War Wizard

by King, DB

  “But it’s the place of Maar’s power, correct?” Logan asked. “If we can get inside and summon him, that should give us the advantage we need to take back the town.”

  “Right,” she said. “But as I said, Maar hasn’t shown himself in centuries. We’re risking everything on a hope.”

  Right as she finished, the horrible scream of a woman cut through the air.

  They turned their attention to the town, watching as a trio of orcs led a dozen or so folk through the town. The group looked desperate and beaten, a trio in front were women dressed like Marseille. The orcs, leading them by sword point, guided the group to the large, stone temple in the center of the town. Once there, the group was hurried inside, the doors to the building shut.

  “Those are the other priestesses!” Marseille said in an excited whisper. “And they have other members of our cult—er, our community, with them!”

  “So,” Logan said. “They’re not all dead.”

  “Right,” she said. “Which means that we need to make our next moves quickly.”

  “But not too quickly,” Arachne said. “The last thing we need is to go blundering into doom.”

  “Let’s move,” Logan said. “The longer we stay here, the higher the chances of them finding us. Marseille—do you know exactly where the fortress is?”

  She nodded. “Of course. It’s not far from the town.”

  “Then lead the way.”

  Marseille took one last long look at the town before tearing her eyes away and turning her attention to the woods. She took point and rushed through the trees.

  “You’re sure about this?” Arachne asked Logan. “This could all be some trap, you know. Maar is the snake spirit, you would do well to remember. And snakes aren’t known for their honesty.”

  She had a point. But if Logan was to summon Maar, there was no option other than to trust Marseille.

  “I’m sure,” he said. “And if she’s lying to us, we’ll simply kill her.”

  He was half-joking, half not. The wry smile on Arachne’s lips let him know which of the two options she preferred.

  They started off, the group leaving behind the town as they followed Marseille through the forest. It didn’t take long at all to reach the fortress. The treeline gave way to a large clearing in the woods, a huge, stone citadel rising into the sky. Two tall turrets flanked a tall, arched door of heavy wood, the top of the building a stone dome.

  The building was grand and huge, more than strong enough to serve as a worthy fortification to guard the area. And the land behind it marked the edge of the Graysmoke Woods. The land beyond was green with gentle rolling hills—more than suitable for farmland and livestock. With the trees and farmland and the town, Logan realized the place would make a fine seat of power for the region.

  A statue stood ahead of the entrance, a tall figure of what appeared to be a man, but with the hooded head of a cobra. He wielded a curved sword like Marseille’s, but one that was easily twice the size. His eyes were two red rubies, dark stains all around his feet.

  Marseille kneeled before the statue, her head bowed and her hands placed on the square stone plinth. Logan held up his hand to indicate that he wanted the group to halt. He approached the priestess. He couldn’t quite make out her words, but he didn’t need to hear them to understand the gravity of her prayer. She withdrew her blade and dragged it across her palm, flicking the blood onto the feet of the statue.

  “That explains the stains,” Logan said as he moved to her side.

  She glanced over her shoulder as she rose, a small smile on her full, red lips.

  “Well, there’s also the matter of the jewels.” She swept her hand toward the rubies. “Legend has it that the stones are cursed, and that anyone who tries to take them will meet a horrible fate. My money’s on a trap, but whatever gets the job done, no?”

  “You seem to know a lot about this place for someone who’s never been inside.”

  Red tinged Marseille’s cheeks. Logan could sense right away that he’d touched on something she hadn’t intended for him to bring up.

  “Well, you see…” she trailed off. There was no doubt that she was trying to spin up a lie on the spot.

  “Out with it.”

  “We’re not supposed to enter this place. Only when Maar ‘makes the right time known’ are we meant to enter. But how were we supposed to know the right time if we’ve never even tried to speak to him?”

  “So, you broke the rules.”

  “I had to know. This place has always called to me, urging me to enter. What if that was Maar’s way of revealing himself?” She sighed and shook her head. “But I didn’t get far. The moment I stepped into the entry hall, I knew I’d done something wrong, and left. Now it is different, however. Now that you’re here…” she trailed off, as if not sure how to finish.

  Logan opened his mouth to speak. But before he could say a word, the arched doors of the fortress opened, a trio of huge figures shrouded in shadow stepping out.

  Orcs.

  “Come!” Logan hissed quietly. “Back to the trees!”

  He grabbed Marseille by the upper arm and pulled her away from the statue. She shot him a hard glare as he did, one that suggested she didn’t appreciate being handled in such a way. But it faded once they were back to the group.

  The elven soldiers, Jaleth at their head, were hidden behind the thick trunks of the trees. Arachne was there. Silverfang was tied to a tree a few dozen paces back, his huge figure hard to make out among the darkness of the forest. They considered all coming on horseback, but decided against it. Enough horses for the entire group would have surely drawn too much attention.

  They all watched in silence as the trio of orcs left the fortress, grunting to one another.

  “They’ve sullied my master’s holy grounds,” Marseille said. “I’ll kill them myself.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Logan said. “There’s no doubt in my mind that there are more inside. Orcs rarely travel in such small groups.”

  The three orcs continued grunting to one another as they made their way toward the statue. Once there, they were close enough that Logan could make out their words.

  “Guard duty,” said one of them. “Sick of guard duty.”

  “Safer than being inside with the priests,” another said. “Lost four orcs already to traps.”

  “Four weak orcs,” the third said. “If I were in there, I wouldn’t perish to something as cowardly and womanly as a trap.”

  “Yes, Buldock,” said the first. “I’m sure the ones who died went in thinking they would be killed.”

  “Quiet,” Buldock snarled. He was the largest of the three, which made him the de facto leader of the group. “Or I’ll carve you up and make it look like an accident.”

  “Make it look like an accident,” said the first. “What, you’ll tell them I fell on your sword over and over?”

  Buldock might’ve been in charge, but he most certainly wasn’t the brightest of the group.

  “I’ll figure something out! The fact is, if you insist on insulting me, you’ll pay a dear price.”

  “I’m sure.” The first and the second orcs laughed to themselves, clearly enjoying mocking Buldock.

  But Buldock didn’t say another word in his defense. Instead, he turned his attention to the rubies in the statue.

  “Look. Perfect gems just sitting there.” He put his huge, dark green hands on his hips and stood in admiration of the rubies. “They’re the size of fists.”

  “They’re also cursed,” said the first orc. “You heard the priests.”

  Buldock laughed. “You believe that nonsense? A cursed statue. Nonsense for children. No doubt rumors of a curse were spread through that town of weaklings we just scoured.”

  “I’m not taking my chances,” said the second. “If we can secure this fortress and summon Maar, there will be more than enough treasure to go around.”

  “But I want this treasure,” Buldock said.

&n
bsp; Without another word, he placed his big hands on the plinth and heaved himself up. It took some doing, but he managed to stand nearly face-to-face with the statue.

  “Fool,” Marseille hissed. “Disrespectful fool.”

  “Since neither of you two helped,” Buldock said. “I’ll be keeping the stones for myself.”

  The two orcs shared a nervous look, both stepping back without speaking a word.

  Logan had a feeling something bad was about to happen. And he wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to take advantage of it.

  “Jaleth,” he said quietly over his shoulder. “Come.”

  The Arachno Assassin elf moved quickly to his side, not making a sound louder than a whisper.

  “Yes, commander?”

  “Who is your second-strongest assassin?”

  “Alre is the second-most skilled assassin. Threce, being the last of us three, is the third.”

  “Good. Something’s about to happen to that fool orc. And when it does, I want you and Alre to move in. Threce can watch and learn.”

  Jaleth turned his attention to the orcs, a smile forming on his lips that suggested he was more than pleased with the plan. Logan watched as Buldock slipped a mean-looking knife with a jagged edge from his belt and positioned the sharp tip behind one of the rubies. With the orc there as a reference, Logan could see how huge the gems were—easily the size of the orc’s fist, and no doubt each worth a fortune.

  “Stupid, superstitious humans,” Buldock grunted. “Gems like these there for the taking, and they’re afraid of nonsense stories about—”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. Right as he pried the ruby from the statue’s eye socket, the arm of the statue swung forward, the blade it held slicing the orc clean through his middle. He stood still as the statue had been only a moment before. Buldock’s upper half slid neatly from the bottom, his torso falling onto the ground with a heavy thud, the legs still in place.

  The two remaining orcs said nothing for a moment, then turned to one another. They locked eyes then began laughing, deep belly laughs filling the air.

  “What a fool!” shouted one of them. “Of course, the curse was a trap!”

  “That’s what I was certain of, too! Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because the last thing I wanted was to take another order from that thick-headed idiot.”

  The laughter went on. “And look,” said the other, pointing up as the statue’s arm moved back to its previous position. “The gem was held in place—it was designed for idiots like him to try and pry it off.”

  The spectacle was amusing, Logan had to admit. Buldock’s legs fell to the ground with another thud, the orcs laughing even harder than they had been.

  It was time to strike. But when Logan turned to Jaleth to confirm his orders, he was pleased to see the elf was already gone. He and Alre made their way toward the orcs, quiet as a whisper. They took position behind them as the orcs continued laughing, the elves drawing their blades and preparing to strike.

  Jaleth pointed his wrist toward his orc, Alre doing the same. After Jaleth gave the sign, small spurts of web shot down at the feet of the orcs. The sticky substance wrapped around their leather boots and stuck to the ground, holding them in place. A second jet of webbing flew through the air and covered their mouths, preventing them from crying for help.

  The orcs silenced, their eyes going wide as their hands shot to their mouths. But they didn’t have a chance to investigate. The elves rose and slipped their blades into the necks of the orcs, killing them where they stood without a sound.

  The elves removed their blades from the orcs as silently as they’d put them in, the orcs dropping into lifeless piles.

  It was done. Logan rose from where he was crouched and made his way over to the elves.

  “Excellent,” he said, surveying their work. “Using the webs to ensure that, if your attacks were unsuccessful, they wouldn’t have a chance to run for help.”

  The elves turned, and Jaleth opened his mouth to speak. But before he could get even a word out, he grabbed his right wrist with his left hand. Alre followed suit, both elves groaning in pain.

  “What’s happening?” he asked as Arachne approached.

  “Their powers are growing.” A pleased smile took hold on her face. “Watch.”

  The sounds of pain from the elves grew, both men seeming in total agony.

  “Arachne!” Logan said. “Help them!”

  Before she had a chance to react, a blade jutted out through the skin on the wrists of both men. Jaleth and Alre appeared puzzled, neither knowing what to make of what had happened. The blades were smooth and silver and curved, reminding Logan of the fangs of the swordspider from whom he’d taken the poison used to make Arachne’s mark.

  “What you have there, elves,” Arachne said, “is all the weapon your assassins will need. Made of spider steel, and the perfect size for quick, deadly strikes. With use, they’ll even develop poison glands with which they can make venom to enhance the killing power of their blades.”

  “Remarkable,” Jaleth said as he slowly swiped his blade through the air, a pleased smile on his face.

  “But fear not, summoners,” Arachne said as she turned to the other three elves. “The more you use your powers, the stronger they will become. And the more devotees you bring to me or Logan to be marked, the more powerful we all will grow.” She let her eyes rest on the six unmarked elves who had accompanied them.. “What say you, unmarked? Are you ready to become one of my chosen?”

  One of the elves spoke up. “Perhaps. But we’d like to see what sort of powers the serpent spirit can bestow.”

  Marseille smiled slyly. “A wise choice. Wait until you see what Maar can do. You won’t be disappointed in your decision.”

  Arachne let out a frustrated puff of air that tossed the silver strands of hair that hung over her face. “Fools. So much the better. I need time to recharge my power in order to mark.”

  “Come,” Logan said, turning his attention back to the fortress. “Let’s move. And remember what the orcs said before they met their fates—there are more inside.”

  The group formed up, and they started toward the entrance.

  “Some spirit,” Arachne said. “Can’t even keep disgusting, foul orcs out of his lair.”

  Marseille shook her head. “They will only find their doom inside. Maar would never make himself known to anyone but the devoted.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Arachne asked. “You do not know Maar as I knew him, human. He would offer his power to anyone who pledges their devotion. I see that he already provided what little power he could to you, priestess. While it is not the power that can be gained from a War Wizard’s mark, I see that Maar has given you some small taste. Tell me: does it taste like poison? Do you feel your insides burning with the fires of betrayal? After all, you cannot expect much loyalty from snakes.”

  Marseille scrunched up her face in anger. “You’ll regret those words, insect—“

  “Silence!” Logan commanded. “We have a job to do. And if you two can stow your rivalries for long enough to get it done, you’ll find you’ll both get what you want. Now, are you two ready?”

  The women traded withering stares for a second more before turning their attention back to Logan.

  “Ready,” Marseille said.

  Arachne said nothing, instead offering a curtsy.

  “Silverfang,” she said. “I have a feeling this fortress will be no place for a beautiful beast such as yourself. Stay here. Run back to the caravan if we encounter any danger.”

  She placed her hand on the back of his neck, the horse shifting into his spider-mount shape. The elves gasped at what Silverfang had changed into.

  “You serve me faithfully,” Arachne said to the elves, “and you’ll gain mounts like these. You have to provide your own horse, though.”

  Jaleth stepped toward Silverfang, entranced by what he saw. “The fields north of the Graysmoke Forests are rumored to be
rife with wild stallions.”

  “Then we’ll have to take a trip there soon,” Arachne said. “After we’ve attended to the needs of our pet snake.”

  Marseille glared at Arachne, keeping her words in check. Silverfang took up a guarding position in front of the fortress near the bodies of the slain orcs.

  “Come,” Marseille said. “We’ve a God to awaken.”

  Chapter 17: Logan

  The group approached the fortress doors, and Logan took point. When he was close enough, he noticed that the black iron handles of the doors were in the shapes of snakes, giving no doubt as to what sort of spirit dwelled inside. He took one of the handles and pulled it open, the door groaning.

  Inside was a grand entrance hall, large and domed, twin stairs leading to the second floor. It reminded him of some sort of enormous ballroom, ornate and decorated with finery—finery that had seen better days, of course. He could easily imagine a king at the top of the balcony addressing hundreds of subjects gathered in the hall below.

  Perhaps I could be that ruler, Logan thought. He had never had such aspirations in the past, but now that he’d gained the service of one Archspirit, and was soon on his way to a second, the thought came to his mind.

  “Now,” Marseille said, “be careful—I’m sure there are traps just as there were on the statue outside.”

  The warning came too late. One of the unmarked elves stepped up to a huge, silver vase situated in front of a towering mirror. Greed in his eyes, he placed his hands on the curved body of the vase and lifted it.

  A click sounded out. Thwip—and four darts appeared in the back of the elf.

  “No!” Logan exclaimed, rushing over to the elf.

  Logan grabbed the darts and pulled them out, but they were empty—no doubt they contained some sort of poison. He turned the elf just in time to watch as his mouth foamed, blood dripping from his eyes as the poison took hold. He convulsed and shook. His body went stiff, and he died.

  Logan held him for a moment as if he might come back to life.

  “A pity,” Marseille said. “He could’ve become one of Maar’s faithful. But let his death be a lesson to you all—there is treasure in Maar’s place of power, but the material possessions are his. The gifts he can give you are far, far more powerful than any silver or gold.”