Graybeard simply stood there with a stunned expression on his face as the fireball grew larger and larger. It swallowed his body whole. When the flames finally abated, Demetry was not surprised to find Graybeard still standing on his feet. Graybeard’s enchanted armor had served its purpose and absorbed the majority of the blast, which was precisely what Demetry hoped would happen. Steel was terribly efficient at conducting heat, and the breastplate was glowing like the face of a blast furnace.
Graybeard hollered in agony as he frantically fumbled with the straps holding the breastplate in place. The glowing breastplate peeled away from his chest, taking with it a seared layer of flesh. Graybeard stared with horror at his injury, unaware of how irrelevant the wound actually was. He was dead the moment he took off his armor, he just didn’t know it yet.
Demetry focused on the blood coursing through Graybeard’s veins, exciting the individual particles until they began to boil. Graybeard’s eyes bugged as the pain began to register. Steam poured from his mouth and nostrils. His skin became covered with hideous blisters and bubbles. He collapsed to the ground and clawed at his face, his fingers coming away with great sloughs of flesh.
The Donastian’s mouth hung open as he watched the carnage unfold. He was dumbfounded, and why wouldn’t he be? There were no New Magic spells capable of manipulating the fluids coursing through a man’s veins. Graybeard’s demise was a product of the Old Magic. His demise was the product of a truly twisted mind.
“How?” asked the Donastian as his comrade gave a final shudder and succumbed to his wounds.
“The Old Magic,” answered Demetry.
The Donastian nodded, perhaps understanding then that his fate was already sealed.
The ground beneath the Donastian’s feet liquefied and turned into quicksand. Before he knew what was happening the earth had swallowed him up to his knees. He tried to pull his legs free only to fall over and sink to his waist, and then his chest, and finally his neck. The Donastian tried to chant a spell that might save his life, but Demetry didn’t allow a word to leave his mouth. A river of gravel and dirt poured down the Donastian’s throat, choking off the words.
“Our first victory,” whispered Joshua.
Demetry nodded his head in agreement.
The forest was now engulfed in flames, a hellscape of burning trees and collapsing limbs. Black smoke shrouded all, turning everyone into indistinct and faceless shapes. Some of Cendrik’s men were already running. More appeared eager to join in the retreat. Only a few stood their ground.
Demetry yelled into the madness, his eyes searching for the warden. “Did your seer’s mind tell you this was how it was going to end, Cendrik?” He could hardly hear his own voice over the crackling din of the raging fire.
“This is not an ending,” answered Cendrik.
Demetry spun in place, his eyes searching the smoke shrouded figures who stood in a ring around him. He was unable to discern which man was the warden.
“Nor is this a beginning,” continued Cendrik. “This is just a step in the middle of your journey. You should be thanking me. I could have kept you locked away in a black cell. Instead, I introduced you to Jeremiah. I helped make you into a god.”
Demetry beckoned with his hand. “Come then, Cendrik, reap what you have sown. Come and meet your god.” Demetry’s eyes narrowed on a lone figure, certain it was the warden.
Cendrik’s scornful laugh echoed in Demetry’s head. “My king is my god, Demetry. Just as he is yours.”
Demetry had the wrong man — Cendrik’s voice had come from the right. He spun in that direction only to discover a wall of burning trees.
“I have my own tricks, too.”
Cendrik’s voice was in his head, realized Demetry, much too late. Which meant...
Something closed around Demetry’s neck, locking tight with a metallic click. The wave of nausea was immediate. Demetry crumpled to his knees, all his strength vanishing at once. Cendrik had drawn Demetry’s attention in one direction and crept up behind him from the other.
“Foresight is nearly as powerful as the Old Magic,” said Cendrik, whispering directly into Demetry’s ear. A lopsided and triumphant grin was plastered on his face. “You go left and I go right. You try to use magic, and I cut off the power at its source.”
Demetry pawed at the gelding collar, his fingers fumbling at the clasp. Cendrik swatted Demetry’s hand aside like a schoolmaster correcting an errant student. He stepped on Demetry’s back, forcing him down on all fours.
The forest’s upper canopy was now fully engulfed in fire. Cinders and ash rained down from above causing the underbrush to erupt in flames. The inferno crept closer by the second.
“Do you want to know why I chose you, Demetry?” Cendrik growled through clenched teeth. “Do you want to know how I knew you were capable of mastering the Old Magic?”
“Let me guess — you read my mind.”
Cendrik ground his heel into Demetry’s spine, causing Demetry to cry out in pain. “Jeremiah was right, I am a terrible seer. But there is one premonition I always get right. Death. I’ve seen you die, Demetry, and when you do, you will be second to the gods in power.”
An involuntary laugh escaped Demetry’s throat, making him sound like a madman. “Ha! Then that means you’re not going to kill me. At least not today.”
“No,” agreed Cendrik. “But that does not mean I can’t put you through unimaginable pain in the interim.” Cendrik picked up a burning stick and thrust it toward Demetry’s face. “I’ll start with the left eye. The Orb — where is it?”
Demetry could feel the heat of the flame wicking away the moisture in his eye. The point of the flaming stick crept closer and closer. “Luthuania!” blurted Demetry, hoping to buy time. “The elves have it! Jeremiah gave it to the elves!”
Cendrik didn’t reply — his attention was drawn elsewhere.
The sound of clashing steel sounded to the east. Cendrik squinted toward the noise, his eyelids twitching. The triumphant grin faded from his face. His hand shifted to the pommel of his dagger. “Men, check the perimeter!” His order went unheeded — his voice was lost over the crackling roar of the flames.
Demetry motioned toward the heavens as the fire raged all around them, a maelstrom of smoke and cinders and flaming debris. “Only foolish men travel into the realm of the elves unbidden!”
More clashes of steel. The wretched cry of a dying man pierced the air.
“Stay low and be quiet,” hissed Cendrik. “We’re not alone.” His eyes were as wide as saucers. He drew his dagger, pointing it toward the shadowed figures that were hemming them in. “I’ve seen this before. I’ve...” The words died in his throat, replaced by a wet gargle. Demetry was shocked to discover a feathered shaft had grown out of Cendrik’s neck. Cendrik grasped at the arrow and stumbled backward, tripping over a rock and falling atop a bed of burning debris.
Demetry gasped in dismay as more arrows fell amongst Cendrik’s men, some of the deadly projectiles taking light as they crashed through the burning canopy. And with the arrows came cloaked figures. They came pouring down the hillside, as nimble and quick as wildcats. They leapt through the flames, swords flashing with orange light.
Elves, was Demetry’s first thought. The cloaked figures stampeded through the burning forest, hacking and slashing at anything that moved. Demetry unlatched the gelding collar from around his neck and tried to crawl away. The collar had served its purpose, his magic was gone. He would be helpless to defend himself, so he stayed low, praying that he might go unnoticed.
The massacre continued. Steel chimed. Men cried and died all around him. The remnants of Cendrik’s hunting party were now in full retreat. The cloaked figures did not let them go far. Bow strings twanged and the fleeing men were struck dead by long-feathered shafts. Few if any managed to escape — the slaughter was absolute.
Demetry cursed himself for coming this way. No one ventured into the forbidden realm of the elves without paying a bloody price.
>
CHAPTER
XII
THE MONSTER AND THE NECROMANCER
DEMETRY COWERED BEHIND A DOWNED TREE, silently praying that he would go unseen. The sound of clashing steel became intermittent, then stopped altogether. The grunts and groans of dying men faded. The crackle of burning trees was overwhelming to the ears. Demetry could feel the first inkling of magic returning to his body. Just a little bit longer and he would be able to defend himself.
Heavy footsteps sounded just beyond the downed tree. The unseen figure sniffed at the air, like a hound on a scent. A new tremor of fear worked through Demetry’s body.
“There is no need to hide, young magic,” The speaker’s voice lacked the urbane and sing-songy inflection of the elven accent. Instead, the voice was gruff, almost harsh on the ears. Whoever the speaker was, he was clearly unaccustomed to conversing in the common tongue.
Demetry peered over the downed tree, unsure of what to expect. A cloaked figure was standing on the far side. He motioned for Demetry to rise. Seeing no other option, Demetry gathered his feet and turned to face this new foe.
“Stay back,” said Demetry, balling his fists at his side. “I’m a magic. If you give me a reason to kill you, I will not hesitate.”
The cloaked figure gave a hissing laugh, his face still concealed within the shadows of his hood. He gestured to the dead and dying men that lay all around them. “I have given you ample reason to kill me, yet you hesitate. Perhaps you do nothing because you currently lack the ability.” He held up the gelding collar, pinching it between a pair of clawed fingers.
A cold shiver ran through Demetry’s body. This creature was no elf.
The figure shouldered off his cloak, revealing a monstrous body. Cold reptilian eyes. Toes and fingers studded by claws. Skin the color of ash. A face that tapered to a pointed beak. A pair of featherless wings sprouted from the creature’s shoulders, each headed by a bony talon. Demetry had never seen such a creature before, yet he knew exactly what he was facing. A dark child. A creature of the Wyrm. A dragoon.
Demetry stifled a gasp. This seemed to please the dragoon. His reptilian face curled into what could best be described as a grin. “I am Tyronious, chieftain of the Vierno Clan,” said the dragoon, placing his hand over his heart. “I come as a friend.” As if to prove that point, he tossed the gelding collar into the flames. The light in the Sundering Stone extinguished when it met the heat of the fire. Tyronious motioned to his men with his clawed hand. “We have been searching for you ever since we received word of your escape.”
Many of the other dragoons had also cast aside their cloaks. Victory was theirs. They no longer had any reason to conceal their true identities. The dragoons walked amongst the dead, cutting ribbons of cloth from the clothes of their victims. This seemed to be a sign of merit amongst the dragoons. They tied the ribbons around their biceps and wing blades. Some wore only a few, others had dozens. Tyronious’s trophies were too numerous to count. He possessed ribbons of every imaginable fabric and hue. They were knotted together, forming a chain of fabric that hung from his back like a cape.
Demetry eyed the savage creature with distrust. “Why were you searching for me?”
“Not you, to be honest, but your master. Where is General Jeremiah?”
Hearing Jeremiah’s name was like a punch to the gut, but Demetry kept himself from showing the slightest hint of emotion. Dragoons were savages and killers — or so Demetry was taught in school. They had no respect for sorrow or remorse. A show of weakness now might get Demetry killed.
“An archer with a lucky shot was able to accomplish what a legion of the king’s best men could not,” said Demetry. “Jeremiah is dead. He was killed in our flight from Coljack.” Demetry could only pray that the truth didn’t forfeit his value to the dragoons, at least not until his power returned in full.
If Tyronious was disheartened by the news, his reptilian face did not reveal it. “Jeremiah’s death is... unfortunate,” he said, after a moment of silence. “We have traveled through the barren wastes of Eremor and the hostile realms of our enemies only to discover our efforts have been in vain. A pity.”
“What did you want from him?”
“Death. Ruin. Conquest.” Tyronious smirked. “The dark children were laid low by the men of Caper. My people slaughtered, the survivors scattered. But time has been kind to us. We have multiplied. The trials of the northern wastes have made us strong. Legions are gathering. War is coming. Jeremiah was to be our champion.”
“You intend to wage war on King Johan?” Demetry shook his head. “Death awaits whomever chooses that path.”
“Do I look afraid of death?” Tyronious motioned to the dragoons who were still shuffling amongst the bodies of the slain with wet blades. “We are death’s servant. We are children of the Wyrm. The immortal gods created us with a splinter of their essence. Our bodies may expire, but our souls are boundless, immortal, just as the gods we once served.”
The gods Tyronious’s people once served were most definitely dead, blasted to ash in the War of Sundering. Demetry decided it was best not to correct the dark child on the matter. “If you are so fearless, why do you need Jeremiah?”
Tyronious clacked his reptilian beak. “General Jeremiah was the Wyrm’s chosen son. His mastery of the Old Magic was without compare. Our forefathers served under General Jeremiah’s command. He brought us victory and glory beyond imagine. Currently, the dragoon clans are fractured. There are those who think I will lead our people to ruin. But if I were to return north with the general at my side, no one would dare speak out against my plan.” He grinned. “Jeremiah’s death is a setback, but Fate has afforded me great gifts. I have been denied the master, but given the protege.”
“Me?”
“Are you going to feign ignorance? The voiceless power of the Old Magic runs strong in you. What if I told you I could increase your strength a hundredfold? That I could grant you mastery of vast legions? That empires would tremble at the mention of your name and that kings would quail in your presence?”
“I would say you weave an intoxicating tale full of lies.”
“The most manipulative lies are the ones that stoke a man’s thirst.” Tyronious edged closer, like a serpent cornering its prey. “The Orb of Azure has an allure like few other artifacts. He who holds it would be akin to the gods.”
Demetry’s eyes narrowed. Cendrik had said Demetry would eventually attain power that was second only to the gods. Was the Orb the means by which he would achieve such strength? “You know where the Orb is hidden?”
The corner of Tyronious’s mouth curled with delight. “My eyes are everywhere. My ears hear all. I see the conspiring king and the lurking assassin. I hear the woeful cries of slaves and the unrequited prayers of the desperate. Even you, Demetry, were not beyond my omniscience. Your suffering within Coljack did not go unseen. What they did to you. What they made you do...” He motioned to the bodies of Cendrik and the two battlemages. “Thus far your rage has been misdirected, your revenge taken out on mere stooges of the crown. I encourage you to set your sights higher. King Johan is as mortal as any man, and you, Demetry, are only one step short of godhood.”
Demetry could feel his power returning. He was no longer defenseless. If he so desired, he could kill every last dragoon where they stood. He could freeze their hearts in their chests, or force them to fall on their own blades.
“But why kill what you can force to serve,” whispered Joshua. Demetry couldn’t agree more.
“You seek a champion, Tyronious. But who would that champion serve? You? Your people?” Demetry shook his head. “I will not serve another man in my life. If I am to accompany you north, I go as Jeremiah’s heir, inheritor of his rank and esteem.”
Tyronious mulled over the offer for a moment, chewing on his tongue. “There will be those amongst my people who will have doubts.”
“Then I will convince them,” replied Demetry.
“They will want proof of your power
, your strength.”
“I am eager to demonstrate my skill.” A dire chill swept over the forest, and one by one the fires guttered into nothingness. A collective gasp rose amongst Tyronious’s band of warriors as they looked about themselves in wonder.
“People may have to die,” said Tyronious.
“I will not hesitate to do what must be done.”
Tyronious nodded his head and offered Demetry his hand to seal the compact.
“The master does not shake the hand of his slave.”
Joshua’s advice was beginning to sound more and more sensible.
Demetry ignored Tyronious’s outstretched hand and walked past the dragoon. He wove his way amongst the downed limbs, smoldering debris, and stiff bodies. He walked within feet of Cendrik’s corpse without giving it more than a passing glance. The warden had lived an unfortunate existence, wasting his life in the service of another man. Demetry would not make the same mistake. From this point forward he would think only of his own well-being.
“Of our well-being,” added Joshua.
Demetry nodded in agreement.
He strode by the ravaged bodies of the two battlemages the king had sent to kill him. There was a lesson here as well. The battlemages had died because they were not as strong as the opponent they faced. Demetry would not stop training until he was the most powerful magic alive. Cendrik had foreseen this future, but only Demetry could make it a reality.
Finally, he approached the clearing where the dragoon warriors were gathering. The hulking figures were festooned with bloody ribbons they had collected from their victims. They were a terrifying sight. Demetry had to fight off the instinct to quail beneath their ferocious gaze. He had lived his entire life staring down at his own feet, showing a meek face and a docile temper to anyone who presented themselves as a threat. No more. Let them fear me instead. He held his head high, clenching his jaw and staring down any dragoon that would meet his eye.
A Wizard's Dark Dominion (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 1) Page 16