Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Rhoa and everyone else stared at the man, her imagining a giant, winged lizard, unable to comprehend how to face such a creature. Although the group soon retired for the evening, the worry of deadly, flying monsters weighed on her mind all night, her sleep troubled and sporadic, morning coming far too early.

  Rhoa was already awake when she heard a knock on the door. Her bed was closest to it, so she got up. Rawk stood alone in the dark corridor. Rhoa could barely see him, save for a glint off the metal frames of his spectacles.

  He gave her a smile, his teeth barely visible. “Good morning, Rhoa.”

  “Hi, Rawk.” She glanced at the window. The haze of predawn light was visible. “It’s still dark out.”

  “Yes. Salvon suggests we leave early.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He and Jace are with Humberto, procuring food. They said we should meet out front.”

  “Very well. I will see you soon.” She closed the door and turned toward the room.

  “We heard,” Adyn said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  “I hardly slept anyway,” Narine added.

  Rhoa knew how she felt.

  Ten minutes later, Rhoa, Narine, and Adyn exited the front of the inn, washed and ready to ride. Rhoa was hungry, but she knew the others were as well, so she kept it to herself.

  The sky grew light in the east, foretelling the sun’s impending appearance. Humberto sat on a bench on the front porch, one hand resting on his paunch and the other holding a long pipe. He took a deep toke and blew out a ring of smoke that drifted off on the easy breeze. Everyone else in Rhoa’s party was already outside, preparing for their departure.

  The saddlebags of the extra horse they had brought with them bulged, and Salvon helped Jace strap additional packs to the saddle. Rawk and Algoron stood there, watching the other two men work. When Rawk saw Rhoa, a smile appeared on his face. She found herself smiling in return. There was something about him, an innocence that made her feel better about herself.

  Rawk’s smile fell away. As one, he and Algoron turned north, looking down the road. Rawk walked to the roadway and squatted, placing his hand against the stones. A moment later, he stood and turned, his face reflecting concern.

  “Horses come this way. Perhaps a dozen. They approach fast and will be here soon.”

  Jace looked at Narine. “Despaldi. I am sure of it.”

  “Everyone mount up,” Salvon said loudly. “We must hurry.”

  Rhoa rushed to her horse, untying the mare from the hitch, turned her toward the road, and climbed into the saddle. As the others prepared to ride, she watched the road.

  The pale, stone-paved road ran north for a quarter mile before it disappeared, dipping into the valley they had crossed the prior evening. She glanced in the other direction, the road fading as it ran down into another valley. Farther south, purple mountains loomed.

  When Rhoa turned to look north again, riders crested the ridge. There were at least a dozen, perhaps more, riding at a gallop. Her heart leapt in her chest. “Here they come!”

  “Ride!” Salvon shouted as he kicked his horse into a gallop.

  Rhoa and the others followed the man’s lead, their steeds racing out onto the road and south. She looked back over her shoulder as the sun crested the horizon. Sunlight glinted off the armor of the riders behind them. They were Farrowen soldiers. The riders did not slow as they passed through the village.

  Rhoa bent low and urged her horse to run faster.

  “Faster!” Despaldi shouted.

  They chased the perpetrators who had attacked and killed Malvorian. Perhaps worse, they had stolen his sword, a prize he had carried for fifteen years. He wondered if they had discovered the power Augur held.

  Although he continued to urge his horse forward, the stallion was flagging, lathered with sweat, snot coming from its flared nostrils.

  They reached a hillside and raced down, but his quarry outpaced him and his men. Before he reached the bottom, he pulled on the reins, slowing his steed.

  “Stop!” he yelled in defeat.

  The other riders halted their steeds and gathered around him as he watched his quarry fade behind the valley forest.

  A surge of frustration mounted and he drew the sword at his hip. With it, he whacked at an overhanging branch, again and again, sending leaves raining down until the branch broke and fell with a thud and rustle. Anger exhausted, Despaldi scowled at the blade – an ordinary longsword, nothing like his enchanted falchion.

  They had come so close. If he and his men had arrived just minutes earlier, the thief and his accomplices would have been captured or killed. Either result would have been fine, so long as justice was served.

  His lieutenant, Warrick, pulled up beside him. “The horses, Captain. If we push them any more, they will come up lame or even might collapse.”

  “I know,” Despaldi growled. “Why do you think I called for us to stop?”

  “The assassins are getting away,” said Froman. The man was big and adept with a blade but had the brains of a rock.

  Despaldi rolled his eyes and turned to Aradon, the only ranger in the group. The man was dark of hair, unshaven, and deeply tanned. He had the eyes of a hawk and rarely spoke. “Track them down, Aradon. They may break from the road rather than continue on to Illustan. Now that we have their trail, I will not lose them.”

  Aradon nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

  The ranger climbed off his horse and began to run down the road, his long, lanky legs covering the distance with little effort. In seconds, he faded from view.

  With a sigh, Despaldi climbed off his exhausted mount and began walking south. “Let’s find a stream and let the horses drink and rest. We’ll catch up to Aradon before nightfall.”

  The Farrowen soldiers chased them for a few miles before their horses began to flag. Eventually, Rhoa looked backward and found the road empty. Only then did Salvon call for them to slow to a trot. The horses were heated, nostrils flaring with each breath. They slowed to a walk and rode up the side of a mountain pass, the road a series of switchbacks enveloped by trees. It was mid-morning when they crested and descended into another valley.

  At the valley floor, they stopped by a small stream for the horses to drink. Rhoa and the others drank their fill before refilling their waterskins. They then remounted and rode at a trot, intent on keeping distance between themselves and the Farrowen soldiers.

  Each saddle they crested revealed another set of mountains taller than the ones prior. At the top of the highest mountain pass, the paved road ended and turned to gravel.

  Salvon turned toward the others as his horse began down the gravel road. “This is the border to Pallanar.”

  The statement brought a hint of relief. The trouble in Ghealdor and Farrowen would be behind them. As far as Rhoa knew, nobody in Pallanar had it out for her or any of the others. She looked at Jace, wondering if he had upset anyone from the stern, southern wizardom. He had said nothing all day, instead scowling with occasional glances at Narine, who appeared equally upset. Rhoa guessed something other than the wyvern encounter had occurred the prior evening but resisted the urge to pry.

  An hour after entering Pallanar, Rhoa glanced west.

  Flickers of light through gaps in the trees showed the sun approaching the western horizon. It will be dark soon. Thoughts of the Farrowen soldiers faded, replaced by worries about the wyvern. Although Salvon insisted the beasts only fed at night, Narine’s description of the creature haunted Rhoa, and she wondered if other monsters might roam the countryside. Finally unable to take the silence, she nudged her horse forward until she rode beside Salvon.

  “It will be dark in less than two hours.”

  He gave her a sidelong look, his face reflecting amusement. “That is hardly a startling revelation.”

  She was irritated by his nonchalance. “What of the wyvern?”

  “I have a plan. There is a place not far away. We will stay there for the evening.”

  Reliev
ed, Rhoa exhaled, then asked the other question that had been lurking all day. “What other creatures might appear with this shift in magic?” She swallowed hard. “Do others feed during the day?”

  The man shook his head. “I do not know if we will see others, but some must feed during the day. The question is, do they eat people?”

  Somehow, his response left Rhoa even more unsettled. Judging by the sweeping gazes of the others, they felt a similar unease.

  As they came to a downhill slope, Salvon stopped, turning his horse to face the others. “We will leave the road here.” Without waiting for a response, he directed his steed onto a narrow dirt trail and away from the road.

  Rhoa and the others followed, the riders having to duck beneath occasional low branches, the trail winding along a hillside as it ran northwest. After a few hundred feet, they emerged from the thick wood and began along a narrow hillside trail, the drop a few hundred feet to a ravine floor below, the surrounding trees coming in clumps of pines amid groves of aspen. The leaves had changed color, another sign of the shifting seasons.

  After a couple miles, the trail turned and ran through a valley between two tall peaks. The rush of flowing water arose, growing louder and louder until the trail met a swiftly running creek filled with rapids, rocks, and fallen trees, the water white where it met any obstruction. They rode along the creek, heading downhill as the forest grew darker and darker, the sun somewhere below the horizon. Night was closing in, and they were in a foreign forest without shelter. Nobody spoke, every shadow threatening as all eyes shifted about nervously before, inevitably, glancing up toward the darkening sky.

  Rhoa was not the only one worried about the wyvern.

  25

  Assault

  The command pavilion was crowded, with men standing in clusters. Garvin stood with Henton and his lieutenants, watching as the wizards argued about how to break into Fastella. Forca shouted at Charcoan. Charcoan shouted at Forca and everyone else. None could agree on a way to get into Fastella. From what Garvin could tell, Charcoan had the most experience in wielding magic as a weapon. Still, the wizards were reluctant to share details, leaving Garvin wondering what was even possible.

  He leaned toward Henton and spoke softly, “Can’t they…you know…combine their magic?”

  Henton grunted. “If you think I know anything about magic, you are mistaken.”

  There was a time not so long ago when Garvin would have feared the wizards. Now he realized they were just a bunch of blowhards. Other than Charcoan, and possibly Palkan Forca, he wondered if any would even be of use.

  “It’s not possible,” Forca insisted. “Not unless we can get close to the wall. Even then, we must work in concert – something we have never before attempted.”

  Henton stepped between the two wizards. “How close do you need to be to destroy the gate?”

  Forca’s brow furrowed. “No more than ten strides away.”

  “If I were able to get you and a few others to the landing outside the gate?”

  “It might work, but how do you propose we do that? Archers wait on top of the wall. The moment we try to cross the bridge, they will rain death on us. It will be difficult to shield us all against arrows while also guarding against magic attacks and trying to destroy the gate. In the end, an arrow kills a wizard as easily as anyone else.”

  “True.” Henton nodded. “Let me figure out how to get you there safely. You just agree on a plan on how you will destroy the gate.”

  Forca glanced toward the other wizards gathered in the tent, each man looking around as if seeking support from the others. “We must practice a coordinated attack. The portcullis bars are thick and will require significant heat to damage.” He turned back toward Henton. “Give us a day to plan and prepare. You get us close, and we will destroy the gate.”

  The wizard spun and exited the tent, his fellow wizards from Marquithe hesitating briefly before following, leaving only Charcoan with the commanders.

  Henton turned toward him. “What do you think? Can they do it?”

  Charcoan shrugged. “Perhaps. However, the gate is Maker-made, the same as in other great cities. I am reluctant to guarantee anything when facing something that has stood for millennia.”

  A scout rode in on horseback, slowing and jumping from saddle before her mount had even settled. The woman strode toward them, her gaze fixed on Henton.

  Women rarely joined the Farrowen Army, and when they did, they often were assigned the positions of medics or scouts. Garvin was annoyed by the cultural prejudice. The northern wizardoms held no such prejudice. While in The Fractured Lands, he had fought beside women as brave and capable as any male soldier.

  The woman, athletic, dark hair tied in a tail, thumped her fist to her chest. “Ready to report, Captain.”

  Henton nodded. “What is it, Kierlene?”

  “The fleet from Shear approaches. They hugged the shoreline to remain hidden until they round the point. The ships will reach the harbor within the hour.”

  “It took Shillings long enough,” Henton muttered. “Send a replacement out to the point to monitor their approach, then get something to eat. Tell your replacement to wave the blue flag once the lead ships are within view.”

  Garvin waited until the woman turned and walked away before he asked, “Shillings is arriving by sea? Is that why we waited to attack?”

  Henton gazed toward the harbor beyond the city walls. “Among other reasons, yes. We will sit tight and wait until he nears the barricade. Once Shillings has the attention of Eldalain and his guards, we will attack.”

  Captain Fett Shillings stood on the quarterdeck beside Jenkins, his first mate, who manned the helm. The fleet eased around the point, and the island city of Fastella came into view.

  In an arc around the harbor sat a line of ships at anchor, creating a blockade. Shillings was not surprised. Henton and the North Garrison should have arrived before him, but if the blockade remained in place, the city still belonged to Eldalain. Although it was autumn, the weather was quite summer-like, and Shillings didn’t envy Henton’s position. The sun was high in the sky and it would be hot on land, while it remained wonderfully mild on the water.

  “Look, Captain,” a soldier shouted. “The blue flag.”

  Shillings followed where the man pointed and saw a man on shore, waving the blue flag of Farrowen from the top of a boulder. “It appears Henton has grown impatient. Just as well. Surprise is on our side if we strike quickly.” He turned to the third man on the quarterdeck. “Signal the fleet to strike. We will take the harbor and advance to the city. The three hammer-prows will take the lead. Once they carve a path through the blockade, the others will follow.”

  The soldier nodded and sorted through his flags. He raised and waved a blue and yellow checkered flag first, followed by a red one. Last came the black flag. Stand down, ram, and attack.

  Sails were trimmed, the fleet slowing save for the three ships with the modified prows. Those ships were lightly manned and served a single purpose – smash into and sink enemy vessels.

  Shillings watched the other ships float past in a triangle formation as they headed toward the heart of the blockade. Oars emerged from the hulls of the three ships. The sailors below decks leaned into them and the vessels gathered speed as they approached the blockade.

  The first ship struck the starboard side of a freighter with a mighty crack. The freighter wobbled, rocking back and forth. The two neighboring ships were struck by the other two rams, the collisions echoing across the water.

  The ships in the blockade appeared abandoned, not a single person in sight. Accordingly, Shillings felt little remorse when the ships were doused by naphtha. The three Farrowen ships backed away from the blockade, the sailors on the oars working feverishly. A sailor on the fore of each boat tossed a lit torch. When they struck, a wall of flames burst from each ship.

  Even before catching fire, the struck ships had listed, likely sinking. The fires would hasten the effort. A
ll Shillings and his fleet had to do was wait.

  Prince Eldalain stood inside the uppermost room of the tower beside the south gate. The enemy army across the river appeared ready for something, armed and clustered near the bridge at the southern bank.

  Rapid footsteps coming from the stairwell drew his attention. A soldier soon appeared, panting from the climb.

  “Report,” Eldalain said as the man bowed.

  “Your Highness, an enemy fleet has appeared, twenty ships in total. They struck the blockade and will soon enter the harbor.”

  Captain Verd said, “If they breach the blockade, they will attack the gate.”

  “Let them,” Eldalain said.

  “Sir?”

  “Unless they have wizards among the ships, it will take time to get through. By then, Ilsup will strike.”

  Verd blinked. “Captain Ilsup?”

  Eldalain grinned. “Yes. He sailed from Dorban a few days ago. His ships are in a cove just to the north. They will strike the Farrowen fleet from behind. In the meantime, I want you to ride to the north gate. Have the soldiers there wait until the enemy reaches the end of the docks before they attack. I have a special welcome planned for our unwanted guests. If all goes as planned, the enemy will fall on its own sword, and we won’t lose a single man. Once the soldiers are trapped outside the city wall, we will strike while Ilsup attacks from the sea.”

  “Yes, my prince.” Verd bowed and disappeared down the stairs.

  Not even you know what waits for those men, Eldalain thought as he stepped onto the wall, trailed by Klondon and six Indigo Hounds. There, he found Sergeant McCanda, the man responsible for the archers manning the wall. McCanda had close-cropped red hair and a mustache to match, his skin ruddy, his cheeks round. Although aging and overweight, he had been a stellar archer in his youth. Eldalain just hoped the man hadn’t lost his edge.