Ms. Henson harrumphed. “Yes, well, if the arch mage were still alive…”
“If,” Alivia said, giving Ms. Henson an icy glare. “If the arch mage were still alive, so too would be most of the other mages that went with him. The tower would be clean, the food would be hot and the students would keep in line. I am not in the business of considering alternate realities that can never exist.” She imagined her voice causing frost on the walls of the room. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to your concerns. Good day.”
Ms. Henson stared at her for a moment, her mouth hanging open. She snapped it shut and left without a word of parting.
Alivia leaned back in her chair. The task of managing the tower was becoming more arduous than she expected. As the rest of the city became antsy, so too had her fellow mages. The same mages who had studied their feet when asked if any among them would rise to the challenge and become acting arch mage were now criticizing the only mage willing to step up and don the mantle of command.
Alivia’s thoughts wandered to the previous day and her attempts to strike the Krai’kesh. Somehow they magic could not affect them where they were. She recalled the crystal that had been placed near the front lines of the Krai’kesh. The crystal had to be the source of their protection, for her magic had worked just fine at the harbor, well away from the crystal. Her magic had also found its target in the Harren Woods months earlier when she helped fight a Krai’kesh warrior. The variable was the crystal.
Without magic the city was out-manned and at the mercy of the Krai’kesh. Even if every soldier remaining in the city sallied forth to destroy the crystal, they would be overwhelmed by the Krai’kesh and likely fail.
A book caught Alivia’s eyes on the shelf nearby. A History of the Founding the spine read. That was it. The legends spoke of the Founder fighting the Krai’kesh, long ago. Perhaps the ancient records spoke of how to fight them. She rose and took the book from the shelf, sat down, and began to read.
Chapter 12
The doors to the throne room of the Stone Palace opened as Ashley and the rangers approached. Inside, a functional throne room complete with stone walls, stone pillars and a high stone ceiling welcomed them. The room was cool, a sharp contrast to the scorching heat outside. Torches along the wall and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast warm light on the guards lining the perimeter of the room and the pair of occupied thrones at the far end of the room.
The chamberlain of the king announced them in a loud voice, causing the men gathered at the foot of the dais to turn their attention to Ashley and her retinue. Whispers struck up as their eyes took in the uniforms of the rangers and fell upon Ashley.
Ashley and the rangers performed bows as they came to stand in front of the throne. “Your majesty,” Ashley began, “we greet you in the name of Coryn, queen of Tar Ebon. We come bearing an official letter of introduction and beg audience with your grace.” She held the invitation out in front of her.
The king of Valnaria, Viktor Galvaroth, a middle-aged man with gray streaks in his hair along the side of his head, studied the group from Tar Ebon in silence, green eyes unreadable. At his side sat the queen, a gaunt blond-haired wearing a red dress. She cast a wary sideways glance at the king before also surveying the newcomers.
“The letter,” the king commanded, prompting his chamberlain to take the letter from Ashley’s outstretched hands and ascend the stairs to proffer it to the king. The king opened the letter and read it twice. “It says here the queen of Tar Ebon,” word must have spread that Coryn’s mother and father had died, “is requesting our aid against a threat from the north.” His words were not for Ashley but for the men gathered around her group. “It says Tar Ebon is under siege by these creatures, called the Krai’kesh, and that all assistance we can provide is requested.”
The men at the bottom of the stairs looked at one another in silence for a few moments, before one younger man with blond hair cleared his throat. “Father, why should we care what happens to Tar Ebon? When have they helped us?” Mutters of agreement sprang from the men around the prince.
Ashley stepped forward. “Your grace,” she began, but she was forestalled by the king raising a hand.
“I would speak with the leader of your retinue of rangers,” the king said, his gaze falling upon Captain Williams. “Tell me, captain, why should we risk the lives of our men for your nation? Would it not be better for us to defend our own lands?”
Captain Williams cast a nervous glance at Ashley’s beet red face before turning his gaze to the king. “With all due respect, your grace, if the Krai’kesh destroy Tar Ebon they will not stop until they have destroyed everything on this world. They will strike down each nation until all nations have fallen. We believe that the only way to stop them once and for all is to present overwhelming force and crush them. No one army on this continent is large enough for this task, but combined we may be.”
“Combined you say? What other nations have received such a request?”
“Selucia, Sagami, Rovark, Galatia and Allyria have all been asked for assistance.”
“Selucia?” the king asked, adopting a dangerous tone.
Ashley jabbed an elbow into Captain William’s side. She had hoped to avoid telling the king that other nations, including their rivals and ancestral enemies, the Selucids, were being asked to come to Tar Ebon’s aid until they had agreed or - better yet - until they had arrived at Tar Ebon.
Captain Williams stepped aside to put distance between him and Ashley’s elbow before nodding. “Yes, your majesty. All nations have been called to assist Tar Ebon in our time of dire need. You need not fight directly next to your ancient foes if you do not desire.”
Silence fell as the king deliberated. “We will provide aid in the form of soldiers, but only because it is in the best interest of Valnaria to stop this threat before it grows too strong. Archimedes, call our banners and prepare the army to march. We leave within the fortnight.”
The young blond-haired man bowed but cast a sidelong glare at Ashley and Captain Williams. “As you say, father.” He turned and stormed from the room, several men following him.
“Don’t mind him,” the king said, watching his son depart. “He may disagree with me, but he will not disobey or dishonor me. Until the army is ready, you will be my guests. Should you desire anything, tell my chamberlain and he will obtain it for you.”
“Thank you, your grace,” Captain Williams said.
Ashley remained silent, offering a bow and walking toward the doors.
“Tarry a moment,” the king commanded. “You, girl, what is your name again?”
Ashley stiffened, clenched her first and turned to face the king. “My name is Ashley, your grace.” She hoped the pause between her name and the honorific “your grace” had not been too noticeable.
“Are you married?”
Ashley felt surprise at the question. She wasn’t married, but…was she engaged? No, but she didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. “I am being courted, your grace.”
“A pity,” he said, giving her a creepy stare.
Ashley held his gaze a moment longer before turning and leaving the throne room.
Captain Williams spoke once they were in the hallway. “I thought that went well, didn’t you?”
Ashley glared at him. “Oh sure, it went well, if you were a man in there.”
Captain Williams flinched, realizing his mistake. “We got what we wanted, didn’t we?”
“I suppose,” Ashley acknowledged. “But at what cost?”
Chapter 13
The clang of metal on metal echoed through the tournament grounds as Dawyn approached the melee arena. Cheers from the crowd acknowledged particularly impressive strikes, while gasps followed what Dawyn surmised were critical or match-changing strikes. The stands of the arena were not the only location filled with people; pedestrians packed the streets, shuffling toward one arena or another or stopped at vendors along the way. Dawyn ignored the cries of street v
endors peddling their wares and instead focused his attention on tightening a strap on an armbrace he wore on his wrist.
Dawyn had decided to take part in the tournament rather than sit around bored watching the bouts of strength. He figured it would be good to earn the admiration of the nobles of Selucia - if he won. If he lost, which is what his rangers had voiced concerns about, he stood to lose face with the nobles and undermine his position. Dawyn’s rebuttal was simple: he would not lose.
Dawyn signed in upon arriving at one of the arenas hosting the melee and was ushered to a waiting area around the arena. Gates were interspersed around the arena, allowing each participant to emerge equidistant from opponents on either side of them. It provided equal footing for the combatants.
Cheers from the crowd that shook the wooden frame of the arena around Dawyn heralded the end of the current melee match. As the cheers subsided a muffled voice shouted the name of the victor for that round. Minutes later another voice drifted through the wooden gate in front of Dawyn and he guessed it was time for the match to begin. Sure enough, the gates opened and sunlight flooded in.
Dawyn stepped out of the gate and assessed the situation as cheers erupted from the crowd. More than a dozen gates around the perimeter of the arena stood open, allowing the entry of an equal number of men in various states of armament and armor. One man wore full plate armor with a heavy mace slung over his shoulder, while another wore little more than a leather vest and had two swords in scabbards at his side. Dawyn had erred on the side of caution and taken the middle ground between heavy plate armor that offered full protection and leather armor that would offer little to no protection. He wore a breastplate over his tunic to protect his vital organs, while a pair of trousers were overlaid by greaves covering his ankles and a pair of armbraces protected his wrists. He wore leather boots unencumbered by plate.
A single man stood at the center of the arena. The plump man wore flamboyant clothing and held his arms up for silence. “My good people,” he bellowed. “Today we have over a dozen of the fiercest warriors from Selucia and beyond!” He read the list of the combatants, including any titles and previous accolades. Dawyn felt relief to find that he did not own the longest list of such titles. Once the man completed reading the list he paused for applause from the audience and continued. “Now, without further delay, let the melee begin!” No sooner had his words left his mouth than he scurried toward the southern gate of the arena.
Dawyn waited for a moment and watched as combatants from around the arena charged toward the blood-stained center of the arena with roars and cries of challenge. Dawyn refrained from running and instead strode toward the center, drawing his blades as he went.
The combatants each slowed as they reached the center until they formed a loose circle around the center. Then each man seemed to appraise those men around themselves and pick one to attack. Hence the melee began. One man was beset upon by two men, with one of the assailants struck from behind by another man. The man struck from behind fell to the strike from the rear and the perpetrator took his place assailing the original man set upon by the two.
Dawyn arrived at the center after the melee had begun and stood, watching.
One of the men, the leather-wearing man with dual swords, noticed Dawyn after he finished gutting a spear-wielding Sagami warrior and charged toward him.
Dawyn parried the first combined strike with his own blades, then side-stepped the sweeping blow designed to slice him across the gut. He continued parrying and dodging for several more exchanges before going on the offensive. Parrying another pair of blows he held the blades at bay with one of his blades while sliding his other blade down. Surprise blanketed the man’s face as Dawyn struck downward and his blade bit into the thigh of the man. Blood spurted as Dawyn pierced an artery and the man fell to his knees as his leg gave out. Before the man could react, Dawyn performed a roundhouse kick that took his opponent in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious. Rather than leave the man to bleed out, Dawyn checked for more assailants and, seeing none, knelt down beside the bleeding man. Tearing a strip of cloth from the man’s tunic, Dawyn tied the cloth over the wound and pulled it tight to apply pressure. He man would still bleed a little, but he would not die.
Dawyn stood and looked for a new opponent. Within a short span of time half of the melee combatants were dead or wounded, lying on the ground as a sign of surrender. The rules did not forbid killing other combatants - only striking when they were clearly incapacitated to deliver a killing blow. One man appeared to be disregarding the rules, for Dawyn saw the large man in plate with a massive two-handed mace lift his weapon above a dark-skinned man lying on the ground with his arms up in a pleading gesture. The man in plate had no regard for the dark-skinned man’s gesture of surrender and slammed the heavy mace down on his head with a roar, smashing it like a pumpkin. Dawyn stood horrified, not at the carnage, but at the clear breach in protocol and melee etiquette. The initial round of gasps from the audience were soon replaced with cries of blood lust as the crowd cheered at the unusual display of excessive force.
The rest of the combatants shied away from the monstrous man with the mace, while Dawyn strode toward him unafraid.
Hoisting his mace back over his shoulder, blood and brain matter still dripping from the spikes of it, the giant man eyed Dawyn. He led out a thundering laugh as if he found Dawyn insufficient to face him.
Dawyn halted several meters from the man. He gestured to the corpse lying behind the towering man. “That man surrendered and was begging mercy. Yet you killed him anyway. Why?”
“He was weak,” the man bellowed. “The weak die, the strong survive. ‘Tis the way of life.”
“It was against the rules,” Dawyn pointed out.
“Fuck the rules,” his opponent said.
Dawyn looked toward the crowd in the stands and settled his eyes on the box reserved for the king and his advisers. The throne of the king sat empty, though several other high-ranking nobles were in attendance. If the king were there…but he wasn’t, and so it was up to Dawyn to put this man in his place. He looked back at the belligerent man. “If you will not abide by the rules, you will die by the rules.” Dawyn advanced without further words.
The hulking man whipped his mace off his shoulder and held it two-handed. Dawyn broke into a run and the man prepared to swing the mace from the side like a baseball player back on Earth might in preparation of a baseball flying toward him. He swung as Dawyn reached him.
Dawyn saw the mace coming around to shatter his spine in the center and slid. The weight of the mace kept it on its course and it soared above Dawyn as he crashed into the armored man. He did not succeed in toppling the big man, but instead rolled to the side and leapt to his feet, rushing behind the man and slashing toward the rear of the man’s legs with a sword. A bang echoed as his sword hammered against the man’s leg armor, to no effect.
Dawyn’s opponent turned and prepared for another strike, this time an overhand swing designed to crush Dawyn’s skull or break his arms and then crush his skull if he attempted to parry. As the mace descended, Dawyn sidestepped. The armored man was ready for that move, for his leg kicked out and caught Dawyn in the stomach, causing the metal of his breastplate to dent inward. A crack heralding broken ribs erupted from the area and caused Dawyn to double over and struggle to catch his breath. Fearing that another strike from the mace was coming, Dawyn forewent trying to stand and instead cleared his mind and slowed time.
The strike he expected, an upward strike from the side, slowed to a crawl and Dawyn was able to stumble away. Every breath came with difficulty and he struggled to stand upright. No sooner had the pain begun to blossom through his body then he heard a metallic male voice say “healing protocol activated” in his head. The pain began to lessen within moments and he released his hold on time.
The mace-wielding giant looked in amazement from the location Dawyn had been standing in moments earlier to where he now was, several meters away.
He roared in anger and frustration and charged forward.
Dawyn, buying time for the nanites in his blood to do their job, ran to the side as fast as he could. He ran through the remaining combatants, avoiding stray strikes as he went, and turned on the other side to track his opponent.
The behemoth was like a freight train, unstoppable. Any combatants that did not move out of his way fast enough were shoved or backhanded or struck by his mace, sending men toppling to the ground in pain.
Dawyn felt small, painful spikes from his rib area as they were knit back together by the nanites in his blood. Though the breastplate was not so easy to repair, Dawyn felt that the damage had been mostly repaired. His thoughts were confirmed a moment later when a voice in his mind indicated “healing process complete.”
The completion of the healing came at just the right moment, for the freight train incarnate was almost upon Dawyn. “No more,” Dawyn said aloud. Drawing upon his power, Dawyn felt time slow. The freight train the man resembled instead became a lumbering hippopotamus or giant turtle. Dawyn knew his energy was limited from the healing performed and raced forward.
His opponent swung his mace above his head again, but Dawyn struck as the mace was just above the man’s head. Slashing with both blades, Dawyn sliced through the weaker chain links protecting the underarm of his opponent and sliced through the bulging muscle beneath. He stepped back and released his hold on time.
The big man roared in agony Dawyn's blade sliced through his arm muscle. His arms gave out and the heavy mace held above his head toppled down on top of him. The mace clanged against the man’s plate helmet and caused a large dent. The man, dazed by the impact of metal crunching into his skull, fell forward. He threw his arms out in front of him to stop his fall but cried out as his crippled muscles failed to support his weight.
He lay grunting in pain, unable to rise due to the wound in his arms. He shifted his weight and managed to roll onto his back, where he watched Dawyn approach. “Please,” he said, his words slurring, “have mercy.”
The Shadow Trilogy Complete Box Set Page 43