brown eyes matched the color of his short hair. He wore a silver waistcoat over a black, gray and white checkered tunic, brown boots and trousers. A sword in his ornate scabbard hung lifelessly at his side.

  “We’ll hold off the intruders!” one of the guards shouted to the man. “You must leave now.”

  “Nonsense! I’ll fight to save my house to the end,” King Rowan cried, urging the guards on.

  The two men sprang forward with swords drawn, fighting Commander Jarrin and Havla. Moments later, one of the guards was struck dead by Jarrin. Havla was seriously wounded shortly after, earning a swift death. The King then drew his sword, glaring wildly at Caldurian and Gwyn as he advanced. Gwyn unsheathed a sword, preparing to rush forward, when the wizard held him back.

  “Not necessary,” he softly said, glancing at the Enâr who looked up at him in puzzlement. But when King Rowan advanced in a fiery rage, Caldurian raised an arm and extended his fingers, causing the sword to fly out of the King’s hand. The wizard pulled out a dagger at his side an instant later and flung it at King Rowan, sending him collapsing to the floor upon his back. The second guardsman fell dead at the same moment as Commander Jarrin pulled his reddened blade from the man’s body.

  The King stared at the rafters, feeling dizzy as he listened to his pounding heart. He turned his head, noting the dagger handle sticking out of his shoulder. Blood had begun to cake on his checkered tunic. The wizard advanced toward him with slow, deliberate steps that cast dull echoes off the high ceiling.

  “Will you kill me now, scoundrel?” King Rowan said with contempt.

  Caldurian looked down. “If I had wanted you dead, I would have pierced your heart. After all, my aim is impeccable.” He reached down and pulled out the knife, causing the King to wince. The wizard placed a hand over King Rowan’s wound and the pain temporarily subsided. “Still, I’d have your court physician examine that wound if I were you. We’ll talk afterward.”

  The late morning sun slipped through a window in the King’s upper study. Outside, the Gestina River sparkled in the distance as the remaining leaves from a thicket of white birch trees fluttered onto the flowing water. King Rowan gingerly slipped on a dark blue waistcoat over a clean gray tunic, both of which had been supplied to him after his physician attended to his wound. The King sat down in a chair in front of a large pine table that served as a desk. Caldurian had allowed the physician to be brought in after King Rowan was confined to his upper study. Two soldiers from the Northern Isles stood guard outside the door.

  A few moments later, the wizard walked into the room accompanied by a woman wearing a beige dress with decorative embroidery and a blue woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She was in her mid-thirties, her long blond hair set in a thick braid. As soon as the woman saw King Rowan, she rushed to his side.

  “Are you all right, Father? I had feared the worst,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice as she took his hand.

  “I’m quite fine thanks to Elwood,” he replied, indicating his physician with a slight turn of the head. He then glanced at Caldurian. “Thank you for allowing my daughter-in-law to visit me. I didn’t want her to worry.”

  “Vilna may stay here as long as you cooperate,” Caldurian said before gazing at the young woman. “I’m sorry to hear that Prince Kendrick is no longer with you. I heard of his passing a few years ago when I was on the Isles. An accident, was it? A rockslide?”

  Vilna scoffed at him with an icy glance. “You care not a whit for my dead husband, wizard, so why pretend?”

  “Vilna, please,” King Rowan whispered, patting her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Father, but I will not pretend to be civil with this invader. Let him lock me up in a garrison cell if he must.”

  “Perhaps not yet,” the wizard replied dryly.

  “We will cooperate,” the King promised. “But the death of my son is a family matter, so allow us to keep it such. Do not upset my daughter-in-law any further.”

  “My apologies.” Caldurian pointed to a fireplace in the corner of the room. Suddenly the low flames ignited with a roar, the rush of warm air swaying a set of thick red drapes adorning the adjacent window. “That’s better. It’s damp in here.”

  “Some hot soup would do His Majesty a world of good,” Elwood piped up, glancing cautiously at the wizard. “Just a suggestion.”

  “Then make it happen, physician. Alert the kitchen to your request and have them bring lunch for all of us. I could do with a bit of soup myself.”

  “As you wish,” he replied, nervously raking his fingers through a head of gray, straw-textured hair before fishing through a leather medicine bag that rarely left his side. Elwood removed a glass vial containing a coarse, dark powder and handed it to King Rowan. “And if it would please you, sir, sprinkle a bit of this ground rasaweed in your tea before bed over the next few nights. But just a bit, mind you, as it is quite potent. It will help you to get a deep, recuperative sleep which is most necessary after your injury.”

  “It doesn’t please me, Elwood,” the King gruffly replied, grabbing the vial and slapping it down on the desk. “But I would like some soup.”

  “Of course,” he said with a nod before hurrying out the door.

  “He performs his duties admirably, though is a bit tiring to be around,” Caldurian quipped a moment later. “Like a busy child that has to be constantly watched.”

  “Elwood has been in my service for years. He’s earned my respect and admiration countless times,” King Rowan said. “But now that he is gone, I will speak freely. Surely you’re not here just to pass idle chatter with my daughter-in-law and me, are you?”

  “You could have endured a worse fate,” Caldurian said, “had Vellan himself invaded your domain. So be thankful for that bit of fortune. But what’s wrong with some conversation? And speaking of children, where are yours?” the wizard remarked, focusing his gaze upon Vilna. “Where are the heirs to the throne of Montavia?”

  Vilna scowled with disdain, countering his potent stare
for a moment before glancing at King Rowan for solace. The King sighed, addressing Caldurian.

  “Brendan and William have been in Arrondale for six weeks. They insisted on accompanying some of my troops who’ve been traveling in rotations to train in Morrenwood with King Justin’s finest,” he explained. “Arrondale has a far superior military, and I am not ashamed to say that I welcomed their training and knowledge. My men have enjoyed visiting our neighbor to the west and returning as superior soldiers.”

  “I must admit that you faced our initial invasion with a much heartier resistance than I had expected,” the wizard replied.

  “You beat us in numbers only,” Vilna said. “Were we more evenly matched, the Island men and Vellan’s pitiful creations would not have stood a chance.”

  “Perhaps.”

  King Rowan’s face tightened as he took a deep breath. “Know this, Caldurian. When word gets out of Montavia about your attack–and trust me, it will–reinforcements will arrive and drive you and your host out of here. And my two grandsons and the remaining Montavian troops still training in Arrondale will be leading the charge. Mark my words!” The King leaned back in his chair, his dark mood somewhat lessened. “No matter how many of your troops infest my lands, you cannot guard every house and road and woodland in the kingdom. Patriots young and old will sneak through your nets and plan a resistance. Your stay here is temporary.”

  Caldurian nodded as he paced about the room, briefly admiring a painting of the nearby countryside. “That’s one way to look at it. Yet more men from the Northern Isles will eventually pour onto your shores, and Vellan is most certainly going to march additional columns of Enâri this way, transforming Montavia into something you will not recognize.” He turned and faced King Rowan. “That is another way to look at it, sir. And if you were a realist, you would admit that that is Montavia’s fate. But deep in your heart, I think there’s a part of you that has already admitted it, that has accepted defeat. It’s just a matter of time until your mind accepts the same truth.”