Contents
COPYRIGHT
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
AFTERWORD
BOOKS IN THE SERIES
Copyright © 2017 by Lee H. Haywood
All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any portion thereof may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
Story Consultant and Editor: Kerry Haywood
First Published 2017
Paperback ISBN 978-0-9970810-7-7
www.leehhaywood.com
To my readers.
Let me start at
the beginning.
CHAPTER
I
WIZARDS AND SEERS
DEATH’S ARRIVAL WAS IMMINENT.
Cendrik could sense it, a taste on the air that left his mouth feeling sour. He watched as a dozen hunched men crept toward the old abandoned hut, not knowing that their fates were sealed. The men were mere shadows on the moonless night. The dim glint of the glowing inscriptions on their armor was their only tell. The protective wards were intended to guard the wearer from magical attacks. The armor would not be sufficient, not against the foe they were about to face. Evil resided within that hut, and death awaited any man brave or foolish enough to step over the threshold.
Blessed with the gifts of a seer, Cendrik’s intuition was rarely wrong about such matters. People were going to die, it was just a matter of who and how many. He looked around the field. More men, more grim faces, all crouched low, all doing their best to stay hidden from their adversary. The sour taste in Cendrik’s mouth only intensified. Death’s shadow shrouded them all.
An involuntary shiver worked its way through Cendrik’s body. “The Weaver help me, I’m a coward,” he muttered to himself.
“Ain’t no one contesting that,” said Argan, one of his squadmates. The young soldier sidled up alongside Cendrik, gesturing for him to make room in his hiding spot. Cendrik had taken refuge in a small hollow underneath the trunk of a downed tree. It was enough for one, but cramped for two. Cendrik grunted his discontent as he shifted to accommodate the newcomer.
“It’s hard to believe the princess is really in there, eh?” said Argan, as he nestled in amongst the roots and broken branches.
Cendrik shrugged. “Someone’s in there. The farmer said two drifters came through town. The man was a Kari who spoke with a funny accent. The farmer never saw the woman’s face — she was covered with a veil — but her skin was dark. The farmer’s son followed after them. The boy claims he saw them take shelter in the hut for the night. Too many coincidences for it not to be them.”
“I don’t care what some farmer said. I care what your third eye foresees.” He tapped Cendrik between the eyes. “Ain’t that why you’re here?”
Cendrik frowned. Whenever people heard that he was a seer, they expected his foresight to be absolute. It was anything but. Sometimes it was just a taste on the tip of his tongue or a twitch in his eyelid. Vague feelings of unease. Fate was rarely forthright with her vision of the future. Instead, the goddess granted him flashing images of what might be.
He let his eyes drift over the host of armed men, catching fragments of each man’s future. He saw men lifting unborn children in the air. Others kissing lovers in the night. He saw one man stooped over on a street corner begging with a cup, his legs missing above the knees. Some men had no future at all — they would see the inside of a grave before the next new moon.
When he looked at the hut, his visions grew even more troubling. A cloaked figure reaching toward the heavens. A storm of blades and debris raining down. Amidst the chaos stood Cendrik, grinning maniacally as he stabbed at the air, parrying shadows.
Cendrik decided not to mention such dark tidings to Argan, lest the young soldier think him a madman. “I fear that a lot of men are going to die here tonight,” said Cendrik finally.
“Well, ain’t that some auspicious news,” said Argan. He sucked at his teeth.
“I warned the prince to delay, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Would you wait if that demon had your wife?”
The prince was Rudlif Manherm, heir to the Capernican throne. A hot-tempered man in the best of times, Rudlif had been especially mercurial since his wife was taken. Cendrik squinted to the far side of the clearing, catching a glint of polished steel low amongst the ferns. That would be the prince. No doubt he was working himself up into a berserk rage, like a kettle left to boil on an open flame.
Cendrik understood the emotion. He had two younger sisters back home, both teenagers, both targets of young men’s desires. He had gotten into his fair share of fights defending their honor over the years. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to have your loved one stolen away in the middle of the night by a demon. He found himself balling his fists at the mere thought. Still, rage alone wasn’t going to win this battle. He hoped the prince would come to the same conclusion before it was too late.
He turned his attention back to the field. The first wave of attackers had progressed to the midpoint in the clearing. They were being especially cautious. Every step was purposeful. Every footfall silent. No one wanted to sound their approach, not to an adversary as dangerous as this demon. The only slim advantage they had was surprise, and every man knew it.
The old crofter’s hut looked innocuous enough. It sat alone and derelict in the middle of the clearing, its exterior decayed by time. Once, someone had farmed this land, a few acres of rocky soil cut straight from the heart of the forest. The gray-blue peaks of the Eng Mountains rose high as a backdrop. Abandoned farms like this were common near the mountains. Following the Sundering, homesteaders headed east in droves, hoping for a new life and fresh opportunities. Most found the realities of frontier life impossible to bear. The mountains marked the beginning of elven territory, and the elves were loathe to suffer men living so close to the border. Raiding parties were common. Villages were burned. Homesteaders were slaughtered. Those with an ounce of wit abandoned all they had and counted themselves lucky.
Nature had done its part retaking the land. The fallow field was already ripe with tall grass and green saplings. A few decades longer and the clearing would vanish altogether. Vines crisscrossed the walls of the hut, resembling black tentacles in the dark of night. The thatched roof was half-collapsed, bare timbers showing. The plank siding hung loose in places. An inky darkness seemed to ooze from the offset panels, spilling out into the surrounding field and strangling everything it touched. That made Cendrik shiver all the more.
The hut was a black box, a place where his intuition could not touch. The events destined to happen within the hut’s dark confines were beyond his prediction. There was only one thing that could cloud his intuition in such a manner — the Old Magic. The magic of the Sundered Gods. The magic of the Shadow. Cendrik crossed himself, then decided to cross himself again for good measure.
The attack party was almost to the hut.
Cendrik couldn’t keep his legs fro
m shaking. He kept catching glimpses of what was going to happen. A flash of white light. Heat like the sun. Death and blood. A seer’s gifts were not for the faint of heart.
“They should turn back,” he muttered, his nerves fraying by the second. He had never been more certain something terrible was about to happen in his entire life.
Footsteps sounded in the forest to their rear. Argan drew his sword. Naked steel flashed silver as he stabbed his blade toward the noise.
“Hold,” hissed a voice from the gloom.
A host of figures emerged from the depths of the forest, fighting men clad in light armor. At their lead was Sullivan, the king’s best tracker. He had a dozen dogs in his hunting pack. They were mean-spirited beasts, the offspring of hounds crossbred with wolves. The pack alpha was the only wolfhound off leash, a mammoth creature that outweighed most men. The rest of the pack was muzzled and chained, each one dragging their handler forward.
Sullivan laughed and pointed to the sky. “The gods favor the hunter on a moonless night.”
“Fixing for a fight, Sullivan?” asked Argan, sheathing his blade.
“I’m just the kennel master,” said Sullivan, raising his hands in feigned innocence. “I’m here to see to the dogs. I take no part in the fighting.” He motioned to his pack. “My hounds, on the other hand...” The handlers were doing all they could to control the beasts and keep them silent.
The alpha crept dangerously close to Cendrik’s crotch, teeth bared, slobber dripping. A deep-throated growl issued from his clenched jaws. Cendrik tried to back away, but he had nowhere to go. The alpha nipped at Cendrik, causing him to flinch like a scared baby. This caused the other men to stifle a laugh.
Gods, I’m a coward.
Sullivan quietly snapped his fingers and hissed. The alpha withdrew, slinking back to Sullivan’s side with his ears pinned and tail between his legs. Sullivan nodded toward the attack party. “Ten caps says they don’t finish the job.”
The attack party had reached the hut. Two men were checking the lock on the front door, while others were seeing if the window shutters were latched. A lone figure clambered up the chimney stack toward the roof. Despite all the motion, Cendrik didn’t hear a sound.
“I hope they fail,” said Argan.
“Are you eager for death?” pressed Cendrik, glaring angrily. He gestured toward the attack party. “If they fail, you’ll be the next through the door.”
Argan stroked the pommel of his sword. “I’m eager for glory, friend, I’m eager for riches. The prince promised a hundred silver caps to the man who puts an end to that treacherous bastard’s life.”
“Good luck with that, lad,” said Sullivan. “I’ll be letting my hounds collect the prize.” The alpha growled at his side.
As far as Cendrik was concerned, both men were crazy. There was no prize to collect on the other side of that door — just death embodied.
Their quarry was Sir Jeremiah, the king’s former court magic. A battlemage by training, Sir Jeremiah was considered one of the deadliest men alive. For the better part of two decades he served as the sharpest blade in the king’s arsenal. But for reasons unknown to Cendrik, Jeremiah had fallen afoul of the king. He was banished from the land and declared an outlaw. Seeking revenge, Sir Jeremiah broke into the home of Prince Rudlif and stole the princess from her bed. Relying on a mixture of Cendrik’s foresight and Sullivan’s dogs, they had managed to track him down. They finally had him surrounded.
Funny how it doesn’t feel that way, thought Cendrik, as he eyed the hut. In truth, it felt to him the other way around. Cendrik had seen what battlemages were capable of doing, how they moved swifter than the breeze, how they turned the most meager objects into deadly weapons, how even the elements were theirs to control. Battlemages were more akin to gods than men. A swift death awaited anyone who tried to face a battlemage in combat.
That was probably why Cendrik’s mouth tasted so sour — death would soon be reaping a bountiful harvest.
The attack party finally made their move. One man jumped down through a hole in the roof, others leapt through the window. The main party broke down the front door and rushed inside. Yelling voices pierced the night. “Stay where you are! Get on the floor. Get on the floor!”
Cendrik gasped in dismay. The soldiers should have killed Sir Jeremiah the moment they laid eyes on him. “What are they doing?” screamed Cendrik.
“There’s been a change of orders,” said Sullivan. “Prince Rudlif wants Jeremiah alive.” He chewed nervously at his lower lip.
Cendrik could only cringe and await the inevitable. If the soldiers had time to speak, Sir Jeremiah had time to react.
A flare of white light cut the darkness. The soldiers’ voices turned to screams. A surge of air burst upward from inside the hut, tearing off the remainder of the roof and carrying debris dozens of feet into the air. There were bodies amongst the tangled mess of thatch and lumber. The men came tumbling to the ground, their bodies pinwheeling. The enchanted armor they wore did nothing to break their fall.
There were more screams from inside the hut. Lightning cleaved the air. One stroke. Two strokes. Three. The bolts landed so close, Cendrik could feel the heat on his face. The thunderous boom rattled his chest, and he feared his heart might stop if they struck any closer. Debris flew everywhere — burning timbers, disembodied limbs, shredded pieces of armor. A helmet came flying through the air and landed at Sullivan’s feet. The metal frame was glowing white hot, the leather underlayment was burned to ash.
Cendrik gagged and retched. Death had arrived.
Sullivan cursed under his breath as he turned the helmet over with his foot. His giant wolfhound sniffed hungrily at the burned flesh stuck to the frame. The lust for battle that had been in Argan’s eyes earlier in the evening had vanished. Cendrik found he had pissed himself. Thankfully, it was too dark for anyone to tell.
A trumpet blared on the far side of the clearing, a strident blast that rent the night. Prince Rudlif stepped forward, his glistening silver armor making him appear a vengeful specter in the gloom. He pointed his sword toward the hut — this was the signal for the second wave to advance.
A lump entered Cendrik’s throat as Fate granted him flashing glimpses of how the battle would unfold.
“You can stay here and cower,” said Argan, struggling to hide the fear in his own voice. “I’m off to collect my fortune.” The young soldier crossed himself in the gesture of the faithful, spit in both of his hands, drew his sword, and leapt over the log. He sprinted toward the hut waving his sword overhead like a madman. Throughout the clearing, others did likewise, brave men and fools, all rushing toward their doom.
“You too,” barked Sullivan.
“Me?” Cendrik’s eyes flared with disbelief.
“You see anyone else?”
Cendrik saw a great many other men, in fact. “I’m no warrior,” he managed, his voice coming out in a whine. Cendrik was only here to impress the prince with his strengths as a seer — he never had any intention of actually fighting. He sought an appointment at the Academy Arcanum, and hoped the prince would put in a good word with the Arcane Council if he performed admirably.
“A seer’s place is behind the battle line, orchestrating troop movements and plotting counterstrokes,” argued Cendrik. “Throwing me into the fray would be a waste of my skills. Besides, I don’t even have a blade.” Cendrik hoped that would end any debate.
Sullivan slapped a sheathed dagger against Cendrik’s chest. “Now you do.” He jutted his chin toward the host of men advancing on the hut. “The prince ordered me to send you in, so I’m sending you in. Go! Join the others!”
Cendrik didn’t budge, couldn’t budge. He was struggling to even breathe. “They’re going to die. They’re all going to die.”
“That’s not my concern. Now go, you craven bastard.” When Cendrik still didn’t move, Sullivan kicked him in the ass. With his heart in his throat, Cendrik crawled over the log. The only thing spurring him into
motion was Sullivan’s wolfhound nipping at his heels.
The horn blared a second time. Bow strings twanged and a dozen shafts took flight all at once. Gods, they’ll kill the princess, was Cendrik’s first thought. Gods, they’ll kill me, was his second.
The arrows reached their zenith and hissed down toward the roofless hut, a rain of razorblades. Inexplicably, the empty air above the hut suddenly pulsed with light causing the arrows to change course. The arrows were sent scattering in every perceivable direction. He saw one man take a shaft full in the face. Another man fell to the ground screaming like a dying horse, his stomach pierced through the middle.
A second wave of arrows were loosed. A second pulse of light sent the deadly shafts careening off course. A second set of men fell screaming. The sour taste in Cendrik’s mouth was worsening by the second.
Argan, young fool that he was, wasted no time rushing toward the hut. He was the second soldier to reach the door. The man directly before him went rigid the moment he passed over the threshold, the veins in his neck bulging like serpents. Argan shouldered the man aside, raised his sword, then went shooting backward through the air, catapulted by some invisible force. His flailing body tore through the sidewall of the hut, carrying a trail of wooden planks behind him. His body landed with a horrible thud near the edge of the clearing.
Cendrik was horrified. “You have to fight magic with magic,” he screamed, but no one was listening. Everyone was mad with bloodlust, and fear, and the thrill of combat.
“He can’t kill all of us,” yelled an eager soldier, his face black with warpaint.
“For the princess!” roared another. The man took an axe to the hut’s rear wall, forging a new path into the interior. With the hut nearly blasted and chopped to ruin, there were half-a-dozen ways to enter. Armed men wearing the livery of the king rushed in from every direction, yelling and cursing, hacking and stabbing. No one seemed to be finding anything other than death once they reached the interior.
A Wizard's Dark Dominion (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 1) Page 1