Dathan took a deep breath of the cold mountain air. “Let’s get this bloody trip over with.”
Chapter 7
Ra’jahankar strode stiffly down the snow covered main avenue of Kishen, towards the palace. The street was cloaked in late afternoon shadows from the towering mountain range, which stood silent and majestic guard over the capital city. The sorcerer pulled his black cloak tighter against the frigid late winter wind that gusted down from the frozen northern wastes. The streets were all but empty, as anyone without a dire need to be outside was huddled under blankets or hunkered near a fire trying desperately to stay warm.
Ra’jahankar enjoyed the empty streets; he had no love of people, but the bitter cold he could live without. Winters could be unpleasant in Asturia, where he had been for some time, but they were much harsher here in Illyria. Yes, this he could certainly live without.
Of course the weather was not the primary cause of his current irritation. That could be attributed to his upcoming meeting with this so-called Sargon.
Most rational people were afraid of Sargon; more than afraid, they were terrified. Of course, having murdered the king and stolen his identity, he was currently known by all but his closest followers as King Zabalan. This shadow sorcerer had appeared not long ago under the guise of the great Sargon the Destroyer, scourge of the known world some five hundred Summers before. It was true he possessed power, which he had certainly proved in his takeover of Illyria.
Yet Ra’jahankar seriously doubted he was the same terrible magician reincarnate, somehow awakened after all these long Summers as he claimed. He did have to acknowledge the skill required to usurp the Illyrian crown and steal the identity of King Zabalan, however. He had quietly conquered the country from within, with only a small army of oversized brutes he had acquired from somewhere to the east.
Yes, Sargon was powerful, but Ra’jahankar had powers of his own and was not afraid of this shadow sorcerer. But he was clever enough to utilize the newly acquired resources of this Sargon until such time as his own plans came to fruition. The trick would be avoiding the infamous temper of the shadow mage, which was always close at hand and flowed as freely as a mountain stream in spring.
His current position of subordinate required him to answer Sargon’s summons, but he was not happy about it. According to the trembling messenger, Sargon was upset he had lost track of Prince Garrick, but was livid that the Clavis had been lost. The artifact, as Aldrick had called it, had power of its own if one knew how to unlock it, but it was important to Sargon for other reasons, which were not completely clear.
Ra’jahankar had thought to find the legendary Khodara with the power of the Clavis, but even before that wench had somehow managed to steal it, he was already beginning to realize it may not be the key to that legendary utopia. If it had been, he likely would have discovered it by then. He meant to discover what great power the Clavis did lead to however, and if that meant tolerating the childish temper of the shadow mage until he did, so be it.
Arriving at the once magnificent palace of Kishen, Ra’jahankar was overcome with disgust. The façade of the once beautiful building was dilapidated and in a complete state of disrepair. The lawns and gardens lay under a layer of fresh snow, but garbage was strewn about the front, and several windows were cracked with one missing altogether.
Entering the once stately building, Ra’jahankar walked into a wall of heat. It felt like stepping into an oven, but that was likely only in comparison to the intolerably frigid temperatures outside. Blowing his nose into an embroidered handkerchief, he continued towards the throne room with a sigh. If he had to waste his precious time with this useless excuse of a meeting, which would undoubtedly only dissolve into one of Sargon’s melodramatic tantrums, then at least he would be warm.
No guards were stationed at the massive ornate doors leading into the throne room. Ra’jahankar could not help but wonder whether Sargon was so arrogant as to think he no longer needed guards to protect him, or if he had simply killed them all out of boredom.
The shadow sorcerer was a madman if the whisperings behind closed doors could be believed. The doppelgänger king had become infamous for taking out his short temper on anyone or anything that happened to be nearby when the mood struck him. Not even his personal guards had been spared his temper, or so the rumors said.
Ra’jahankar snorted in contempt; madman or no, this Sargon, or whatever his name was, had better not try anything with him, or he would find this particular servant had skills of his own.
Contemptuously pushing open the ornately carved doors, Ra’jahankar strode into the disheveled throne room with confidence. A large tile mosaic of a proud red mountain on a dark background, the symbol of Illyria, dominated the center of the floor, although the stylized symbol appeared dark and oddly formed in the flickering torchlight. Stepping closer he saw that the odd shape and dark coloration were largely due to what could only be a large pool of dried blood.
Several guards were scattered about the room. He approached the large basalt throne, where two guards sat drinking from flagons, and laughing quietly. When he inquired about Sargon’s whereabouts, they pointed to a side door with a sneer. Snuffling loudly, he was halfway across the chamber when the door suddenly swung open and Sargon, in the visage of King Zabalan, strode into the room.
His long hair was nearly as disheveled as the palace, and the dark gray robe he was putting on to cover his gaunt, pale naked body seemed to swirl and change hue in the dark fluttering torchlight. Before the heavy wooden door slammed shut of its own accord, Ra’jahankar caught a glimpse of the room behind, which was large, round and brightly lit with candles. Inside was a scene of debauchery; young people mostly unclothed, lounging about drinking and carousing, with their nubile forms and limbs intertwined in every possible combination.
Ra’jahankar unconsciously frowned at the sight. Although he cared nothing for how Sargon might treat his playthings, those particular interests were not his taste.
“Problem?” Sargon hissed as he shambled over to the dark throne and sat down.
Ra’jahankar blew his nose into his embroidered handkerchief and shook his head. “Not at all, only a small setback.”
Sargon made a grating noise which may have been laughter, but there was no humor in the sound. “No small setback. Where is my Clavis?”
Ra’jahankar blew one more time, and then folded and tucked his handkerchief into a coat pocket. He was irritated by his tone and could not keep the edge from his voice. “It was stolen by a sorcerer. You may think I came because you summoned me, but that is not the case.”
“Is that so?” Sargon rasped.
“Yes,” Ra’jahankar snuffled loudly. “You have not been completely honest with me. You did not tell me a sorcerer would come after the Clavis, once I’d left Akkadia. No one but a magician could have sneaked past my wards to steal it back. None could have escaped my Blizzard spell, and yet somehow that wench and her companions did just that!”
“That is your excuse?” Sargon said in a quiet voice.
“It is no excuse, it is what happened!” Ra’jahankar sneezed once and snuffled loudly. “What is your excuse Sargon, for not warning me of this possibility? What is your excuse for hiding from me the true use and power of the Clavis?”
The shifting hued, gray robed sorcerer stood slowly and glided down the dais, his movement sinuous and serpentine. He raised his arms as if to gesticulate, but with an unexpectedly fast movement he placed one hand on Ra’jahankar’s forehead and the other over his heart. Before the surprised man could respond or conjure a shield, he found his limbs frozen in place. Try as he might, he was completely unable to move.
Sargon began chanting in a language Ra’jahankar had never heard before, and did not understand. The words were guttural and harsh sounding, and delivered in a chilling monotone. He experienced a flash of darkness, as deep and cold as the bottom of a well. Sargon stepped back, and his expression was full of malice.
“Yo
u will learn some respect peon,” Sargon hissed. His dark tone was layered with satisfaction.
Anger, indignation and rage boiled together in Ra’jahankar. He found he was able to move again, and although he did not understand what Sargon had done to him, he did know he was not going to be pushed around like this. He had remained civil thus far, not wishing to lose access to the Triads and other resources Sargon provided, but this treatment was unacceptable. It was time to forgo this charade.
Deciding on a particularly nasty spell, Ra’jahankar summoned his power to unleash devastation, only to receive the greatest shock of his life. His power was gone.
One corner of Sargon’s mouth turned up in a grotesque leer, while Ra’jahankar stood stunned, his mouth hanging open. Eventually, he recovered from his initial shock enough to ask, “What have you done?”
“I would have thought that obvious,” Sargon mocked him. “I’ve blocked your powers. You are an arrogant, ignorant whelp who does not yet know his place. I will use you as I please, and others I spared from the defunct Magician’s Guild. I will not however, tolerate your insolence.”
Ra’jahankar was now more than concerned, but thought he might be able to placate Sargon with humility, even if it was false. “I know my place…Master.” Calling Sargon by that appellation rankled.
“The words are correct,” the gray robed sorcerer rasped, “but your intent is not.”
A spinning ebon cloud appeared about the gaunt sorcerer, seemingly drawing its shape from the shadows in the dark, far corners of the room. The murky recesses coalesced into a whirling thunderhead and reached out with grasping tentacles. Without his power, Ra’jahankar was unable to stop the shadowy appendages from lifting him roughly, and as they tossed him towards the far wall of the throne room he knew the first fear he had known since he was a child.
It was much later when Ra’jahankar stumbled out of the palace. He was not aware of how much time had passed since he had entered, but darkness had crept over the frigid city much like Sargon’s shadow.
The man Ra’jahankar had been when he entered the dilapidated palace had disappeared along with the light of day. Sargon had adeptly removed any doubt or disbelief that remained; not only was he the one in charge, but he was by far the superior sorcerer. For all his arrogance and pride, Ra’jahankar now knew that what power he possessed, paled dramatically in comparison to that which Sargon wielded.
Fortunately his master––he now used that moniker with enthusiasm, rather than sarcasm––had returned his power in the end; otherwise he would have died from his wounds. It was also fortunate that Sargon still wanted him to pursue the Clavis; otherwise the shadow sorcerer might have allowed his demise without another thought. He could only hazard a guess as to why Sargon did not collect the Clavis himself, if he coveted its power as much as he seemed to. Perhaps his resources were too strained by the takeover of Illyria and maintaining his disguise to leave at this time.
Sargon had released him at last with a stern warning that future failure would result in a meeting far less pleasant than this one. That event was not something Ra’jahankar was interested in attending. A spark of his own ambitious plans remained buried somewhere far back in his mind, but those would have to wait. Sargon could not live forever after all. Yet he could not risk even thinking about those plans for now; he would undertake Sargon’s orders out of necessity, and nothing else.
For now those orders were simple; retrieve the Clavis at any cost. Somehow Sargon knew that both the Clavis and those who had stolen it had recently reappeared in the Haunted Forest of Melkor far to the southwest, and were currently traveling west. Since the thieves had a lead of over a fortnight, catching them before they reached the distant Calddean Ocean would be something of a challenge; if indeed that was their true destination.
When Ra’jahankar had asked how he would pursue them, Sargon would only say that how he retrieved the Clavis was his problem; failure, however, was not an option. Fortunately, he had a dim memory of a fast travel spell that might suit his needs. He would need to research that spell and gather a new Triad, but the time lost in preparation would easily be made up by such fast travel. He would catch those accursed thieves if it was the last thing he did.
Whatever powers the wench who stole the Clavis might possess was still a mystery, but he would be better prepared next time for her. Whether she was a sorcerer herself––unusual to find a female magician––or only worked with one, he did not know. Yet some power had assisted her to penetrate his wards and steal the Clavis. Subsequently, she and her companions had escaped from his blizzard without a trace, which was no mean feat either. What would be required to retrieve the Clavis was another problem, but whatever resources proved necessary would be well worth it. The alternative was facing Sargon empty handed.
Chapter 8
“I don’t see any ghosts,” Warren repeated, his voice a mixture of hope and anxiety.
“I told you before,” Garrick replied with a sigh. “We are only at the edge of the forest.”
“West of Asturia,” Aldrick said in scholarly tone, “farmers have cut the forest back for farmland to the border of Melkor, but they reached a point where the trees grow very dense, and they claim that ghosts are seen roaming about. No one will go a step further, and those that have tried have never returned.”
“No one has returned?” Warren groaned. “And we expect to be the first?”
Aldrick and Garrick shared a look, but all the latter said was, “We have made it this far.”
“I’m sure that’s what they all said,” Warren muttered.
After leaving the starry cave, they did not see another living soul as they traveled along the edge of the forest. The fresh layer of snow left a chill in the air, but kept the underlying vegetation to a minimum, and travel was not particularly difficult. They were able to ride for a time, although they were careful going through the brush to avoid one of the horses accidentally break a leg.
Broken golden beams of sunshine filtered down through the branches overhead to light their way, and the air was filled with birdsong. Aldrick took a deep breath, inhaling the clear, cold morning air. It was a pleasant day for a ride; crisp and cold, yet bright and cheerful.
Traveling through the tunnel had been more than a little distracting, but now that they were back in more familiar environs, he felt a loss at leaving Merrek and his amazing house. It was a mild sensation, nearly indefinable, yet somehow important. The feeling began to dissipate throughout the afternoon as they continued their trek through the forest, and yet it never went away completely. Whatever it truly was, there was something very special about Merrek and his house; both had left a definite impression. Aldrick decided then he would return someday and spend some time with the books in his room. He hoped Jelénna and Adrias would be with him the next time, but either way he would return.
Aldrick was pondering his lingering connection with Merrek and Khodara, if that truly was where they had been, but Garrick continually found ways to distract him. At first the king passed the time by teasing and bantering with Warren, which was, of course, completely normal. Yet as the day progressed he began conversing more and more with Aelianna.
Garrick was respectful in the beginning, simply asking questions about her homeland, and talking casually about their journey thus far. They discussed whether or not they had in truth been in Khodara, which was a subject that Aldrick had been interested in as well. They also spoke of what they could expect to encounter on the journey that lay ahead of them.
Yet eventually, the king slipped into his old habits, and his true self began to reemerge.
“So are you married?”
“Why you ask this?” Aelianna asked, with a hint of suspicion.
Garrick casually glanced about at the trees. “Oh, no reason. Do you have any hobbies beside killing people and being suspicious of good looking men?”
“No.”
“Good to know. I’ll bet you never thought you would be lucky enough to be
with a king,” Garrick said with a grin.
“I not with you,” she said with emphasis. “We must look for Clavis. This is not my choice.”
“I meant travelling together,” he said lightly. “But you heard Merrek. We have been brought together by fate. We shouldn’t try to fight that.”
“Maybe it is true,” Aelianna said. “But only to save our people.”
“I’m all for saving people,” Garrick replied loftily with a flourish of his hand. “That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves in the meantime.”
The warrior spoke seriously, but had a ghost of a smile. “You are strange for king. Good king is more serious.”
Garrick shrugged. “Life is much too short to be serious all the time. Besides, where is it written a king must be nothing but boring and serious? What is the point of living if you never have any fun?”
“I live to save my people.”
The Key of Creation: Book 03 - The Temple of Kian Page 6