Mad Mage

by Salvador Mercer

  “Get him on his feet,” Khan requested.

  Dorsun leveled his blade under the man’s face, which was looking down, so intent he was on not facing the new intruders. “Stand up now and tell me your name.”

  The man tried to compose himself, standing slowly with his head kept down. Dorsun took a moment to allow the man to speak, and after slowing his breathing a bit, the man said, “I’m called Darker, and I waz da kitchen boss, never a soldier.”

  Dorsun looked at the servants, who nodded in agreement, with one saying softly, “He speaks the truth, Commander.”

  The women were accustomed to serving and dealing with the Kesh military, and they recognized the silver baton and leather armor trappings that denoted Dorsun as an officer in their army.

  Dorsun looked back at the man who could only see him and the three servants. The trio of Khan, Targon, and Salina were still behind him. “How came you by this uniform, then?”

  “I had no choice,” the man began, pleading his case before the Kesh commander. “The warden, aye dat man, and his assistant, may dey rest in peace, were killed in da wizard war. I had ta do somethin’ to help da masters out.”

  “What wizard war?” Khan asked from behind.

  Darker made the mistake of turning to see the magic-user. The effect was immediate, as he fell to the ground and grabbed Khan’s boots. “Please don’t hurt me, Master. I didn’t do anythin’ wrongs, I promises.”

  Khan could only nod at Dorsun, who had to sheathe his sword and pick the man up from his back. This brought the Ulathans into view, and Darker started to tremble. Khan said, “I think he recognized you.”

  Targon nodded at Khan. “Speak clearly, man. I don’t care if you were a kitchen boss or the warden of this prison. I want to know if there was an Ulathan woman here or not.”

  Darker almost screamed and said, “You are her son, the wood-warlock. Let me go.” He struggled against Dorsun’s grip, and Targon stepped forward to place a hand around the man’s throat.

  Targon said, “Tell me now.”

  “The master took er to da High-Mage, he did. She not here now . . . Please, let me go.”

  “Tell me her name.” Targon lifted the man single-handedly, who had to hold on to the Ulathan’s forearm in order to be able to breathe properly.

  “She . . . was . . . called . . . Dareen.” The man struggled with each word.

  Targon dropped him to the ground and asked, “Where did they take her?”

  “How long ago?” Salina crouched to ask her own question.

  Darker was in a panic to escape and answered both questions as quickly as he could. “They took er to the execution yard, and dey left no more dan a quarter hour ago.”

  The room became silent as Darker huddled on the ground, breathing heavily, and the three cleaners crouched in anticipation for what would happen next. The group looked at one another before Targon asked Khan, “Do you know where this place is?”

  Khan looked pale and responded, “I do. It is not far from here, but . . .”

  A crack of thunder vibrated throughout the room as it was lit further by the lightning strike of a storm that had started outside. Rain pelted the area around the window, and Targon could only ask, “But what?”

  “The execution yard is adjacent to the Onyx Tower. If she was taken there, it means she is to be put to death immediately and in the presence of the High-Mage.

  Chapter 23

  Honor

  The storms rolled across the land, dropping rain and lighting up the sky with lightning bolts that raced to the ground in rapid succession. The thunder boomed across the land as if angry gods were forging steel with their mighty anvil hammers. Despite the foul weather, the torches were well lit, and the many bonfires gave more than ample illumination to the battlefield.

  Bran felt the grip of his blade, and it was solid. He managed to pull his own weapon off the rack, much to his own surprise, as Hork had indicated to him earlier. The mere fact that the Kesh ensured it was available showed a rift between the clansmen of the North and the Kesh military. His own shield was nowhere to be seen, but he had one that felt as well-crafted as could be expected considering his own circumstances and enemy. The true secret was that he was wearing his own breastplate under an oversized tunic and undershirt. He was informed the armor was to protect his ribs in order to level the playing field. Bran didn’t argue with the Kesh and took what he was given.

  The entire northern ring of spectators were all Northmen. They were inside the Korwell castle complex where they stood silently in anticipation of the death duel between one of their designated heirs to the clan’s throne and the Ulathan commander who had been challenged to combat. They had their weapons sheathed or tucked into their wide leather belts. They wore furs and leather skins over their heavier clothing made from a thick fabric unknown to Bran. Most had helmets, some with horns. All had steely gazes and alert stances.

  Around the rest of the ring were the Kesh soldiers. They wore black leather armor, thin and flexible. It would do little to stop a determined sword thrust, though it could deflect a slicing blade that came their way. They had shorter swords, some spears, and their crossbowmen lined the castle’s walls, overlooking not only the outside of the fortress but the inner courtyards and open spaces as well.

  There would be no escape for Bran.

  “You look well prepared,” Hermes said, coming to stand next to Bran after leaving the relatively dry sanctuary of his covered tent that he had erected as soon as the weather turned foul.

  Bran nodded, keeping his gaze on Kaz, who stood opposite him a good ways away. “I have you to thank for that.”

  “Now, now, remember what we talked about. Your preparation was to appease the Northman and his clan, not to assist you. Remember your place and your family will honor you for it.”

  Bran did look at Hermes at the mention of his family. “Honor your own oath and protect my family.”

  “Of course,” Hermes said. “We Kesh are men of our word, especially those in my ruling caste. We’ll see to it that they are unharmed and free to live out their lives in peace. They need only to lay down their arms.”

  Bran nodded but didn’t tell the wizard that his agreement was nothing more than a ploy to secure his family’s freedom and lives in the event that he lost this duel. He had no intention of allowing the Northman to kill him, though that was a very likely outcome of this battle. If he was going to die, better to leverage his death for some benefit to his family.

  Hork walked over and said, “The barbarian is ready.”

  “Very well,” Hermes responded, acting the role of leader for their forces. His smug demeanor and abrasive condescension gave Bran an unusually high desire to turn his blade on the magic-user first. “Carry on.”

  Bran watched as the man returned to his plush chair, sitting on a makeshift wooden deck that he had brought out to keep himself out of the mud as much as possible. The grassy ground helped to drain away the excess water, but bare patches were turned into puddles of muddy water in the storm.

  The rain had stopped a while ago and allowed greater visibility in the evening sky. Only a tinge of orange on the far western horizon indicated that it was once daylight not long ago. Hork motioned with his head for Bran to walk to the center of the makeshift ring. Hork retreated to the east side of the gathering where he was closest to the inner castle.

  Bran walked purposely, swinging his sword slightly below him, first in front, and then to the rear, as he limbered up for the match. He watched as Kaz marched intently to meet him. When the two had come together, separated only by two marks carved into the ground, they stopped and stared at one another.

  The gathering was silent, as the death duel was about to begin. Bran noticed that the Northman had his huge sword at the ready and was traditionally defended with an iron bounded shield made of wood with a painting of his clan’s emblem on it—a giant eagle. There was silence until Kaz spoke. “Krik ahoun to ku atik.”

  Bran frowned
and then said, “I don’t understand your language.”

  “One of us die now,” Kaz said. “You fight well. Fight with honor.”

  “Understood,” Bran responded. “Honor in death.”

  Kaz seemed to understand but didn’t respond further. He turned his head slightly and yelled over his shoulder, “Na krik atik, to no nik do toon.”

  The barbarians erupted in cheers and drew their weapons, pulsing them into the overcast sky, screaming war cries of encouragement. Despite their display, Kaz held his position, waiting for something. Once the yells and screams had died down, the Northman’s gaze went past Bran, looking at the Kesh wizard under his tent roof. The side panels had been rolled up to allow a clear view all around the man while still protecting him from the rain.

  With a nod and a raise of his staff, which flared as a blue light momentarily erupted from it, Hermes said, “Let the match begin.”

  Kaz’s immediate response was to close the small gap between the two men and test Bran’s shield with an overhead blow from his massive sword.

  The weapon’s blow shuddered throughout Bran’s left arm as he felt the intense vibration and kinetic impact of the weapon against his shield. Bran had a disheartening thought that the blow, which was intense by his standards, was only an opening probe into his own defenses. The worst was yet to come.

  Bran parried the next swing to spare his shield arm from a second immediate blow, and the third he circled to his right, allowing the Northman’s swing to miss him completely and impact the ground.

  Bran used the momentum against his opponent and stepped inward, thrusting his own blade instead of swinging it. This caught Kaz off guard, as the man wasn’t expecting the move so early in the match. It was easily blocked by the barbarian’s shield, but it left the shield down and inside, something Bran had intended.

  Swirling in a complete three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle, Bran managed to flank Kaz with his next move and score a hit against the man’s left leg below the waist and above the knee where there was no armor protecting him. Kaz countered by bringing his shield back, which lessened the severity of the blow, and swinging his own blade from wide right to his own left He forced Bran to raise his shield and counter the strike. Raising the shield caused Bran to lose sight of Kaz momentarily while he attempted to bring his blade back and then forward again to follow up on his first strike.

  Blood ran down the Northman’s leg, staining the ground red at his feet. Kaz pivoted on his injured leg and almost fell but managed to plant his good foot before using his own shield to plow into his opponent’s face.

  The barbarian’s counter was not expected, and Bran felt his head explode as the hard shield pushed his own blade to the side and impacted on his nose, which bent too far outward and exploded in a gush of red blood. Bran was stunned and stepped back two steps, slipping on a mud spot and falling to the ground on one knee. He kept a grip of his sword and brought the back of his sleeve up to his nose to wipe the blood away.

  Lowering his shield slightly, he saw that Kaz was already pulling a cord taut that had hung from his belt with his sword hand. The sword was stuck deep into the ground, waiting for its master’s return. Bran was stunned at how quickly the Northman had countered his strike and was even now applying pressure to the wound in order to staunch the bleeding. The leather cord was pre-tied and only required the man to cinch it once it was around his leg. A fair-sized piece of cloth that acted as a pad was in between the wound and the cord.

  Bran’s own hand encountered his broken nose, and without hesitation, he pushed it back to center, hearing it snap as he did so. The pain was excruciating, but Bran had no choice but to bear it and continue the fight. Righting himself quickly, he took a swing at Kaz, who easily parried it with his shield while still focused on finishing his own bandaging and retrieving his weapon.

  The two men started to circle one another on the slippery ground. Their footing on the grass was tentative at best, and the bare patches were like running on a frozen lakebed. Blow after blow was exchanged and defended with their shields, while their own parries occurred in between each strike.

  The pace was fast and furious, and after a few minutes, Bran felt the all-too-familiar tug of fatigue calling out to him. He was healed, but he was out of shape, and the Northman knew it. The relentless pace of the attacks was maintained with the sole purpose of attritioning the Ulathan’s strength to the point where meaningful resistance would be nigh to impossible.

  Kaz knew that Bran was an expert swordsman, and his primary objective was to defend himself from the Ulathan’s blows, thrusts, and counterattacks. He had underestimated Bran early but did not repeat the error again. The Kesh seemed to be cheering both sides, and during a brief lull of only a mere second, Bran found himself looking past Kaz, facing the east directly at Hork, who was watching intently, arms folded but several weapons sheathed on the man or nearby on a weapon’s stand.

  Bran parried another blow and tried to use a kick to knock Kaz off balance. Bran knew he had to change the course of the battle quickly or the Northman’s near-constant rain of sword swings and shield blows would take their toll on the smaller Ulathan. The move seemed to work, and Bran took a gamble and thrust his sword at the small opening between his opponent’s shield and sword. The gamble failed.

  In a testament to his health and strength, Kaz put all his weight on his injured leg and kicked the sword down and out, causing Bran to overextend and go to one knee in order to maintain a grip on his sword. The Northman then raised his sword and brought a mighty blow against the Ulathan, which could only be countered by Bran’s shield. The shield countered the blow, but at a cost. It burst asunder, and the iron rivets busted, coming out and allowing the iron banding that held the wood boards together to fall apart.

  Kaz repeated the blow while shifting feet to bring his injured leg to rest on Bran’s sword, which now lay on the ground with Bran still gripping its hilt and trying desperately to free his blade from the muddy ground. The second blow splintered what wood remained, and even the leather straps went loose, causing Bran to almost fall on both knees.

  Bran shook off the useless straps and watched in horror as his shield disintegrated into several dozen pieces. He was now completely defenseless against his opponent, who reared back for a third and final blow. The blow that would end the match by ending Bran’s life.

  Resisting an intense urge to raise his shield arm to block the Northman’s next blow, he used his decades of training and experience to make one last counterattack. The natural instinct was to raise something, anything, to block a killing blow. Bran’s experience had taught him that against a strong opponent, using one’s bare hand or arm would do little to nothing to stop a sword strike that hit sharp edge first. It would simply result in him having his left arm amputated before the blade buried itself deeply into his torso.

  Instead of trying to pull his blade free as he had done the last two blows, he pushed on the hilt and went to all fours, diving at the barbarian’s feet. He used his free hand, balling it into a fist, to strike the side of his opponent’s injured leg while at the same time pushing on his blade. This caused the leg to loosen as the painful blow verberated along the man’s entire leg, and the reverse pressure allowed the blade to slide against Kaz’s foot. The combination of strike against the injured leg and reversal of pressure on the blade left the Northman’s footing unstable.

  Kaz’s blow came down and glanced off the back of Bran’s breastplate after cutting into and through his outer clothes. Had the blow not been at an angle, Bran would have died. As it was, the ringing noise of metal on metal, blade against armor, sounded clearly enough across the ring. Bran didn’t have a chance to see the effect on Kaz’s face as the man lost his footing and fell to the ground next to him.

  Bran pulled his blade free and managed to stand on one leg with his other leg still kneeling on the ground while he brought his blade to the Northman’s neck. Kaz had managed to pick himself up and kneel on both knees whil
e propping himself up with his sword hand, which still gripped his blade’s hilt. The other hand held his shield, and he dropped it, letting it fall to the ground, as the Ulathan’s blade had already gotten past it.

  The killing thrust to the Northman’s neck never happened. Bran pulled the thrust short, stopping the tip of the blade as it touched Kaz’s neck, drawing a small trickle of blood. The look on the Northman’s face was intense. Ignoring Bran’s blade, Kaz reached with his free hand and pulled on Bran’s tunic, ripping it down the middle and exposing the armed breastplate. Kaz’s eyes narrowed, and a look of disgust crossed the large man’s face.

  Bran felt dishonored and understood that his opponent did not know the Kesh had armored him with the chest plate. True honor dictated that any weapon and any armor or shield should be clearly visible in any duel of this nature. By keeping this from the Northman, the battle was fought differently, and the outcome could have been changed unfairly. Bran felt sick at his stomach and slowly turned his head to his left so that he was looking directly at Hork.

  This did not go unnoticed by Kaz and indeed the entire group of spectators, Northmen and Kesh alike, who had become silent at the unexpected turn of events. Kaz looked to where his opponent’s gaze took him, and the Northman found himself staring eye to eye with the Kesh commander. There was a long silence until Kaz said one word. “Ahouk.”

  Weapons were drawn on both sides, Kesh and Northmen alike. Before anyone could say a word or strike a blow, a horn sounded from the outer wall. So intense was the duel that most of the wall guards were watching the match and not performing their sentry duties properly. One wall guard, who was also distracted, thought he heard a noise and had turned to look down at the small southern gate opposite the castle and main northern gates.

  There, at the base of the small gate complex, was a skeleton dressed in magnificent armor carrying a staff much the same as their own wizard did. The only difference was the darker blue color that it emanated and the legion of animated skeletons accompanied the first creature. They appeared to be waiting for something as the creature waved his staff in front of the gate.