Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Novels from Top Fantasy and Science Fiction Authors

by Gwynn White

  Toxiv pointed at the girl. ‘For complaining like a spoiled child, you shall heal twenty such men today. Have you no shame? Your gifts exist to serve the people. You will not die or fall ill, or lose your beauty to ageing. You will hold your tongue until you have something worth saying, do you hear?’

  ‘Y-yes, High Priestess,’ she said shakily. Tears bloomed in her eyes. ‘Self-pity is a disgusting indulgence, be off with you.’

  The girl squeaked a sob, turned and ran.

  ‘None of you shall complain. Do your duty as healers,’ Toxiv said firmly. Her anger surged like a wild storm. She’d never yelled at her congregation before.

  ‘While I am gone to Juxon City to see the king, you must all work hard. Without you, the people will die. Please promise me.’

  ‘You cannot leave now!’ Priestess Lysa cried out. ‘We need your guidance, Holy One.’

  Toxiv looked sadly at them all. In her own way, she loved them. ‘I must. The Death Plague has spread to Brundore Tavern.’

  Alarmed chatter rose up from the crowd.

  ‘But h-how?’ asked a soldier.

  Toxiv thought back to Shovock’s decaying body. All those sick women she’d given to him. Ones so filled with madness and horrible infestations that they didn’t seem human.

  ‘How could it have started here?’ one of the apprentices asked. The room went quiet in wait of her answer, their eyes like glaring beams of light.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Toxiv said, glancing at Puffle, one of several scholars who kept her personal library and records in order. She curled a finger at him and Puffle sauntered to her side.

  ‘Send ravens to Priestess Silica of the Borrelia Temple,’ Toxiv murmured in his ear. ‘And to Priestess Yelloza. Summon them here immediately. Add an addendum for Lord Morkat requesting a thousand of his soldiers. We are in desperate need of assistance. I will return in ten or so days.’ When the scholar stopped writing, she added, ‘Send another raven immediately to Juxon City and have the king set up a blockade using only healers and men. No women. We may stop the disease getting into the city walls.’

  ‘As you will,’ Puffle said and left.

  High Priestess Toxiv gave her subjects her blessing then retreated to her quarters to pack her things. Her maid had been taken ill, but it didn’t matter—she needed to occupy her hands. Her mind. It felt good to move around; her skin crawled with agitation. She’d dealt with the king of Senya before, but he was an unreasonable and selfish man who gave the healers no respect.

  The situation had grown out of hand, filling her with fear, a fear she could show no one. The progression of time had seen a fall in the people’s faith in the healer religion of the sun god, and while the Death Plague would bring much suffering, a thought of opportunity seeded.

  The people needed the healers. They would be desperate. In that desperation, she could elevate healers to higher positions of society. Of rank. They might receive more coin, and more luxury.

  The king himself might beg at her feet. An image of the king coming down from his mighty throne to kneel on his knees before her made her chuckle.

  His obsession with young healer girls was well documented. Perhaps if he was in her debt, she would reveal his character to the world.

  15

  Lord Morkat

  Lord Morkat of Meligna sat cross-legged in his personal garden at his isolated palace, enjoying the chirping birds and morning sunrise as it bathed his arboretum in muted hues of gold.

  The pressures of ruling a city were countless, and heavy was the heart that bore such trials, but as the sun appeared beyond the eastern mountains he revelled in a delightful moment’s peace and quiet.

  Quiet, which inevitably ended. ‘My Lord,’ whispered Sykai, his assistant. Her presence banished the calm as she lingered in the archway entrance to his private, walled sanctum.

  ‘Yes?’ he answered, exhaling away irritation.

  ‘Priestess Yelloza requests a short interlude.’

  ‘All I ask is for one, quiet moment.’ He sprung to his feet lightly.

  ‘Forgive me, My Lord.’

  He waved his hand. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Sykai, show her in.’

  Sykai left and Priestess Yelloza wandered into the garden and bowed low. ‘My Lord.’

  Lord Morkat returned the formality with a short nod. ‘Well met, Priestess Yelloza,’ he said robustly. ‘Approach. To what do I owe the honour?’

  ‘A wave of misfortune washes away the banks of Senya.’

  The lord sighed with annoyance. ‘For today, Priestess Yelloza, would you please speak plainly?’

  ‘I shall try.’ She cleared her throat like a choking camel. ‘I bring a letter from High Priestess Toxiv.’

  ‘Clearly spoken, well done,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Let’s try to have the entire conversation that way. Now, summarise her letter for me please; I assume you’ve read it.’

  ‘Of course.’ Priestess Yelloza unfurled a strip of parchment. ‘The High Priestess has requested military aid to manage a flood of diseased people flocking to the sanctuary gates. Symptoms include pustular spots, fever, vomiting, and madness. Holiest Toxiv currently travels to Juxon City to warn the king, and shall return in ten days, hoping to find Meligna’s army already at her aid. Prevention is better than a cure, My Lord.’

  The lord of Meligna considered the high priestess’s request gravely. None of his people were yet affected by the plague. The request came from the high priestess and not from the king himself, who wielded absolute power in the lands of Senya.

  Lord Morkat had not risen to the rank of lord by taking foolish risks, and nothing would be gained by putting his own soldiers in the path of the affliction.

  ‘Thank you, Priestess,’ he said, cautiously. ‘Let us delay. Our citizens are safe here. If our men go beyond these walls, they may, themselves become vectors for this ailment. The risk is too great.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Priestess Yelloza. ‘Good walls make for good neighbours, but My Lord, the Ruxdorians have recently requested more healing women. As always, they offer up warriors for the trade. Perhaps, with the threat of a deadly plague, they might be willing to send their own skilled and savage warriors to Lightend Sanctuary to help stop the spread.’

  Lord Morkat steepled his fingers. ‘Indeed, that would relieve us of any responsibility.’

  ‘Meligna has been negligent to our northern neighbours,’ Priestess Yelloza added. ‘We could be birds of a feather.’

  It was odd for Yelloza to offer such a convenient solution, and it pleased him she’d given the matter serious thought. ‘Send word to General Pernavaka, then,’ he said, firmly. ‘Have her tend to Lightend Sanctuary. I’ll leave the rest of the details up to you.’

  ‘We will keep our people safe, My Lord,’ she said, and bowed her head, retreating.

  16

  Abyslam

  Abyslam burst out of his family’s house, storming down the Uppers main streetway in Juxon City.

  ‘You’ll be a soldier in the king’s royal guard whether you like it or not!’ his father shouted after him.

  Abyslam ignored his father’s bellows, which were hot with the fury from their recent fight. He sought out the Juxon City healer temple for peace to pray to the sun god. Among the holy and pure healers, his thoughts would settle and calm.

  As he passed the morning vendors at their stalls selling vegetables, preserves, bread and spices, he cursed his father under his breath. Though his father held the position of Master Treasurer for the royal court, his passion was for the sword. Unfortunately, his poor eyesight made him incapable with a weapon. So he’d pushed his interests on Abyslam as soon as the boy could walk. By his tenth year, Abyslam’s skill with the sword surpassed those below and above him in age. As his mind developed, he took an interest in the holy path of righteousness advised by the healers. Abyslam’s distaste for violence grew, and by his fifteenth year, he would not harm another man unless forced.

  This shamed his father.

  In ret
aliation, Abyslam’s father entered his son into every sword, archery and pike fighting competition in the lands. He also hired a brutish thug named Trodder to train him to exhaustion. If Abyslam did not train hard, he was whipped and beaten into submission. Abyslam finally relented. He never lost a fight and obtained much gold.

  Punishment for the crime murder of murder would see a man hanged. Only the king could pardon you, and so leaving the guard was unthinkable. Killing the prisoner in cold blood had the added effect of proving your strength of character to the king. This was the profession Abyslam’s father—a man who was supposed to love him— was forcing him to do.

  Abyslam drew nearer to the healer temple, where he took solace among the ornate pews and exquisite architecture. The temple’s two spiked towers reached high into the swirling clouds. Approaching the arched entryway, he inhaled the familiar incense and instantly calmed.

  Once inside and sitting, his father’s voice dulled to silence. A breeze blew through an open window, sounding like soft wind chimes. The golden sun statue of the healer’s eye gleamed at the front. A healer woman stared at him silently from beside the eye, wondering if he needed a healing.

  The other healers comforted crying townspeople; the noise tangled in Abyslam’s ears. The murmurings of wise words swirled about the room, mixing with the melodic chimes.

  Abyslam relocated to the front pew to behold the crystal gold of the healers’ eyes. They glowed slightly, like a fading ember, or a dying star. Locks of golden hair fell to the waists of the younger ones. To him they were more pure and holier than gods.

  Although the older healers had brown hair, they retained their youth and beauty. The oldest healer in the world lived in this very building. She was rumoured to be a hundred and seventy years.

  Abyslam felt ashamed for noticing their loveliness. They were not objects for a man’s desires, but the daughters of the sun, and free from all possible bodily dysfunction.

  Suddenly, King Cevznik stomped into the temple, eyes fixed forward. Two royal soldiers followed with a healer girl about twenty years of age. About the same age as Abyslam.

  Abyslam turned away, not wanting to draw the king’s attention while in a mood. They’d spoken once before, briefly, when Abyslam attended a court matter with his father. The king barely spared a word his way then.

  ‘Everyone out!’ The king yelled, and then coughed hard. While he coughed, the people fled the room. When he stopped coughing he said, ‘I wish for a healing. I wish to see Priestess Jewlsa.’

  ‘Healer Fodnut can heal you,’ one of them said.

  He looked back at the healer he’d brought. ‘Healer Fodnut no longer pleases me.’

  ‘What has she done wrong, Sire?’ the healer asked.

  ‘I don’t owe you an explanation. Just do as I command!’

  ‘Very well, one of us will happily heal you.’

  Abyslam marvelled at how composed she remained, even with his stern manner. Healers could only be killed if their heads were severed from their bodies. Killing them any other way proved a challenge. Perhaps that made them brave.

  The king struck the healer to whom he spoke. Abyslam flooded with outrage, his feet jiggling with the urgency to jump to their aid.

  No, he thought. Keep your wits. You’ll disgrace yourself and your family.

  ‘I, the king of Senya, wish to see the priestess. Now!’

  The healer stared at him levelly. ‘The priestess is busy.’

  The king slapped her so hard the sound echoed across the room. ‘Obey me at once.’

  ‘We will fetch her,’ one of the younger healers said. She ran through the back door.

  Abyslam’s heart pounded. He’d never seen such disrespect for the healers, and he wondered how Priestess Jewlsa, an elusive figurehead, would respond to this abuse.

  The king slumped against a pew, smirking. He didn’t look unwell, and he coughed no more.

  The healer he’d hit said, ‘Forgive me for displeasing you, My King. Guide me in what I did wrong.’

  The king looked her up and down, and snorted derisively. ‘Get out of my sight.’

  The healer bowed and left just as Priestess Jewlsa entered through the back door. In the centre of her silken trimmed white robes was the Sun God symbol. On the sleeves were golden eyes. A gold sash shimmered as she walked. ‘My king, what an honour it is to see you here,’ said Priestess Jewlsa, bowing.

  The king took her hand and kissed the back of it. ‘I tire of Healer Fodnut. It has been two years, I wish for another.’

  The priestess frowned. ‘How has she displeased you?’

  ‘She grew too attached to me. The queen became jealous. Do you train your girls to be whores now?’

  The priestess raised her chin. ‘I assure you, we do no such thing.’

  The king nodded. ‘Seeing as I don’t trust you to train the girls as I need, I would like a young one to train myself.’ He grabbed Healer Fodnut’s arm and shoved her forward into the priestess’s arms.

  Healer Fodnut burst into tears. The priestess whispered something into the girl’s ear, and she ran, disappearing through the back doors. Priestess Jewlsa turned back to the king, and calmly said, ‘In a hundred years we have not changed. Girls under the age of sixteen are not permitted to heal.’

  ‘I am your king!’ he shouted, face reddening. The priestess kept still. ‘I won’t hesitate to resign you from your position, priestess, if you do not appease me.’

  Priestess Jewlsa pursed her lips. ‘Allow me to send you one of age. Sixteen and untouched by other men.’

  ‘Twelve,’ he countered.

  Abyslam watched the priestess repress her disgust. A disgust that he shared in.

  ‘I cannot,’ said the priestess.

  ‘Fourteen then, Lord Warnan’s daughter was married at fourteen.’

  The priestess said, ‘Healers are not wives. You already have a wife. Fifteen is the youngest I will send to you.’

  The king glared at her for a moment. ‘Fifteen then. But you’ll get a sack less gold this month. You best send me your prettiest, even-tempered girl.’

  ‘Choose between young or good tempered, for you can’t have both.’

  The king struck the priestess across the face, but again the priestess remained unmoved. No tears brimmed in her eyes. Blood oozed from her lip, but she wiped it away like a bothersome fly.

  ‘Send the girl to my rooms today!’ He turned and left.

  Priestess Jewlsa stared after him with a look of retribution. Then she blinked, noticing Abyslam watching. She turned and placed a hand on the sun god statue, closed her eyes and said a prayer.

  With the doors open, people wandered in, their voices blissfully unaware of the dark stain of corruption the king left imprinted in the skin of the pure.

  ‘Be quiet,’ Abyslam snapped at the newcomers.

  The priestess met his eyes and smiled a thank you.

  Abyslam fled.

  17

  Abyslam

  Back at home in his room, Abyslam sat on his bed thinking about what he’d seen in the temple. No man, not even the king of Senya, should strike a woman. He shuddered at the thought of his ugly, old man body pressing perversely against a young healer, one who’d only recently left childhood behind.

  ‘Animal,’ he said, angrily. Certainly, he’d felt the lustful feelings that all men had for women, but he controlled it. He wasn’t at temptation’s mercy. As a fighter he’d witnessed soldiers and warriors talking only of girls’ bosoms and undergarments. Wenches and dairy maids were nothing more than prizes to be won. Each time, Abyslam turned away in disgust. Female kind deserved better.

  But healers were not ordinary, and the king was supposed to be upstanding and spotless. A moral man who set the example—yet he openly defiled the healers: the most pure and delicate of all beings.

  Perhaps if he worked closely with the king, he might be able to help the healers somehow. At the very least, he could offer them comfort through their grief.

  Passion co
nsumed him. Finally, he had a plan that would satisfy himself and his father. He would be the healers’ most devoted protector. They would take strength from him. Springing off his bed, he inhaled a breath of courage, then went downstairs to face his father who read by a sizzling hearth.

  ‘Father,’ Abyslam said joyfully.

  The greying man ran a finger down a stained book page, then snapped it shut. He took off his reading glasses and turned his head. ‘Yes?’

  ‘My walk today brought clarity to my thoughts. I agree with you, I wish to join the king’s royal guard.’

  His father’s unkempt eyebrows dipped inwards. ‘Come stand before me, my boy.’

  Abyslam moved closer, feeling the hearth’s warmth on his back.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I am, Father,’ he beamed. ‘I’m very certain.’

  A teary glimmer bloomed in his father’s eyes. Abyslam was startled for he’d never seen his father cry before.

  ‘I’ve been a fool, Father,’ Abyslam said. ‘If I could serve the king directly, it would be the greatest of honours, not only for you and Mother, but for my country. For my king.’

  A whoosh of air left his father’s lungs. ‘I-I know I’ve pushed you all these years. In doing so I drove us apart, made you hate me, but now I see I was right in doing so. Never have you made me more proud. Captain Buckhorn, the head of the royal guard, owes me a great debt. Tomorrow you will move into the castle.’ He took his son’s hand. ‘I express my feelings like a barbarian. I don’t know why your mother puts up with me, but Abyslam, I will miss you dearly. I love you, my son. This house will be empty without you.’

  Abyslam could hardly speak. He hadn’t realised that complying with his father’s wishes would bring such comfort, and in a way, he felt guilty.

  His father stood, knees cracking as he leaned up to hug his son. ‘I know your greatest objection to joining the royal guard is killing a criminal. I’ll have Captain Buckhorn waive that condition.’