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

by Kel Kade

  “What about blood or feces?” said Rezkin.

  Wesson looked at him sharply. “Yes, but that would also invoke blood magic. Contrary to popular belief, blood magic is not always restricted to the use of blood. It could be any part of a living creature: blood, hair, feces, saliva …”

  “The drauglics’ ukwa was covered in feces. I did not think it strange at the time since that is supposed to be typical of their kind.”

  “The feces could also have been covering more permanent marks,” said Farson. “Did Healer Aelis or Boulis have any marks?”

  “I do not know if anyone checked,” said Rezkin. “I doubt anyone thought to look.”

  Wesson said, “It would be helpful if I had some runes to study—besides these, I mean.”

  “If we kill another demon host, then you shall have some,” said Rezkin.

  Wesson shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “I was thinking about, perhaps, someone more—alive—and more available.” He stared at Rezkin hopefully.

  “You mean me?”

  Wesson shrugged.

  Farson glanced over to the rest of the cavalcade and said, “It is time to go. People are getting either too comfortable or restless.” He nodded toward one group that appeared to be having a particularly heated exchange. “I believe the Leréshis and Gendishen are about to wage war.”

  For the rest of the trip to the capital, they did not discuss the demon issue, although they alerted their close companions to maintain vigilance and report anything strange. As they rode into the city accompanied by the unit from Fort Ulep, Wesson pulled up beside Rezkin. He said, “I think it is the purifiers.”

  Rezkin glanced at him. “Why do you say that?”

  “I feel much negativity from them. Every time I look at them, I become furious.”

  “That is to be expected, regardless. They commit genocide against your kind.”

  “Perhaps we could check them for runes.”

  “I doubt they would allow that.”

  “You could encourage them.”

  Rezkin raised a brow at him, and Wesson felt a tiny bit bad for suggesting it. No, he decided, he did not feel bad about it at all. He said, “Perhaps if we tell them we are looking for demons, they will consent.”

  “They will more likely just point to you.”

  Wesson glanced back at the four purifiers riding toward the rear of the procession. He mumbled, “Perhaps we should kill them anyway.” He turned back to find skepticism in Rezkin’s gaze but no judgment. Wesson said, “They have been trying to attach their leashes to me the entire trip.” Glancing back, again, he said, “Look, now there are two more.”

  Rezkin said, “You knew that would happen when you insisted on coming.”

  “If I were not so strong, I would be dead already—burned at the stake like all the other innocent mages. How can these people not be demons?”

  “It is easy to blame the horrors and injustices of hate on demons, much harder to credit our fellow human beings. We do not like seeing such terrible defects in ourselves. The irony is that demons do not act out of hate or contempt. They are begotten of chaos, and it is that which they seek to spread in the same way that we often seek order. It is simply their nature.”

  “So, you are saying humans are worse than demons.”

  “Only in their motives,” said Rezkin. “The results are the same, except that demons wield power most humans cannot defend against.”

  “You know a lot about demons.”

  Rezkin nodded. “I have been learning much about the old gods, about how we fit into their design. The Ahn’an, the Ahn’tep, and the Daem’Ahn have a fascinating history, and it has been insightful.”

  “I have heard none of this from the priests of the Maker,” said Wesson.

  Rezkin said, “Since Minder Finwy has insisted on following me everywhere, you are in luck. Perhaps we should discuss the matter with him on the return trip.”

  Wesson glanced back at the minder who was riding a little too close to the purifiers for his taste. Then, he glanced at Yserria and Malcius as he turned back around. The two always rode side-by-side, but he had not seen them speak in days—at least, no more than the occasional snide remark. Yserria had been simmering ever since the bond mark appeared on the side of her face. She had asked Wesson to examine it at least a hundred times; and, every time, he obliged. Still, he knew of no way to break it short of death.

  Their procession was led to the palace, rather than the council’s overgress. Wesson’s hackles rose as they approached. Two lines of purifiers, at least twenty of them, were stationed along the path. He knew they were all there for him. As soon as they were within range, he felt their tendrils of power testing him. It was not a full-on assault, but he knew that if any of them succeeded in attaching a binding spell, they would swarm him.

  Rezkin glanced at him and said, “You have my approval if you wish to make an example of some of them.”

  Wesson fancied the thought but said, “That might start a war.”

  “Privoth knows there is more at stake here than a single mage. Then again, the purifiers are emotionally charged zealots, so you could be correct.”

  When they reached the steps to the palace, the entire procession dismounted. Wesson, Farson, Malcius, Yserria, and Brandt all wore the hoods, tabards, and black face paint as they had the first time they visited. Rezkin and his entourage were escorted through the palace doors. They did not have far to travel. They entered the throne room along with Minder Finwy, who said he was there to bear witness on behalf of the Temple, two of Yserria’s guards, and two Ferélli. The rest remained in the receiving hall or in the palace yard with the horses and supplies. Rezkin became suspicious when he noticed that none of the courtiers were in attendance. The council members were seated on benches along the walls. Armored guards stood between the benches, and two dozen purifiers filed into the room behind them.

  Privoth sat on his throne, a drab monstrosity, roughly carved from stone and nearly reaching the ceiling. The leader of the purifiers, who had been so embittered by Wesson on their last visit, stood to the king’s right. Rezkin walked the path between massive stone pillars that were topped with huge bowls of flaming oil.

  He stopped at the foot of the dais. “Greetings, King Privoth. I have returned to conclude our business.”

  Privoth gripped the arms of his throne and looked at him with a scorching gaze. “Did you bring it?”

  Rezkin held out his hand, and Farson stepped forward. The striker removed the silky wrap and handed the sword to Rezkin. Holding it high for everyone to see, he said, “I have brought the Sword of Eyre, thereby fulfilling my end of the bargain.”

  Privoth stood from his seat and descended the steps. He took the sword from Rezkin and examined it as if expecting to discover a fake. He grinned and announced, “This is the Sword of Eyre.” The councilors clapped as Privoth walked back to the foot of the stairs. Privoth then turned and said, “Kill them.”

  Every armed person in the room abruptly drew their weapons. Rezkin said, “We had a deal, Privoth—the sword for Cael.”

  “You think I would give you a piece of my land—King of Lon Lerésh? You think I would share my land after you ally yourself with those, those women? And, King of Ferélle! You think to walk into my throne room and steal away my crown for your empire as you did Moldovan’s?”

  “I never desired Moldovan’s crown, nor that of Lon Lerésh, nor yours. I only require Cael,” said Rezkin, “and, as we agreed, I will use it to take back Ashai.”

  Privoth shook with anger as he said, “You have plenty of land for your precious refugees, yet you still seek to take mine!”

  “It matters not how much land I possess. We had an agreement. You will fulfill your part of the bargain.”

  Privoth’s smile was ruthless. “No, I shall watch you die.”

  As Privoth’s guards moved in, the councilors began to shout at Privoth to make his men stand down. The councilors appeared genuinely confused, but
Rezkin thought they likely desired only to escape from the room before blood was shed. Some tried to leave, but the exits were blocked and barred, so they huddled near the benches and in the corners of the room. The guards advanced on Rezkin’s people, who had formed a perimeter defense with Minder Finwy and Wesson at the center, the latter engaged in a battle of wills with the purifiers. The others had orders to defend Wesson if he could not defend himself. Ptelana drew her bow and was the first to attack. She released several arrows, taking down two purifiers and a guard before the swordsmen reached them. She repositioned herself in the center of the circle with the minder and Wesson and continued firing arrows into the fray.

  As they had practiced, Rezkin’s unit ebbed and flowed, expanding and contracting the ring as one side or the other was pushed back. The doors at the front of the throne room shook, and then the pounding ceased as more swordplay could be heard on the other side. As the enemy fell, fresh troops swarmed into the room through the side doors. It appeared to Rezkin that Privoth had prepared his entire army for battle. It was only a matter of time before his people were overwhelmed.

  Rezkin shouted to his people to close the circle as he rushed forward to meet Privoth. He was merciless as he cut a swath through the guards. Many of them ran rather than confront him. Privoth tossed his precious Sword of Eyre to the ground and drew his own two-handed longsword. He met Rezkin’s charge with fire in his eyes. Their blades clashed, green lightning crackling within the black blade. Privoth was on the defensive as Rezkin pushed forward, forcing the king up the steps. Once at the top, Privoth dodged Rezkin’s strikes by ducking behind the throne. Each time Rezkin struck at him, the king dashed behind the stone monolith and then returned with a strike or thrust of his own. Meanwhile, guardsmen continued to attack Rezkin from behind. He sliced one man across the throat and then stabbed another through the gap in his brigandine. After making a pass at Privoth, he gutted another guard, then began backing down the steps. With Privoth playing mouse behind the throne, he had the chance to implement his backup plan.

  “You run, you coward!” called Privoth. “Your people already begin to fall!”

  Rezkin would not be baited into turning his back to check on his comrades. He had already seen that two of the Ferélli guards and one of the Leréshi had been struck down. Yserria held her side as blood dribbled over her fingers, and it looked as if Malcius had been struck in the head. Farson bled from a few minor cuts, and Wesson and Minder Finwy had blood splattered over their faces, source unknown.

  After fending off the few soldiers near him brave enough to attack, Rezkin sheathed the black blade and bent to retrieve the Sword of Eyre. One soldier thought to take advantage of Rezkin’s position and lost his legs. As he straightened, Rezkin summoned his focus. He had learned at an early age to protect himself from mage attacks using his focus shield and had even extended it to another person within close proximity; but, he had never attempted to shield someone from across a room. He formed the shield in his mind, a mental exercise that had not been required since forming one had become second nature. Then, he pulled the shield from the potential, as he had been taught, and cast it toward Wesson.

  “Gah,” Wesson shouted as the shield struck him.

  Rezkin did not have time to see the shield’s effect, if any, but he assumed it had been of some benefit when an explosion suddenly rocked the rear of the throne room. He held the sword out to his side and hummed to the sounds of wails and shouts and crashing stones. He hummed the tune of the wind, the sound of the swirling light.

  Call should you need the power, power of life, earth, wind, and fire. In thoughts and senses, a focused sign. Bilior’s words echoed in his mind. He focused. He imagined his standard—the raven gripping a green lightning bolt. But, he knew, somehow, that was not right. His focus shifted, and he saw the rainbow of colors, his colors, shattered and pieced together in a mosaic.

  Then, he felt the tug. Something had listened. Something was responding. He searched his mind for the source of the tug, and he saw them. Tiny flames danced all around his mind. He held his hand in the air, reaching toward the bowl of flame on the nearest pillar and pulled with his will.

  A drop of fire spilled over the side of the pillar, then another. Throughout the throne room, fire began to drip from the torches and sconces. Little candle-flames, perhaps hundreds of them, skipped across the floor toward him. They slithered up his legs, so that he appeared to be on fire, and then danced down his arm toward the sword. The little flame elementals gathered along the blade and dug into spaces in the metal that Rezkin could not see but knew to be there through his connection with the fae creatures.

  With the sword aflame, Rezkin stalked toward the dais. Privoth backed away in a feverish panic. When Rezkin reached the top of the steps, he realized the sounds and commotion had ceased behind him. He raised the sword over his head and thrust it into the seat of the throne. It sank a third of the way into the stone, and the flames enveloped the entire sword as he backed away. Rezkin turned to survey the room, all the while keeping track of Privoth. Everyone was in stasis, staring either at him or the sword—except for his small unit in the center that breathed heavily as they stood ready to defend themselves.

  Rezkin looked back to Privoth and pointed to the flaming sword. “There is your prophecy, set in the stone of your own throne. If you want it, you must claim it.” He looked to the councilors and then the soldiers. “Cael is mine.” He turned his hard gaze back to the councilors. “A deal with Gendishen is a deal broken. Your kingdom is without honor and cannot be trusted.” He then descended the dais, gathered his people, and stalked out of the throne room.

  Wesson stared at the evidence of his presence. All of the purifiers were dead, most having been crushed by fallen pieces of the ceiling and outer wall. He had not meant to kill them. He could not even be sure that he was responsible. Something had struck him, something strange that had blasted past his shields. In an instant, the purifiers’ attacks against him had been nullified. It was as if he had been splashed with cool water after spending the day sweltering in the desert. It was then that his power had gotten away from him. All the spells he had been preparing, all the attacks he had tried to cast and failed, escaped at once in a messy ball of power that had rocked the palace, blasting a hole through one corner and causing the ceiling and part of the wall to cave in on top of the purifiers.

  He was not terribly upset about killing them, which did upset him. In a way, they too had been victims. Most of them had probably been stolen as children and trained to believe that the very power that made them special had turned them evil. Wesson was so busy stewing in his thoughts that he did not notice the man in the open passage outside the throne room. Something pricked his senses, and he turned to see Reader Kessa hurrying down a side corridor. She screamed, and he glanced in the direction of her wide-eyed gaze just in time to see a black, vaporous serpent shooting toward him. Mage Kessa threw herself in front of him, taking the brunt of the attack. A gut-wrenching shriek tore from her throat as her skin blackened and bubbled. Tiny tendrils of smoke lashed at Wesson’s sleeves, burning through them with ease.

  Wesson looked to the source of the attack. At the other end of the open corridor was the leader of the purifiers. His appearance had somehow changed. He looked angrier, darker, and more foreboding. His gaze was consumed in blackness, and his twisted lips sneered with hateful glee as he lobbed another attack. Wesson thrust a simple shield toward the mass of black vines twisting through the air toward him. Some of the vines were destroyed, but others persisted. He quickly constructed a net of the whip-like tendrils he had learned from Xa but added his own touch using nocent power and fire. The net streamed forward, the black strands lined in flame. When the destructive spell collided with the demonic power, it produced a burst of nauseating energy. Wesson doubled over trying not to retch, while others around him were unsuccessful. When he glanced up, he was surprised to see that his net had not been consumed in the impact, but instead swept dow
n the corridor to envelop the purifier. It burned a hashed pattern into his skin, shredding his clothes and tearing flesh from bone.

  The possessed man did not stop, though. He raised a fist dripping with bloody flesh and pointed to Wesson. A half-dozen soldiers rushed forth from a vaporous cloud behind the purifier, fully armed and ready to attack. Their eyes were black voids, an effect not unlike that of Rezkin’s mask. Wesson thrust a stream of fire at the men, but their charred bodies continued. Suddenly, Yserria, Farson, and Malcius jumped into the fray, slicing and chopping at the soldiers, who did not succumb to their injuries until collapsing from loss of blood.

  The purifier remained standing, preparing his next attack, and Wesson was worried the others might be struck. He formed a small orb in the air in front of him. The orb grew larger as he fed power into it. A bit of earth, a little water, a dash of fire, and a whole load of nocent—the orb appeared as a bubble of ink larger than his head. He mentally sucked in his power and then released it, blasting the orb forward. Too late, he realized that Rezkin had prepared his own attack. As Rezkin’s black blade swept around to take the purifier’s head, it collided with the orb. It looked as if the blade had sliced through water, somehow dragging the inky blackness with it. The green lightning within the black blade bled out and crackled within Wesson’s spell. As the blade cut through the purifier’s body, the lightning snapped through the air with a black cloud forming around both the purifier and Rezkin. When the cloud dissipated, the purifier had been vaporized, and Rezkin’s entire body was crackling with green lightning.

  Wesson’s king and emperor raised his icy gaze toward him from the other end of the corridor, and it was as if he could see into Wesson’s very soul.

  Wesson blurted, “Ah … sorry?”

  Rezkin shook his head and walked away.

  Chapter 21

  Wesson knelt at Master Reader Kessa’s side. She gripped his sleeve as she sought his gaze. Her lips wagged, but no sound emerged through the pain.