The Legends of Vandor: Anthology Volume 1 (The Legends of Vandor Anthologies)

by DJ Morand

  Dansen was pacing the room when Nicter entered. It was a standard sized room near the front of the warehouse - boxed off in a secluded corner. The room had been his father’s working office when he visited the warehouse. Nicter didn’t respect any proprieties when entering the room. He simply opened the door and shut it behind him.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Nicter said, his tone too nasally and demanding.

  “The meaning, Magistrate, is survival. If we are to survive this siege we need to work together,” Dansen said, forcing calm into his voice. “The demonic forces, your witch, and the pirates in your district will overwhelm this warehouse before we are ever able to mount an effective escape.”

  “Only the High Magistrate has the authority you are claiming.” Nicter nearly screeched. It was an unpleasant sound in the least. Dansen winced. “You are not the High Magistrate.”

  “By rule of succession in a time of war, I am.” Dansen spoke as authoritatively as he could manage.

  He could not deny the strength of Nicter’s presence, despite his shrill tone. The man was a pillar of the East District and well respected. Dansen knew he could not bully the Magistrate into his way of thinking, so he softened his tone.

  “I do not mean to fight with you sir,” Dansen said. “I require your assistance. For the time being, I am acting in my father’’s stead as we cannot determine the validity of his passing. Will you aid me in stopping the siege on our city?”

  Nicter considered that for a moment. His expression was unreadable. Aged lines furrowed his brow, and he continually licked his lips. After several moments he spoke.

  “What do you have in mind? I will brook no nonsense,” Nicter said.

  “You know of the wards placed in each district?” Dansen asked.

  “I said I would brook no nonsense,” Nicter said. “This is pure fantasy. You father told us of this plan years ago, when he first took office. I called it hogwash then, and I call it hogwash now. If you don’t--”

  “That’s enough.” Dansen interrupted the Magistrate. His jaw was set and his eyes burned hatred. ““I am not some foolish child giving into fairy tales. The wards are real, and I need all four of the Magistrates to activate them.”

  “Foolishness,” Nicter said solemnly.

  Dansen didn’t think for a moment that Nicter was subdued. He might have won a victory, but Nicter would not give up so easily.

  “So some would have said about a demon invasion, or about a witch in the South District,” Dansen said. “Foolishness indeed. You are willing to believe that a witch roams the city, but not magic that could defend us?”

  Nicter said nothing, his face drooped in a defeated scowl. His beady rat-like eyes stared hard at Dansen. The old Magistrate was stubborn and bull-headed, but Dansen thought he might have convinced the man to support him. After several long moments of staring, Nicter cleared his throat. It sounded like a frog coughing.

  “I will help,” Nicter said. “On some conditions.”

  “What do you want?” Dansen asked.

  “At the end of all of this,” Nicter said. “Should we survive. I want a monument in my honor. A statue in the city center. My birthing day will be made a holiday.” Nicter rubbed his hands together. It was a gesture that seemed to be habit more than an attempt to keep them warm. “Finally, I want a say in the selection of the next High Magistrate. You may be acting in your father’’s stead, but you are not fit to wear the mantle.”

  Dansen ground his teeth. He needed Nicter’s help and the man knew it. Dansen took a few calming breaths to smooth his emotion.

  “The monument will include the other magistrates,” Dansen said. “Your birthing day will be made a holiday. As for the office of the High Magistrate, I will submit to a vote by all the Magistrates, but I will have a say as well.”

  Nicter scowled. “Agreed.”

  * * *

  Haverfjord: Year 1507 AO

  26 Sepfer: Sival - 2nd Hour of Eralda

  South District

  The air crackled with power. A woman, lithe and supernaturally graceful, danced with wicked glee. She spun on one foot and extended her hand towards a building. Fire burst from her fingertips; red and black blurred with purple as the fireball struck the building, consuming it in magical fire. Her giggle grew into an insane cackle. Vines and bits of root stuck out from the pores in her arms and legs, making her appear as if she had ripped herself from the earth. Wild-eyed she searched for another target. A soldier with a longbow drew back and trained his eye on her.

  Jessa Poe, the witch, laughed and clapped excitedly as she said, “Oh do come play.” Her voice was smoky and the lilt of her inflection was ancient. “Mm, you’re a pretty one.”

  The witch smiled as she extended a hand toward the soldier. His back arched, and he cried out in pain. Jessa laughed. Cracking, popping sounds filled the air as Jessa manipulated the dark energy to bend and break the soldier. Sparks of purple and green energy shot out from the man’s limbs as he contorted into a ball. Blood oozed from his pores and he continued to scream. Jessa frowned, her expression losing its amusement as the light left her stare. A touch of wildness remained and she flicked her wrist. The man’s neck snapped, and the contorted mass struck the ground with a wet smack.

  Enjoy your fun dear, Aldefe’s voice whispered in her mind. Do not forget we have a task here.

  “The medallions,” Jessa said aloud.

  Mm, yes. Aldefe practically purred. The medallions can be turned to our purpose.

  A contingent of soldiers moved to bar the witch’s way.

  Jessa reached out with her hand, palm up. She extended her fingers and tendrils of purple pulsating energy lanced out towards the soldiers. The energy struck the men in the chest flinging from them their feet. With a slow motion, Jessa curled her fingers upward into a claw, and the tendrils became taught. She snarled and pulled violently away from the soldiers. Seven men cried out in unison as ghostly purple apparitions of themselves tore through their armor attached to strings like puppets. Their bodies collapsed, appearing charred. The stench of burned flesh hung in the air like a palpable feeling of dread.

  Jessa laughed. Her witchy cackle echoed in tones not meant for human ears. The apparitions at the end of her magical tendrils moaned and shifted until the strands of power looked more like leashes on dogs than harpoons in men's chests. The souls of the men stood facing outward like chariot horses and moved at Jessa's whim. More soldiers appeared from another alleyway and the witch moved her ghost army to intercept. The soldiers hesitated, which was all the spectres needed. The ghosts attacked with the fury of men who had no life to return to. Their lances and swords cut into the living men as if they were butter. Armor sheared away and men cried out.

  Through it all, Jessa smiled. She could feel his presence inside of her, but that was not something she was unaccustomed to now. Once, she would have fought his influence, but Aldefe did not take no for an answer. Time and again she fought, and each time she was left to rot in a forest somewhere. A place where the roots grew into her being, tearing at her flesh and leaving her feeling ragged and defeated. It was always that way, until he returned. His presence empowered her. She loathed him, but looked forward to the times when his power would be manifest through her.

  He was here now, fueling the spells she wove against the soldiers of Haverfjord. Whispers and rumors had come from Aldefe. He spoke of power in this city; power that should not be in the hands of mortal men. He sent her, his agent, to steal the power. Jessa didn't care about the power, but she obeyed Aldefe in everything now. When she obeyed she was not left to rot. Aldefe's presence was addictive. It gave her purpose. She hated him for everything he was, but she loved him -- needed him.

  Rage fueled her, and she lashed out with her power. An aura of purple and black enveloped her. Jessa flung her hate into the magic. A great gout of purple fire erupted from her palm coalescing into a ball of writhing purple and black flames. The fireball struck the wall of the nearest building and co
nsumed it whole. There was nothing left of the building or anyone that may have occupied it. Her rage was not sated though; it had not been enough. Her gaze turned to the dead soldiers and to those souls she still held. A wicked grin came over her face as she drew her hand to her chest. The spirits at the ends of the tendrils snapped to her and flooded into her being. She could feel their terror and the essence of their lives. She consumed them.

  New power flooded into her granting her knowledge of the city and its locations. The history of the men she had slain, their names, loved ones, and loyalties.

  “Waldo Bale,” she said in a hiss. “A warehouse.”

  Yes, Aldefe whispered back. We must go.

  * * *

  Haverfjord: Year 1507 AO

  25 Sepfer: Calal - 10th Hour of Feralda

  City Center: Bale Warehouse

  After a couple of hours, Dansen had the remaining magistrates gathered. Triton had been with Dansen’s father when the man fell. He expressed his condolences and gave Dansen his blessing to the new High Magistrate. Triton had to leave Waldo’s body behind as they were overrun with demons in the North District.

  “So we continued to fall back,” Triton was saying. “That’s when your messenger found me.”

  “Same in the West District,” Vern said, piping in. “The West Road is covered with them, from here to the horizon it seems.”

  “I do not think it is so dire Vern,” Triton said. “But you’re not far off.”

  “Vern, Triton,” Dansen said with a sigh. “I am sorry to take you away from your Districts, but we need to gather everyone here. Beings without supernatural ability should not be affected, but I worry about what happens to the people prior ...” Dansen trailed off, letting silence give weight to his words.

  Vern nodded his understanding. His eyes grew dark, and his brow furrowed in thought. After several moments, he spoke.

  “Your father told us of the ritual,” Vern said carefully. “The medallions can save the city?””

  “I hope so,” Dansen said.

  “You hope so.” Came the nasally reply from Nicter. Standing beside him was the aged Graffen Maels.

  If Nicter looked old, then Graffen was ancient. Dansen knew the man was growing in years, but he looked like someone had just dragged him out of his crypt.

  “Magistrate Maels,” Dansen said ignoring Nicter’s sour disposition. “I am pleased to see you have recovered from your injuries, at least insomuch that you are up and moving about.”

  “No thanks to you or your father,” Graffen said growling. “The South District is beset by a witch I hear, demons in the north and west, and pirates in the east. It seems we are surrounded on all sides. What, pray-tell, do you intend to do about it boy?”

  Where Nicter’s voice was high and adenoidal, Graffen’s voice was pure gravel. His features were hard, cut from stone and chiseled away over the years, leaving the man looking as if he were nothing, but hard worn bone covered in skin. His eyes were dull, missing the light the green should have reflected. His bald head was covered with dark liver spots that did nothing to alleviate his stark appearance. His left arm was bound in cloth and fashioned in a sling over his right shoulder and neck.

  “I asked you a question boy,” Graffen said.

  “Call me boy once more, and you will find how untrue that statement is old man,” Dansen said and immediately regretted it.

  He had Nicter’s vote secured, albeit through bribery, but secure nonetheless. Vern and Triton would stand with him, but not if he showed disrespect to the other Magistrates. Dansen did his best to remember the lessons from his father in diplomacy, but his anger was vying for control.

  “So the pup has teeth,” Graffen said. “Good. You’ll need them for what’s ahead.”

  Dansen felt his eyes widen, he steeled himself and said, “For what’s ahead?”

  “Did your father neglect to tell you what is needed for the ritual?” Graffen barked a short wheezing laugh. “Fool of a man he always was, figured he’’d be the one to do it. So much so, he didn’t tell anyone else what was needed - fool.”

  “Bite your tongue Graffen,” Vern said, his eyes flashing.

  “Oh calm your jitters,” Graffen said. “He was a fool, as every man is a fool sometime in his existence. Some more often than others.” Graffen gave a pointed look towards Nicter.

  “Don’t start in on me again,” Nicter said.

  “I’ll start in on whoever I decide whelp,” Graffen growled. “I’ve been a magistrate since you were sucking on your mother’s tit.” He turned to Vern and Triton. “And before either of you was a lustful look in your fathers’ eyes. Now shut your jaw-jabbering and listen.”

  Dansen hid a smile behind his hand. He nodded to Graffen to continue. Dansen didn’t know what the old man was talking about, but he suspected his father had confided in the old magistrate.

  Graffen nodded back at Dansen, then said, “The ritual requires a sacrifice. A life to end other lives. Albeit evil lives, spirits and demons, but an eye for an eye it is said.”

  Silence filled the room. Dansen figured his father’s working office had never been so quiet.

  “Nonsense,” Nicter said. “Pure fucking folly.”

  “I doubt that Magistrate Maels would like to us,” Triton said.

  “Nor do I doubt he would make jest of such a serious situation,” Vern added.

  “Quit your prattling,” Graffen said. “Obviously this is important, and obviously Magistrate Thorne is a bloody fucking fool.” The old man eyed Nicter with such open hatred, Dansen wondered if he might need to intervene.

  Is this what my father used to do? He thought. He felt the tension, it was so real he felt it could be sliced and served. That made his decision for him.

  “Enough,” Dansen said, giving his voice a tone of authority. Three of the magistrates stopped and stared at him, Nicter looked at Graffen. Dansen waited a moment then said to Graffen, “What is required? I mean to say, how is the life chosen?”

  “It is chosen by the magic,” Graffen said, explaining. “The medallions act in unison, guided by the High Magistrate. This is where a problem may present itself ...” he paused. “If your father lives still, he is the High Magistrate, if he is not, you must be formally entered into the office. Otherwise this magic will not work.”

  That set Dansen back. He was glad he was already sitting, because the news would have taken him from his feet. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin.

  I should have shaved, he thought.

  Dansen turned to Triton. “Although I pray that you are mistaken,” he said. “I must ask. Are you certain my father is fallen true?”

  Triton looked at Dansen, his eyes burrowing into Dansen’s. “I can tell you what I saw. It gives me certainty, but no man should have to hear how his father died, especially in such a manner.””

  “I need to know,” Dansen said.

  “Very well,” Triton replied. “It was just before dusk...”

  * * *

  Haverfjord: Year 1507 AO

  25 Sepfer: Calal - 9th Hour of Eralda

  North District: District Square

  “Triton Ghast!” Waldo said, his voice raised in greeting over the sound of battle. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  Triton, his broad shoulders and dark long hair stood at least a head taller than the High Magistrate. He grinned wide and slammed his sword down on a demon. The creature split in two and fell to the ground twitching.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Triton said as he embraced forearms with Waldo. “I see you’ve brought reinforcements.”

  “Only enough for us to draw back,” Waldo said. “There are too many, the West District is overrun, I’’ve sent Dansen to meet with Nicter.”

  Triton winced. He knew the East District Magistrate’s disposition, and it was nothing he wished upon the young Bale. He spun and swung his sword through the midsection of another demon. He realized that it was the same demon, the thing had somehow reformed itself from its two hal
ves. A dark line of some sort of carapace or scar tissue separated the two halves showing where it had come together again. His sword slammed into the creature’s belly and shattered its spine. He withdrew the blade and swung it in a horizontal arc. The blade cut into flesh, but stopped hard when it hit the middle of the demon.

  “Nimti Fomad,” the demon said, its voice a croaking hiss.

  “What the fuck,” Triton said. “It can speak?”

  “Look out!” Waldo said, diving between Triton and another demon.

  The demon looked like a giant insect; its eyes bulged on the sides of its shelled head. The same shell seemed to cover every vital part of it. At the end of its long forelimbs were enormous pincers that clacked and chittered as they opened and closed. Its hind legs were reversed like a horses and it leapt high into the air. As it descended, it struck with its writhing tail. At the tail’’s point was a venom sack and stinger like a scorpion.

  Waldo, drove his gladius between Triton and the insect-demon’s tail. The wide blade sliced into the venom sack, and the creature fell back flailing. Venom and blood spewed from the demon’s tail, flinging the liquid everywhere. Triton leapt back to avoid the spray, but Waldo was not fast enough. The green ichor splashed across his chest and abdomen. Waldo cried out in pain as the liquid hit him. He fell back. Triton moved to help, but the High Magistrate stared at him hard.

  “Get out of the city,” he rasped. “Find Dansen, and help the people.”

  “Waldo.” Triton’s voice was choked with emotion. “I can’t leave you, not like this. What would Dansen think of me?”