“Sergeant,” Azinon said to the cowering soldier who had dropped to his hands and knees before the sorcerer’s wrath, “give the order to sound the withdrawal. Tell them to pull back and wait outside the mouth of this valley for my return at midnight.”
Without looking up, the soldier scrambled away as fast as his legs would carry him.
Azinon looked again to his palm a brief moment before making a fist over the tiny spark of life force there. Before he could risk the spell he had in mind, he would need more. A great deal more. He turned his eyes toward his own reserve troops, still waiting to join the battle.
“A small price,” he remarked aloud.
Captain Olum, surged with pride at the sight of his men regrouping to face the oncoming Jalkora—and all without a word from him. No one thought to flee, no one thought to run and save their own skin. They waited ready to fight and die at the signal from their captain for the freedom of all the races.
“Your orders, sir?” the sergeant to his right asked.
In the years since taking command of the heavy cavalry—eight companies in all, numbering at times more than a thousand souls—he had for himself and his men demanded the most rigorous training and absolute loyalty from all those who served him. And it paid off, for in all that time never had he taken more than a third in losses in even the worst of times.
Until now.
“Sir, your orders?” the sergeant asked again.
The captain looked across the field at the Jalkora and estimated they would be upon them in less than a minute. “We try and hold them back as long as possible.”
He smiled grimly then, knowing this battle could not be won in the face of so many of Azinon’s most ferocious troops, yet defiant in the face of his own looming death. “Perhaps, if we are lucky, we can buy those brave men and women behind us enough time to escape.” To the rest of them he raised his voice and said, “Remember, you aim for the head or the soft pit below the arms.” He waited until he could no longer hear his words repeated down the line by individual sergeants to either side of his position.
“Ready!” he cried.
Captain Maxwell Donn watched in unabashed horror as the lances dropped for what was sure to be their final charge.
“General Duva, with all due respect, I cannot stand by and watch my brothers slaughtered on the field before my eyes!”
“Calm yourself, Captain!”
Though clearly not finished, Captain Donn choked back his words behind clenched teeth.
More softly, General Duva mused aloud, “I never thought this was how we would meet our end.”
Captain Donn turned to his general, a mix of surprise and hope on his face. “Sir?”
“No, Captain!” Duva snapped at him. “I have no intention of allowing them to die alone while I run like a damned whipped dog with my tail between my legs. Neither myself nor anyone else here is prepared to do that.” That said, the annoyance and anger left his tone as quickly as it had come. “Besides,” he said more softly, “if we are lucky, this world will be minus one sorcerer on the morrow—and that alone is cause for celebration even as we pass into the afterlife. Now draw your sword, damn you, unless you intend to tongue lash those crab bastards to death!”
Maxwell was smiling as he unsheathed his weapon. “Yes, sir!” He turned then to join the front lines but stopped short a moment. “Sir, it has been a distinct privilege serving with you.”
General Duva thanked him with a nod and then waved him off. “I am just sorry, Captain, that you did not get to enjoy your promotion longer.”
When Captain Maxwell Donn had gone, Duva climbed into the saddle and drew his own blade. He lamented for the briefest instant his next word would bring this chapter of the Resistance to a close, but he also knew, deep in his heart, it would rise again to continue the fight.
The general inhaled mightily to bellow his final command. “Att—“
Before he could get the word fully past his lips a vertical line of brilliant blue light stole his voice and dazzled his eyes. On the battlefield before him, it seemed space itself separated, the line growing wider, the intensity growing brighter, as more and more of the blue radiance illuminated the scene.
And then came wolves. Literally appearing out of thin air, werewolves burst onto the scene howling their fury. They came in at first as a steady stream of bodies through the narrow aperture, and as the portal widened they came through in greater and greater numbers, until pouring forth like a river.
General Duva couldn’t believe his eyes. “I’m going to kiss that wizard full on the mouth when I see him next!” Then, remembering himself, the general raised his sword and kicked his horse into a gallop. “Attack!”
With the utterance of that single word, the army of the Resistance gave a great battle cry that shook the heavens as they charged.
Steve inched open the door to what once served as the royal bedchambers for the Emperor. Not knowing what to expect, Steve held his sword at the ready. Cautiously pushing open the door, he then stepped inside. He scanned the room and, seeing no one about, gave an impressed whistle at the size of it. As a bedroom, it was enormous. Most of his high school gymnasium would have fit inside. Thick, plush carpeting covered every square inch of the floor in a room defining decadence. From the crystal candelabras, to the handcrafted oak furniture, to the ornately carved, full-length mirror across from the bed, and the large sunken, marble bath in the corner of the room, the entire setting bespoke unimaginable wealth.
Steve whirled at a sound from the direction of the bed in the center of the room. With his sword held defensively before him, he approached, prepared to deal swiftly with the worst the palace had to offer. It was, however, the sight of frightened brown eyes that disarmed him.
She cowered beside the bed trying to wear the tatters of a dress torn from her sometime the night before.
She stared fearfully at the sight of him and, realizing this, Steve sheathed the rapier. “It’s all right,” he said. “You don’t have to be afraid.” He extended his hand toward her but she would not approach. In fact, she looked as though, if it were possible, she would have melted into the wall just to get away.
“Okay, okay,” Steve said showing both his hands as he took a step back from her. Though no less frightened, she looked grateful for the greater distance between them. He could hardly blame her, for it appeared she had been beaten in what Azinon probably considered foreplay. One of her eyes had swollen shut and her skin was lined with a dozen shallow lacerations.
“Do you know who I am?” Steve asked, and she quickly shook her head no. “I’m—“ He frowned when he thought of how to explain it, but then remembered there was at least one way she would understand. “I’m the Fourth Power of Mithal. I know who did this to you and, when I come back, you won’t have to be afraid anymore. Do you understand?”
She did not answer but Steve took her silence as assent. Motioning toward the doorway, he bade the rest of his party to enter. “Search the room. Look for anything that might lead us to the altar but give her,” he said gesturing toward the woman, “a wide berth. She’s frightened enough already.”
The woman gasped with a start as Kayliss entered the room.
“It’s all right,” Steve assured her. “He’s a friend.”
The great cat paced across the room, hopped in the middle of the bed, and lay down. Incredibly, rather than flee, however, the woman climbed onto the bed as well and took shelter behind the twelve hundred pound tigrine.
Steve stood with his mouth open for several heartbeats, genuinely confused. “I don’t get it. She takes to him?”
“Don’t feel too bad,” Sonya said appearing over his shoulder. “He is quite a looker.”
With that, Sonya patted him on the shoulder and left, leaving Steve as befuddled as before and Kayliss looking quite smug.
“Commander,” Kamarine beckoned, “a hand with this, if you please.”
Directly across from the foot of the bed, the slight assassi
n was trying to tip a heavy looking armoire to check the wall behind it for hidden doors. Steve moved to help him but froze.
“Sir, are you all right,” Kamarine asked, seeing the look on the young man’s face. When Steve did not answer, the assassin followed the young Power’s gaze, stepping out to view the large and ornate, full-length mirror resting against the wall.
“No offense, Kayliss,” Steve said, “but I think this is why she doesn’t want me to come near her.”
Sonya was grabbing everything on the walls she could lay her hands on. If she wasn’t tearing it down, she was checking to see if she could turn, push, or pull it and make something happen—so far without any luck. She paused in her search when she saw Steve and Kamarine’s avid interest in the mirror.
“You guys aren’t that pretty,” she quipped. “So what gives?”
“Ohhh, nothing,” Steve replied, motioning her closer with a finger while his eyes never left the mirror. “I’m just glowing like a thousand watt light bulb, is all.”
“What?” Sonya let go of the wall sconce she had been trying to turn and walked over to her friend. Looking him over briefly, she shrugged. “What are you talking about?”
Steve twirled that same finger, motioning for her to turn around and then pointed to the mirror. She did so, and then gasped. She staggered back a step into him—and then just as quickly jumped away, as though expecting to get burned.
Steve wasn’t just glowing; he was on fire. He burned white hot, completely obscuring every minor feature, leaving only the general outline of a human form distinguishable. Flames rose from his limbs and torso, the fire trailing behind the motion when Steve waved his arm experimentally. And yet, though their eyes told them the light they looked upon was the brightest they ever beheld, it did not hurt them to look upon it.
By now, all had gathered around and together they stood in stark amazement.
“What is it?” Rabal asked.
His brother, Lojur’s, face darkened like a thundercloud and he drew his sword. “Dark magic. I will smash it into a thousand—“
“No!” Steve shouted, staying him with a hand, and everyone cried out as the light in the mirror flared.
“Shit!” Steve cursed. “Sorry.” He grabbed a cover from the bed Kayliss had not pinned down with his weight and quickly covered the mirror. “We can’t destroy it. This is the mirror the Oracle told me about.”
Sonya lowered her hands from her eyes, though she was still blinking the spots from her retinas. “What mirror?”
“The Oracle told me Azinon keeps a mirror in his chambers that would answer all my questions about who I am, why I’m here, the prophecy…all of it!” Gesturing to the mirror he added, “This has got to be what he was talking about.”
A low rumbling reached their ears then and grew steadily louder. To Sonya the sound reminded her of rolling thunder, but instead of reaching a crescendo and then fading away the sound continued to gain in intensity. As the floor beneath their feet began to quake, Sonya asked, “What now?”
Though the battle raged on outside the walls of Rajasthan, the redcrests manning the battlements atop the high walls of the city looked to one another in uncertainty as the rumbling could be felt in the planks and stone under their feet. Below them on the cobbled street, a concussive ring of force exploded outward, sweeping away men, wagons and horses alike in a large circle like the hands of some great invisible giant. Another thunderous clap and a wave of distortion blew out the corners of buildings and flung bodies only just recovered from the first disturbance. And with the third blast the fabric of space cracked, forming a jagged seam in the air where forth spilled an angry red light. In an instant, the crack elongated, splintering down like breaking ice. Where it touched the ground, it split the cobbled street with a terrific peal of thunder.
As unexpectedly as it began, the fracture vanished in a flash of red-orange flame, leaving a lone figure crouched upon the scarred street. His breath torn from him by the spell, Azinon lurched to his feet with a sudden inhalation, and then staggered a step to the right before regaining his balance. When his vision cleared, the sounds of battle outside the walls centered him, and snapped his consciousness back to the world around him.
Through the open gates of the city he looked upon a scene that defined chaos. Jalkora, knights, infantry, horses, werewolves, equipped with all manner of steel, plate, tooth and claw, fought with a savagery that made even the barbarian slave pits of the north look tame by comparison. And Azinon looked on incredulously as the Jalkora fell. The werewolves fought with undeniable ferocity, engaging the four-armed hell spawn—oft times bearing them to the ground where the humans then beset upon them with spear and sword in the places the Jalkora armor lie most vulnerable, at the neck and below the arms.
Ten years of building the ultimate hybrid killing machine through blood, sweat, and magic, and they were falling under the combined arms of a ragtag group of rebels and a pack of mongrel dogs!
Azinon cooled his mounting rage only through dedicated force of will. He could not let a mere setback bother him so, not when so much more was yet to be salvaged—even gained! Closing his eyes, the sorcerer reached out with his mind, searching. Aside from the men atop the battlements, he could feel the presence of thousands of redcrest soldiers outside the walls. In another moment, he found the ranking officer and seized this consciousness in a vice-like mental grip. When Azinon again opened his eyes, he saw and heard through the body of the officer. Turning this body like a master puppeteer, Azinon spoke through the soldier to the nearby sergeant-at-arms.
“When the Jalkora fall, sound the attack. None of the Resistance leaves here alive.” The sergeant-at-arms saluted smartly and then left to pass the word to prepare the attack. Azinon released the mind of the officer then and called for a horse.
There was something he needed to check on in the palace.
Steve, Sonya, Lojur, Rabal and Kamarine searched for an additional half turn of the glass after the tremor, turning the room inside out in their search but, aside from the mirror, their efforts were for naught. Even the woman, at a little coaxing from Sonya, Kampala was her name, had been persuaded to participate in the search. She, above all, seemed the most vigorous among them, taking great pleasure in smashing and overturning everything she could find in Azinon’s bedchamber.
“I hate to say it,” the assassin stated, having just pulled down a forty pound statue from its niche in the wall, “but I think we are wasting our time here.”
Lojur and Rabal each grunted their concurrence, and even Steve had to admit perhaps this wasn’t the most logical place to look after all. Kampala merely continued her siege of destruction, now picking up things already smashed and smashing them into smaller pieces.
“I thought for sure at least the passage to it would be here,” Steve said frustrated. “What are we missing?”
Everyone was quiet and then Sonya said, “I think maybe we’re coming at this from the wrong angle. We’re looking in the place that he comes to every day, but so do a hundred other people.”
Kamarine scratched his ear. “I am not sure I follow.”
“Azinon comes here every day, but so do his maids, his servants,”—she indicated Kampala, who was tearing apart a couch cushion with the jagged end of a broken chair leg—“his concubines. Think about it. If you relied on something as the source of all your power, wouldn’t you want to hide it somewhere where no one ever goes?”
“Bloody hell,” Kamarine cursed, “you have a point there.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Steve said raising a hand. “That tells us where not to look. Where exactly should we look?”
Rabal, the quietest of the two stoic brothers finally spoke, “The cathedral.” When all eyes turned to him he explained. “It is well known that on the day of Azinon’s victory he desecrated and sealed the cathedral, walling up every window and door so—or so we believed then—none may again stand in the house of God.”
“All save one!” Lojur interjected
to Rabal’s nod. To Steve he then said, “The Emperor had a private entrance to the cathedral off of the throne room. That door yet remains, barred only by bolts and chains, but, for the Dark One’s security, the throne room has always been the most heavily guarded chamber in the palace.”
Hearing this Steve laughed while shaking his head. “I have to admit,” he mused, “that’s pretty smart.” Seeing the questioning looks he explained, “It’s a ruse. With his kind of power, Azinon is the last man on the continent who needs to worry about bodyguards. If, however,” he said raising a finger for emphasis, “he were hiding something in the cathedral then he just stacks the throne room with the biggest, baddest guards he can find and, suddenly, he’s got privacy and security for the altar that everyone actually thinks is for him.”
Kamarine stood tapping his chin with the flat of a throwing knife. “So even if the guards wanted to destroy him, they are unwittingly protecting the very thing that makes him a sorcerer to begin with.”
Steve turned and then marched for the door, motioning over his shoulder for everyone to follow. “Come on,” he said, “I want to finish this.”
Their booted footfalls echoed down the marble-laden corridor and seemed unnaturally loud in the vast emptiness of the palace. Steve could not help but wonder if this was the reason so little carpeting was used in the many passages and halls throughout. Such a precaution would make it very difficult for a party larger than one or two to sneak about undetected. The slightest scuff against floor or wall would echo in the quiet of night to a nearby sentry and surely be marked out of place—provided there were sentries, of course.
It still baffled him the Resistance could have taken them by such surprise they would empty the palace of every able-bodied sword arm within calling. But, by that same token, it also made sense. Likely, every experienced soldier of any mentionable rank or skill had been called to the battle in the Jisetrian valley, leaving some poor inexperienced rookie officer with a skeleton crew to baby-sit the castle. Azinon’s forces are somewhere shy of a hundred and fifty thousand strong, but outside the walls there couldn’t have been more than five thousand redcrests defending the city.
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