Severed Empire: Wizard's Rise

by Phillip Tomasso

  ***

  By noon on the second day off of the mountain, the foothills were long behind them, and the ground was mostly level. They would reach the castle’s moat by dusk. The humidity was back. It wasn’t as welcome a change from the cold as Mykal might have expected. He wished he could find a happy medium when it came to temperature. He didn’t like it too hot, or too cold, too windy, or too humid. If he learned anything, it was that he had no say in the matter. Endurance was what it came down to; endurance and stamina. He currently felt as though he had neither.

  They rationed the water collected from a creek last night, but Mykal still felt dehydrated, and worn out. He looked forward to sitting down and taking off his boots, though not the odor he knew would be there. There was also a good chance that once his boots came off, they might not fit back on.

  Mykal, on many occasions, felt the desire to comfort Quill. Blodwyn told him to give the man space, and time. Blodwyn said when Quill was ready to talk, if he ever was ready to talk about Anthony’s death, would bring it up on his own. Blodwyn explained most soldiers didn’t discuss losses from battle. It was a personal nightmare they kept close to their hearts. Death was personal, and private.

  It took a few days, but slowly, Quill came around. He started talking more, and joking around when appropriate. Mykal still worried about him. He never mentioned Anthony.

  Mykal wasn’t sure how he would deal with death. Losing his mother, and then his father were the worst pains he’d ever felt. He did not think there was room in his heart for more suffering.

  Grandfather and Blodwyn were his family.

  And now Quill.

  “Castle is pretty beat up,” Blodwyn said. “The wall looks mostly collapsed along the north-west side. Can you see that?”

  Mykal looked where Blodwyn pointed. “Just barely. Is the place really haunted?”

  “Supposedly. The way I understand it, those inside the keep kept waiting for help to arrive when they were under attack,” he said.

  “But no one ever came.”

  “And so when they were slaughtered, they died waiting. Their spirits are said to roam the entire keep seeking revenge on anyone that enters.”

  “Revenge?”

  Blodwyn cocked his head to one side. “For being too late to help.”

  Chapter 40

  The stagnate moat surrounded the castle. The drawbridge was down. The wood worn, and in need of repair, did not look strong enough for a dog to cross safely. The chains for raising and lowering the drawbridge were rusted stiff. The walls hadn’t only collapsed in spots; it was riddled with missing blocks throughout. Crumbled towers leaned in places like steps. Clouds of mosquitos hovered above the surface of placid water; some dragonflies perched on reeds, others zipped back and forth.

  On the ground, just to the right of the lowered bridge, rising from of the dirt was a blue rose with a bright green stem, and leaves. Mykal was tempted to reach for it. The tip of the rose suddenly blackened. The darkness spread down the pedals as if plagued. The breeze whisked away the charred ash as the entire flower was blown destroyed.

  “Did you see that?” he said.

  “See what?” Karyn said.

  “The rose? The blue rose?”

  Karyn stood silent, looking where Mykal pointed. “I don’t see it.”

  “It’s gone now.”

  “The rose is gone?”

  “Never mind,” Mykal said, but couldn’t take his eyes from the spot.

  “This place is. . .” she said, her voice trailed off.

  “What?” Blodwyn said. “You sense something?”

  “If we go in there, everything changes,” she said.

  “Changes?” Mykal said.

  “There are spirits inside. They know we’re here.” Karyn shook her head, slowly, as if trying to remember something. “I just, I don’t feel good about it.”

  Quill said. “You have two of the three talismans. Do we need the third? I mean, isn’t that kind of greedy?”

  “If we don’t retrieve the chalice, this King Hermon will find it,” Galatia said. “He has one powerful wizard on his side already. A second fighting the war for the Osiris Realm could prove devastating for King Nabal.”

  “While I have always harbored suspicions, it seems fair to say that Hermon Cordillera is evil, with a madman’s charm. He is dangerous. We cannot let him possess anymore magic,” Blodwyn said.

  “Just asking,” Quill said. “And this chalice, it’s down in the catacombs below the castle?”

  “Below the castle the old kings are buried in sarcophagi,” Galatia said.

  “Sarcophagi?” Karyn asked.

  Blodwyn said, “Stone coffins.”

  Karyn closed her mouth and nodded. She’d given her warning and it didn’t look like she planned on repeating herself. It was in her mannerisms, though. And Mykal did not take the warning or her instincts lightly.

  “I’ll go and retrieve the chalice,” he said. “Alone.”

  “Not this time,” Galatia said. “The enemy inside is not like any we’ve faced. You will need protection while you search.”

  “They’re spirits,” Quill said. “Dead. They can’t harm the living. Just creep us out. Boooooo,” he wiggled his fingers, “and all of that. They should pass right through us as if they didn’t exist, is how I understand it.”

  “What you understand is not accurate,” Galatia said. “The spirits trapped inside those decaying walls can keep you.”

  “Keep us?” Mykal said. “What does that mean? How can they do that.”

  “By killing you,” Galatia said.

  “You’re not all going in there with me,” Mykal said.

  “I am,” Quill said. “We’re in this together.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Blodwyn said. He tapped the end of his staff on the soft ground. “You’re being able to retrieve the chalice is far too important for us to sit out here and wait. Something tells me this might be more dangerous than facing Cavers.”

  Mykal looked over. Galatia just shrugged.

  Mykal sighed, shaking his head.

  ***

  The drawbridge groaned under their combined weight as they walked over the rot-riddled planks. The steady hum of dragonfly wings surrounded them. The sun sat above them; the sky darkened, storm clouds rolling toward them from the west, over the mountains they’d just crossed.

  Mykal walked into the keep first. He was not nearly as skilled with a bow as his uncle, so he kept his bow and quiver over his shoulder and let the blade from his sword lead the way. Karyn stayed right behind him. Next came Quill, who kept an arrow nocked, while his eyes scoured the area searching for any sign of a threat. Blodwyn held his staff with both hands. He took careful steps, pivoting this way and that. Galatia’s fingers looked frozen, stuck in odd positions on her hands, as if itching for a chance to throw fireballs.

  The keep was flat, dirt and crushed rock. There were abandoned vendor carts here and there. Nothing for sale today, though. Straw canopies over the carts were mostly gone, wheels were broken. The walls of the fortress were in worse repair than they appeared when viewed from without. The parapet was equally decayed and missing sections. Parts were charred black from fires burned out long ago.

  “This is too creepy,” Quill said.

  “I don’t like it either,” Karyn said.

  The sound of their voices fell flat, as if muffled. No one else spoke, perhaps as unnerved as Mykal was by the unnatural way the sound behaved.

  The castle was at the far north west of the keep, atop a small hill. A stone staircase led to the main doors. Loose and chipped steps crumbled underfoot.

  Doors that stood twenty feet high were decorated with iron hinges and iron doorknockers. They party stood dwarfed by the entrance.

  “Do we knock?” Karyn said.

  Mykal shook his head. He leaned a shoulder against the door. “Locked.”

  Quill handed Karyn his bow. “On three,” he said.

  They pushed. The doors d
id not move.

  “The wood everywhere is rotted, but not here,” Blodwyn said.

  “Stand back,” Galatia said.

  “Do we want to drain our energy opening doors?” Mykal said. He had considered using magic, but wanted all of his strength ready when needed. They didn’t have any more food, so rest would be all the young wizard could rely on.

  “These won’t deplete me,” she said, smiling.

  Mykal and Quill stepped aside.

  “Whoa,” Karyn said.

  The door on the left was ajar.

  “We must have loosened the, uh, hinges,” Quill said, retrieving his bow, again nocking an arrow. He shouldered his way into the castle. He whistled.

  Again, the sound fell flat.

  With both doors open, Mykal expected some natural light to fill the foyer. It didn’t. The room was as grey and dark as the storm clouds coming over the mountain. The main room was damp, dank. Black mold shared space with moth-eaten tapestries on the walls. Giant cobwebs draped the empty torch brackets. Wooden benches and planks of wood that had once formed a table were tipped over, smashed to kindling.

  Mykal couldn’t shut his mind off. The horrors of the attack filled his imaginings. The raiders must have been relentless, merciless.

  “How do we find a way down to the catacombs?” Mykal said.

  “In a rush, or something?” Quill said. He stepped sideways around the main room. On the far left was a staircase that led to higher floors. “Not over here.”

  Mykal flicked his wrists, turned around, aiming at where torches did occupy brackets. Fires lit the room. Shadows walked across the darkness whenever anyone moved. “That’s better,” he said.

  “You think so? Made the whole place a little spookier,” Karyn said.

  Blodwyn walked the room, patiently tapping his staff on the slabs of rock floor.

  “What are you doing?” Galatia said.

  A hollow tap, tap. He bent low and wiped away dust, dirt, and dead skin, revealing a large rectangular hatch in the ground. The handle was a loop of metal. He pulled on the door, lifting it up, and walked it over to the other side, laying it down. “That is one heavy door,” he said.

  “The catacombs,” Quill said. “I’ve a feeling this will not be much fun.”

  “You should go.”

  “Not first,” Quill said, looking at Karyn.

  She pointed to herself. “I didn’t say that.”

  Galatia hadn’t spoken, either. She stood in the center of the room. A young girl had come down the stairs. Dressed in a long white sleeping gown. The child held tight to a rag doll, hugging it to her chest. In the firelight, and shadows, it looked as if she could not hold still, but had not taken a step. Long, straight black hair hung past her shoulders, covering much of her face.

  “Do you live here? Where are your mother and father?” Quill asked.

  Mykal held out a hand, stopping Quill from asking more questions. “We will not be here long. We are searching for something. When we find it, we will leave you to rest in peace.”

  “You should go,” she said, her head nodding up and down. “You should not be here. Where were you when we needed you?”

  Her voice became deeper. Louder. She nodded her head faster. “Where were you when we cried for help?”

  She lowered the doll to her side, held it by an arm barely sewn to the shoulder. Straw stuffing protruded from the armpit. “Where were you when they killed my family?”

  “Ah, Mykal?” Quill took steps toward the door in the floor.

  “We were not called to help. We did not know of the attack. That was a long time ago. If we had been asked, we’d have come and helped,” Mykal said. He spoke slowly, hoping the child did not feel threatened by their presence.

  Her voice changed. It was like boulders tumbling down the face of a mountain. She raised her head and looked directly at Mykal. “You should go.”

  Most of her face was blistered and raw. It was as if she’d died, burned alive in a fire.

  The large front doors creaked, before slamming shut.

  “Uh-oh,” she said, and sounded like a little girl, as she brought the doll back into an embrace. She squeezed it, swaying left and right. Giggling, she ran up the stairs.

  Mykal chased after her.

  “Mykal, we don’t have time!” Galatia said.

  Stopping on the second step, Mykal asked, “What about the girl?”

  Galatia said, “She was a ghost. Her spirit belongs to the castle.”

  “I saw her, Galatia. She was a ghost, but seemed as real as you or I.”

  “Try getting that door open,” Quill said, talking to Blodwyn. “I don’t like how this leg of the adventure is starting. Give me something I can kill, surround me with enemies, and I’m good with that. A ghost in the body of a child, though? What do we do against that?”

  “We are here for the chalice, and nothing more. We can’t correct a wrong committed decades ago. Just like Mykal explained. The fight was not ours,” she said.

  Mykal looked up the staircase, half expecting to see the child standing at the top. He feared he would dream of her and the doll. Her scarred face would haunt him while his list of nightmares grew. Undisturbed sleep might be a luxury he could no longer relish.

  Gritting his teeth, Mykal turned away from the stairs. Movement caught his peripheral vision, but he didn’t look back. “Let’s get this last talisman, and be done with it,” he said.

  “The doors are closed, as if sealed shut,” Quill said.

  “No matter,” Mykal said. “Grab some of those torches from the wall. We’re going down those stairs, not out that door.”

  Chapter 41

  The torch light barely penetrated the dark. Mykal concentrated on his breathing. The rock staircase was slick, the steps uneven; some were a few inches below the one above, some a foot or two apart. A few steps were three feet long, others, only inches. It was as if the stairs had been carved by workers drunk on ale.

  “Are you following that ruby of yours?” Quill said. His face was half in shadow, half alive with the reflection of dancing flames.

  “We need to save our strength,” Galatia said, again issuing the importance of conservation. “If we cannot locate it, we shall call on her.”

  “I think we’re at the bottom. Hand me a torch,” Mykal said. He knelt down and moved the light around. There were no more steps. He stood up, holding the torch high. He could not see the hatch. Above them was a darkness so complete he feared he might hyperventilate. He breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. The gloom closed in on him. It swirled around him. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. His legs trembled.

  “Mykal?” Blodwyn said.

  “I’m okay.” He’d climbed to treetops, and mountain summits, snaked his way through caves, and faced spiders. In all of his life he had never imagined the phobias he’d overcome. Grandfather would be proud, he knew, but he drew no strength from such accomplishments. Instead, he felt weak, and drained. Overwhelmed.

  He filled his lungs with pungent air, and stepped from the final stair. “Careful now,” he warned. “Stay close.”

  The walls were mud and rock, arched, as if the tunnels were hand-dug by men. Water dripped from above, and streamed down the walls. It seemed as if the catacombs were on the verge of collapse. The thought of being buried alive threatened Mykal’s loosely-held composure. It beat too quickly behind his ribcage.

  “It’s a maze,” Mykal said.

  “We won’t go straight. That will lead us away from the castle, out of the keep. We must head toward the center. It can’t be far. Around a corner or two, maybe. The Kings would be buried just below the castle,” Galatia said.

  Mykal went right. The tunnel widened somewhat. They could fit two, maybe three wide, but remained single file. He continued on cautiously. If more spirits haunted the catacombs, he wasn’t confident he was ready to face them. He knew for certain he did not want to run right into a ghost, or through one, for that matter. Each st
ep was calculated. He stepped with a toe, before planting his entire foot, the way one might test water temperature before leaping into a pond.

  Other, more narrow veins spliced off the main path. Left, and right. Mykal ignored them.

  And then stopped. “Oh, boy.”

  Standing in front of an out of place wooden door were three knights. They were not in full suits of armor, but stood guard in helms with visors lowered, and chainmail under shoulder pauldrons and breastplates. Their broadswords at the ready, and although faceless, each appeared ready to defend the chamber beyond the closed door.

  Quill did not hesitate. He loosed three arrows faster than a man could swing a sword. The broadhead clanked against plate, and the shafts shattered.

  The knights stepped forward, spread apart as far as the cavern would allow. The mail clinked, and clattered. The hollow flatness of the sound was in and of itself alarming and unnatural.

  Mykal raised his arm, palm out, fingers up. He pushed with his mind. A blue web sprang from his hand. It passed through the knights, achieving absolutely nothing.

  The arrows had bounced off them, so they were there. They had to be real.

  Magic passed through them, as if the knights were an illusion.

  Blodwyn wasted no time and attacked with his staff. Mykal, with his sword, joined the fight. Quill, without a sword, stepped forward and swung his bow like an ax.

  Blodwyn dropped low; he swept with his staff and upended the knight on the left.

  Mykal spun around, swinging his sword with all of his strength and added momentum. The blade chopped through the neck of the knight in the center. A bloodless helm fell from the shoulders and bounced to the floor of the tomb.

  Quill’s bow was useless. He dropped it, and instead drove his shoulder into the knight on the right, wrapping his arms about the wraith’s thighs. He slammed the knight against the door, and the mail collapsed into itself. The empty suit dropped to the ground, as if no man had ever donned the pieces of armor.

  Blodwyn, Mykal and Quill looked at each other.