Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  The rumble of carriages coming from behind drew Garvin’s attention. He turned and saw the first carriage drawing near, followed by many more. The lead carriage stopped, four wizards stepping out.

  Palkan Forca was the tallest of the lot, his green eyes measuring others as if they were opponents. Sihn Kurden stood beside Forca, his opposite in every way. Thick of body with chubby cheeks and no neck, Kurden’s beady, dark eyes flicked about like those of a mouse. His black bangs were trimmed in a straight line, the top of his head bald. Parwick Durr was the oldest, his wispy hair as white as his long beard. He moved slowly and leaned on a cane. However, his eyes were alight and focused. The last man was the youngest, not more than Garvin’s own thirty-four years. Dermont Carlisle was reputed to be among the most skilled wizards in the guild. Standing an inch shorter than Forca, he had similar hair, beard, and eyes, others often mistaking him for Palkan’s younger brother. Ironically, many suspected he would soon challenge Forca for the right to lead the guild. Garvin wondered if the man would attempt to leverage the campaign against Ghealdor as a platform for bigger things.

  “What is this about?” the leader of the Farrowen Wizards Guild demanded as he strode toward Henton’s horse.

  “This is about opportunity, Forca.”

  “I see an army waiting.” Forca stared toward the field. “I hope you aren’t suggesting we wizards attack them on our own.”

  Henton chuckled. “While that would be a thing to witness, what I require is something far less aggressive.”

  A silence fell over the group, the four wizards staring at Henton, him glaring back with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Garvin had suggested Henton handle the wizards with a firm hand. They were too used to others bending to their will and would overrun his command if given the leeway.

  “What is it you need, Captain?” Carlisle asked.

  Forca gave Carlisle a glare, which Henton ignored.

  “When we discussed the types of magic you might use to assist the army, you mentioned the ability to create a shield against physical harm.”

  “Yes,” Forca replied.

  “These shields… How large can you make them?”

  “Depends on the wizard, for some are more talented than others.”

  “Can each of you create one large enough to protect a man and a horse?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he nodded. “Yes. For a short time.”

  “Good. Get on.”

  “What?”

  “You will ride with me. You other three, join Garvin and my lieutenants. Once you are in the saddle, form a shield and we will advance.”

  “What are you up to, Henton?” Forca asked while approaching the captain’s horse.

  “I am going to try diplomacy.”

  Carlisle climbed up and settled behind Garvin, who was thankful he avoided having to ride with Kurden. His saddle was only so big.

  “What of the other wizards?” Forca asked as he faced the other carriages, many of which had heads poking out the windows in curiosity.

  “I want every one of them to hold their power when my bearer raises his flag.”

  “And do what?”

  “You can sense another wizard drawing magic, correct?”

  “Yes. I told you as much just a few days ago.”

  “Precisely.”

  Henton urged his horse into motion and rode back toward the other carriages, shouting orders to those sitting inside them. Moments later, he returned, his horse settling.

  “Create your shields now. Hold them in place, and be sure to protect your horse, as well. An arrow or blade to your horse won’t end well for you.”

  The wizards each held their hands out, palms flat, arms weaving about. Finally, each man announced his was ready. Henton urged his horse into a trot. The two lieutenants followed, Garvin at the rear.

  The procession rode through the gap in the wall of stakes and approached the waiting army. Thousands of eyes watched their approach, the field falling eerily quiet. None attacked.

  As they drew near, the flap of one tent parted and a man emerged.

  Unlike many high wizards who wore the colors of their wizardom, Charcoan Kayal was dressed in black, even his sash. The man’s bald head was covered in elaborate tattoos, curling down below his dark eyes. With a heavy brow and face marked by a permanent scowl, he struck a frightening image.

  This is a true wizard, Garvin thought.

  Charcoan stood still with an armed guard to either side of him, waiting. The Ghealdan captain on horseback rode over to join Charcoan and dismounted. Henton slowed as he drew near, the other three horses settling to his side.

  “Greetings, High Wizard. My name is Nik Henton, Captain of the Farrowen Army before you.”

  “Why do you threaten my city?” The man glanced toward the army. “And with wizards among your ranks.”

  Henton held his hands out. “I am not here to threaten, Charcoan. I am here to claim Starmuth in the name of Lord Malvorian. The city will join the great Wizardom of Farrowen.”

  Charcoan’s scowl deepened. “What good will taking Starmuth do for Malvorian? When the next Darkening comes, a new lord will be crowned and the prayers of Starmuth will feed the wizard lord of Ghealdor.”

  Henton chuckled. “You intend to lay claim to the throne.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I might. Eldalain is formidable, but he is no wizard lord. Not yet anyway.”

  “Yet if you face him and lose, death is your only reward.”

  Charcoan grimaced. “Yes, there is risk. Such is the price of ambition.”

  “Perhaps there is another path to power, one involving far less risk,” Henton suggested.

  Charcoan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you propose?”

  “Lord Malvorian has discovered a means to claim the Towers of Devotion from another wizardom, making the prayers of each city his own. With this knowledge, the backing of the Thundercorps, and the assistance of the Farrowen Wizards Guild, he intends to claim all of Ghealdor. There is already a vacancy in Fastella, a massive palace lacking a high wizard to run the city. True, I cannot offer you the position of wizard lord and the power of a god, but there will soon be only one man among the eight wizardoms with such power. All others must contend for what remains.” Henton extended a hand. “Join us and become High Wizard of Fastella. The office would be yours should you help us capture the city.”

  A cluster of soldiers and wizards stood in the square, all staring up at the obelisk in the center. It felt odd to see the light at the top now dormant. Almost two weeks had passed since it last burned with violet flames. Garvin had been in the city when the light died, marking the end of Lord Taladain’s rule. Afterward, an undercurrent of fear and doubt had captured the city for the first few days, but life continued, and as it did, the grind of daily tasks soon buried such worries. Those concerns fell to wizards like Charcoan.

  “It cannot be done,” Forca said, still staring up at the obelisk.

  “Perhaps if we work together,” Dermont Carlisle suggested.

  Forca glared at the man. “How would we accomplish that? Have you ever woven physical manipulation constructs with another wizard?”

  “Well, no. However, the theory taught at the University states the–”

  “We are not discussing theories, Carlisle. This is reality, and the reality is none of us can lift a man so high.”

  Charcoan grunted. “I can.”

  Forca arched a brow. “You can lift a grown man two hundred feet up?”

  “Well, no. But I could lift the gem itself that high.”

  “How would you place it? How would you remove the old gem?”

  Charcoan shrugged. “In truth, those things require much finesse and would be impossible from so far away.”

  “Exactly.”

  Garvin had listened to the wizards argue for a solid ten minutes but had remained quiet the entire time, thinking.

  “Like I suggested,” Henton said, “we construct a scaffold.�
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  Forca shook his head. “That would take days. We are to be in Fastella as soon as possible.”

  “What about a rope?”

  Everyone turned toward Garvin.

  “How would that work?” Forca asked.

  “Charcoan…” Garvin looked at the man. “You mentioned being able to lift the gem to the top of the obelisk. Could you lift a rope that high?

  The wizard gazed up at the obelisk with narrowed eyes. “I believe so.”

  “If we tied a loop to one end of the rope and you hooked it over the peak, I could climb to the top.”

  Forca arched a brow. “You can climb a two-hundred-foot rope?”

  “I can.”

  “What if you slip?”

  “I won’t.” Garvin did his best to sound confident while images of his body splattered on the square flashed before his eyes.

  “It might work,” Henton said. “What do you say, Charcoan? Are you ready for your first act as High Wizard of Fastella?”

  A brief moment of silence followed before Charcoan turned and shouted, “Pilson!”

  A man in Ghealdan armor emerged from the crowd. “Yes, sir?”

  “Get us rope, over two hundred feet. It needs to be strong enough to hold a man and no more. Too much weight will be problematic.”

  With a salute, the man spun and darted off through the crowd.

  While they waited, Garvin walked around the obelisk, examining it from each side. The monolith was four strides across at the base and constructed of pale, stone blocks. The northeast face was more worn than the other sides, the stone pitted and rough. It would be his best choice. In addition, it was covered in shadow, the late afternoon sun to the west. With a sigh and a belly filled with resolve, Garvin began to undress.

  His bracers came off first, followed by his chest plates. He unbuckled his leather cuirass and pulled it free, leaving him wearing just a light tunic. The riding boots came off next, followed by his leather leggings. When done, he stood there wearing nothing but his smallclothes. He then walked over to his horse and began to dig through a saddlebag.

  Pilson reappeared, cutting his path through the crowd surrounding the wizards and soldiers. Garvin expected more would gather once they saw a man climbing the obelisk. He was likely the first to attempt the feat, and the structure had stood for many centuries. If successful, he would become a local legend. If he died, his legacy would be quite different.

  “I tied three ropes together, sir.” Pilson held a thick coil in his arms. “The combined length approaches two hundred fifty feet.”

  “Very good.” Charcoan gestured toward Garvin, who walked back with a pack over his shoulder. “Give it to the lieutenant. He can secure his own knot. It’s his life that will be forfeit should he do so poorly.”

  Garvin accepted the rope. It was an inch thick and heavy. He hoped Charcoan could lift it as he had boasted. Years in the army had taught Garvin many things, some more practical than others. Among them was how to make a noose. Twice, he had made them for men who deserved to wear one. Another time, he had been forced to make one for a woman. Seven years later, nightmares of her swinging body continued to resurface. In those twisted dreams, she would stare at him, judging, condemning. Such was the life of a soldier.

  With the noose ready, he handed it to Charcoan. “Eastern face. Hook it over the top. I’ll do the rest.”

  The wizard turned toward the pillar and set the noose in its shadow, the coil of rope beside it. He then focused on the rope with palms extended toward it, his face etched in concentration.

  The rope began to rise, the man twisting his palm while raising his hand. Up and up the rope climbed, reminding Garvin of a giant ashertine, a poisonous yellow snake found in the jungles of Kyranni. Twice, he had lost fellow soldiers to those snakes. Many more times, he had lost companions to other, far worse horrors found in the neighboring Fractured Lands.

  As the noose neared the top, the rope began to shake, quivering and wavering in the wind. Beads of sweat ran down Charcoan’s bald head, across each temple, down the bridge of his nose, the man gritting his teeth and shaking as if lifting a tremendous weight.

  As the noose neared the top, Charcoan thrust his palm up, the rope lurching toward the top of the obelisk. The noose slipped over the tip and the rope dropped against the side, swaying limply.

  Charcoan exhaled and knelt on one knee, panting from exertion. Clearly, the effort had pushed the man to the edge of his capabilities. Garvin knew little of magic and what was possible, but he had seen enough to know few wizards outside of a wizard lord could accomplish the task.

  The high wizard glanced toward Garvin. “The rope is in place. The rest is up to you.”

  Resigned to the challenge, Garvin sat and pulled out leather slippers, sliding one on each foot. Gloves, also leather, followed. When finished, only the gem remained in the bag. He stood, gripped the rope, and began to climb, bracing his feet against the stone obelisk

  Step by step, hand over hand, he rose, his arms pulling while his feet sought any edge possible. Soon, the surrounding buildings became rooftops, the rooftops slowly giving way to open air. The breeze from the sea grew harder and harder, the gusts cooling him while also threatening to shake him loose. Still, he refused to look down. There was no point. He knew a fall would kill him. There was no need to add fear to the knot in his stomach.

  Twice, his feet slipped, and he slammed against the pillar, dangling as he fought to gain a new foothold. Each time, his grip remained strong. Two decades of training with a sword had given him exceptional hand strength. Again, it was the difference between life and death.

  Finally, he reached the angled top. Three feet below the tip was an opening. Inside, a purple amethyst waited, dull and dormant. The gem was cut into an octahedron, the same size and shape as the one in Garvin’s bag.

  Carefully, he wrapped the rope about his leg and secured it to the bottom of his foot, allowing him to place his weight against it, relieving his hands. He then reached into the opening and gripped the gem. It held fast. He hit it a few times with the side of his fist until he felt it rattle. With the next attempt, the gem came free in his grip.

  Moving with care, he withdrew his arm, the light of the blue sky reflecting off each polished facet of the gem. He slid it into his pack and removed the one Despaldi had given him. It was identical except for the color – the sapphire a deep, rich blue. Extending his arm, he reached into the opening and placed the gem into the slot. There was a click, followed by a vibration. Garvin yanked his hand back as the gem came to life, shining with an azure light.

  “It works,” Garvin said in awe. “Starmuth is ours.”

  Devotion would resume that evening, the first time since Taladain died. When it did, the prayers of Starmuth would feed the throne of Farrowen, augmenting Malvorian’s power.

  14

  The Cost of Caring

  Jace had to admit the carriage ride from Shear to Marquithe was pleasant. While not as fast as a horse, it provided far more comfort and was a fair stretch better than walking. Stealing a carriage would have been difficult and would have required finding a driver, so he chose a more pragmatic route instead, finding a carriage owner who needed a job and promising to pay the man once they reached Marquithe. Of course, the driver had been doubtful, so Jace gave him his amulet as collateral. Little did the man know its true worth.

  For two days, Jace, Narine, and Adyn rode in the carriage, sharing sporadic conversations about this and that. He managed to learn much about Narine during the ride and had shared more about himself than he could recall ever doing before. She expressed sympathy when he told her of his mother’s death and how he’d been forced to survive on his own. No easy feat for a nine-year-old. To his surprise, he discovered it felt good to share his memories, both the good and the bad.

  Not all their conversations were so deep. Some were humorous, some insightful, some exciting. Even Adyn shared a few, many of which included Narine. Jace learned the bodyguard had be
en orphaned at eight and brought to the castle by her aunt, Narine’s nursemaid, when the princess was just five years old. Adyn was allowed to live at the palace as long as she had a role. So the girl began training in combat, accompanying the princess everywhere she went. A female bodyguard was exceptionally rare, but it appeared to suit Adyn. The tale left Jace wondering if she ever wished for a life of her own. He valued his independence and was revolted by the idea of someone dictating his future.

  The sun was nearing the horizon when the carriage reached the great city built on a hilltop. Just before reaching the gate, Jace leaned out the window and shouted to the driver.

  “Turn left at the square. Take Jewel Street to the Blue Hen Tavern.”

  He sat back and noticed Narine staring at him with an arched brow.

  “What?” he asked.

  “We’ve just arrived in the city and your first stop is a tavern? Can you not wait until we find a place to stay before you begin drinking?”

  “My apartment happens to be above the tavern.”

  Narine furrowed her brows. “Hmm…”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, I hadn’t considered where Adyn and I would stay while in Marquithe. We are out of coin and have no means of acquiring more.” She had a contemplative expression on her face. “I could appeal to the Wizards Guild for support, I suppose.”

  “I have enough room if you need a place to stay for a day or two.”

  “In your apartment? Above a tavern?” Narine appeared doubtful. “Is this another–”

  “Thank you for the offer,” Adyn said abruptly, glaring at Narine. “We accept.”

  Narine clamped her mouth shut, yet still appeared unsure.

  The carriage soon stopped, and Jace climbed out. Adyn followed, helping Narine, while Jace approached the driver.

  “Remain here. I will be right back with your coin.” He turned toward Narine. “Go inside and tell Frella you are with me. She will feed you.”