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

by Lee H. Haywood

  “Please...”

  “You must open yourself to the void. You must save yourself with your magic.”

  “I was only an acolyte. I never learned how to defend myself with magic. I don’t know the words to the spells. Please, you don’t understand.”

  Cendrik’s face softened, and for a second Demetry thought he finally understood. “You’re mistaken, Demetry. Words won’t save you.” He lodged the sour tasting horse bit into Demetry’s mouth, cinching tight the leather thong that held it in place. “The gods taught men how to use words to weave spells, but there is an older magic that lies dormant in a blessed few.” He tapped Demetry’s forehead. “The Old Magic is the magic of the mind. You don’t need to know the words. Just focus and it will be. Deliverance comes to those who ask. Use the Old Magic, Demetry. Embrace your rebirth.”

  The Old Magic was akin to a force of nature, destructive and uncontrollable. It was once heralded as the great equalizer between gods and men, but only the most foolhardy of magics attempted to master the perilous power. Some children were born with the ability to manipulate the Old Magic, but by the time they learned to talk, the gift would vanish. The teachers at Taper purposefully avoided the topic, fearful that they might accidentally awaken the latent power in one of their students. Even Demetry knew better than to dabble in such dark and dangerous arts. “Why do you think I know how to use the Old Magic?” Demetry tried to scream. The words came out muffled and incomprehensible.

  “Because you are a necromancer. Because you used a spell from the Paserani Haote,” whispered the voice in Demetry’s head.

  There it was, the root of this whole misunderstanding. The Paserani Haote contained numerous passages concerning the Old Magic. How to channel the Sundered Soul, how to maintain the void, how to focus one’s mind to prevent accidental outcomes. The one thing the book didn’t mention was how to access the Old Magic itself. Demetry mostly skimmed over these parts. He was more interested in the alternate histories written in the book that were not attainable anywhere else. That, and the forbidden New Magic spells contained in the back of the book.

  A new fear entered Demetry’s heart, greater than his fear of torture, and whips, and gushing wounds. They had kept him alive because they thought he could manipulate the Old Magic. What will happen when they discover I can’t?

  Demetry shook his head, his eyes pleading for Cendrik to stop, to delay, to give him more time to prepare.

  Cendrik’s face was impassive. He nodded to the chaplain. “Chaplain Sighelm, if you will.”

  The whip snapped, this time making sharp contact with the small of Demetry’s back. It was like being kicked by a mule. Before his mind could fully process the pain the whip snapped again, this time cleaving his right shoulder blade. Demetry champed down so hard on the horse bit he thought it might break in two. The third blow struck square down the length of his spine. The fourth blow licked over his shoulder and lacerated his chest.

  Demetry lost count of how many times they whipped him. Each strike was like a bolt of lightning, deafening to the ears. The pain was crippling. He felt his stomach turn over, and the meager contents of his stomach surged up his throat and came dribbling from his lips.

  Warden Cendrik stood across from him, his face only a few inches away, his eyes hopeful, his mouth parted with excitement, as if at any moment something miraculous might occur. “Channel the Sundered Soul,” whispered Cendrik. “Envision the void and it will be.”

  Demetry envisioned nothing but his scoured and bleeding back. He wondered what he could do, if anything, to make the torture end. The Old Magic was beyond him — beyond the reach of anyone, save untrained toddlers and street waifs like Joshua. The ability to master the power had vanished with the Sundering of the Gods. Why did this fool believe that pain, fear, and desperation could change any of that?

  Warden Cendrik was not deterred. He motioned for Chaplain Sighelm to keep at it. Steel clattered behind Demetry, and suddenly a scalpel was shoved before Demetry’s left eye, a guttering torch before the right. “Do you want the blade or the fire?”

  Demetry didn’t answer. He was too scared to even think about which was worse.

  Chaplain Sighelm chose the scalpel. He drew the blade from Demetry’s brow to the base of his neck. The pain registered a moment later, followed shortly thereafter by blood. It cascaded across his eyes, blurring his vision. It trickled down his back, around his buttocks, down the backs of his legs, dripping from his toes. A red pool began to form on the floor.

  “A man can lose a quarter of his blood before succumbing to his wounds,” whispered Sighelm into his ear. “How much do you suppose you’ve lost?”

  Demetry stared at the growing puddle, aghast. He felt his skin turn waxen. His body felt cold. Demetry’s head lolled, his consciousness ebbed.

  Still, Warden Cendrik appeared hopeful. He smacked Demetry in the face. “Stay with me. Focus. Heal your wounds. Stop the bleeding. Save yourself.”

  “I can’t,” Demetry moaned around the horse bit, the blood bubbling on his lips.

  “You can. You will. You must.”

  A noose looped around Demetry’s throat and Chaplain Sighelm yanked it tight.

  “Stop him Demetry. Use your magic,” screamed the warden, his voice now twinged with desperation. “Become one with the Shadow. Channel the Sundered Soul. Do it. Do it now!”

  Demetry tried to reply, but his voice only crackled in his throat, a pitiful death rattle. Demetry eyes rolled back in his head as the noose cinched tighter and tighter. His limbs clattered useless against the table. A black creeping haze seemed to be encroaching from all sides, spilling across the floor, clambering up the walls, reaching across the ceiling. They’re going to kill me, he realized with stark certainty.

  “It’s not so bad,” whispered a faceless voice. “Just let yourself fade. Fade. Fade...”

  The voice was right. The oblivion of the afterworld seemed a great deal better than a lifetime of torture and imprisonment. Demetry stopped trying to resist and embraced the end.

  Warden Cendrik’s ecstasy turned to disappointment as he saw Demetry surrender to Fate. His lips curled in a pout. “I thought you were the one.” He shook his head and motioned for Sighelm to stop. The pressure on the noose slackened.

  Demetry’s airway reopened. It burned like fire to breathe, but he did so anyway, taking in long desperate draughts. It felt like someone had taken a cheese grater to the inside of his throat. His cheeks tickled and burned as the blood came rushing back. His vision slowly cleared.

  Warden Cendrik shook his head with disappointment and turned his back on Demetry. “Patch him up and return him to his cell. We’ll try again in a few weeks.”

  Chaplain Sighelm threw down the noose with disgust and followed after the warden.

  Demetry was so beaten and bloodied he scarcely felt relief that he was still alive. When they unfastened the fetters holding Demetry to the table he collapsed to the floor, coming to rest in a puddle of his own blood.

  The guards had to carry Demetry through the corridors, his feet dragging limply in his wake. They didn’t even bother with the gelding collar — Demetry was a threat to no one in his current state. They unceremoniously tossed Demetry inside his cell, locked the door, and walked away.

  Demetry would have gladly laid there for the rest of eternity, but Clyde had different plans.

  “I kill you,” screeched Clyde. It was the most comprehensible thing Demetry had ever heard the man utter.

  Demetry’s mind flared to sudden wakefulness, but it was already too late. Clyde landed on top of Demetry’s chest, knocking the air from his lungs. Before he knew what was happening, Demetry’s arms were pinned beneath Clyde’s legs. The man was in an inconsolable rage. One look at Clyde’s left arm explained why. His forearm was broken. The splintered bone caused the skin to bulge grotesquely. Sighelm had inflicted the ghastly injury with his club, but it was clear who Clyde blamed.

  “I’m sorry,” blurted Demetry. His voice w
as a mere squeak.

  Clyde grabbed a handful of hay and shoved it into Demetry’s mouth as he apologized. Demetry tried to tongue the foul tasting hay out of his mouth only for Clyde to jam a second handful in. Demetry gagged on the hay, inadvertently drawing it back toward his throat. Another handful prevented him from being able to close his mouth, a fourth clogged his airway. Clyde pinched Demetry’s nose shut with his good hand. He grinned wickedly, his intention clear.

  Demetry couldn’t get his hands free. He couldn’t clear his throat. He couldn’t breathe. This was not Warden Cendrik’s test. Clyde wasn’t going to stop at the last second. Clyde was actually going to kill him.

  Demetry managed to wiggle one arm free and tried to push Clyde off, but the man was too strong. Demetry searched for a weapon. The slop pail was toppled over on its side only a few feet away. If he could reach the pail he might be able to club Clyde in the head. That might stun Clyde long enough for Demetry to clear his throat. Demetry reached for the handle, his fingers twitching as they fell just short. Another inch, Demetry needed just one more inch.

  The slop pail began to rattle and shake, some invisible force acting upon the inanimate object. Demetry’s eyes flared wide with shock. The pail suddenly lurched into motion, flying through the air at a speed that was nearly impossible to follow. It slammed into Clyde’s lower jaw, the mouth of the pail scooping off the bottom half of Clyde’s face without losing an ounce of momentum. The pail crashed into the far wall, carrying its macabre payload with it. What was left of Clyde’s face was a red mess. Clyde pawed at his missing jaw in stunned horror.

  Demetry was almost as stunned as Clyde, but he did not have time to waste.

  “Get him off of you!” screamed a disembodied voice.

  An invisible force seized Clyde by the base of the skull, yanking him off of Demetry’s chest and into the air. Clyde flew headfirst into the cell door, the top of his brow striking the unyielding wood like a battering ram. There came a sickening crack and the door gave way.

  Demetry rolled over and vomited up the hay. He was too stunned to think straight. What force had sent the pail slicing through Clyde’s face? What force had seized Clyde and sent him hurtling through the air? Demetry’s eyes wandered to Clyde’s body and the ruined door. Everything about the scene was impossible and absurd. He couldn’t stop a maniacal snicker from passing his lips. “Look, Clyde, you finally broke down the door.”

  Clyde didn’t answer, and from the look of his caved-in skull he never would.

  Demetry was still picking strands of hay out of his mouth when a low whistle sounded down the corridor. Warden Cendrik stepped out of the gloom, giving Demetry a congratulatory tap, tap, tap, with the tip of his cane. “I knew the blood of the old gods courses through your veins. The Guardians be praised!” Cendrik crossed himself in the gesture of the faithful.

  Demetry remained on the ground, still too weak to stand. His eyes slowly wandered over Clyde’s limp form. “But how?” he managed.

  “The Old Magic.”

  “The Old Magic,” repeated Demetry, sounding out the words as if they were in a foreign language.

  Cendrik nodded, his face filled with glee. “Congratulations, Demetry. Your penitence is now complete. Today marks the beginning of your reformation.”

  Demetry looked to Cendrik with wonder, his head filled with a thousand questions. How did he perform a spell without speaking a word? Or better yet, how was he able to manifest the Old Magic now, after living his entire life without showing the slightest inkling of the gift?

  “Why me? Why now?” was all Demetry was able to manage.

  “In due time,” replied Cendrik, smiling from ear to ear with a lopsided smirk. He lifted his heel and promptly stamped on Demetry’s face.

  CHAPTER

  VI

  THE WARDEN AND THE WIZARD

  DEMETRY’S EYES FLUTTERED OPEN. As he came to, he realized that he was bobbing through the air, his body carried by a trio of guards. The gelding collar was latched tightly around Demetry’s neck. Apparently the guards weren’t taking any chances after what he did to Clyde. The draining effect of the Sundering Stone was palpable. Something was missing, a key part of him, his well of strength, his magic. Demetry had never felt so weak.

  They were winding down a dark stairwell, traveling deeper and deeper into the earth. This was a place even Sneak had not wandered. Warden Cendrik hobbled along at the front of the procession. For the warden, every step with his lame foot was a chore, and he set a slow pace for the others to follow. Chaplain Sighelm walked beside him. The frustration was apparent in the Chaplain’s face.

  “If this plan of your works, how do I guarantee I get my end of the bargain?” asked Sighelm. He carried a torch, illuminating the passage with dancing light.

  “You’re so eager to be back in charge,” said Cendrik. “It makes me wonder about your motivation.”

  “I’m eager to serve my gods without the crown meddling with my work.”

  “A noble statement, if it’s true.”

  “It’s true,” snapped Sighelm. “This place ran just fine before you came along and started conducting your little experiments.”

  Demetry kept his body limp and motionless, deciding it would be best if the guards didn’t notice he was conscious. He couldn’t afford another beating. His whole body ached — the skin on his back was raw, his scalp was cut to ribbons, and his throat felt like one giant bruise. If the swelling grew much worse it would likely cut off his airway.

  “I’m as eager as you are for a change in administration,” said Cendrik. “But tell me, what precisely does your brotherhood intend to do with the prison, anyway?”

  “That’s between me and the master of my order.”

  Cendrik snorted. “The master of your order serves at the pleasure of the king. As do I. As do you. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Sighelm looked as if he might reply, but decided at the last moment to keep his opinion to himself.

  Cendrik smirked. “If the prisoner does prove capable, the king will not be short on gratitude. We will all receive what we are due.”

  “Oh, Demetry’s capable, all right. He nearly took Clyde’s face clean off. There are no words for a spell like that. The Old Magic is strong in that one, I promise you.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. But the Throne of Caper will not be satisfied with one incident. Proof takes time. You must have patience.”

  Sighelm spit. “I’ve got patience. Always have. But I also know when I’m getting the bad end of a deal. I’ve worked these prisoners for years trying to find the perfect subject for your pet project. I expect to be fairly compensated.”

  “The position of warden has always been a direct appointment of the crown. I can’t guarantee anything. Still, my personal recommendation for a successor will carry weight. I promise you, I won’t forget my friends.”

  “Waste your sweet tongue on someone else. We’re not friends, Cendrik. Just give me my due, that’s all I ask. Remember, the king may approve of what you’re doing here, but the Arcane Council won’t. Last I heard they have the final say on admittance to the Academy Arcanum. It would be unfortunate if they got word of your experiments.”

  Cendrik raised his hand, stopping the procession, and slowly turned to face Sighelm. “All men get their due, Sighelm, one way or another.” He placed a hand on Sighelm’s cheek. The two men locked eyes. “I see everything that happens in Coljack. Always remember that. You can hide nothing from me. I can see what you have done, what you intend to do. I can see things your feeble mind hasn’t yet considered. Would you like to know your future?”

  “Keep your parlor tricks to yourself,” said Sighelm. His body gave a slight quiver.

  Cendrik grinned. “I see fire in your future. Pain. A crushing darkness. The type of death no man would envy.” He gave Sighelm’s cheek a soft slap and whistled merrily. “Of course, I’ve been wrong before.” He hobbled further on down the winding stairs, calling over his shoulder. “Wake the pris
oner. I’d like Demetry to see this.”

  One of the guards jabbed Demetry hard in the ribs. Demetry groaned in pain.

  “You’re back with us, eh?” Cendrik laughed. “You performed brilliantly, Demetry. Top notch. Better than I could have ever hoped. I’m proud of you.”

  “If you’re proud of me, why don’t you give me a reward? How about removing this gelding collar from my neck?” Demetry shook his head, causing the collar to rattle.

  “Pride has not made me foolish,” said Cendrik. “You’re a dangerous young man, Demetry. A sinner, in all truth. You have embraced the Shadow and allowed the blighted spirit to enter your heart. You have used the Shadow’s divine powers for your own personal gain.”

  “I did what you told me.”

  “I know you did. That is why I am so pleased.” Cendrik glanced over his shoulder, grinning like a snake. “Look here, I’d like you to see this.”

  They had come to a narrow landing carved out of the earth. On one side of the chamber was a smooth wall of sheer cut bedrock. Hanging opposite the wall, poised high in the air was an iron-tipped battering ram. It was hoisted backward on iron chains, its colossal weight held in place by a single iron lynch pin.

  “I have designed a special cell to contain men with gifts such as yours. I can’t have you knocking down any more doors, you see. So you will be imprisoned far underground, and to guarantee you never escape, I’ve devised this fine contraption.”

  Demetry lifted his brow in confusion. “A battering ram? I don’t understand.”

  “The Zeveron River lies opposite this wall,” said Cendrik. He smacked the wall with the flat of his hand. It resounded with a hollow thud. “This thin layer of bedrock is all that separates us from the icy abyss. If you try to escape an alarm bell will toll, and if it does, my men are under strict orders to pull the pin on the ram. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the guard manning the battering ram.

  The gods help me, thought Demetry as he was carried past the ram. It would be hard enough sleeping underground. How could he ever find rest knowing all that separated him from certain death was a lynch pin no thicker than his thumb?