Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

by White, Gwynn

  Hawrald swallowed back disappointment. He’d loved coming here during the annual merchant trading month. But the town had fallen, torched; piles of burned corpses crackled and simmered. Priestess Jewlsa had obviously acquired allies on her journey, but equally obviously, they hadn’t stopped their attackers.

  Here and there, Hawrald’s eyes picked out the tattered uniforms of defectors who’d joined Priestess Jewlsa, slain like all the rest, and then—right in the centre of the village—fixated on a huge mound of decapitated women, their heads nowhere to be seen, only their bodies splayed out, burned. Just charred skeletons, piled on top of each other.

  And then the wind changed, and the sickly-sweet stench of roasted human washed over him. He wretched, and probably would have emptied his gullet had anything been inside.

  ‘Sickening, is it not?’ said King Cevznik, his tone bitter. For a moment, Hawrald thought—thought—that the king’s madness might have abated for a time, but then he continued. ‘The depths of the betrayals we now face. Look at this town…look at what has become of these traitors. They obviously went mad, killed each other…slaughtered each other like animals. Unthinking beasts. A commoner removed from his king will fall into savage destitution.’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ said Hawrald, exhausted by his inane utterings. Obviously, the people here had not hacked off their own heads and thrown themselves onto their own pyres.

  A glimmer of light caught his eye at the tree line to the south. Through the thick belt of trees were white figures, perhaps healers. As he kept staring his hopes became a terrifying realisation. Men. Hundreds of Bivinian paladins waited. Watching.

  ‘Sire,’ warned Hawrald. ‘We’re not alone.’

  The king snapped his head. ‘What?’

  ‘In the trees,’ Hawrald said not moving.

  King Cevznik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Traitors,’ he hissed.

  ‘It ain’t traitors, sir,’ said Hawrald swallowing, the fingertips of his right hand caressing his hilt. ‘Bivinian paladins.’

  The king drew his blade, levelling it at the trees. ‘Bivinian soldiers are not permitted on my lands! Kill the intruders. Hawrald, sound the attack!’

  Hawrald hesitated. Their army hadn’t rested and many weren’t properly armoured. Many were beset by plague, they didn’t know the true strength of their opponents, and their enemies now had the defenders’ advantage. ‘But—’

  ‘Attack!’ roared the king. ‘Do it now!’

  43

  King Cevznik

  A king at war needed an enemy, and he had finally found one. He caressed the textured handle of his exquisite long sword. The blade hummed a sweet song of death to him. It whispered to him, begging to slash necks, stab lungs and slice limbs. He strode in the direction of the forest. The first paladin would fall after losing his innards.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Hawrald.

  King Cevznik wheeled on the soldier, glaring furiously at him. ‘You dare to defy my command?’

  ‘I do not, My King,’ said Hawrald. One of his loyal royal guard. What did loyal mean, anyway? Obedient was a far better word than loyal.

  The world shifted a little and blurred as the king tried to focus on the soldier’s face. He battled the fog of fatigue, but at first strike, all senses would be alert.

  ‘Sire,’ said Hawrald, ‘listen to me. If you attack the Bivinian army, you will lose. Our men are too weak to fight, and you seem unwell yourself. Don’t throw away what you have left.’

  The king strode right up to Hawrald and cracked him across the jaw. While Hawrald easily took the punch, the king’s knuckles on his sword hand bled. ‘Be thankful that was not my blade.’

  Treasonous worm.

  As Buckhorn had misplaced his head two days ago in the prisons, Captain Festral had taken over his duties. The captain now approached the two men and cleared his throat. ‘My King,’ he said, ‘Our scouts have returned with reports of the Bivnian army. At least twenty-thousand men with superior troops such as spearman and archers, await us at the border. Hawrald is right. They are fresh. We are not. We cannot win.’

  King Cevznik went to strike the new captain but heard the hoof beats of a paladin approaching, waving a white cloth. ‘The Emperor commands you to listen,’ he shouted, dismounting six feet away. ‘I come with a message—’

  ‘A king listens to nobody but himself!’ shouted King Cevznik, pointing the blade at the pale foreigner. ‘Emperor Phoh should stand before me and fight me like a man, instead of dispatching his dogs to deliver meaningless words!’

  The messenger remained unperturbed. ‘I come with a message that is both informative and cautionary. Our army does not wish to fight you, King Cevznik. Our purpose here is simply to eradicate the plague which you have allowed to infect your lands. We did your dirty work for you, and we accept your thanks with obvious humility. However—’

  The king strode up to him and stabbed his blade into his throat. The paladin’s eyes widened, his mouth uttering suffocating mumbles.

  ‘Let that be blood enough to repay this insult,’ said King Cevznik.

  But the king believed the paladin’s words were wise. Losing lives on both sides would be folly. No. Their real enemy was the people back in Juxon City.

  ‘Come,’ the king said to his captain and Hawrald. ‘Back the way we came.’

  He swung up into the saddle, as did the others on their own horses. Hawrald rode up to him, smiling optimistically. ‘Wise choice, Sire. We did not need to go to war with the Bivnians.’

  ‘That is correct,’ said King Cevznik, ‘the true threat is at home among our own people.’

  ‘What do you mean, My King?’

  The king glanced at Hawrald saying, ‘You’ll see. All will be revealed.’

  44

  Lord Morkat

  For the second time that week, Priestess Yelloza requested a private audience with the Lord Ruler of Meligna.

  Rain pattered against the hot house panes while he clipped back plants in anticipation of winter. Even inside the thick walls of his garden, surrounded by greenery, he wasn’t safe. Not from the demands of the people, the crown, or his servants.

  Or from the plague.

  Lightning split the sky and thunder rolled into the distance.

  ‘My Lord,’ said Priestess Yelloza, frowning at the weather. ‘There is no more calm before the storm, it seems.’

  ‘We shall weather it,’ he replied. ‘What news?’

  ‘I have heard from the High Priestess. She lives. The healers escaped the prisons, and fled south seeking asylum at Old Bow. Priestess Jewlsa sought refuge with the Bivinians, but the emperor slaughtered them all then burned part of Old Bow to the ground.’

  ‘Slaughtered how many?’ he asked in shock.

  ‘At least a thousand or two,’ she replied, tears gathering in her eyes.

  ‘Did you have friends amongst them?’ he asked.

  The priestess nodded sadly.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said, consoling her.

  ‘The high priestess believes the king is mad, and seeks to form a military alliance with Meligna against the King of Senya. With General Pernavaka’s army, and Lightend Sanctury’s own soldiers, we will add an additional thousand men to Meligna’s troops.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Lord Morkat.

  ‘The high priestess says that this is the final time she will ask for our aid. If not, they will seek refuge in Ruxdor.’

  The lord winced. King Cevznik would see him executed if he allowed the healers passage through to the frozen lands. But if Juxon City army had no healers, then the soldiers must be dying. He felt the seduction of power. With the high priestess’s support, he could be crowned the new king.

  In that moment he decided to use his army to round up the healers of Lightend Sanctuary and bring them to safety behind Meligna’s walls. Once the plague died out, he would send an army to Juxon City and overthrow the king.

  ‘What should we do, My Lord?’ Priestess Yelloza asked.

  ‘Assemble
the army. We will leave for Lightend Sanctuary tomorrow.’

  Priestess Yelloza bowed with such vigour he thought she might tip over. ‘I agree, My Lord. Yes! We must band together against this wicked king. Oh, I am so pleased. The healers support you, My Lord!’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lord Morkat smiling politely. ‘The people deserve better.’

  Priestess Yelloza’s eyes blazed with joy. ‘I will send word to the high priestess at once!’

  45

  Prince Erageo

  From the south-eastern side of the castle roof, Prince Erageo watched the healer temple burning to the south. Disgusting reports had reached him. Without the aid of his father’s soldiers, the older healers, holy creatures once revered for their power, wisdom and guidance, had been reduced to mangy dogs in the street. Groups of the dying men had mercilessly attacked them day and night. Their precious blood flowing into the streets to mix with that of the commoners. The city walls became a coffin.

  Many in the Uppers had been healed, the king had ensured that for it was the nobles who allowed him to keep the throne. The prince shed a tear for all who suffered.

  ‘My Prince,’ said his personal servant from behind him. The prince turned to regard the old man.

  ‘Yes?’

  There was much distress in the man’s eyes. ‘I have grave news.’

  Prince Erageo braced himself. ‘Speak.’

  ‘The king marched on Old Bow, but unfortunately half the town was burned to the ground. The healers were all killed.’

  ‘By my father?’ the prince shouted, angrily.

  ‘No, My Prince. The priestess crossed into Bivinian territory. They slaughtered them and everyone in the town. A quarter of the town was destroyed.’

  The prince turned away, hiding his devastation. Eless, he thought, shedding more tears. Oh, Eless. I should have kept you here, protected you. I’m a fool.

  The servant continued. ‘The king assumed the healers would still be alive, and risked his men to the plague. Many had already been healed, but a great portion died during the march south.

  ‘My father is a fool.’

  ‘I regret, My Prince, that I have more terrible news.’

  The prince turned back to his servant who huddled against himself, his gaze on the ground.

  ‘Look at me,’ the prince commanded.

  As the servant raised his head, tears stained his cheeks.

  ‘What is it?’ the prince said, alarmed.

  ‘Your mother is in her last moments,’ he choked on his words.

  The prince sprinted past the servant, across the castle rooftop and into the eastern tower leading to his mother’s bed. He flew down spiralling stairs, shoving servants and soldiers aside, his heart pounding so hard he could hardly hear his own thoughts.

  Don’t die, Mother. Not yet. Please.

  He flung himself around corners, caught himself in mid-stumbles and finally reached her room. The guards stepped aside with haste as he burst through the doors into her living area.

  Two doors later, he was beside her bed, holding her hand and staring into her tired eyes. ‘Mother,’ he cried. Leaning his face against her warm cheek, tears dripped onto her night dress. He wiped them away. ‘Mother.’

  ‘My sweet boy,’ she croaked.

  ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  She smiled weakly at him. ‘It won’t be for nothing. We have talked so much on what you will do once I have passed. I am so happy in this moment. You are with me, and I love you, and you love me. See how perfect that is?’

  The prince cried helplessly, cursing his father to the gods.

  As they’d planned with the queen in the previous days, Hawrald and Abyslam entered at that very moment, the king staggered in behind them, drunk. ‘My love,’ the monarch slurred. ‘My dearest wife and queen, you still live.’

  Hawrald and Abyslam gave a knowing look to the prince whose features hardened. ‘Father, are you well?’

  ‘Erageo!’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘Taking care of your mother, what a good boy. These fine, upstanding soldiers shared their wine with me.’

  The prince stared at them. ‘I see—’

  Thump. The king collapsed onto the floor.

  ‘Quickly,’ said the queen, moving to the other side of the bed. The sheets were covered in rotting, necrotic skin pieces. Abyslam pinched his nose.

  Hawrald and Abyslam placed the king directly into the queen’s piles of infected mess, then tied him down with ropes. They made the bed again, covering the ropes.

  ‘You’re certain he hasn’t been healed? the queen asked.

  ‘I’ve been with him constantly,’ said Hawrald.

  The queen cut her wrist, swished blood into a goblet and poured wine in afterwards. She dipped the edge of a handkerchief into the cup, pried the king’s lips open, and gently wrung the liquid into his mouth.

  ‘May the plague spread quickly,’ she said gently.

  Abyslam gagged the king. ‘We’ll be outside, My Queen, guarding.’

  Tears flowed down Prince Erageo’s face. ‘I have killed my father.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said his mother. ‘Listen to me. You have a kind and gentle heart, listen to it. Do not be corrupted by greed and the whisperings of rich men. Be strong. Protect the healers.’

  ‘But you hate them,’ he retorted.

  ‘I was jealous. Selfish. Develop a good and upstanding character. Be the best man you know. I believe in you. Work hard, my son, and bring a time of peace and prosperity to our country. And take a strong wife to help you.’

  The prince grasped his mother’s slender fingers, and placed them against his face. An hour later his father woke, struggled in his restraints; the queen had died.

  As the king grew madder at his son, Prince Erageo left the room. As he burst out of the doors, Hawrald caught the lad by the wrist and brought him against his chest. ‘I’ll never leave your side, My Prince.’

  ‘I trust you, Hawrald. Thank you.’ He sniffled. ‘I’ll always trust you.’

  46

  Toxiv

  At the front of Lightend Sanctuary, standing on a grassy knoll High Priestess Toxiv stared at the Ruxdorian mountains bathed in orange light to the north. Waiting for Lord Morkat to arrive. To the west, the corpse fires were reducing to fingers of smoke as the Death Plague retreated from the sanctuary populaces.

  Half the town’s population had perished, including many children and elderly. Every person in the Lightend district was invited to celebrate the lord’s coming. Toxiv had organised five-hundred dishes of food, selected the finest fermented wines and hired talented minstrels.

  Grief lingered over her people, yet they waited festively, bravely, clutching baskets of wildflower petals to bestow on the army procession.

  Toxiv caught a flash of light in the distance where thousand soldiers—adorned in the finest armour—spread the width of a field. They marched behind a strong line of heavily mounted troops, their long royal blue cloaks flapping in the breeze. In the middle of the riders sat Lord Morkat, easily distinguished by the black plate armour he wore. It was said that the lord had climbed the Death Peaks in Ruxdor in search of the rare metal used to create the suit.

  ‘A mighty sight,’ said General Pernavaka in her sharp accent, walking up beside her. ‘He brings only a portion of his army.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. They will submit,’ Toxiv said.

  The general slapped her gauntlet down on Toxiv’s shoulder. ‘We are strong together.’

  Toxiv pointed. ‘There is Priestess Yelloza.’

  Priestess Yelloza wore a golden dress with a velvet red cape. Her blindingly white stallion trotting beside Lord Morkat’s.

  ‘A beautiful beast. Useless for battle though,’ said General Pernavaka. ‘My warriors are keen for this feast.’

  ‘Good,’ said Toxiv.

  As the procession drew close, blades of setting sunlight bathed the riders in golden light. Priestess Yelloza’s diadem twinkled. Meligna’s economy was far more stable than
Juxon City’s, and their people far richer.

  Toxiv’s dress was white with crystals, her cloak made from the fur of the rare white wolf. The various materials were stitched together with fibrous silver thread.

  Priestess Yelloza waved at them, and Toxiv waved back. Though the priestess was an odd sort of person, her devotion to the sun god and healers was absolute. She was endlessly polite, but had a dark side that hissed like an angry snake if any person should disrespect the order of healers.

  Cheering filled the air, music played, and the first procession of soldiers started up to the sanctuary gates. Fires raged in oil bowls, a carpet of white flowers stretched from the gates to the sanctuary’s entrance. A procession of sanctuary soldiers stood at the carpet’s side, their swords raised high above their heads.

  Toxiv led the way to the gates. General Pernavaka glanced at her fierce warriors dressed thickly in animal furs, hard leathers, feathers, teeth and snake skins, their exposed flesh decorated in intricate markings. Ruxdorians rarely felt the cold.

  Toxiv stood tall and proud as the lord and Yelloza swung down from their horses.

  ‘Well met, High Priestess Toxiv,’ said the Lord of Meligna, kissing the back of her hand. He immediately craned his neck up at the sanctuary tower. ‘I believe that top spire gets taller every year.’

  Toxiv smiled. ‘Indeed it does. Each month a man climbs to the top and adds a little more height.’

  Healer Euka had spent some time earlier that morning instructing her on telling amusing anecdotes and being witty, otherwise she despised pointless conversation. She preferred to say as much as possible with only a few select words.

  ‘Really?’ he asked, astonished.

  Toxiv laughed. ‘No, I apologise, just a little amusing tale I tell people.’

  The lord chuckled. ‘You seem in high spirits.’

  The unspoken words there were, You look emotionally stable for a woman who’s been raped several times.