The Red Citadel and the Sorcerer's Power

by Craig Halloran

  Moth stood like a statue. His heavy gaze searched Finster’s face.

  “What are you doing here?” Finster said, summoning his strength to stand. “Lords of Creeping! Did you run all this way? I don’t see a horse.”

  Moth lifted his chin, eyes spying the landscape Finster had left behind. A trail of ant-like figures wended their way over the tops of the distant ridges.

  “They are close, but taking their time.” He grabbed the shovel and began digging again. “I’m not sure why you are here, but if you aren’t going to help, then get out of the way.”

  Moth nudged Finster aside. He bent over, grabbed the rock, and ripped it out of the ground then sent the stone bouncing down the hill.

  “I’m not paying you for that.” Finster pulled a worm from the damp soil. “Well, you’re welcome to this.” He shoveled down another foot, slinging the soft dirt aside, and dug a silk pouch out of the grime. Then he slapped the grit from the sack. He could feel the stone inside. Finster opened the neck of the pouch. The stone fell out. It was a dull pearl in the fading light. “It doesn’t look like much, but it is everything… I swear it.”

  Moth moved down the hillside. The spade he held looked like a child’s toy. His eyes were fixed on the coming army. Over fifty riders were on their way.

  With the stone locked in his palm, Finster’s body began to warm. His vitality returned. The magic in the stone flowed into him, but only a trickle of its omnipotent power. He squeezed it in his hand and tried to gather more power. I suppose I should be thankful for what I have.

  He made his way alongside Moth. “Do you plan to fight them? Is there a grudge of some sort? You’re going to need a bigger shovel, one that looks more like a sword.”

  With the ease of a great cat, Moth headed down the hill and stood by Finster’s horse. The mount looked too small for him.

  Finster climbed into the saddle. Without taking the reins, Moth led the horse away from the hill, toward the forest flush with thickets and briars. Finster had no idea why he let the barbarian lead, but he was fairly certain self-preservation had something to do with it. In the meantime, he cupped the stone in his hands and concentrated. Aside from the additional warmth and vitality, there was nothing. He spoke in every ancient language he’d learned, using commonly understood salutations. Nothing. Gah! He hauled back to throw the stone. In these thickets, that would be stupid.

  Moth pointed at an overhang among the thickets. He gestured with his chin toward the opening.

  “You want me to go in there? For what purpose?”

  Moth slapped the horse on the flank. The beast reared up and tore through the thickets.

  “Why did you do that?”

  Shovel in hand, Moth vanished into the forest, leaving Finster all to himself.

  “Never trust a barbarian.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Crawley lined up his soldiers at the rim of the forest Finster and Moth had entered. “Get those torches lit,” he said, leaning over the saddle horn. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to fish him out of there, but be wary. If you see him, give a signal. He’s a magus. Dangerous.”

  Finster’s horse burst out of the thickets, startling the other horses. Crawley’s horse remained still. One of his men led Finster’s horse back to their group by the reins. The beast had briar gashes all over its body.

  “Get the axes out, Arly. Go on foot. It’s too dark and nasty in there for the beasts. Cut us a path wide enough to run a wagon through if need be.” He pulled his leather gloves over his fingers. “Send our scouts in first. I don’t see any reason why we can’t sneak up on the old man.”

  A dozen soldiers silently slid into the forest. Another dozen began hacking through the brush.

  Crawley looked behind him. Nestled with their backs to the hills a hundred yards away, Ingrid waited with the citadel guardians. If she wants Finster so bad, she should send her own men in there.

  Under torchlight, the soldiers began chopping through the woodland thickets. Saplings went down by the dozens. The laboring men were an hour into it when the torchlight vanished among leaves. Silence fell over the forest. A large object smashed through the branches. It landed with a thud at Crawley’s feet.

  He leaned over his saddle and peered down. It was Arly’s head[ICS1]. His face looked like it had been bashed in with a shovel. The neck was cut in a crude fashion. Another head crashed through the branches, followed by yet another. Crawley’s men’s eyes became bigger than saucers. Another head landed at their jumpy feet. It was mounted on the torch stick.

  “Ryant!” Crawley called out. A burly man with wild hair and a beard, wearing a shirt of chain, stepped out of the ranks. “You’ve been promoted. Take a dozen men, stay close together, and get in there. If anything moves that’s not one of us, swing.”

  ***

  Hunkered in the bush, Moth waited. A soldier crept among the trees. The man’s eyes zeroed in on Moth’s position. Sword in hand, the soldier hustled right toward him. Moth popped up. He jabbed the top of the shovel into the man’s throat. The man dropped like a blood-slick stone. A quick second stroke severed the head. He carried the dripping head along with the shovel slung over his shoulder. His keen eyes picked up every unnatural sound.

  The soldiers’ breathing was loud. Their sweat gave them away. The soft scuffle of metal didn’t help their mission. They weren’t one with the land. They smelled of the vile city. Moth perched among the boulders, eyeballing a knot of men coming right at him as one. He greeted the first one by hurling the skull into the man’s face.

  In the darkness, the fighters didn’t stand a chance against the savage giant. Moth smashed a scout in the head so hard the neck of the shovel snapped. His fist shattered a man’s jaw. His foot crushed one man’s chest. He snatched up one man and tossed him on top of two others. They chased, screamed, and stabbed. He filled his hands with their steel and killed, killed, and killed again. They fled with blood covering their frightened faces.

  ***

  “It’s a demon.” Ryant carried a limping man with him. Only three of the twelve that had gone in came out again. The chopping of wood and brush had also fallen silent. “I swear it, Crawley! It strikes with the silence of a snake.”

  Crawley unsheathed his sword. It was a well-crafted and heavy thing. The edge appeared sharp enough to split a hair. “It’s not a demon, Ryant. Those wounds come from mortal metal. Do you hear? Now, get over here!”

  Ryant approached with his chin sunk into his chest.

  Crawley split his skull. “The only thing in that forest is a man or two,” he said to the rest of the soldiers. “You can face them, or you can face me!”

  “Is there a problem, Commander Crawley?” Ingrid stood on the other side of where he was talking. Her icy stare was fixed on the dark entrance to the forest. She was flanked by two of her guards.

  “No, the men are just spooked is all. I believe that savage is in there. It’s not a problem, I assure you.”

  “That doesn’t sound very reassuring.” She stood in the wind and rain with the expression of an irritated goddess. She rolled her fingers. “He’s in there. I can sense it. Not alone, either.”

  “It must be the barbarian, then. A strange alliance. We caught him once. We will catch him again, or kill him, even if I have to do it myself.”

  “Make it quick, Crawley. I’d hate to get my hands dirty over a simple matter like this.”

  “Certainly. Save your energy. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m waiting,” she said with a puckered brow.

  Crawley dismounted. It was either go into the forest or piss off a woman who could turn him into dust. He grabbed a torch from a soldier. “Get those axes, and follow me.” He led another large group of men down the path they’d cut out already. At the end, five men lay dead in their own blood and guts. “You two, get to work. I’ll keep an eye on things.” He peered into the blackness. There was little he could do with all of the chopping and the torches ruining his night vision. He waited for
the barbarian to strike.

  A large stone flew out of nowhere and crushed a man’s skull. A second man was yanked back by a vine. His desperate gurgles ended in the blackness.

  “Stand your ground!” Crawley ordered. “Keep chopping!” He ducked. A stone whistled over his head and clacked into a tree. “Aw, the hell with this.” He made a sharp whistle and hollered back down the path. “Turn loose the wolves! Let them dine on barbarians tonight.”

  Huge, slavering dogs, five in all, flew down the channel. They were Crawley’s special breed, part wolf and part bloodhound. The last thing he wanted to do was put them in harm’s way, but in the end, that was what they were bred for. The wolfhounds flew right by him, barking and howling, and vanished into the forest. “Follow those dogs!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Finster sat up. The occasional rustle had caught his ear, but now he heard dogs. He rubbed the Founder’s Stone between his thumb and finger. “I don’t know what it takes to ignite you, but if you indeed have a purpose, now would be the time to reveal it.”

  Something frigid hung in the air. Ingrid was close. Her power alone disturbed the natural order. A magus could sense such things. It’s only a matter of time now. The end of my journey. He considered burying the stone and lying about it, but by that point, she surely would have come across the area he’d retrieved it from. She knows. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t. I suspect she wanted me to escape all along. The clever witch bested me. Curse my lusty eyes.

  In the darkness, he searched for answers to how to use the stone. He’d spent years trying to master it with no luck. He was only given a taste of what the stone offered. It was Constance who’d mentioned the stone to him, and her mentor to her, and so on. Once, she’d said, “Extraordinary things work in unconventional ways. Even the cursed can aid you.”

  “I suppose I could swallow it. Perhaps it would eat me from the inside out. I’d hate to give Ingrid the satisfaction of getting it.”

  The barking grew louder.

  Finster scooted farther into his nook. Something rubbed against his thigh. He reached into his robes and retrieved the jade scarab. Why not? He spewed out a fierce incantation. The beetle’s wings unfolded, revealing a dark-green crystal within that was the power source of his insidious creation. He replaced the crystal with the Founder’s Stone. The wings closed tight. The beetle pulsed in his hand. For the kingdom, I suppose. He attached the beetle to his back. Its claws dug in. Finster’s back arched. His forehead creased. Unbridled pain coursed through him. He bit his tongue instead of screaming.

  ***

  Moth brained the first two wolfhounds with a woodsman’s axe. He drew a yelp from the third when he gave it a swift kick in the ribs. The other two ravenous dogs latched onto his forearms. The one he’d kicked jumped on his chest and bit his neck. Moth bear-hugged it. He bit the beast back. At the same time, he crushed the crying dog. Its neck snapped. Wild-eyed, he fought to shake the dogs off his arms. Their slavering jaws were locked. Moth butted skulls with the one on his axe arm until it fell away.

  Crawley and his men emerged from the grim forest. Brow furrowed, Crawley said, “You killed my dogs! You animal! I’ll make you pay!”

  Moth managed to cock the hatchet back and release a clumsy swing.

  Crawley’s sharp steel sliced Moth’s hand off at the middle of the forearm. Blood spewed from the sharp bone and meaty stump. “I ought to carve you to pieces myself! I’ll let the dogs have their revenge first! They’ll devour you bit by bit!”

  The dogs forced Moth back into a tree.

  Crawley inched forward. “I’m going to enjoy watching you bleed to death. You live like a savage, and you’ll die like one too.” He spit on Moth.

  In a wink, Moth struck Crawley in the neck with the sharp bone protruding from his stump. The man’s eyes popped. His mouth gurgled. Moth jabbed Crawley again and again. He gouged holes in the stunned man’s neck and eyes. The commander hit his knees. Blood oozed down his face and neck. He teetered and died, pumping the last of his life’s blood onto the forest floor.

  Moth bashed the dog that was still on his arm into a tree until its skull cracked. He slung it off, grabbed the other wolf by the nape, and eyed it. The dog whimpered. It slunk off the moment he dropped it. He picked up the torch and stuck his stump in the flame. His jaws clenched. Flesh burned. The stump cauterized, and the blood flow stopped. Bathed in sweat, Moth swayed. He set his broad back against the tree. His bloody chest was heaving.

  The soldiers who’d fled returned minutes later. They snaked through the brush. This time, they came with spears. Moth leaned down and scooped up Crawley’s sword. Ten soldiers had him surrounded.

  Then something clanked through the forest that caught everyone’s attention. A manlike form waded into the ring of warriors. The figure had spears for legs and a spine. The head was a pair of axes. The arms were swords. It moved with unnatural bends but with a determined purpose. The animated warrior made from wood and steel attacked.

  The soldiers, jabbing spears, hit the mark in glancing blows. The magic automaton mowed them down with devastating sword strokes. The blades pierced chests and gouged throats with uncanny precision. The axe-blade head of the metal stickman split a skull with a head butt. The blades twirled. Bowels were spilled. Limbs were lost. Necks were detached from shoulders. Droplets of blood kissed the leaves like rain. After minutes of battling side by side with Moth, every soldier who’d entered the willowwacks lay dead.

  Finster strolled through the brush. The whites of his eyes had the glow of the moon. He eyed the handiwork of his creation. He said to Moth, “There is a reason they call me Master of the Inanimate.” With a wave of his hand, the steel soldier collapsed.

  Finster’s eyes found Crawley. “Ah, a pity. I was so hoping to kill him myself. Well done, Moth. For a barbarian, that is.” With a twist of his fingers, the shackles fell away from his and Moth’s ankles.

  Moth picked up his hand and walked away.

  In a mystically enhanced voice, Finster said, “Ingrid, I’m coming for you.” The birds scattered from the trees. He followed Moth. With every step he took, his toes barely touched the ground.

  CHAPTER 17

  Outside of the forest, many horses remained. What was left of Crawley’s men had joined forces with the citadel guardians. Finster’s eyes narrowed. Ingrid and her troops galloped away. “What a pity. I thought Ingrid would remain to offer me some congratulations.” His eyes slid over to Moth. The barbarian was gashed up and bloody. The charred stump of an arm was ghastly. Finster’s stomach churned a little. “You really must have a larger grudge against her than I do.”

  Moth stuck his hand in a saddlebag and his foot into the stirrup of a dapple-gray horse. One armed, he swung himself up into the saddle. The huge man was oversized for the beast.

  “What? No more running today?” Finster mounted a horse. He sat tall in the saddle, shoulders back, like a proud general prepared to lead his troops into battle. He had control of the Founder’s Stone. Its boundless energy surged through him. Every arcane practice he’d ever mastered was enhanced. This must be how Ingrid feels. Invincible. I delight in it.

  He pondered his future. He had mastered the stone. That had been his dream. But even with the artifact in his possession, Ingrid still had power that rivaled his. The eight rings combined to make a powerful artifact. Even though Finster had the stone, she was certainly a match for him—perhaps more so. He didn’t know. Perhaps I should warn the King of Mendes of her treachery. Most likely, the buffoon will take her word over mine. Men are so easily seduced by the ladies. Hmmmm. Perhaps I should stay out of this altogether and just enjoy my abilities for now, but for the sake of the order, I must finish this. I hate my conscience.

  Moth urged his horse forward. Hooves splashed in the mud.

  “Why don’t you take these horses and return to your lands?” Finster asked. “For the life of me, I don’t see what your stake in this is.”

  The barbarian rode on, silent, hi
s broad shoulders slightly sagging forward. He looked like he’d been regurgitated from the jaws of a devourer. The bite marks alone were more than enough to kill a man. He bled, but slowly. The fire in his eyes seemed to keep him going.

  The horses moved through the night at a steady walk. There was no need to chase after Ingrid. She wasn’t going anywhere. She’d be waiting. Finster and Moth didn’t stop until later the next day. The Red Citadel loomed in the distance. Plumes of smoke snaked out of the granite building’s smokestacks. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air.

  Finster’s fingertips tingled.

  “I don’t know if you’ll be open to it, but I plan to enter the same way I left. I just don’t find it very likely that she’ll let us through the front door. What do you say, half-dead? Oh, never mind. You’ll probably have more to say in the grave. Looking forward to it.”

  They returned to the cave they’d departed from. Moth lumbered into the portal with a face devoid of expression. It led them right back to the study room of Constance the Chameleon. From there, they slunk into the empty hallways of the underground level and headed up the stairs. They made it into the great hallway that led to the throne room. The citadel guardians, spears in hand, waited. A score of them shielded the door. The metal-masked men gave cold, unresponsive looks.

  Finster stepped out into the middle of the hallway. He approached a few dozen yards from the stairs that led up to the throne-room door. “Citadel guardians, move aside. I would have words with Ingrid.”

  The warriors lowered their spears.

  Finster’s chin dipped. Power flickered in his eyes. “Peril comes to those that don’t heed nature’s warning.”

  The guardians advanced down the steps.

  Suddenly, the spears writhed in the guardians’ hands. The wooden shafts coiled up, and the spearheads bent back like snakes. The animated weapons struck out at the guardians, piercing flesh and bone.