Severed Empire: Wizard's Rise

by Phillip Tomasso

  Eventually, his eyes grew too heavy to keep open. Fighting sleep was no longer an option. His head lowered onto the book’s pages. They felt as soft as his down pillow. He convinced himself he’d sleep only for a moment, just until the burning of his eyeballs subsided.

  He woke up when his father yelled. Startled, his head sprang off the book. “Father,” he said. Remnants of sleep were in his voice, crust coated his eyelids. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “What is this?” King Elroy snatched up the book. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The pride he thought he’d feel was missing; he was filled with fear instead. “I wanted to help Jeremiah.”

  “Your brother is dead.” King Elroy spat the words. He loomed like a giant over the small table.

  Hermon pushed back in his chair, putting slight distance between himself and his father. “He’s not dead.”

  “He’s dead,” King Elroy said. “And when I come to tell you, I find this?”

  “I wanted to help him, father. I knew I could heal him.”

  “With witchcraft?” King Elroy huffed, puffing his chest. “Did you do something to your brother?”

  “Did I do something to my brother?” Hermon furrowed his brow, confused by the question. “I was going to heal him, to help him!”

  King Elroy ran a hand over his face. “What have you done? What did you do to us? Your brother didn’t deserve this curse. He—”

  “Curse? Father, I didn’t curse him. It wasn’t me.”

  King Elroy wasn’t listening. He paced the bedchamber. “It explains why the curer couldn’t determine a cause. He wasn’t looking for black magic! He wasn’t checking for witchcraft!”

  “Father, it wasn’t me! I didn’t curse my brother.” He knew he was crying, felt ashamed of those tears. He refused to wipe them away as that would only serve as an acknowledgement of his weakness. He wasn’t weak.

  Other than his father’s footsteps, silence filled the room and stretched.

  Eventually, King Elroy leaned in close, and lowered his voice to just above a harsh whisper. “I am going to burn this book. You are never to mention it, ever. Do you understand me?”

  His father was never going to believe him, not now; arguing would be pointless.

  “There will be further repercussions for what you have wrought, have no doubt! What you’ve done is unforgivable. Unforgivable!”

  After Jeremiah’s funeral, Hermon spent a full week in the stockades. The king refused to tell anyone why, but encouraged the throwing of rotten fruit and vegetables at his youngest son. Once a day a squire showed up and doused him with two buckets of water, as he was forced to urinate and defecate where he stood bent over and bound by the unfinished wood.

  There was no recovering from that humiliation, and he relived the torment nightly in his dreams. He often awoke screaming and covered in cold sweat. No one ever comforted him. He was left totally alone. The king didn’t share meals in the hall with him. He’d rather eat alone than with his only remaining son. As further and continual punishment he made Hermon serve his meal from the kitchen, wait as he ate, and then clear the table once he finished.

  The servants never asked questions. They didn’t look at him with pity in their eyes, either. No. It was suspicion he saw, if they held eye contact for more than a second or two.

  Others inside the castle turned away when they saw him. He’d been shunned, ostracized by his father’s attitude and behavior toward him.

  Did everyone think he killed his brother? They must suspect he’d done something horrible. If not, wouldn’t they wonder why King Elroy tortured the prince so mercilessly?

  Hermon didn’t dare return to the library. He suspected books on magic had been removed; either hidden, or destroyed, it didn’t matter. He didn’t need magic anymore. Jeremiah was dead. For what he wanted to do next, all Hermon needed was to collect the poison pellets left in every corner of the castle. He saved them in a jar in his room under his bed. He ground the pellets into a powder, keeping the poison in a cupped hand, and dropped it into the king’s meals. He did so every day, adding poison to whatever the king ate.

  When the king became ill, he considered stopping. He thought his father might recover had he stopped. At no point did King Elroy show any signs of forgiveness toward Hermon. Even when bedridden, the king had Hermon bring his food, and remove the dirty dishes. That decided it for Hermon. He continued.

  When King Elroy could no longer eat, Hermon mixed the poison into whatever broth his father could slurp from a spoon. It didn’t matter. The curer explained that the king would pass away soon, and once again patted Hermon on the head.

  It was the only physical human contact, the only conversation with anyone, Herman had experienced in a long, long time.

  He felt no remorse.

  He harbored no guilt when informed that his father had died.

  What he knew, but hadn’t fully realized, was that he was now the king.

  The people proclaimed it at his coronation. They even lied as they cried: “Long live the king!”

  They couldn’t mean it. Half suspected he’d killed his brother. The other half, the king. With the crown on his head, it didn’t matter. At nearly nine years old, he was in charge of the entire realm, and that was all that mattered.

  Chapter 21

  The way down from the Archers’ canopy was less than impressive. Knotted ropes were lowered. Mykal stayed up top while his friends, followed by Quill and Anthony, shimmied down. He pointed his hands at those nearby as if they were the lethal weapons he guessed they now were, if he knew how to summon his magic at will. The archers had no idea what he’d done had been one of the only times he’d ever used magic. They watched his fingers wide-eyed as if something more dangerous than arrows were aimed at their hearts. They feared him. He supposed he shouldn’t enjoy the feeling, but couldn’t help it. He liked it. Galatia took over the threat from the ground while Mykal worked his way down the long rope. He was amazed how it dropping below the canopy transformed daylight into darkness. The sunlight only sporadically reached the forest floor. There were slivers of its rays, straight beams that descended through the canopy to a spots on the ground. Other than those shafts and their ambient illumination, it was mostly darkness.

  The horses had not lingered. Mykal stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Everyone looked around. After a moment, all four horses returned.

  “Nice,” Quill commented.

  Blodwyn took Applejack by the reins, and patted the horse’s muscular neck. “What do we do next?”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing?” Anthony demanded. “Quill, why are we—”

  Quill controlled many things with his hand. He held it up and Anthony stopped talking. He and his companions should develop silent communication, Mykal thought.

  Galatia looked up. Mykal could tell she wasn’t comfortable with an audience, or around people in general. It only made sense considering her interminably long time without human contact. “I suppose here is as good a place as any,” she said.

  Karyn held both Defiance and Jiminey’s reins.

  “Mykal, join me, please,” Galatia said, holding out her hand.

  Mykal gave Blodwyn his horse’s reins, and then stood facing Galatia. He took her hands in his. They stared into each other’s eyes. “I’m going to do this with you?” he asked. “What about not using magic?”

  She smiled. “We’re a bit past that point, don’t you think?” Her smile silently said it was inevitable.

  “What do I do?”

  “Repeat everything I say, until you have the words memorized. Then we will say them together. Keep your eyes closed. You will hear things, and want to open your eyes, but do not. We are the ones in control.”

  “We? Who else is there?”

  “Never mind that now. Don’t let go of my hands. Close your eyes,” she said.

  “What do we do?” Blodwyn stood beside Karyn, but kept an eye on the Archers. Magic had been outlawed for so lo
ng, few alive had ever seen sorcery with their own eyes. They seemed more interested in watching what happened next, as opposed to anything more nefarious.

  “Give us space; back away. Form a circle around us. No matter what you see, or hear, do not interrupt. Is that understood? Okay, Mykal. Let’s begin.”

  Galatia began to speak. They weren’t words Mykal recognized, simply sounds that seemed almost intelligible somewhere on the fringes of his consciousness. When she paused, he’d repeat them as best he could. She gave his fingers an encouraging squeeze, and then said more words, different words. He repeated them. A third set were chanted, and he repeated them, but couldn’t fathom how he would remember them all in sequence.

  Galatia recycled through the phrases. One at a time.

  Mykal regurgitated them.

  She went over them again.

  Mykal noticed a rhythm to the words, a beat he hadn’t discerned at first. Galatia stopped after repeating the third stanza; the two of them began again in unison. The bizarre, pseudo-words fell from his tongue as though he’d been speaking the odd language his entire life.

  And they were moving. He’d swear it. It felt as if he and Galatia spun while knowing his feet were firmly planted on the mulched forest floor. He grew dizzy from the perceived twirl.

  The chant increased in tempo. They repeated their mantra again and again faster each time.

  He wished he knew what the words meant.

  He began to hear voices surrounding them. It wasn’t Blodwyn, or Karyn, or any of the woods dwellers. Like the chant, he didn’t understand anything they said.

  Hands touched him. Fingertips ran along his sides. Normally ticklish, he remained unmoved.

  Who or what touched him?

  Galatia had said not to open his eyes. If he did, would he see who was touching him? Would he see who was whispering this strangeness in his ears?

  The number of voices increased dramatically. Men and women whispered in his ears. More hands, uncountable hands, caressed his body, moving up and down his legs, his arms, across his chest and over his back. Some enwrapped around his waist. Were they pulling him away from Galatia? Was he being lifted from the ground?

  He’d climbed the tree because Karyn was in trouble. Floating was something else altogether. His fear of heights returned manifold.

  He forced himself to keep his eyes closed. He continued to chant. Even with all of the whispering around him, he could still hear Galatia’s voice above the cacophonic susurrus. It remained loud. It was clearly audible.

  A sudden wind sprang to life and the whispers became screams. He almost let go of Galatia’s hands and covered his ears. What prevented him was the fear that he’d be pulled into the whirling current, carried away by the, multitude of hands. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter.

  The screams became more intense.

  The hands no longer caressed, they now clutched.

  The two wizards’ chanting continued.

  The wind increased, until it felt as though they were standing inside a tornado’s funnel.

  And then nothing.

  All of it. Everything stopped at once.

  Silence abruptly reigned. It should have been calming, relieving relief. It wasn’t.

  “You can open your eyes now, Mykal,” Galatia said.

  He didn’t want to. The forest had to have been destroyed. He could only imagine fallen trees, and a slew of dead Archers.

  “Open them,” she said yet again, and let go of his hands.

  He cracked open an eyelid, and looked around. Nothing appeared changed.

  With both eyes open, he turned in a circle. “What just happened?”

  Galatia said, “It was a very powerful spell. It revealed where the mirror can be found.”

  “A mirror?” Quill demanded. He threw his hands up. “We’re looking for a mirror?”

  “Why? Do you know where it is?” Blodwyn asked.

  “Some mirror? No. No, I do not,” Quill said.

  “I was under the impression you knew where everything was in this forest.” Blodwyn turned away, as if to hide his smile. Mykal caught it though.

  Mykal shrugged. “Nothing was revealed to—”

  Then he saw it. A reddish light floated just over the heads of those that formed their circle. Pointing, he said, “What is that?”

  Karyn said, “What?”

  “She will show us the way to the mirror,” Galatia said.

  “She?” Quill said.

  “The light, the red ball of light,” Mykal said.

  “They can’t see it.” Galatia shook her head. “Only we can.”

  Mykal felt tired. Excited, but drained. The red orb pulsed. He wasn’t sure how Galatia knew its sex, or that it even had one. The leaves, the plants, the weeds, everything visible the forest was cast in a magenta hue. “And we follow it?”

  “That’s right,” Galatia said. “We follow her.”

  ***

  No longer following the path, they walked the horses in a line, stepping over fallen limbs, crunching on crisp leaves, and fitting between trees. Anthony and Quill walked behind Galatia who led the party and Blodwyn behind them. Mykal and Karyn followed the others.

  Mykal kept shaking his arms, wiggling his fingers. A tingling raced up and down his body, and had ever since the ritual had been completed. He had been told that using magic drained one of their strength, their internal resources. On top of that, none of them had slept but a few hours the previous night, and Blodwyn not even that much. And he had been knocked unconscious in the interim. He had so many questions. He needed the opportunity to ask them. Galatia would get sick of the sound of his voice quickly. Though it couldn’t be helped; he knew she must be expecting it.

  “What did you see? While we were doing that, Galatia and I? Did you see anything?”

  “I just saw you and Galatia holding hands and whispering,” Karyn said.

  Whispering? They had been shouting, almost singing the words of the chant repeatedly. “And the wind?”

  “Wind?”

  “The screaming?”

  “No one screamed.”

  Not screamed. Screaming. “Who else was here, I mean besides us?”

  She eyed Mykal suspiciously, and slowly shook her head. “No one. There were only the six of us. No one else.”

  No one else. It didn’t make sense. The hands. The voices. The raging wind. He kept an eye on the orb. It moved slowly, went around trees, and stopped until Galatia caught up. It knew it was being followed. She knew she was being followed.

  The orb stopped, and hovered.

  “What is it?” Karyn said.

  “I’m not sure,” Mykal said. “Wait here.”

  Mykal walked past everyone and stopped beside Galatia.

  “It must be around here, somewhere,” she said, looking perplexed.

  Blodwyn stepped forward and waved his staff. “Everyone spread out and check the area.”

  “For a mirror,” Quill shook his head, laughing.

  They searched inside shrubs, behind brush, and under rocks.

  “There’s nothing here,” Quill said. He didn’t hide the smug look on his face; in fact, he smiled brightly, as cocksure as ever.

  “Over here,” Blodwyn said.

  A slanted tree with raised roots revealed a well-concealed hole in the ground.

  Mykal knelt in front of the small opening. The orb now hovered just above his head, as though encouraging him. He reached inside without thinking about it. “There’s nothing.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Quill said.

  “No,” Mykal said. “I mean there’s nothing. It’s more like a tunnel, I think.”

  “Tunnel?” Galatia said.

  Blodwyn stood by the Archers, ready to react if they tried anything. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

  “If you do,” Mykal said, “tell me. Because right now, I’ve got nothing.”

  Blodwyn lowered his head. “Can you fit?”

  “That’s what you thoug
ht I was thinking? It wasn’t. Furthest thing from my mind, actually,” Mykal said. Tight spaces were bad enough. Crawling down a hole into the ground surrounded by more darkness wasn’t going to happen. “There are probably giant spiders around here.”

  “The biggest,” Anthony said, and demonstrated their size with both hands, and bloating his cheeks. “With fangs. And they’re aggressive.”

  Mykal rolled his eyes, knowing he shouldn’t have given away such sensitive and intimate details about himself. He had to learn to protect his secrets. Karyn looked from him to Blodwyn. “Shall I go down there?”

  “I can do it,” Galatia said.

  He couldn’t let her go. He would look like a coward. “No,” Mykal said, clenching his jaw. He removed his quiver and bow from his back. “I can do this.”

  Sitting in front of the hole, he pushed his legs into the hole up to his knees. His eyes were shut tight; his breath held. His imagination began to run rampant. Large, aggressive spiders—with fangs—came for his ankles. He could almost see them ready, waiting to attack.

  “Mykal?” Blodwyn said.

  “I’m okay. I’m okay.” Mykal concentrated on controlling his breathing. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I’m ready. I’m going in.”

  Sliding forward, his legs were able to bend at the knees. He felt nothing below. He kicked around, hoping was wrong, and that there was dirt and roots and ground. There wasn’t. He’d been right. It was a hole. And he had no idea how deep it went.

  The purplish-scarlet orb moved in front of his face and then pushed into the gap above his legs. The light it cast helped. He could see under the tree somewhat. It was far from a perfect situation, but the light from the orb did make things a little better. He scooted forward. His toes continually searched for some sort of solidity. Once down to his waist he spun around onto his belly. Everyone stood around, watching. Trying to smile, Mykal offered a thumbs up, and forced himself all the way into the hole.

  And then fell.

  The drop was several feet. He had screamed as if he’d stumbled down a bottomless well.

  “Mykal?” Blodwyn shouted.

  Mykal got to his feet, and dusted himself off. There was plenty of room to stand. Thankfully the orb was with him. The light revealed a number of openings leading to potential pathways. Thick tree roots snaked out over the walls—or were there walls? Taproots dangled above, winding through the earth. “I’m okay,” he said. “There are tunnels.”