The Free Kingdoms (Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  “But what about the gurgolet?” Darik asked.

  Markal said, “Should we leave Chantmer alone and see what he can do?”

  “I don’t know,” Darik admitted, still dismayed by the Citadel’s weak response. “Maybe Chanter was right. Maybe we should let him fight the dark wizard. At the least, they will weaken each other, maybe opening the door for our own attack.”

  “No,” the king said in a firm voice. “If we win it won’t be by killing our own men.”

  Markal looked ashamed that he’d even considered the idea. “You’re right, my king. Chantmer weakens the Citadel with his treachery. We must deal with him. We will take the gurgolet and its master down at the same time.”

  #

  As it turned out, they didn’t have an opportunity to test Darik’s plan that day. The gurgolet retreated from the city and returned caked with fresh, wet mud, fully replenished. Even without the wasps, the dragon and the gurgolet laid waste to large stretches of the city, the former burning markets and homes alike, the latter savaging the Eriscobans in the Citadel’s main bailey.

  Markal discovered the extent of Toth’s counterattack on the wizards of the Order. Three wizards lay dead, including Nathaliey Liltige, and four others were wounded. The fireball burned Nathaliey until she was almost unrecognizable, and when Markal first saw her, he reeled in shock and stomach-churning nausea. Narud had survived with minor scalds on his face and chest, but they had lost the two most powerful wizards in the Order, one to Toth and the other to treachery.

  Cragyn’s Hammer sounded again before dusk. This time, it did more than break through layers of gold, but shattered a chunk of masonry. The smaller, but faster-firing trebuchets joined the attack, striking again and again at the Golden Tower with hundred-pound stones.

  Night fell and the gurgolet retreated, leaving the dragon to burn large swaths of the city before its fires grew weak and it fell back. Thousands of men worked throughout the night to put out the fires. But nothing could be done for towns and fields outside the city, where fire raged across the countryside until the plains glowed and smoke suffocated the air. Cragyn’s Hammer fired twice more that night, while trebuchets relentlessly exploited the weak spots left after its assaults.

  Two ravens brought news to Narud and Markal late in the night: three more dragons stoked their fires in the mountains and flew west to join the battle. News raced through the Citadel with the speed of the dragon’s own fire. The city clung to a single ray of hope: the Knights Temperate. But behind this hope lay the stark truth that ninety griffins weren’t enough to fight a gurgolet, four dragons and hundreds of dragon wasps.

  When dawn came, a man stood on the battlements and played the gut-pipe to mark another night of freedom, a tradition that predated the Citadel itself and was followed throughout the Free Kingdoms. The pipes commemorated the Third Battle of Eriscoba, when the Free Kingdoms overthrew Toth’s army at Sleptstock and marched in support of Syrmarria. Many wondered if it would be the last morning the piper sounded his wailing tune.

  Midway through the morning, Markal thought it time to move. He stood in a window of the Golden Tower and waved to Flockheart and Darik in the griffin tower on the western side of the Citadel. Then he called the wizards from the library, and they climbed the stairs.

  Markal and Narud moved first, followed by five other wizards. Spells of warding and forbidding clogged the stair case, but together they pushed through and rose toward Chantmer’s sanctuary.

  Cragyn’s Hammer roared outside. The floor shook and then listed dangerously to one side, throwing them from their feet. The bombard had weakened the Golden Tower faster than anyone thought possible. Toth bolstered each shot with magical vigor, yes, but Markal thought the corruption that festered in the Thorne Chamber weakened the Citadel’s defenses from the inside. Only by rooting out Chantmer the Tall could they preserve the Golden Tower. They might not even survive another shot, Markal thought, regaining his feet and fighting the tremble in his hands.

  They reached the Thorne Chamber to find Chantmer waiting, his power grown beyond any of their fears.

  #

  A woman came to Kallia while she slept. The air was chill in the mountains and the khalifa slept under a pile of blankets that spread a suffocating heat. But when she threw them off, a sudden shiver of cold replaced the hot flashes. She returned to her blankets and when she fell back asleep, the woman came. It was no dream.

  The woman wore a flowing robe emblazoned with the Star of Veyre and a ruby tiara on her brow. Tainara. Wife of the dead high khalif.

  “Kallia,” the woman whispered, stripping her blankets. “I have come to take you home, my cousin.”

  Kallia opened her eyes and the woman still floated above her. The air shimmered, as though Kallia looked at the night through a sheer veil of silk, obscuring everything in the tent. Her bodyguard sat in the doorway, eyes closed in slumber, but he didn’t breath. The fire on the lamp stood perfectly still, as if encased in ice. The wight froze the world, tearing her from anyone who might help.

  Kallia wore only paijams, made of sheer silk, and Tainara breathed a chill air that prickled against her breasts and stomach. Tainara wrapped her hands around Kallia’s wrists, and the khalifa shrank back. The wight pinned her arms down on her pillow.

  “Oh khalifa—may you live forever,” Tainara said. “We return to the dark master.”

  Kallia pulled away, rage pushing aside her fear. “He is not my master!”

  “He is your master and mine,” Tainara whispered. “We have both bedded the dark wizard. Consider his seed.”

  She felt it then, a pinprick of light burning in her womb. Hot with life already, a seed that had taken hold despite all of her attempts to prevent it, a seed that would resist any efforts to root it out. The word came unbidden to her mind: evil.

  No, she thought in protest. It isn’t evil. Not unless I let the dark wizard infect me with his madness.

  “What prison does he keep you in?” Kallia asked. “What sheol binds your soul?”

  The woman hesitated and Kallia saw a war raging behind her eyes. But madness reasserted itself. “Don’t struggle and it will be easier when the dark master’s seed grows within you. Through his seed, you are bound already. You will become like me.”

  “His seed is bound to my soul,” Kallia contradicted. “And such a binding will not come without a cost to your master. I swear it by the Brothers. By my father’s tower of silence, I swear it.” Blasphemy tainted Kallia’s words, that such an oath could be spoken of the one pure silence, when a body returned to Mithyl and its soul waited for the Harvester.

  This caught Tainara’s wight by surprise. Once again, the warring spirits dueled. A light flickered behind the madness and the woman said in a small voice, “Help me, my queen.” Fear writ itself across her face. Her face twitched as two powers battled for control.

  But even as Kallia reached out in automatic sympathy, the madness regained control and Tainara hurled herself at Kallia. She grabbed Kallia by the neck and threw her to the pillows, rising above the khalifa with a sneer on her lips. Kallia gasped, her air choked away.

  “The dark master sent me to make sure you do nothing against his will until the seed takes greater hold,” Tainara said calmly, as Kallia suffocated.

  Then, when Kallia thought she would faint from lack of air, Tainara relaxed her grip. Kallia couldn’t help herself—she opened her mouth and gasped for air. And when she did, Tainara’s wight passed into her mouth. Heat seared her lungs.

  The wight immediately struggled for control, raging in Kallia’s mind and wrestling for her limbs and mouth. Kallia screamed, trying to break the guard from his lethargy, but the world remained frozen. She flopped onto her back, raging against the foreign spirit that tore her from the inside out, and refusing to surrender.

  “You are mine!” the wight whispered in her ears. “I own you!”

  “No!”

  Slowly, the wight took control of her feet, and then her hands, and then h
er facial muscles. Her eyesight faded and her hearing dimmed. But she refused to relinquish her mind, fighting on. Tainara weakened, and Kallia pushed back, retaking her body bit by bit even as she had retaken Balsalom. And like Balsalom, it didn’t come without cost.

  A voice shouted in the back of Kallia’s consciousness, but she paid this voice no attention. At last, she expelled Tainara from her lungs.

  “You will obey the dark wizard,” Tainara promised, even as she bled from Kallia’s nostrils. “He will have you in his box of souls. I promise it.” And then she was gone.

  “Kallia!” the voice shouted again, this time louder.

  The terror vanished, burst by the voice. She clawed at the blankets that wrapped around her neck, still imbued with bits of the wight’s life force. For a moment they resisted, coiling like snakes, and then they dropped away, limp. Pasha Boroah stood in the doorway, torch in hand, while the guard rose to his feet, and rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  “My queen. What is it? Has he come for you?” Boroah brought his forefinger and thumb together to ward evil. His hair sat in a wild mop, bare of his turban.

  Sweat drenched Kallia’s paijams, sticking the sheer silk to her skin. Her chest heaved in great gasps. Free of the blankets, the cold air chilled her quickly.

  “A night terror, my pasha,” she said. “Nothing more. Please, leave me.”

  Pasha Boroah nodded and dragged the guard outside none too gently. Once outside, Boroah shouted at the guard who’d fallen asleep, then ordered more men to her tent. He was afraid, she could tell. Kallia leaned into her pillows, willing her heart to stop racing. Tainara’s promise haunted her.

  No! She didn’t belong to the dark wizard. And neither would her child.

  #

  The riders quickened their pace when they spotted Whelan and his men.

  Whelan had gathered over sixty Knights Temperate since he left Hoffan’s army at Sleptstock. He’d sent a dozen west toward the Wylde, and other parties south and east while he rode north to look for his brother Roderick. Fifteen knights rode by his side, including Hob and his brother Ethan.

  Sophiana rode in the rear next to Ethan, with strict instructions to stay out of any fighting. It wasn’t that she couldn’t defend herself with her crossbow; she was too headstrong to trust in delicate situations.

  He guessed the other force numbered close to fifty, but the road was narrow. A waist-high stone wall hemmed the road on either side, and the rain and mud made footing too treacherous for horses to jump the wall. The others would be unable to bring their whole force to bear should the confrontation turn ugly. Whelan hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  One man rode ahead of the others. He drew his sword and eyed Whelan.

  “Roderick,” Whelan said. “Well met.”

  Roderick ignored his greeting. “I heard you returned. That you’ve taken advantage of the king’s illness and forced him to recognize your return.”

  Whelan fought against a rising temper. He could already feel the souls stirring in his sword and Soultrup still remained in its scabbard. Lose control for an instant and he would find the sword in hand and cutting down any who stood in his way.

  “Daniel regained his senses and shakes off this illness. He forgave me willingly,” Whelan said. “As should you.”

  A thin smile played on Roderick’s lips. “I gladly offer my forgiveness. As your brother. But Whelan, you betrayed the king, divided the Brotherhood, and scattered the Knights Temperate. How can I forget that? For the sake of the Brotherhood, I cannot simply hand you the captainship in an obscene validation of your crimes.”

  “I ask no validation. What I ask is that you drop your bitterness. We must unite to fight our common enemy. The dark wizard has taken the bridge at Sleptstock and marches on the Citadel.”

  Roderick drew in his breath. “Already?” Others in Roderick’s army argued amongst each other.

  “Yes, already,” Hob said, from back amongst Whelan’s men. “End this, Roderick. We have no time for argument.”

  Whelan lifted his hand to calm not just Hob but every knight in both groups. He raised his voice to speak not just to Roderick, but his men as well. “The Citadel stands threatened. I ask your loyalty, that you follow me to Arvada to defend the city, the king, and the Citadel.”

  One man in Roderick’s army jumped from the back of his horse. His name was Canute. Whelan had fought by his side against brigands on the Old Road five years earlier. He was an older man, who as a boy had fought under Whelan’s grandfather.

  “My captain,” Canute said. He drew his sword, then bent to his knee in front of Whelan’s horse and held out the blade in a show of loyalty.

  Whelan dismounted from his horse to acknowledge the man’s presence. “Canute. Thank you.”

  “No!” Roderick shouted. He spurred his horse forward to jostle in front of Canute before Whelan could take up the man’s sword and accept the man’s renewed oath of loyalty.

  Whelan snatched out his sword just as his older brother brought his own weapon down. The blow drove Whelan to his knees, but he rolled out of the way before the horse could trample him. He parried another blow, then delivered one of his own that rang against Roderick’s shield. It knocked his brother from the saddle, and the man landed heavily on the far side of his horse.

  Whelan drove into him before he could regain his feet, battering him back to the ground. The horse neighed in terror, jostling between the two men long enough to allow the older man to regain his feet. The other men remained behind, unable or unwilling to commit themselves in defense of either their new or former captain.

  “Stop this!” Ethan shouted. He’d brought his horse from the rear.

  His words broke Whelan from his attack. A hundred voices whispered from Soultrup’s depths, each giving different advice.

  “This is ridiculous,” Whelan said, lowering his guard. “We’re brothers.”

  Roderick brought his sword around again and Whelan lifted his blade to block the attack just in time. “You were warned,” he said. “On penalty of death, never to return.”

  “The king pardoned me, you fool.” Whelan steadied his breathing.

  “Pardoned? Hah!”

  This time, on equal footing, Whelan blocked the blow, then another, before turning his own attack that sent his brother staggering backwards. Roderick was more heavily armored, and even with his smaller, single-handed sword and his shield, couldn’t move quickly enough to counter Whelan’s ferocious blows. Whelan drove into Roderick until his brother gasped for air and sweat poured down his face.

  Roderick swung wildly and Whelan ducked underneath and lowered his shoulder. He knocked into Roderick, a blow that shoved his brother against the wall that lined the road. Roderick fell over the wall. Whelan vaulted the wall and renewed his attack. Roderick weakened with every blow.

  “Help me!” Roderick shouted to the other knights. “Kill this traitor.”

  Whelan stopped and looked at Roderick’s men. One of them started forward, but Hob stood in his way and Ethan and Canute grabbed the reins of his horse. He didn’t struggle against their opposition. The others sat uncertainly.

  Roderick looked disgusted. “Very well. May this day rest heavily on your consciences. The day that you betrayed your oaths.”

  He attacked Whelan again, and Whelan again turned aside the attack. He held his ground until he felt Roderick’s blows weaken, then pressed back. Roderick staggered backwards, his shield dropping. Whelan brought his sword down hard, but Roderick ducked to one side and the blow glanced off the leather that protected his arm.

  He lunged forward, trying to cut underneath Whelan’s guard. Whelan turned away the attack and swung again, knocking aside Roderick’s shield. Whelan lifted his sword over his shoulders.

  A shout sounded behind him. Blows rang out. The Knights Temperate fought amongst each other. Startled, Whelan dropped his guard for an instant. Roderick shouted and charged into him, knocking both of them to the ground. Whelan kicked his brother away wit
h a boot and rolled clear. He regained his feet before Roderick and looked to the others even as he fought to withstand his brother’s attack.

  Two men attacked Hob, while Canute and his own opponent had unhorsed each other. Ethan and another knight traded blows as their horses muscled each other for position on the road while Roderick’s men struggled to drive a wedge into Whelan’s knights and exploit their greater numbers.

  Two men on horseback joined the attack on Canute, perhaps enraged that he had turned so easily against their captain. The older man parried one blow, but a man swung his mace at Canute’s head. The blow caught him full across the temple. Canute collapsed in a heap. He landed face down in a pool of water puddled at the bottom of a wagon-wheel rut.

  “Enough!” Whelan shouted, horrified. The fighting stopped as quickly as it had begun. Blood streamed down one man’s arm and Hob had a cut over his eye.

  “He is right,” Roderick said. He gasped for air. “This is between the two of us.”

  Men on both sides dropped their weapons. Someone rolled Canute onto his back while others crowded around. Even from the first glimpse Whelan knew the man was dead. It made him feel sick that it had come to that.

  He turned back to Roderick. “This is not between the two of us,” he said. “It is about the survival of the Citadel, about the honor of the Brotherhood, about saving the Free Kingdoms. Let it end, I beg of you. I will not be turned away.”

  Roderick hesitated before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Whelan. I swore I would kill you if you tried to return. The king’s enemies are my enemies.” He lifted his sword again. “I know you will kill me, brother. But let me die with honor. Don’t humiliate me by sparing my life and leaving me crippled.”

  His words shamed Whelan. He looked at his men who stood stricken around Canute, some staring at their hands with swords lying at their feet. The cost was too dear. The Knights Temperate would be unified, but they would ride under Roderick.

  He threw Soultrup to the ground and dropped to his knee. “You are the captain of the Knights Temperate, my brother. I beg your mercy. Or you may strike me down as is your right.”