A Wizard's Dark Dominion (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 1)

by Lee H. Haywood

  Widening his stance, Shep placed a balled fists on either of his hips, doing his best imitation of a soldier on guard detail. He gave a low whistle. “You’re in for it now, Demetry.” said Shep. He seemed eager for a conversation, anything to distract from Joshua’s wretched state. “You’ll be lucky if you get the noose. The Arcane Council will likely want to make an example of you.” He ran his finger along his gut as if it were a knife.

  “I didn’t do this to him,” said Demetry, half meaning it. He waved a finger at Joshua. “Joshua was practicing a spell. He misspoke. It backfired. Tell him Joshua. Say something.”

  Joshua remained silent, still swaying, still staring at the same spot on the forest floor. A trickle of red spittle dripped from his lower lip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Why wasn’t Joshua chiming in? Had the spell failed? Had Joshua’s soul already flown? Had Demetry risked all only to raise an empty husk? He struggled to keep the frustration from showing on his face.

  Run away. Disappear into the woods. Head north.

  Yes, that was a reasonable idea. The elves were always looking for turncoat magics. Demetry wasn’t the most skilled, but maybe they would look past that fact.

  “Shep, what if you just let me walk away,” said Demetry, knowing full well that he would have better luck pleading with an ogre. “By the time the school elders arrive I’ll be long gone.”

  Shep sucked his teeth and spit. “It won’t be no use. The dogs will find you. It won’t even be a contest. Old Sullivan’s hounds will sniff you out quick as that.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point. “If I were you, I’d just kill myself. Go jump in the stream and swallow some water. You’d be doing all of us a favor.” Shep grinned devilishly. He seemed genuinely hopeful that Demetry would follow his instruction.

  “You’re a pig, Shep,” snapped Demetry, his desperation shifting to rage.

  “Aye, well you’re a useless waif. My mum always wondered why they let homeless bastards like you into the school. They’re dangerous, she always said. Too many years without structure. Too many years using the Old Magic.” He tapped his skull. “It perverts the mind, brings you too close to the Shadow.” Shep’s eyes darted to Joshua. “Hey, what’s he doing?”

  Joshua had inexplicably begun to move, heading off at a leisurely pace into forest.

  “Joshua, get back here,” commanded Shep.

  Joshua didn’t reply. Of course he didn’t reply. Shep was too obtuse to comprehend the nature of Joshua’s current state. Although in truth, Demetry didn’t understand it all that well either.

  Clearly flustered, Shep’s eyes darted from Demetry to Joshua and back again. He didn’t seem to know what to do. “Make him stop!”

  Demetry threw up his hands. “I have no control over him.” Or did he? The only thing Demetry knew for certain was that Headmaster Rioley and the other school elders could not know what happened.

  Suddenly, Joshua broke into a galloping sprint. It was as if all of his joints were out of alignment. His gait was almost bestial in nature. His speed would be difficult to match.

  Shep watched him go, slack-jawed.

  Now is your chance. Flee.

  For some reason Demetry didn’t budge. Perhaps it was fascination, perhaps it was fear. Whichever it was, Demetry felt oddly enthralled. There was an ugliness about Joshua’s loping gait, but there was a strength there as well. The Joshua he knew was gone, leaving behind a voided body that was strong, inexhaustible, and unflinching; a tool that could be as deftly utilized as the sharpest sword or the hardest hammer, that is, if the puppeteer knew the right commands.

  For the briefest of moments Demetry envisioned a world overrun by the dead, but it was not a nightmare. Automatons laboring in the field, building roads, manning the battlements, their actions ceaseless and relentless, all turned toward the greater good. Empires would fall. Slavery and serfdom would cease to exist. Each man would be free to endeavor in whatever pursuit he so desired. It would be a new beginning for all men, rich and poor, highborn or low. A few talented magics might accomplish what the Sundered Gods had failed to achieve — paradise.

  Demetry blinked and the vision turned to ash, leaving nothing but a stale taste in his mouth. A voice that was not quite his own was screaming in his head. “Go, run while Shep is distracted!”

  Shep took a step toward Joshua, unsure what to do. Demetry seized the opening and leapt on Shep’s back. He locked his forearm around Shep’s neck, and held on, straining to pull Shep to the ground. It was like trying to tackle a bull. One second he was on Shep’s back, the next, he was flying through the air. Demetry landed face first on the ground, and before he could regain his feet, Shep kicked him in the side, knocking the wind from his lungs. Demetry rolled back and forth struggling to catch his breath.

  “The gods help me, what do I do?” muttered Shep, his eyes darting between Demetry and Joshua. He threw his hands up in despair and ran after Joshua, screaming, “Get back here!” Joshua was now so far away he had fallen from view.

  “Flee! Flee! Flee!” screamed the voice in Demetry’s head.

  Demetry was alone, momentarily free to forge his own future. If he forded the stream and headed north he could reach the Luthuanian border in under a week. The journey would be perilous, but hope of salvation lay at the end. The elves would give him asylum. Surely they would.

  “Or they’ll cut you into pieces, just like they did Shep’s father.”

  He shook his head, knowing he must not think like that. A coward is paralyzed by fear, he reminded himself. Now was his chance, his only opportunity to turn aside from his sin.

  Demetry walked to the edge of the stream. The water was shallow, no more than knee deep in the middle. All he had to do was take one step forward, and then another, yet something was holding him back. Taper was his home, all he had. He remembered what it was like to have nothing. No family, no friends, no place to lay his head at night.

  Never again.

  There was still a way to fix this, Demetry was certain. Cruel boys do cruel things, and Hanberg and Shep were the cruelest of them all. Everyone knew it, even the school elders. Demetry would only have to tell a few simple lies to turn the accusative finger the other way around. Shep and Hanberg chased Joshua out of town — surely someone saw it. Then things got out of hand. They hit Demetry — he had the bruises to prove it — and accidentally killed Joshua. Hanberg tried to cover his tracks by raising Joshua from the dead.

  This could work, thought Demetry. The best lies were the ones based on truth, after all.

  Demetry rushed to pick up the book from where Hanberg had thrown it and chased after Shep and Joshua.

  “The plan might work,” agreed the voice in his head. “But you can’t let the other boys reach the headmaster first.”

  Demetry doubled his pace, plowing through the forest at a break-neck speed, completely careless of pitfalls and debris. Not far ahead he head a scream. Shep had caught up with Joshua.

  Demetry suddenly tasted blood, his throat becoming rich with the hint of hot iron. He spit, certain he must have bitten his tongue. His saliva came out clear. “Not good, not good at all,” muttered Demetry.

  Upon cresting the next hill, he was greeted by a low pitiful moan. Shep lay at the bottom of the valley, his back pressed against a tree, his left leg bending where there wasn’t a joint. Demetry thought he saw bone... and teeth marks.

  “He b-b-bit me,” stammered Shep. A hunk of flesh was missing from his forearm. The wound was gushing blood. His face was as pale as ivory. Beads of sweet glistened on his brow. Shep had removed his belt, and it rested in his trembling hand. He clearly intended to use it as a tourniquet, but he seemed unable to cinch it tight enough to stem the flow of blood. He held the belt out to Demetry, a wordless cry for help. For once in his life Demetry saw that pleading look in someone else’s eyes. It gave him an odd pleasure.

  “Let the bastard bleed,” said a voice only Demetry could hear.

  Demetry took the belt from Shep’s tre
mbling hand and threw it out of reach. Shep was beyond words. He simply lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes in resignation.

  Demetry pressed on, sprinting as fast as his legs could take him. He cleared the forest, entering the communal farmland that wreathed the village of Taper. Demetry ran straight across the field, not bothering to take the road that bisected the land. Joshua and Hanberg had obviously traversed this same route and made a scene. A half-dozen laborers were gathered in the field to tend to the harvest, yet no one was working. They were all standing upright, squinting off into the distance in the direction of Taper.

  Upon entering the outskirts of town, Demetry slowed to a hurried walk and tried to appear calm. It was no use, he had clearly been running. His breath burst from his throat in urgent draughts. His heart felt as if it might leap from his chest. Demetry wordlessly bustled by a group of students who had just been released from class.

  “He came sprinting down the road like a madman,” whispered one of the students, an older boy in his senior year of studies.

  “It was that impish second year,” said another, his voice edged with excitement. “He was running dead on Hanberg’s heels. The lad looked terrified.”

  Demetry kept going.

  Almost every building in the township — the dormitories, lecture halls, libraries, amphitheaters, and private lodgings — were lined one after the other along this central street. Most looked similar to the next — gray slate walls stacked a few stories high. Thatched roofs. Square windows. Narrow doors.

  There was a face peering out through every window. No one was giving Demetry any heed — their eyes were directed further down the street, toward the headmaster’s estate. Demetry tried to shrink into his cloak and appear inconspicuous as he shuffled toward that very same building.

  “Blood,” called one of the instructors from the shadows of her stoop. She was an old one-eyed seer. The crow she used for auguring cawed angrily upon her shoulder, snapping its beak.

  Demetry looked down. The cuffs of his trousers were splattered with blood. He suddenly regretted venturing back into town. He could sense a crowd gathering to his rear, but he didn’t dare look over his shoulder. Headmaster Rioley’s estate was the next building on his right.

  Just as Demetry reached the front step, there was a boom that caused the whole house to shudder on its foundation. Demetry suddenly felt as if a million needles were piercing his skin all at once. Am I on fire? He patted frantically over his body, beating at invisible flames. The pain dissipated as quickly as it began. It was as if his nerve endings had been scorched to their roots.

  “There’s no fire, so why do I feel this way?” he wondered aloud. On the periphery of his vision he saw a flicker of orange light in the second floor window. Flames. Joshua was burning.

  Demetry gritted his teeth and rushed up the front steps. He plowed through the door — it was already ajar, hanging on a broken hinge. The foyer desk lay toppled over on its side, its contents strewn across the floor. Alongside the desk was a smear of blood. It was cast across the whitewashed walls and trailed up the stairs in great red droplets. The trail disappeared into the headmaster’s bedroom. Demetry followed the path hesitantly, halting at the room’s threshold. He was horrified by the prospect of what might await within. For a moment, he simply stared at the floor, collecting his resolve. Taking a deep breath, he peered within.

  Gooseflesh shrouded his frame — his body reacting to the horror before his mind could comprehend what he was seeing. A writhing mound lay against the far wall, more black than red. It was Joshua. The boy’s body resembled a roasted pig that had been left over the flames for too long. The room was filled with the odor of burnt flesh. Someone had struck Joshua with a pyromantic blast, shattering the bones in his arms, legs, and skull. Joshua’s undead body mindlessly clawed at the floor, trying to worm his way forward, but his limbs were like jelly.

  Laying opposite Joshua, in a heap of robes and fallen furniture, was the headmaster of the school. Headmaster Rioley was slumped over on his knees, his face pressed awkwardly into the wall. His body was half-buried beneath an overturned dresser. Half a dozen bloody circles pockmarked the headmaster’s back. Stab wounds, Demetry surmised.

  He was about to check for a pulse when a sputtering cough sounded near the door. Only then did Demetry realized Hanberg was also in the room. He was leaning against the wall behind the door. His fingertips resembled charcoal, singed from unleashing the spell that ravaged Joshua’s body. His forearms were riddled with stab wounds, but more pressing were the wounds to his face and neck. One puncture wound was beneath his left eye, another a fingerbreath wide of his jugular. Hanberg was losing blood fast, but neither blow would prove fatal if tended to.

  “You’ll have to finish it yourself.”

  Demetry’s eyes instinctively fell upon a length of honed steel that lay discarded beneath the headmaster’s desk. How he knew it was there, he could not say. The weapon responsible for all of this havoc was nothing more than a letter opener.

  Demetry tentatively picked up the blade and scuttled to Hanberg’s side. Hanberg blinked in disbelief. “Murderer,” he croaked. Demetry paid the accusation no mind. He opened Hanberg’s cloak and tucked the Paserani Haote into a hidden pocket within the lining of the boy’s cloak. Hanberg tried to remove the book from his pocket, but his hands were clumsy and weak. All he managed to do was put his own bloody fingerprints all over the book’s cover.

  Demetry felt along Hanberg’s neck until he found the perfect spot just below the jawline; the artery throbbed beneath the pressure of his thumb. Satisfied he had the correct location, he pressed the tip of the blade to Hanberg’s neck. Hanberg pawed at Demetry’s arms, but his motions were without strength. Demetry gritted his teeth, building up the courage to do what needed to be done — to save his own life one more person had to die.

  Three..., he counted off in head.

  There was a crash in the foyer. Others were coming.

  Two...

  Boots thundered up the stairwell.

  “One,” Demetry said aloud.

  Hanberg looked to him with pleading eyes, the eyes of someone paralyzed by fear, the eyes of a child.

  “Do it! Do it now!”

  Demetry hesitated.

  And that was how they found him, hands outstretched, letter opener held limply in an unsure grasp. One of the school elders shouldered Demetry out of the way and began to frantically tend to Hanberg’s wounds. Another checked Headmaster Rioley for a pulse. No one approached Joshua’s body — the scorched and blistered flesh was confirmation enough.

  Demetry dropped the blade and sat cross-legged in the middle of the room. He rocked back and forth holding his head, wishing desperately he could wake up from this nightmare.

  The elder tending to Hanberg held up the Paserani Haote, having discovered it in the boy’s hidden pocket. The others nodded knowingly.

  “Shep’s hurt,” Demetry vaguely heard himself say. “He’s lying out there in the forest bleeding to death. You better hurry.”

  Firm hands grabbed either of his shoulders. Demetry let himself be led from the room.

  “Do you know what they do to fools who perform necromancy?” whispered a voice in the recesses of Demetry’s mind.

  Demetry glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Joshua’s blackened body one last time. He was horrified to discover that the boy’s scorched face was curled into a crispy grin.

  CHAPTER

  IV

  PRISONS AND TOMBS

  THEY HANG MEN FOR THE CRIME OF NECROMANCY. Hanberg’s words repeated over and over in Demetry’s head, like a refrain from a dark song. It served as a stark reminder of Demetry’s fate.

  So why am I still alive?

  Demetry struggled to stay on his feet and keep walking, fearful of the repercussions if he stopped. He had never felt more tired in his life. Drained was the best way to describe it. Every muscle ached, and his head pounded with each heartbeat.

  “Keep
moving,” hissed the guard to his rear. Demetry hadn’t realized he had stopped. The prison guard tugged at the iron hoop cinched around Demetry’s neck like a kennel master correcting a disobedient dog. Demetry almost lost his footing, caught himself, and continued on, shuffling down the dark corridor without complaint. Compliance was the best course of action — he learned that during his first few days of captivity. I’m alive, he kept telling himself. For now, that was good enough.

  Justice had been swift. Demetry was in fetters before Headmaster Rioley’s body was even cold. An emergency trial was held the next day. Hanberg testified against him. The boy’s neck, face, and forearms were wrapped in bloody bandages. Every word Demetry spoke in his own defense was either shouted down or ignored. The school elders only needed a few minutes to deliberate. Demetry would be sent to the fortress prison of Coljack. Joshua’s wraith body would be burned. For some reason Demetry felt worse about the second half of their decree. They had to wrap Joshua in chains to keep him from crawling out of the funerary pyre. Demetry never heard what happened to Shep. He could only pray that the big oaf was all right.

  Demetry was bound hand and foot, like a pig made ready for slaughter, and carted off to Coljack. The men responsible for transporting Demetry to prison considered him a great deal more dangerous than he actually was. They shoved a horse bit into his mouth as soon as they left town, a precautionary measure, designed to keep Demetry from chanting a death spell. Not that he could perform such a spell even if he wanted. Demetry had never learned the words to a single offensive spell. Only apprentices learned such spells, and Demetry hadn’t passed the rank of acolyte. He knew magic, yes, but he did not know how to use it as a weapon.

  In the end, the horse bit served only as a cruel punishment. Demetry had to learn to drink without closing his mouth, to swallow gruel without chewing. The leather thong holding the bit in place chafed against his cheeks until his flesh was rubbed raw. Sleeping upright became his only option. Otherwise he would wake up with a blinding pain in his jaw. He had hoped that someone would remove the bit once he arrived to Coljack, but thus far no one seemed keen on showing him an ounce of mercy.