Five Kingdoms: Book 05 - Fierce Loyalty

by Toby Neighbors

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  The townsfolk—farmers mostly, who had rarely if ever left the village—stared blankly back at him.

  “I am the Master of the Torr,” he said softly. Then he flicked his hand the way one might shoo a fly, and an empty table went crashing into the empty fireplace, the wood breaking apart and piling up on the cold stone hearth.

  “I require unwavering obedience,” he said as fire roared to life in the fireplace.

  The townsfolk, who had been frozen since Offendorl entered, flinched at the fire. They huddled together, not speaking as he stared at them. Finally one man found the courage to speak.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” he said. “We’re a peaceful village.”

  “You are now a subservient village,” Offendorl said. “I require food and your best wine. Everyone else must return to their homes immediately. No one is to leave the village. Do as you’re told and you shall live. You have no other choice.”

  “King Belphan shall hear of this,” said a skinny little girl. Her mother was trying to force her to sit back down.

  “No he won’t,” Offendorl said kindly, smiling almost benevolently. “You’re a brave little girl, but I’m afraid the king is dead.”

  “No he isn’t,” the girl shouted angrily as her mother pulled her back down onto the bench where her family was sitting.

  “You say the king’s dead?” a man nearby asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “And how do you know that he’s dead?” someone else asked.

  “Because I killed him,” Offendorl said menacingly.

  There was a collective intake of breath. Offendorl wasn’t surprised. He doubted if Belphan had ever even heard of Castlebury, much less cared about its inhabitants, but many people idolized their king, even if he was a cruel and careless ruler.

  “No,” screamed the little girl, who had pulled away from her mother.

  “Cute girl,” Offendorl said, “but sadly lacking in manners.”

  He waved his hand again and the girl went rigid, falling over onto her side. She screamed a high, piercing wail that brought the men of the town to their feet. Many of the women were weeping. The girl’s back began to arch and she was crying out for it to stop, but she couldn’t control herself.

  “Stop it!” screamed her father, who was a small man, but livid with rage. “Stop hurting my little girl or I’ll kill you.”

  “Unwavering obedience,” Offendorl shouted over the voices in the inn.

  There was a pop, like the sound of damp wood burning, then the little girl died, her back broken.

  “No!” screamed the girl’s mother.

  “Bastard!” shouted the girl’s father, who rushed forward with a small knife in his hand. Offendorl didn’t move, but the man went flying into the thick ceiling beams so hard his skull was smashed. Another man drew a thick Hax knife, which was more tool than weapon, but still a deadly instrument. He tried to ease closer to Offendorl, but the elder wizard lashed out with stream of fire that engulfed the man and severely burned several others around him. The man on fire flailed about for a few seconds, screaming uncontrollably before finally collapsing. The smell of burning flesh was sickening and several people vomited.

  Offendorl tilted his head and looked at the villagers questioningly.

  “Do we have an understanding?” he asked.

  The men nodded.

  “Good. Return to your homes,” Offendorl said. “But the women stay. I’ll need them to look after my needs. I assure you no harm will come to them if they do as they are told.”

  “They aren’t staying here with a monster like you,” said a young man who was shielding his young wife with his own body.

  “Don’t worry, their virtue is safe—although you won’t be able to enjoy it,” Offendorl said.

  “Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!” the young man screamed as he grabbed his groin and doubled over in pain.

  “Stop!” shouted his young wife. “Please, he didn’t mean it.”

  “He may not have, but I do,” Offendorl said. “I will maim the people you love, and kill anyone who does not obey me fully. I am the master of the Torr, Wizard of the Five Kingdoms. Do not try me. I have no patience for your futile attempts at resistance.” His voice had turned cold and dangerous. His face wrinkled with undisguised contempt for the villagers. “I have no empathy for your weak, pathetic lives. Do as I say, remain silent, and perhaps you may live. I shall not be denied. Do you understand?”

  The villagers all nodded. Some kissed their wives, although most of the villagers had come alone and there were less than a dozen women in the entire group. The young man who had spoken out was carried out of the inn, still crying about the pain in his groin, which was beginning to swell.

  “Clean,” Offendorl ordered the women. “And you,” he pointed to the young woman. “Bring me pillows for my seat.”

  Everyone got busy, except for the woman whose daughter Offendorl had killed. She was kneeling over her daughter’s body, sobbing uncontrollably. Offendorl reached out with his magic and punctured the woman’s heart. It was a small effort, but the woman collapsed on top of her daughter, killed instantly.

  The inn now smelled of burned flesh, vomit, and offal. Offendorl stepped outside. The night was muggy and uncomfortable. Other parts of Osla were relatively dry and cooled dramatically once the sun set, but along the Euradies basin the air seemed saturated and held the day’s intense heat long after dark. There were mosquitos as well—swarms of them near the river.

  Offendorl walked slowly up toward the ruins of the castle on the hill. He was sweating by the time he reached the summit, but he felt more at home among the ruins than in the small village. It had been ages since he’d exerted his power onto people in such a direct way. He’d had very little contact with most non-magic-users. Only kings and their most trusted advisors ever bothered him in the tower. Now his rage had been unleashed on the people of the village, and he savored the feeling of power and strength. Subduing the village had been child’s play for a wizard of his power, but it still felt good to feel powerful again.

  His magical strength had been slow to return and it was taking a dreadful toll on his body. His eyes were sunken and his skin had begun to wrinkle in earnest. Offendorl was not a vain man when it came to his appearance, but he had resisted the signs of aging as he renewed his physical body. Now, however, he was beginning to look as ancient as he felt.

  He let his magic flow, pulling the small, thin crown from the velvet bag he kept tied to his thick, leather belt and placing it on his head. He reached out and made contact with Bartoom. The black dragon was close, although it had flown out to sea and was now making its way down the coast. Offendorl had ordered it to fly south almost a week ago, but the dragon had been attacked. The elder wizard was shocked to learn of so many dragons, and of the girl who flew with them. He seemed to remember stories about humans who rode dragons and were impervious to fire, but he couldn’t be sure. His vast knowledge was eroding like a riverbank in a heavy storm. The toll on his body had affected his mind as well, and he found small details slipping his mind more and more often.

  He needed time to rest and to return to his home in the tower of the Torr, where his vast library was kept. Once he had his books around him again, he was sure he could restore not only his physical health, but his memory as well. Still, the missing bits of information hurt him—he knew that. Knowledge was the key to his power, and a pride of dragons was a threat he could not contain. He had thought of trying to woo the dragons, the way he had Bartoom, using his magic to coax the beast to come to him. But he knew he would need to learn each of the dragons names to control them, and not even the great wizards or kings of old had dominated entire prides.

  Offendorl knew there were major fights coming. He would have to help Bartoom kill the other dragons, or at least drive them away. Once that was done, he would turn his attention to the Torr and cast the sorceress Gwendolyn down. He would make the upstart
witch’s sister his plaything. Andomina was Gwendolyn’s weakness, and Offendorl knew he could exploit it.

  Once everything in the tower had been set right, Offendorl would turn his attention back to Zollin. He knew the young wizard was coming south. Bartoom had fought the boy at sea and then seen him again not far from Cape Sumbar. But Zollin would have to wait—as dangerous a threat as he was—until Offendorl had regained his advantage. He would not make the same mistake he had made in Orrock, underestimating Zollin’s growing power and facing him on the open field of battle. No, he would have to make a special plan for Zollin, ensuring that the odds were all in favor of the master.

  Offendorl smiled at the thought of seeing Zollin kneeling before him, pledging his magic, his loyalty, and his life to the Torr. He vowed silently to himself to make that thought a reality. Then he ordered Bartoom to come to Castlebury. Finally he turned and walked slowly down the hill. His display of magic had weakened Offendorl, and he would have preferred to rest immediately. But the mess inside the inn was simply too great to endure, and besides, he needed to avoid any appearance of weakness to the people around him. Still, his legs were trembling slightly when he returned to the inn. It was nothing a good meal and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure, but it left him wondering if he was up to the challenges ahead. He needed loyal servants who would see to his every need.

  He opened the door to the inn hoping he might find what he was looking for. The bodies had been carried outside and the floors scrubbed. The small room didn’t smell good, but it did smell better. A large wooden chair had been brought in and set up near the fireplace, which still had the embers of the fire he’d started in it. The chair was covered with a thick quilt, and there were pillows arranged for his comfort.

  “Wine,” he said harshly to the young woman, who seemed to be the only one of the women who didn’t cower at his every word. The others were all acting busier than they really were and looking for any excuse they could find to go into the kitchens. The inn only had a few small rooms in back. The innkeeper and his family occupied some of them. The others were for the occasional guest, but Offendorl knew that he could sleep just as well in the chair that had been prepared for him.

  The young woman brought wine and poured it into a pewter cup. Offendorl frowned, but didn’t complain. He would send the women for better tableware tomorrow, he determined. For now, the plain metal cup would do. The wine wasn’t good, but it was strong enough that Offendorl felt his strength returning with each sip.

  “Heat water for a bath,” he instructed the woman. “And send for my meal.” To another of the women he barked more orders. “I want pallets against the wall for all of you,” Offendorl told her. “You’ll sleep here in case I need anything in the night.”

  The woman nodded and hurried away, while another brought out a full rack of lamb, with boiled potatoes and summer greens smothered in rich gravy. Another woman brought bread and cheese, while a third arrived with fruit.

  “This will suffice,” Offendorl said. “Clean the kitchens and prepare for tomorrow.”

  The women left without a word. He could hear them moving about in the kitchens but he couldn’t hear them talking, which he was grateful for. He missed the silence of the Torr. He hated to be disturbed by idle chatter, which was one of the reasons he had the tongues removed from his servants. Also, it kept them from repeating anything they might hear in his presence. It was a prudent practice, although he knew that many people found it repugnant. They could die with their high morals, he thought, while he lived through the centuries with the power to do as he pleased.

  Chapter 19

  Prince Wilam was exactly where he’d always dreamed of being—at the head of an army. As a young boy he’d learned sword craft from the finest swordsmen in Yelsia. He had been tutored in tactics by his father’s generals and given squads to lead, then centuries, and finally his own legion. He’d fought in some minor skirmishes with Shirtac raiders, but he’d never led an army to war. It had always been his dream, since he was little and could read the histories of the great conflicts of the Five Kingdoms. His father had sent him to Osla as the ambassador to the high court of the Five Kingdoms to learn how to deal with political maneuvering. Now he was back in Osla, not as a king or at the court, which had been razed by the troops he now led. Instead, he was the commander of Gwendolyn’s army, and although his mind was still entranced by the witch, he was very aware of how fortunate he was.

  The army he led was not as grand as the one he’d dreamed of as a boy. There were only two centuries of cavalry, and the rest were foot soldiers, but they were anxious for a fight. It seemed that Gwendolyn’s spell brought most men to the precipice of violence. The prince himself had killed on other occasions, including King Oveer and two his closest generals. He doubted that the troops he now led would even care that their sovereign ruler was dead—they would probably be glad there was one less person to vie for Gwendolyn’s affection.

  Prince Wilam had spent days leading the army along the northern road that led from the Grand City up into Falxis. The terrain was flat for the most part, with short, stunted looking trees. He could see for miles in every direction and had scouts out looking for any signs of the invading army. He had hoped to find a hilltop to direct the fighting from, but hills of any kind seemed few and far between, as did water and fresh supplies. Prince Wilam had finally decided his best bet was to camp his men next to a good supply of water and food.

  He put his engineers to work building him a tower. The army tore down barns and even a few homes to salvage enough wood for the project. It was a simple wooden structure, with a staircase that wrapped around the heavy timber beams. It was sturdy and three times the height of a man. Prince Wilam positioned the best archers he had to the tower with him. He had four legions of troops and four generals, three of them newly promoted. The plain where Wilam expected the battle to take place was a wide, grassy field that he hoped would keep the dust to a minimum. His greatest fear was that he would lose sight of the battle by the dust of thousands of feet tramping hard upon the dry ground.

  “Sir,” came a shout from one of the lookouts posted on the tower. “A scout is returning.”

  “Good,” Wilam said, rising from the canvas camp chair where he’d been sitting and climbing quickly down to meet the scout personally.

  There was a lot activity around the base of the tower. The army was encamped almost half a mile to the rear of the battle plain, but Wilam kept his troops ready for action. They arrived at the battle site each morning at dawn, drilling through the day so that they would be ready to follow his orders in battle. The prince envisioned a battle where he had strict control of his troops movements and formations. The chain of command was well prepared and he had devised three separate battle plans, as well as a system of flag signals so that he could order the different units around the field of battle.

  His generals were nearby, each coming to attention when he drew near.

  “A scout is returning,” he told them. “Hopefully we’ll have news of the invaders.”

  The generals nodded. They were men accustomed to taking orders, and while they longed to return to Gwendolyn—as each man in her army did—they could see that Prince Wilam was competent, unlike King Oveer. Following Prince Wilam’s orders was not always easy, but the orders always made sense and the prince himself was not afraid of getting his hands dirty. He worked tirelessly, from demonstrating the proper sword technique to a lowly foot soldier to ensuring that there was food and provisions ready. His tent was illuminated late into the night, where the generals found him planning and testing every conceivable outcome to the battle. He had earned their respect quickly, even if they still saw him as a rival for the witch’s affection.

  The rider came galloping into the camp and only slowed once he neared the tower. Then he flung himself off his horse and came to a rigid salute.

  “Report,” Wilam barked.

  “Sir, there are enemy troops half a day from here.”
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  “How many?” Wilam asked.

  “I couldn’t tell exactly,” the scout said. “There was a lot of dust and no real vantage point, but if I had to guess I’d say a force equal to our own.”

  “I don’t want guesses,” Wilam shouted. “I want facts. I want numbers of troops, of cavalry. I want to know if they have siege engines or trebuchets. I want to know how they are being supplied and if they are tired. I want to know everything.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the scout sheepishly.

  “Get a new mount, I’ll send for the rest of our scouts,” Wilam said. “You said they were traveling together, correct? Just one main body?”

  “Yes, one formation, if you can call it that. There didn’t seem to be any real order to their ranks, sir.”

  “Alright. Are they marching south on the main road?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, that’s very good. Get your horse and get back out there,” Prince Wilam said. “I want regular reports. I’m sending other scouts to help you.”

  The scout nodded and hurried away. Wilam turned to his generals.

  “Well, if they’re half a day out, that means they’ll be in sight by sundown. I want our troops ready. Let’s get every man into position and then make sure they have food, enough for tonight and tomorrow. We aren’t leaving the field and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be out maneuvered.”

  “Aye, sir,” the generals said before moving away to carry out their orders.

  Prince Wilam went to his command tent, which was merely an awning with a table full of maps and wooden pieces carved to resemble troops. He used the wooden pieces to demonstrate the maneuvers he planned. He gathered the maps and hurried back up the tower platform. There was enough room on the square-shaped platform for twenty archers. They had large quivers of arrows hanging from the guardrail that ran around the edges of the platform. Wilam had a small pedestal on the center of the platform where he could see over the archers. There was a sturdy roof over the top of the tower so that volley’s of arrows could not rain down on Wilam or the archers. It was where he planned to stay until the battle was over.