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

by Lee H. Haywood

  “They’re coming,” hissed Joshua.

  Dogs barked in the distance. The flames in Coljack were extinguished. Shadowy figures gathered before the battlement walls, while to the east the sun peeked over the lip of the world. He didn’t have much time.

  Demetry leaned over and kissed Jeremiah’s brow. “I’m not abandoning you, but I have to go.” he whispered into his mentor’s ear. “I’m sorry.”

  With eyes shrouded in tears, Demetry turned his back on his old life, and went racing from the field. He was now sadly certain his sins would haunt him to the grave.

  CHAPTER

  XI

  HEROES AND VILLAINS

  DEMETRY SCRAMBLED UP THE HILL, his feet slipping in the mud. The hounds barked and howled in the valley below as they galloped in pursuit. A horn blared to the south. A replying cry sounded to the north. They would be on him soon. Demetry almost didn’t care. He hadn’t slept in days. His muscles ached, and his arms and legs were covered in scrapes and bruises from falling. Even his bones seemed to hurt. He couldn’t keep at this pace much longer. A fight today would at least put an end to all this running. It was almost a comforting thought.

  Demetry set out from Coljack with a single destination in mind — the elven border. His failure to flee to Luthuania after Joshua’s death had cost him almost two years of his life. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

  Demetry had entered the mountainous territory that lay between Luthuania and Capernicus two days prior. It was disputed land, and only the most foolhardy entered the territory. Demetry assumed his pursuers would turn back once he entered the foothills of the Eng Mountains. He had no such luck.

  As Demetry made his ascent, Cendrik’s hunting party pressed on right behind him. Each night, Demetry spotted the campfires of his pursuers and marked their progress. They were a day behind him. Then a few miles. Then so close he could count the men as they milled about in their camp.

  Cendrik’s hunting party had turned into a small army over the course of the journey. Each day they drew closer, and each day more men joined the pack. Men on horseback hemmed Demetry in. Men with hounds haunted his every step. But the foes Demetry truly feared were the last two men to join Cendrik’s host. They came richly attired, dressed in bright silks and wearying gaudy gemstones around their necks. These were the trappings of a Academy Arcanum graduate. The men were battlemages, Demetry imagined, sent by the king to finish the job.

  Jeremiah had made Demetry powerful, capable of using a form of magic few could scarcely comprehend. But these men were trained killers. In a few years Demetry might be able to contest a battlemage spell for spell, but right now he was outmatched and outnumbered.

  “If I reach the far side of the range they’ll have to turn back,” muttered Demetry to himself, as he forged a path through a silent forest of evergreens and dead pine needles. The summit loomed close, mockingly so, a bare slap of weathered granite, naked save for the few patches of snow that still clung to its southern face. One more day and he would surmount the summit. Of course, that depended on his strength not giving out first.

  This was likely all part of Cendrik’s plan. The warden was toying with Demetry, letting him wear himself ragged. Demetry had the sick impression the seer could predict his every move. It was like playing a game of bones with an opponent who already knew the final tally — there was no contest, just a slow and steady slog toward an unavoidable conclusion.

  Hand over hand, step after step, Demetry climbed higher. His pursuers were so close he could hear their muffled voices as they called to one another coordinating movements. The main hunting party was right behind him, smaller groups were creeping up his flanks. Demetry shook his head. He was tired of running, tired of being outplayed. He found a flat rock near a stream and sat down. This seemed as good a place as any to make his stand. It seemed as good a place as any to die.

  The sun slowly shifted across the sky. They would be upon him soon.

  “Are you really going to sit here and wait for them to come and kill you?” Joshua’s voice sounded especially shrill in his head.

  “Why should I keep running?” said Demetry. “There’s no grand prize at the end of this path. Everything I have ever cared about is behind me. My mother. My home. Jeremiah.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, Demetry. You never had anyone to begin with. Your existence has been lonely and bitter from the start. That is, until you found me.”

  “You misjudge me.”

  “Do I? I’m a part of you now. I can see your deepest thoughts, I know your darkest sins.”

  Demetry snorted. “You are my darkest sin. I should have never raised you from the dead. You haunt me like a vengeful specter, whispering lies and vile advice in my ear.”

  A shrill laughter filled his head. “Haunt you? I empower you. I tell you the things you need to hear. I make sure you’re not controlled by cowardice. Think of all we have done together. We have learned to Channel the Sundered Soul. We have mastered the dark art of the Old Magic. We have escaped the inescapable confines of Coljack and left a path of ruin in our wake. We have become akin to gods.”

  Demetry beat at his head with his fists, trying to quiet the nagging voice. “I’m sorry I brought you on this journey. What’s dead is dead. I should have let you rest in peace.”

  Joshua didn’t respond.

  Footsteps sounded in the surrounding woods, the familiar clomp, tap, clomp Demetry had grown to loathe.

  “Who are you talking to, Demetry?”

  Warden Cendrik was standing near the stream leaning upon his cane for support. His men were silently fanning out, fencing Demetry in with a wall of leveled blades and drawn bows.

  “Why won’t you let me escape?” asked Demetry. The tone of his voice bordered on pleading. “How many men must I kill before you will leave me alone? How many lives am I worth?”

  “To me, very few,” admitted Cendrik. “But to the king you have grown quite valuable. A man capable of controlling the Old Magic is rare indeed. The throne has been looking for someone with your talents for decades.”

  Demetry spit. “The king couldn’t control Jeremiah, why does he think he can control me?”

  “He doesn’t,” said Cendrik, pawing aside the drool that was pooling at the corner of his lips. “But he believes you can be bargained with. Jeremiah was old and set in his ways, his heart filled with vengeance and self-vindication. He was as unyielding as the ancient oak in a storm — he would break before he bent. But you are the willow, Demetry. The wind blows and you bend to accommodate. That shows a sensibility. Your young mind understands how the world really works. Give and take, my friend, that is the cornerstone of any healthy relationship.”

  Demetry’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. Kind words spoken by a snake were no less dangerous than a threat. Still, Demetry couldn’t help but feel intrigued. “What is the king willing to give and what is he eager to take?”

  “How would you like a new life?” asked Cendrik, shuffling closer. “Free of prison. Free of being hunted. Perhaps even an appointment to the Academy Arcanum. You are eager to finish honing your skills, are you not? You could become the king’s greatest champion, defender of the realm, court magic, even. These are no small titles, especially for a lad born into poverty.”

  Demetry sneered. “I’m a killer. I’m a necromancer.”

  Cendrik waved off Demetry’s claims. “Your past crimes are nothing to the king. Your powers are all he cares about. Bow in fealty before the Throne of Caper, swear your allegiance to the king and you will be reborn!”

  Demetry envisioned the future that might be. No more fear. No more want. A clean slate upon which he could build his life. Graduates of the Academy Arcanum were held in the highest esteem. They became the advisers of lords, the commanders of armies, and in some cases the rulers of their own fiefdoms. It was a life Demetry had never dreamed possible, not since that unfortunate day when Joshua died and Demetry’s world was turned upside down.

  “But
full repentance comes at a cost,” said Cendrik stepping closer. “What did your mentor do with the Orb?”

  For once Demetry saw no reason to lie. “Jeremiah never actually knew the whereabouts of the Orb. It was all a ploy to protect the woman he loved.”

  Cendrik lifted his brow incredulously. “Then the old man lied to you.” He tapped at his head. “I’m a seer, remember. I can see into a man’s soul. Jeremiah went to great lengths to protect his secrets. His mind was like a black well. Even I had a hard time piercing his veil of shadow and guile, but in moments of weakness a glimmer showed through. I have seen him holding the Orb with my mind’s eye. I know he was there the day it was stolen from the king. Search your memory, Demetry. There has to be something he let slip.”

  Demetry racked his brain, trying to think of everything Jeremiah had shared about his past life. Where he had lived, what he had done, who he had served, and betrayed, and loved. He came up empty-handed. Jeremiah had instructed Demetry to tell Cendrik the Orb was hidden in Luthuania, but that lie seemed wholly insufficient given the current circumstances — Cendrik’s intuition would see he wasn’t telling the truth. “I can’t think of anything,” Demetry finally admitted.

  Cendrik’s eyes narrowed. “You lie as well as the old man, but your mind betrays you. There’s something you’re hiding from me.” He edged closer, his hand reaching toward Demetry’s face.

  Demetry’s head began to throb. His thoughts became confused, irrational.

  “The Orb...”

  “Tell me...”

  “Where....”

  Cendrik was using his powers to invade Demetry’s mind and search for the truth. Demetry backed away and swatted at the air, as if that might dislodge Cendrik’s mental grasp.

  “Pay the final price for your repentance, Demetry.” Cendrik pressed forward, his eyes pinched shut, his lopsided face twitching with concentration. “A new life awaits you. All you have to do is tell me where the Orb is hidden.”

  “All you have to do is let me in.”

  The pressure in Demetry’s skull intensified. His thoughts became muddled, confused. Demetry tried to think of a way to contest Cendrik’s probing powers, but the Old Magic was elemental in nature. Demetry could manipulate the wind and the trees and the earth, but the human mind was beyond his control. All he could do was resist through keen focus, much like he did whenever he was eager to silence Joshua’s nagging voice.

  Demetry closed his eyes and envisioned the void. His mind became a blank slate, a speck of black, floating in a sea of nothingness. The pressure in his skull faded. The competing voices became silent. Demetry opened his eyes. Cendrik was glaring at him, his lips twitching with frustration.

  “Stay out of my head,” snarled Demetry. He swung his arms in the air, forcing Cendrik back.

  “We all serve someone,” said Cendrik. “That is the world we live in. I am not unkind. I will give you this one last chance.” Cendrik reached out his hand, beckoning Demetry to take it. “In truth, it is more than you deserve.”

  “Take his hand and you will become a slave,” whispered Joshua. “Follow my voice and you will be free.”

  Tears sprung from Demetry’s eyes unbidden, his sorrow, regret, and rage all bubbling to the surface at once. “Curse you, Cendrik,” said Demetry, gasping for breath between words. “You believe that you are the hero in this tale, the righteous man on a righteous quest. But that makes me the villain, doesn’t it?”

  “Am I wrong?” said Cendrik, withdrawing his offered hand.

  “No,” said Demetry, admitting what he had always known in his heart. He was the one who raised Joshua from the dead. He was the one who left Shep to die in the woods. He was the one who murdered Clyde, and Sighelm, and so many others within Brothlo. He was the killer. He was the monster. He was the necromancer.

  The air took on a dire chill. Gooseflesh shrouded Demetry’s frame. His breath blossomed from his mouth in a cloud of icy vapor. The Sundered Soul responded to his call, and throughout the forest stones began to rattle from the ground and slowly take flight. The tree limbs overhead twisted and snapped. Pine needles and dirt twirled in the air, carried upward by countless cyclonic updrafts. And in amongst it all Demetry swore he saw inky black tentacles manipulating the world to match his every whim.

  Cendrik raised his hands and backed away, motioning for calm. “Demetry, think about what you are doing.”

  Demetry’s upper lip raised into a snarl. “I have made up my mind,” announced Demetry, his voice edged with certainty. “I will live my life free, or I will die in the effort. I will kill any man who tries to stop me. Unfortunately, that begins with you, Cendrik.” The floating rocks went shooting toward Cendrik all at once.

  “Mituw wu cet itus,” spoke a voice that cracked like thunder.

  The stump of a long dead tree tore from the ground and planted itself in front of Cendrik’s cowering body, forming an impenetrable wall. Demetry’s hailstorm of rocks chipped away at the trunk like a woodman’s axe, ricocheting this way and that. Not a single rock managed to break through and hit its intended target.

  One of the battlemages emerged from the forest and took up a defensive stance beside the warden. He was elderly, gray-bearded with a bald pate and a face sagging with wrinkles. He strode forward with a walking staff in hand. Demetry had to stifle a laugh — the man would have looked right at home giving a lecture at Taper. It was hard to believe he was a trained killer.

  The second battlemage materialized to Demetry’s left. This man was younger than the first, middle-aged with dark hair and a dark complexion — a Donastian by the look of him. He carried a curved scimitar in his grasp which he used to slash at the air.

  Both men wore steel breastplates, the metal engraved with arcane script. Even from a distance Demetry could tell the purpose of the script — they were enchantments meant to protect the wearer from magic. They would make Demetry’s elemental attacks less effective, and would all but eliminate Demetry’s ability to directly manipulate the bodies of the two men. Demetry cursed under his breath. He would have to use external forces to defeat these men - flying branches, blunt rocks, honed steel.

  “Always be the first to strike,” advised Joshua.

  For once Demetry listened to the whelp’s advice. Using his powers, he yanked a spear from the hands of a startled soldier and sent it hurtling toward the Donastian’s face. A trained killer, the Donastian was not one to be caught unprepared. He muttered a quick spell and the spear veered right, embedding itself in a tree.

  Graybeard clapped his hands together and the tree nearest Demetry split in half. Its upper boughs came collapsing on top of Demetry. If Demetry relied on the New Magic he wouldn’t have had time to respond, but the Old Magic worked as quickly as he could think, and the sudden threat to his life drew his mind into sharp focus. Particle by particle he pulled the tree apart. The tree seemed to age a thousand years in an instant, its branches turning to sawdust, its trunk splintering into weightless splinters. What remained of the tree collapsed on top of Demetry with no more force than a rain of feathers.

  He brushed the debris from his shoulder, smirking at his own cunning. The two battlemages eyed Demetry with newfound respect. They had underestimated his powers. In truth, so had Demetry. But not again.

  Branches tore from tree trunks and went hurtling toward the two battlemages. Graybeard knocked them aside with his staff, while the Donastian turned them to kindling with his scimitar. The two battlemages countered. Their chants rang through the air like the primal war cries of some ancient tribe, their spells coming fast and furious. Demetry scarcely had time to comprehend the nature of one spell before the next one was summoned.

  “Muja dar fapato...”

  Demetry leapt aside and a ball of fire smote the ground were he had been standing a moment earlier.

  “Wefa seftu mati...”

  Demetry slipped and fell as the rocks beneath his feet took flight.

  “Betru. Betru. Betru.”

  The Don
astian’s scimitar sliced through the air with enough force to chop down a tree. Demetry would have been cleaved in half had he not dodged aside at the last second. The tip of the blade nicked his shoulder, and he felt the all too familiar warmth of blood running down the length of his arm.

  Needing a moment to regain his composure, Demetry summoned a gust of wind, stirring up a blinding cloud of dirt and pine needles. His foes were momentarily blinded. He used the brief respite to rethink his strategy. Every spell his opponents cast required spoken words. It forecasted their intent, granting Demetry a split-second warning of what was coming next. But the speed with which they attacked left Demetry struggling to keep up, let alone strike back.

  “Majrl rit sae.”

  A flash of white hot lightning pierced the debris cloud, narrowly missing Demetry’s head. It struck a tree instead, causing all of the bark to pop free from the trunk with a sizzling hiss. A second bolt came flying in right behind the first, then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Graybeard was blindly lashing out. Demetry kept feeding wind into the tumult, hoping that the swirling wall of debris would obscure his true position.

  The Donastian leapt into the fray, his scimitar pinwheeling as he tried to cut Demetry down. He interchanged his sword swings with incendiary spells. It took all of Demetry’s strength to stay one step ahead of the attacks. The forest became engulfed in flames as stray pyromantic blasts landed amongst dry timber and dead pine needles. The heat of leaping flames raged all about him. Demetry’s hair began to singe and curl in on itself. His eyebrows melted away. His clothing began to smoke and fray.

  There was a purpose to the Donastian’s seemingly haphazard attacks — he was forcing Demetry’s back to Graybeard.

  “Use their strategy against them.”

  Demetry doubled over and grabbed at his chest, feigning exhaustion. The Donastian took the bait. He lashed out with a ball of leaping flames. Demetry avoided the worst of the blast by dropping to the ground. He channeled the Sundered Soul, and all at once the wind changed course, carrying with it the swirling maelstrom of pine-needles and debris. The gust fed into the fireball, redirecting the blast and intensifying the heat of the flames a hundredfold.