Kingdoms and Chaos (King's Dark Tidings Book 4)

by Kel Kade

  “We can see and feel your filth. It spreads from your core to infest every inch of your being. By now it has surely suffused your mind. Let us rid you of its taint so that it does not consume your soul as well.”

  Wesson squatted in front of them. “How do you propose to do that?”

  The purifier stared at Wesson intently, appearing as though truly concerned. “We take what is pure for preservation. We would rescue your soul from its afflicted vessel.”

  “I see. In other words, you would kill me.”

  “It is the only way. Any death will do, but purification by fire will surely cleanse the deepest desecration.”

  “You want me to volunteer to be burned at the stake?”

  “Many of the afflicted understand the terrible curse they bear. They choose to sacrifice their plagued corporeal vessels and preserve their family names. A true self-sacrifice is the only way to ensure the curse is not carried on in the blood.”

  “If they do not?” Wesson asked.

  “They are burned anyway, and their families with them, along with anyone else believed to be aiding them.” The man turned his attention toward Rezkin and said, “Anyone who turns in an afflicted may be granted a stay of execution in exchange for a penance.”

  “You should not bother with him,” Wesson said. “He has extreme methods of negotiating. I do not think you would like them.” The purifiers looked at Rezkin uncertainly, and Wesson changed the subject. “What do you see when you look at me?”

  The one who had been speaking snapped his mouth shut and looked away. The younger one stared at the elder, silently urging him to answer. He glanced anxiously at Rezkin and then looked back to Wesson. “We cannot see the scourge while wearing the shackles.”

  “If we remove the shackles, you can actually see it?” Wesson said.

  The younger nodded vigorously. “Yes, I can tell you what it looks like. If you could see it, you would understand how it infests the body. It is everywhere. It seeps out and stretches to touch others. Those of us blessed by the Maker to be able to see it can feel it as well. I can feel it in you now, but it is muted.”

  Wesson said, “They are readers. The purifiers are readers.” He looked to Farson who stood beside the table behind the purifiers. “Would you please unshackle him?”

  “Are you sure? He could use his powers to attack or escape.”

  “I can handle him,” Wesson said.

  Farson did as asked while Wesson stepped across the room and removed the stone amulet, surreptitiously handing it to Rezkin outside the purifiers’ view. The older purifier watched Wesson intently, his expression becoming furious once the amulet was removed. Wesson returned to stand before the prisoners. The younger purifier was still tied to the table, but the shackles were removed.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  The young man glanced at his companion, who was still scowling. “He should be told,” he said. “He must be given the opportunity to make the right choice. If he knows, perhaps he will choose the right path.” The tingle of vimara filled the space, and the young man stared into Wesson. “I see the normal colors. Strands, some of them thick, others thin. But, there is so much of the other. The darkness overwhelms. I have never seen so much darkness.”

  Wesson frowned. “You can see the vimara, but you do not know how to interpret it.”

  The young man frowned. “There is nothing to interpret. It is all evil. You are beyond redemption.”

  “When you look at each other, do you not see the power?”

  “Ours is special,” the young purifier said. “The Maker has twisted it for his own use. We are blessed with the ability to identify the accursed bearers of the scourge.”

  “So you claim to serve the Maker with your power, but everyone else must be evil? Why are you so different? You can perform spells, same as anyone else.”

  “No! We cannot, we do not.”

  “I saw your ward,” Wesson said.

  The young man frowned and glanced at his companion, who now appeared to be sulking. “Yes, some Purifiers have sacrificed a small piece of themselves in service to the Maker. It is a foul taint, to learn the art of demons, but they do so to protect the rest of us. They, too, become afflicted, and each of them will be burned before it fully infects them. It is a foul practice. I would never sully my soul in such a way.”

  Wesson turned to the older man. The man would not meet his gaze. “It was you, then? You learned the spell for the ward?”

  His voice was gruff as he said, “Yes, I made the deal with the demon inside me.”

  “Now that you have felt it, you must know that is not true. The sensation—it is not one of evil.”

  The man scowled. “I know nothing of the sort.”

  Wesson looked at the younger man. “You could perform the spell, as well, if you learned.”

  The younger man lifted his chin defiantly. “No, I cannot. My power is blessed of the Maker. I will not let the demons in.”

  “How many have you helped to kill?”

  The young man’s eyes shimmered with pride. “I have participated in twelve purifications. We cleansed the afflicted and their families. All of those communities are now safe from the putridity of the scourge.”

  Wesson felt anger and sorrow welling within him in equal amounts. “The talented are not born evil. Learning spells does not make us evil. How we choose to use the talent is what makes us heroes or monsters. You choose to use yours to hunt down and kill innocent people. You cannot blame your actions on demons. You are humans, humans choosing to do evil.”

  His senses overwhelmed, Wesson turned away. Rezkin stepped forward and started to speak, but the mage whipped around and shouted, “Have you ever even seen the power in use? I mean, more than your meager ward? Have you seen someone use it to create a beautiful statue, construct a building, draw water from the earth, or to make a plant grow? How about healing? Have you ever watched someone returned from the edge of death?”

  “All tricks of the demons to entice you into giving over your soul,” said the younger man. He glanced at his partner and said, “Even the enticement of protecting your brethren.”

  The old man pursed his lips then spat with ferocity. “It is true, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make to continue the Maker’s work and to protect others who do so. I hate myself a little more each time I feel the filth spread through my body, but I would do it again.”

  Wesson’s face heated, and he spun on his heal. “They are a lost cause.”

  “What do you wish to do with them?” said Rezkin.

  Startled, Wesson said, “What? You are asking me?”

  Rezkin tilted his head. “You are my mage. They are your responsibility.”

  “I am your mage? You mean I am the—”

  “Of course.”

  Wesson glanced at the two interested purifiers. “May we speak elsewhere?”

  Rezkin nodded to Farson to replace the shackles, and he waved Wesson through the door.

  Once they were outside, Wesson hissed, “I am only a journeyman. I cannot be the king’s mage.”

  “According to whom?” Rezkin said.

  “The king’s mage should be an archmage. I am not even a full mage, much less a master mage, and I will probably never reach the level of power and skill required to be an archmage.”

  “I am the king, and I decide who is the king’s mage. It is you.” Rezkin tilted his head and said, “Unless you are tendering your resignation?”

  “What? No, but I have not even sworn fealty to you.”

  “I do not require it. If you are not resigning, then you are the king’s mage. What do you wish to do with the prisoners?”

  Tears welled in Wesson’s eyes. “I am not cut out for this kind of position.”

  Rezkin’s cool blue gaze seemed to glow in the moonlight. “You are exactly the kind of person the king’s mage should be.”

  Wesson blinked away the moisture. He choked down the tightness in his throat and said, “They h
ave confessed to their crimes. They have hunted, tortured, and murdered, but we are not in Ashai or Cael. In Gendishen, these are not crimes.”

  “So long as they are committed against the talented,” said Rezkin. “Should their actions perpetuate just because it is accepted in their culture?”

  “Of course not, but you are trying to create a kingdom that depends on being in Privoth’s good graces. If we start making trouble, at best, he will call us murderers. At worst, he will consider it an act of war.”

  “Actually, the second scenario would be better,” Rezkin mused.

  “How is declaring war better?”

  “Because that would mean he recognizes us as an independent kingdom.” Wesson scowled at him, and he said, “As far as making trouble, we have already done that. We killed fifty soldiers, including several officers who are probably members of noble houses and will suddenly become valued once they hear the men are dead and that we killed them. It would be easy to cover this up. We could kill the survivors and mercenaries and then travel cross-country to avoid encountering anyone on the roads who might make the connection. Or, we could kill everyone we encounter, but I think that would be counterproductive.”

  The light of the moon and the few torches still scattered around the yard was enough to expose Wesson’s horrified expression.

  “Be calm, Journeyman. I have no intention of doing those things. I know you and the others would be uncomfortable with such actions.”

  “Uncomfortable is an understatement,” Wesson said, “and I have concerns that it seems to be the only thing holding you back.”

  Rezkin shrugged. “What do you want to do with them?”

  Chapter 3

  “What is wrong with him?” Malcius asked.

  Rezkin glanced at the mage who had been sulking in the corner all night. His mood had not improved, and he looked haggard in the morning light. His present drab countenance mirrored the functional and austere Gendishen style of the room.

  “His emotions have won the battle for his mind. Eventually, rationality will triumph. For now, he has a job to do, and so do you.”

  Malcius looked at Wesson doubtfully. “Do you really think this is the best solution?”

  “We can do it this way, or we can kill them all. Letting them go is not an option.”

  “Alright, but I am still not convinced. It is disconcerting,” Malcius said with a shiver. “I think I might prefer death.”

  “I may agree with you,” Rezkin said. Actually, the thought disturbed him deeply. These were outworlders, though, and they lived by different rules. He said, “Do you believe we should give them a choice?”

  Malcius was silent for a moment and then said, “No. They will probably choose death on principle alone. It would be better to do it and hope they appreciate our mercy later.”

  “Very well,” Rezkin said before stepping into the adjacent room where Orin and one of his men were finishing their preparations. They had collected additional healing supplies, food, and perhaps a few valuables during their short stay. “It is time for you to leave.”

  Orin’s head came up. “You’re not joinin’ us?”

  Rezkin glanced at Farson who was covering the fact that he was spying on the mercenaries by grumbling as he appeared to be mending the “broken” straps on his armor.

  Rezkin said, “I’ll catch up. We have unfinished business here.”

  Orin’s expression darkened. “Ah, the soldiers. What, uh, exactly do you intend to do with them?”

  Rezkin flicked the pommel of the sword at his hip. “You let me worry ’bout that. Can’t have no witnesses, so unless you wanna join them, you’d best be gettin’ along. The boss and the rest of the men’ll go with you, except for Wess.”

  “You sure the boy can handle that sorta thing?” Orin said. “He seems a bit weak in the stomach. I heard him mutterin’ all night over in the corner.”

  “He’ll survive.”

  “Well, let’s hope we don’t get attacked by drauglics before you catch up.”

  Farson coughed, and Rezkin glanced over to see his former trainer’s telling look. It was one he had seen often as a small-man—one that meant he had forgotten something. Mercenaries liked to gloat.

  “I ain’t yer nursemaid,” he said, “I seem to remember you sayin’ I was the kind to give mercs a bad name.”

  Rezkin was never in the mood for banter, but on this day he was feeling uncomfortable with his chosen course of action. He knew he should just kill the prisoners. Letting them live was to leave enemies at his back. It was a mistake, but it was one he had to make if he desired to preserve his friends’ honor—and their respect.

  “Yer a right cocky bastard,” said Orin, “but I guess you got reason to be.” The man collected his pack with his one good hand and limped toward the door. He paused and said, “You just remember, the bigger yer head, the easier the target.”

  Rezkin grinned and nodded appreciatively, but Orin scoffed at the perceived sarcasm. He followed the two mercenaries and Farson into the adjacent room, and they all continued out the front door while Rezkin remained behind with Wesson. He watched out the window as his friends mounted their newly acquired horses and started down the road. Farson did not go with them. He waited at the edge of the property with Pride and Wesson’s mount. Rezkin had thought the journeyman, who had once aspired to be a life mage and had shed tears for a donkey, would have wanted to choose his own horse, but Wesson had shown no interest.

  Once they were gone, Wesson looked up at him. “I don’t like this,” he said.

  “I know, but the alternative is death.”

  “This might be worse. I do not know for sure what will happen. I have never tried this spell, and normally I would never test a spell like this on a person. Actually, I would never use a spell like this on a person even if it were tested and accepted.”

  “You are the one who suggested it,” Rezkin said.

  “Well, yes, I know, but it was just an idea. I did not think you would approve.”

  “You have seen the spell used before on other things?”

  “No, not exactly,” Wesson replied as he glanced away. He sighed heavily and said, “I made it up. I have been studying the structure of the citadel and considering the shielreyah. I mean, this really has nothing to do with that, but it was what gave me the idea. The mage academy would say it is impossible. It requires mixing two affinities in a way they are not supposed to be combined.”

  “But you think you can do it?”

  “I … um … maybe. It might work, but not necessarily in the way I expect—or they might explode.”

  Rezkin raised an eyebrow. “Explode?”

  Wesson scratched his head and wrung his hands since he could not fidget with his robes as usual. “It uses mostly constructive power, and it is new and probably a little beyond my ability to control, considering my affinity for nocent. Also, I will be performing it on living beings who are not willing participants.”

  “That makes a difference?”

  “Yes, it can. Mundanes also bear the power of will. Even healers have trouble treating patients who do not desire aid. It is one of the reasons life mages are not great in battle. Can you imagine? Besides battle mages, they would be the most powerful on the field if they could simply change a person’s body in the midst of a skirmish.”

  “I see your point. Are you ready to perform the spell?”

  Wesson nodded. “Yes, I have been practicing all night. If these men can avoid the fate of the purifiers, I will do what I must. It is worth a try.”

  The courtyard was an outdoor space in the center of the building with a perimeter of potted plants and flower boxes. In the center was a swirling design made of flat paving stones. Although it was open to the sky, it was partially covered by an overgrown trellis. The splash of color from the fragrant red blooms was the most vibrant ornamentation they had seen in Gendishen thus far. The tables and chairs that had previously occupied the courtyard had been stacked in one corner, and
the ten Gendishen soldiers were tied in a line down the center.

  Rezkin paced around the group once and then said, “We are going to allow you to live.”

  There was a collective sigh of relief, and the younger soldier’s shoulders shook as he began to sob.

  “We cannot let you go now, obviously, since you will return to your fort and report this misunderstanding in your favor.”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” said one of the men closest to him. “We’d tell them what really happened. The dergmyer messed up. We know it.”

  “It no longer matters. Whatever you tell them, they will come after us, and we do not have time for that. It would be equally tiresome to have to needlessly kill more of your comrades. So, you all need to consent to what we are about to do so that you can remain alive.”

  “What are you gonna do?” the man asked.

  “It does not matter. You choose, alive or dead.”

  The youngest soldier sobbed harder, and Rezkin wondered how he had ever made it through basic training.

  Rezkin shook his head and said, “Here is what is going to happen. We are going to untie you and give each of you a sword because you may need them later. If you make trouble, I will kill you, and believe me when I tell you that the two of us are more than enough to handle the ten of you.”

  The men appeared to contemplate the claim and seemed to accept that Rezkin could do some damage, but they glanced at Wesson doubtfully.

  “Give them a demonstration so they do not do anything foolish,” Rezkin said.

  Wesson nodded and then snapped his hands through the air. A raging stream of fire burst over the soldiers’ heads, singeing the leaves on the trellis as the golden flame exposed the terror on their shadowed faces. Shouts of scourge and afflicted and demon could be heard under the thunderous roar of flame.

  Rezkin looked at the mage and said, “That was a little dramatic.”

  Wesson grinned and met the most determined soldier’s anxious gaze. “Sorry, I tried to rein it in, but I got excited.”

  “Where are the purifiers?” shouted one man.

  Wesson glanced at Rezkin and then said, “The purifiers are dead. They were given a chance to repent, but they could not be swayed.”