Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  “Sergeant.” Eldalain waited a beat as McCanda turned toward him. “I want half the men to clear the wall. Send them into the tower. Their actions should appear rushed, panicked, as if needed elsewhere in the city. They are to remain out of sight until I give the command.”

  With a fist to his chest, McCanda replied, “It will be done, Your Highness.”

  A wizard appeared on the wall, distinctively dressed in purple robes and trailed by guards wearing purple capes. Garvin wondered if it was Eldalain. He is known for an aggressive nature. Would he oversee his own defenses personally? He squinted, watching with interest as the wizard had a brief discussion with a soldier before he turned and disappeared into the tower above the gate. Shouts, too distant to make out, and waving arms followed. Half the soldiers stationed on the city wall stirred, then disappeared into the tower. It’s as Henton said, Garvin thought. Shillings attacking the harbor is drawing troops away, forcing them to defend the north gate. A solid two-dozen soldiers remained on the wall, enough to cause serious harm, but a far less daunting force than what they would have faced otherwise.

  Six Thundercorps soldiers carrying a wagon bed emerged from camp, Garvin watching with narrowed eyes as the men drew closer. This had better work, he thought.

  Stopping just shy of the bridge, the soldiers set the wheel-less wagon down and began loosening their shoulders, some stretching to touch their toes. Even empty and with the wheels and axle removed, the wagon appeared heavy.

  Henton and Forca approached, trailed by Sihn Kurden, Parwick Durr, and Dermont Carlisle, the same three wizards who had attended the negotiation with Charcoan back at Starmuth. They were critical to the plan and, including Forca, were reputedly the most talented magic users in Marquithe.

  All four wizards gathered around Henton as the man outlined the plan. Forca’s jaw was set resolutely. Carlisle matched him, arms crossed over his chest. Kurden fidgeted and appeared to be seeking a place to hide. Durr leaned so hard on his cane Garvin thought it might collapse.

  The captain spun away from the wizards and walked toward Garvin. “Archers!” he called out. “Shields! Line up!”

  Twenty armored soldiers carrying over-sized shields lined up at the foot of the bridge. The same number of archers followed, forming a second level to the line.

  “Nock bows!” Henton shouted, the archers each drawing an arrow and fitting it into their longbow. “Advance with shields up.”

  The soldiers began marching up the arched bridge.

  “Wagon up!”

  The six men who had carried the wagon bed hoisted it above their heads. Led by Palkan Forca, the four wizards slipped between the men, ducking into the shade of the upside-down wagon. Both Forca and Carlisle were forced to remain in a crouched position.

  “Wagon, advance!”

  With the wagon as a giant shield, the soldiers carrying it and the wizards beneath advanced, trailing the archers by a dozen strides. Up and over the long, arching bridge, the small force advanced. Nothing happened until they neared the island shore.

  From the top of the wall, a volley of arrows rained down, striking shields in a series of clangs. A number of the falling missiles struck the wagon, some of them embedding into the wood, giving it the appearance of a massive pin cushion. No Farrowen soldier or wizard fell.

  Garvin shook his head. This might actually work.

  Still, he worried they had missed something.

  From the shadows of the tower interior, Eldalain watched an enemy squad advance, the first time anyone from the Farrowen Army had attempted a bridge crossing. It was a small force, led by shields and trailed by the oddest thing he had seen in combat – a wheel-less wagon.

  “They are using the wagon as a shield,” he mumbled to himself, the realization drawing a grin.

  The lead soldiers of the advancing force reached the landing where the bridge met the island. As he had instructed McCanda, the man shouted a command.

  “Loose!”

  The twenty-some archers who remained on the wall sent arrows down at the enemy, the missiles bouncing off the wall of shields and burying into the wooden wagon. No soldier fell. Soon afterward, the enemy paused, the shields lowering to expose the archers behind them.

  “Cover!” McCanda shouted just before a volley sailed up toward the top of the wall.

  The archers ducked, but one was too late. The man took an arrow in the face and screamed. He twisted, grappling for the arrow as he stumbled and fell over the edge. Eldalain couldn’t see him land but didn’t need to. The man was undoubtedly dead.

  The Farrowen shields raised again, the line parted as the wagon, like an oversized tortoise, crawled past. A familiar glow of magic came from the underside of the wagon.

  Wizards. They intend to use magic to destroy the gate. Eldalain couldn’t allow them to succeed. It is time.

  “Archers to the wall! Fire at will!” he shouted, waving to the soldiers huddled in the tower.

  The archers poured from the tower while those already on top of the wall scrambled to make room. Arrows began to rain down, the force below clustered beneath the shields to protect themselves.

  Eldalain embraced his magic, drawing it in until his skin glowed. He knew the wizards hiding beneath the wagon would sense his presence, but it would be too late. He stepped from the tower as the nearest archer sent an arrow toward the soldiers below. With a construct of foulfire surrounding his open palm, Eldalain poured his magic through it. A tube of flames blasted forth, enveloping the upside-down wagon. A hundred feet was a great distance for such a taxing spell, but Eldalain’s ring augmented his ability, making it possible. Even so, great effort was required, his jaw clenched, body shaking as he fed the flames. The wagon burst into fire and men screamed, soldiers tossing it aside and rolling on the ground, their armor and clothing ablaze.

  The four startled wizards were suddenly exposed. One held a shield in place, blocking the downpour of arrows. Eldalain called on his magic again, shifting the energy construct to something more targeted. With a crack, a bolt of lightning arced toward the wizards below.

  Garvin watched the assault unfold, curious to see if the wizards could truly cut through the gate as planned.

  Charcoan stepped forward, peering toward the tower near the gate. “I sense magic up there.”

  A moment later, the purple-robed wizard reappeared on top of the wall. From his hands, a magical roar of flames snaked down and swallowed the wagon.

  “By Farrow’s breath,” Henton muttered. “That must be Eldalain.”

  The soldiers tossed the burning wagon aside, half the men on fire, the other half running for their lives. A flurry of arrows fell, striking and killing the soldiers, multiple arrows buried in each.

  In the middle of it all were the four wizards. Hands held above their heads, the men backed away as arrows struck an invisible shield. A blinding bolt of lightning arced down toward the wizards with a thunderous crack. Garvin blinked furiously, trying to clear the spots before his eyes. The remaining soldiers ran toward the bridge, followed by a single wizard with his arms extended above him.

  Arrows followed until the soldiers reached the high point of the bridge. In that span, the number had been reduced to eight, Palkan Forca the lone wizard remaining. The men slowed as they reached the near end of the bridge, the four shieldmen and three archers panting for air, eyes wild. Across the river, the wagon burned, sending black smoke into the sky while the bodies of the three fallen wizards continued to smolder.

  “That was a disaster,” Forca said between gasps as he drew close to Henton. The man turned back and looked toward the wall. “If I hadn’t shifted the elements of my shield to ground lightning, I would be dead like the others.” He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. Uncharacteristically, the man appeared shaken. “Eldalain is strong. Too strong. Nobody other than a wizard lord should be able to cast foulfire over such a distance.”

  Charcoan nodded. “It should not be possible, even for him.”

  It
was the first time Garvin had heard the two men agree on anything.

  “We just lost over thirty soldiers and three of our best wizards,” Henton said, still staring at the burning remains. “Perhaps Shillings will fare better.”

  .

  The last of the three blockade ships sank below the water, disappearing in a spray of bubbles, smoke, and steam.

  “Through the opening, Jenkins,” Shillings said, the man relaying signals for the crew to unfurl the sails. The captain then turned toward the flagman. “Signal the others to follow. We will land and storm the gate.”

  “Sir,” Jenkins said, “the gates of Fastella are massive and have stood for centuries. How do you intend to get inside?”

  The captain chuckled. “Why do you think there are three barrels of naphtha in the hold? All metal melts if it gets hot enough. The naphtha will make it certain to get hot indeed.”

  The ships sailed toward the blockade with Shillings’ craft in the lead. Beyond the wall of abandoned boats, the piers waited, the slips designed for larger ships standing empty, those boats currently moored to create the blockade. They sailed through the gap and headed for a slip near shore.

  Better to limit how far we have to haul those barrels.

  “Enemy ships!” someone shouted.

  Shillings spotted a dozen enemy craft sailing from the northern shoreline. His ship was already within the blockade, as were three others.

  “Signal the ships outside the blockade to engage! They must hold the enemy at bay while we take the gate!”

  Jenkins called for the sails to be furled, the ship slowing as it eased toward its berth. Moments later, it was docked, the ropes secured to the massive posts on the pier.

  “Disembark and open the cargo holds!” the captain called. “We need to get those barrels to the gate!”

  Shillings paused and gazed out into the bay, beyond the blockade. His ships had drawn beside the enemy ships. It would be hell out there, the fighting fierce. The enemy outnumbered the Farrowen fleet. It didn’t matter. All he needed was time.

  His soldiers began to pour onto the pier, the other ships doing the same as each was secured to the docks. In mere minutes, six hundred Farrowen soldiers filled the pier. The naphtha barrels were unloaded and brought to the fore, just behind a line of soldiers with oversized shields. With everyone in place, Shillings called for them to march.

  The city wall and gate waited just beyond the docks, at the top of an incline. Two dozen guards stood on top of the wall above the gate, more undoubtedly waiting inside. Based on how few soldiers were visible, Shillings expected Henton faced more defenders at the other gate. It didn’t matter. Only one of them needed to get inside the city. Once breached, the successful squad would push toward the other gate and open it from within. Since Farrowen possessed a larger force of soldiers, taking the city would be easy once they were inside.

  Shillings’ unit approached the end of the docks and slowed just beyond bowshot. Just ahead was a narrow space with a warehouse standing to each side of an opening not more than twenty-five feet wide. Beyond that space was the uphill run to the gate.

  Shillings stood to the end of the line and barked out orders. The soldiers at the front squeezed in tightly, the men with the carts just behind them. On his order, they were to storm the gate while the archers behind them provided cover.

  Only one of the three barrels had to make it. More would be better, but one would do.

  “Charge!” the man shouted.

  The shield bearers burst into a jog, the men pushing the three carts grunting mightily in an effort to keep up as the archers trailed behind. Arrows began to rain down from the wall as they reached the narrow gap between the two buildings. That was when Shillings noticed the tripwire, the edge of it glinting in the sunlight.

  “Stop!” he cried desperately, but it came too late.

  The soldiers in the shield line stumbled. Exposed, arrows pummeled the men pushing the carts as they tried to stop. One cart hit a fallen soldier, tipped, and fell to its side.

  More arrows followed, black smoke trailing.

  Fire, Shillings realized.

  “Retreat!” he bellowed as he turned toward the army behind him. Again, too late.

  A leaking barrel caught fire and exploded in a massive inferno. Shillings was launched backward by the concussion, his clothing burning as he sailed through the air, toward the crowded docks.

  26

  Augur

  Brogan Reisner grit his teeth, his eyes wild as he lifted the axe above his head, his thick arm muscles bunching with it. He drove the axe downward, the blade flashing through the air. At impact, the sharp edge cleaved through the man’s helm and drove deep into his skull, splitting it clean, bits of brain matter and blood splattering around Brogan’s feet.

  He blinked in the dim light of dusk, and the imaginary enemy soldier became a foot-long log, split in two.

  Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he leaned the axe against a tree and bent to pick up the fresh firewood. He placed the two pieces on top of the pile he had formed over the past two weeks – enough firewood to last most winters, even in the mountains of Northern Pallanar.

  It grew dark, the evening air chilling his sweat-covered torso. He ran his hand down his stomach. His wet skin felt cold to the touch, although he continued to sweat from hours of exertion. There was a time his stomach was lean and rippled, a time his body was honed into a lethal killing machine. Fifteen years had passed since his days with the Murguard. He patted his paunch, thinking it felt a bit trimmed since mid-summer. Felling trees, hauling them through the forest, and cutting them into burnable sections took a lot of effort. Although he could stand to lose more weight, the effect was obvious. He wondered if Blythe had noticed.

  Brogan circled Blythe’s cabin, stopping at the front porch to retrieve his tunic, pulling it over his head. The cloth clung to his wet skin. He ran his hand over his balding head, wiping away the beads of sweat. A glance toward the sky revealed dim light to the west, the round moon to the east. It was a clear night and would get colder as the evening wore on.

  I wonder when she will be back, he thought to himself. There was nobody but him and Blythe living in the valley. In fact, he hadn’t seen anyone else in the area for years. I hope she comes back with something for dinner. He was out of meat and suspected she was, as well. Man was not meant to live on vegetables alone.

  With a grunt, Brogan bent and gripped the axe handle, hefting it over his shoulder before heading down the path to his cabin. The surrounding trees were pale on the eastern face, casting shadows into the murky gloom. Traveling the trail in the dark might have been difficult if he hadn’t walked it a thousand times before. He imagined he might be able to walk it blindfolded.

  The trees opened to a glade illuminated by the moonlight. Most of the clearing had been plowed over, the vegetables harvested and stored in the cellars below his and Blythe’s cabins. Only a small patch of winter squash remained and would do so until the vines grew black. It would take a few more cold evenings, then the last of his crops would be ready for winter.

  A rivulet flowed through the heart of the garden, the water gurgling as he approached. Years ago, Brogan had dug it out during a dry spell, ensuring it wouldn’t wash away his crops. It remained a risk if heavy rain struck at the wrong time, but the glade was fertile and there was nowhere else nearby he found suitable. He crossed the small footbridge over the runoff and headed toward a gap in the trees.

  The trail grew dark again, trees and shadows surrounding him. In the distance, an owl’s hoot echoed, the only sound other than the crunch of his footsteps on fallen leaves. Blythe had attempted to teach him how to walk more quietly, and had done so with amazing patience. Perhaps her instruction had some effect, but in comparison to her, whose steps sounded like a whisper, he sounded like stampeding cattle. Standing well over six feet and carrying twice her weight, he felt more like a bear than the lynx he knew her to be.

  The dark shadow of hi
s cabin came into view. As the trees fell away, he noticed light seeping through the closed curtains. There was no light on when I left. Alarmed, he gripped the axe with both hands and crept forward, doing his best to walk as Blythe had taught him.

  With his back to the log walls, Brogan listened. Multiple voices came from inside, the words muffled. He eased toward the front porch. Peering around the corner, he noticed horses tied to his shed. There appeared to be at least a half-dozen mounts, the riders nowhere in sight. He slowly stepped onto the porch, the wood creaking beneath his weight, making him grimace. With one hand on the knob and the other gripping the axe handle, he drew a breath and flung open the door.

  He burst inside with axe hefted, his blood boiling and ready for battle. A deep roar blasted from his lungs.

  Everyone froze, eyes wide and faces etched in shock as they stared at him. None held weapons, nor did they attempt to draw hidden ones. Posed like a boulder prepared to crash downhill, he held the axe cocked over his shoulder, panting through gritted teeth as he surveyed the room.

  Seven people were inside his small cabin, two sitting on chairs, two more on his bed, the other three standing. To his surprise, three of them were women. To his even greater surprise, two of the males were dwarfs. He hadn’t seen a dwarf since he was a child.

  Brogan then recognized one of the men standing. “Salvon?”

  The old man grinned. “It is good to see you are well, Brogan.”

  A man sitting on the bed stood, the top of his head barely reaching Brogan’s shoulder. “Brogan?”

  “Jerrell?” Brogan stared at the thief.

  Jerrell smiled. “So you remember me.”

  Brogan lowered his axe, his head clearing from the battle lust that had clouded it. Oddly, his surprise at finding Salvon and Jerrell in his cabin was tainted by disappointment. “How could I forget? Our…excursion wasn’t exactly standard fare.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “How long has it been?”