Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Recovering, he got a foothold on a ledge and began climbing, hand over hand, his boots finding purchase on ledges, corners, window casings, and anything else he could reach. His palms burned and fingers began to bleed, making Rindle curse inwardly that he had forgotten to don his gloves. He certainly could not put them on now, so he continued climbing.

  The palace roof was still six feet above him when his arms seized up, unable to pull himself up any farther. He glanced down, the garden five stories below. A fall would likely kill him. Yet he was spent.

  He looked up again, willing himself to climb, but his will was not strong enough. Hands burning as if on fire, his grip began to falter.

  A shadow leaned over the palace roof, a hand extending toward him as he fell.

  His body jerked to a halt when invisible tentacles wrapped about his waist, flipping his body over to face downward before he began to rise. Up into the air he was hoisted, until he hovered over the palace roof, far from the edge. The invisible coils released him, and he fell to the roof with a grunt, half his body lying in a pool of rainwater.

  “You were to keep this meeting discreet,” Parsec said.

  Rindle pushed himself to his hands and knees, blood from his palms swirling in the puddle. “I had a small miscalculation.” Standing, he winced in pain. “It all worked out.”

  Parsec was masked in shadow, his face unreadable in the darkness, but Rindle heard the doubt in his voice. “Really? It seems to me you would have fallen to your death had I not been here.”

  Fair point. “Yes. My hands…” He held them out. “Is there any way you can heal them?”

  The wizard held his hands over Rindle’s open palms. Searing pain flared, and Rindle gasped. Then the pain was gone.

  “Pull the rope up. We don’t want anyone to discover it.”

  As instructed, Rindle found the rope and began hoisting it up into a coil. When finished, he turned and realized the wizard had walked over to the scaffold. As he crossed the roof, Rindle gazed up at the tower, a dark blue flame burning at the top.

  “Why all the secrecy?” Rindle asked. “Aren’t you the high wizard now? Couldn’t you just invite me to the castle?”

  Parsec shook his head. “I may sit on the throne, but I am no wizard lord. Not yet. Worse, Farrowen still occupies this city, and if I were to make a move, the army would swiftly return.” The wizard paused, his hand patting the wooden scaffold. “I have another task for you. A very important task. I want you to track down a man in the Farrowen Army. You are to discover how he converted our Tower of Devotion toward Farrow and, with that knowledge, discern how we can change it back.”

  “The Farrowen Army? Their soldiers number in the thousands. How am I to track down one man?”

  Parsec turned toward him. “This man is named Garvin. He is a lieutenant in the Midnight Guard.”

  “Garvin?” Rindle repeated, a frown on his face. “I recognize the name. He was there, in the gate tower when I killed Eldalain.”

  With an edge to his tone, Parsec asked, “So you can identify this man by sight?”

  “Yes.”

  The laughter in the darkness brought chills to Rindle’s spine. “What luck! I swear Gheald is looking out for us.” His laughter cooling, Parsec continued. “This same man has sent a request to Charcoan, unaware I have assumed his position. The request is to send a pair of ships to assist the Farrowen Army in the capture of Dorban. I intend to honor the request. I hope you don’t get seasick.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been at sea before.”

  “That will soon change. Two ships depart at sunup. You will be on one of them, working as a member of the crew. Your name is Brin, a sailor from Shear.”

  “Me, a sailor?” Rindle tried to wrap his mind around the idea. He knew nothing about ships.

  “Yes. Report to Captain Flair at first light. His ship is named Tide Crawler. He is to pick up Garvin and a host of others at a village along the south side of Dorban Bay. You will watch Garvin’s every move. If he leaves the ship, you will follow him.” The wizard’s shadowy figure pointed toward the azure fire in the tower above. “Your mission is to get close and discover how we can return that flame to purple. Achieve this goal, and I will relieve you of any further obligation.”

  23

  Oracle

  For the second time in a week, Narine lay on a table, staring up at the sparkling dome above Kelmar. As before, the voices of the seers rose in wordless song. The beam of light shot from the gem above the throne, the dome turning to a swirl of color, the world fading away. This time, rather than empty darkness, something else arose in the murk, solidifying into something real.

  It was sunset, the fading light of the sun coming from behind her as she flew high above the sea. In the distance, she saw land racing toward her and realized she was moving at an incredible speed. The land drew near, revealing beaches encircling lush, green hills covered with foliage and split by wide rivers. Then the sea was behind her, and jungle-covered hills were all she could see below. Incredibly tall peaks lined the horizon, gray at the base, white from the midpoint to where they met the sky.

  Her direction altered, shifting north. A meandering, branching river slipped past, leading toward a peculiar land nestled between the tall, white peaks to one side, dusty, barren peaks to the other. This odd land was blocky, leveled at the top, split by deep fissures. There, she slowed and drifted lower as dusk became night. In the sky above, the moon was far closer than ever before, hanging nearly directly above her and casting a pale light upon the world below.

  Floating less than a mile above the ground, she saw a man-made wall running from one side of a chasm to another. The amber light of torches lit the top of the wall, outlining the silhouettes of warriors manning it. She realized she gazed upon The Fractured Lands, the soldiers on the wall members of the Murguard.

  Distant laughter arose, deep and disturbing, sending chills down her spine, despite having no tangible body. Shadows moved in the darkness of the chasm, and light arose from braziers, the image causing Narine to gasp.

  Monsters, twisted, frightening, and evil, filled the chasm. By the thousands, small, gangly creatures rushed the walls, weapons in hand. The soldiers fought valiantly and turned them away, until twisted giants emerged from the chasm and smashed against the walls. In moments, the barricade failed, the soldiers overwhelmed, and a flood of monsters poured into the surrounding jungle.

  To the north and south, other walls fell as creatures stormed from The Fractured Lands and attacked by the thousands, invading the world of mankind.

  The world lurched, her view twisting. Something reached toward her and pulled her forward. The cracked earth sped past as she was carried farther east. Ahead, dark clouds covered the sky and soon blotted out the moon. The land below was barren, bereft of life. Something appeared in the distance, drawing her attention.

  It was a city built upon a plateau, its black walls illuminated by a brilliant beam of moonlight. Looking up, she saw a distinct opening in the clouds, the light from the moon streaming through it. Surrounding the opening, clouds roiled but were unable to penetrate the gap.

  When she drew close to the city itself, she realized it was made into a series of interlocking rings, each interior ring taller than the one surrounding it. The streets themselves were at angles, forming an eight-pointed star. At the heart of the city was a massive tower, to which she was drawn.

  A shape loomed upon the tower. When it turned toward her, she saw it was cloaked, dark, and malevolent. Within a dark hood, the being’s eyes burned with crimson flames. Its mouth opened and horrible, disturbing laughter emerged, the evilness striking terror into Narine’s heart. Debilitating fear overcame her. This being of pure evil saw her, knew she was there, and reached toward her with long, skeletal fingers capped by black talons. With certainty, she knew her soul would be captured for eternity if it were to touch her.

  The image warped, twisted, and spun as she blasted backward, speeding away from the
nightmare.

  Suddenly, she was back at the Oracle, lying upon a wooden table. Her heart thumped back to life and she took a deep breath, gasping for air, her hand pressed against her chest while she stared at the sparkling dots of light in the dome above.

  Women started screaming, some falling to the floor, others holding their chests, gasping for air. In the center of the Oracle, a dark cloud obscured the throne, the diamond, and Xionne. From it, Narine heard struggling and cries of pain, as if the woman were in a fight for her life.

  Jace stood on his table and pulled the amulet from beneath his tunic and over his head. Leaping, he landed upon the dais and advanced on the cloud, the amulet extended from his body like a ward. When the amulet touched the cloud, it recoiled. The thief pushed forward, the darkness receding to reveal Xionne until the mist was beyond her, swirling in the air, reeking of evil. The cloud began to constrict, growing smaller and smaller until it was gone.

  Slumped over in her throne and covered in sweat, Xionne gasped. Her dark, star-filled eyes turned toward Jace, and she gave him a small nod of gratitude.

  Narine felt the tension release from her body, wondering how Jace had known how to save the woman.

  Her gaze swept the room, slipping past the dais, her startled companions, the distraught seers surrounding the room, and settled on Salvon. The old storyteller stood in the entrance with an unreadable expression on his face, hands clenched into fists. Turning about, he disappeared through the door.

  Sister Jionna closed the door, leaving Brogan and his companions alone. He turned toward them, everyone’s eyes reflecting anxiety and confusion. The room was furnished with sofas and padded chairs arranged in an oval. One by one, everyone sat, none speaking. He suspected they were bothered by what they had witnessed. However, he doubted they understood the true gravity of the vision, for none, save for himself, had served in the Murguard.

  He chose a chair and sat with a sigh, rubbing his shorn hair in worry.

  “What happened back there?” Jace asked, breaking the silence.

  Brogan grunted. “You tell us. You’re the one who acted, using that trinket of yours to scare away that…”

  “Evil?” Rhoa offered.

  “Yeah. Evil,” he said in agreement.

  The thief shook his head. “I just figured it was some sort of magic, and the Eye somehow cancels magic. I had no idea if it would even work.” He frowned. “I guess I acted on instinct. I don’t even like the woman.” He glowered at Narine. “You are corrupting me.”

  She smiled. “You are not alone, for you have had a similar impact on me.”

  Adyn shook her head. “What am I going to do with you two? I get the feeling I will be stuck saving both your arses from now on.”

  Images of The Fractured Lands remained in Brogan’s mind, unable to shake what he had witnessed. “What about before the vision. Did we all see the same thing?”

  “Perhaps one of us should describe our experience so the others can answer the question,” Blythe suggested.

  “Agreed.” Narine nodded. “I will go first.”

  The princess outlined the vision, her description matching what Brogan had observed. Around the room, others nodded, confirming they shared the same experience.

  Narine posed, “We all apparently witnessed the same thing, but what does it mean?”

  Brogan sighed. “I can tell you this much. If the Murguard fails as we saw, dark times lie ahead for the wizardoms, starting with Kyranni.”

  “You are wrong.”

  Everyone turned as Xionne stepped inside, her eyes again hidden beneath the blindfold. Salvon was with her, his face grim.

  Where has he been?

  Dismissing the thought, Brogan replied, “Wrong about what?”

  “You witnessed not the future, but rather, the recent past.”

  Brogan stood, his heart suddenly racing. “You mean those monsters are already loose and stalking our lands?”

  The woman stepped into the middle of the lounge, her hands clasped at her waist. “It appears so.”

  “Who… What was that thing at the end of the vision?” Rhoa asked.

  Salvon spoke, an ominous timbre in his voice. “It was the Dark Lord, the one known as Urvadan. It was he who attacked Xionne.”

  A chill ran down Brogan’s spine. From the moment he had experienced the vision, he feared it might be the Dark Lord but had convinced himself it could not be so. Urvadan is supposed to be a myth, a name you whisper when you wish to thrust a knife of fear into someone’s heart. To have seen even a glimpse of the evil god…

  An image of the cloaked figure with eyes of fire flashed in Brogan’s head. He had felt an intense hatred from Urvadan, malevolent and horrifying. It had come close to overwhelming him.

  Jace stood and glared at Salvon, his gaze shifting to Xionne. From the start, the thief had made it clear he did not trust her. “I don’t know about any Dark Lord, and even if I believed it, this is nothing close to what you told us when we were dragged out here to the middle of nowhere.” He pointed his finger at the seer as he spoke. “I thought you seers were supposed to peer into the future and create prophecies about things yet to come. Why show us an image of events in the past? How is that going to prevent the end of the world you claim is coming?”

  Xionne replied, “Even with you here, the future remains blind to us. It is why the first attempt at using the Oracle failed. This time, I chose a different approach. Using you eight as the anchor, I threw my line into the recent past and pulled up the worst fish of all. We had to know who was behind the events that swirl about you, why the world has been sent into chaos. We were able to identify Urvadan as the hand behind it all, the shift in magic some aspect of his grand design. This knowledge will guide us in our next task.”

  “Which is what?” Adyn asked from her chair, her leg draped over one of the cushioned arms as she lounged in a relaxed position. “Do we gather a massive army and drive into the Murlands? Do we bring the fight to him?”

  Shaking her head, Xionne glanced at Salvon. “Nothing so drastic. At least not yet. Instead, we must seek every prophecy that mentions the Dark Lord, of which there are hundreds. Such prophecies have been secreted away, stored safely in the library’s inner chamber. The one we opened yesterday.

  “As we attempted before, we will sift through them, and any that stray from our timeline will be deemed false. From what remains, we will attempt to establish the possible paths toward success and those leading to utter failure. With this information, we shall endeavor toward the best possible outcome, whatever it may be.”

  24

  Gift or Curse?

  The wind whipped Roddem Despaldi’s cloak, the bite of it stinging his face as his horse crested a rise. He caught site of Marquithe on the horizon, the great city crowning an expansive hilltop. After weeks of travel, he was returning home. If only it were under better circumstances.

  The skies were gray, and rain appeared likely before the day was through. To the south, and certainly in the mountains, snow would fall, adding to the blanket of white already present. Winter was his least favorite season. The fact he had been stuck in Pallanar when the first snowfall came irritated him still, more than a week later.

  Aradon rode beside him, their horses moving at a trot, the surrounding farms passing without notice. The two had spoken little since leaving Illustan. Neither was used to failure.

  As the city drew near, Despaldi’s gaze settled on the pinnacle of the tallest structure. A blue flame burned at the top of the tower. Thurvin remains alive. With the recent sequence of wizard lords dying, he had wondered if the man would have fallen, as well. Secretly, he wished it to happen.

  The two riders slowed outside the gate, Despaldi drawing back his hood and nodding to the guards. Both were men he recognized by face but neither by name.

  He addressed the guards with a firm tone. “Captain Despaldi returning with a message for Lord Thurvin.”

  “Welcome back, Captain,” one said with a fist t
o his chest.

  “Farrow bless you, Captain,” the other said, also thumping his chest plate.

  With his horse at a walk, Despaldi led Aradon through the gate and toward the palace, which was located in the heart of the city. It was a typical afternoon, the streets crowded with vendors, beggars, citizens, wagons, carts, and occasional street performers. Despite the chaos in the world, nothing seemed different in Marquithe, the average person caring little about the machinations of wizard lords and those caught up in the pursuit of power. At times like this, he longed for a simpler life.

  Perhaps Reisner had it right, living alone in a quiet mountain retreat. Rather than bringing him peace, thoughts of the man stirred his ire.

  The duo passed through the palace gate and rode directly to the stables. Despaldi handed the reins to a stable hand and dismissed Aradon. The ranger had done his job admirably, the failure outside of his control. No need for him to share the blame, Despaldi thought. After all, right is right. It was his mantra, the core of his being.

  Inside the palace, he queried a guard about the wizard lord’s location. Court was not in session, so Despaldi climbed the stairs and headed for the chambers of his old master, Malvorian. Thurvin is but a shadow of his predecessor. The weasel will not, cannot last. Despaldi believed the gods had a plan, believed Thurvin’s ascent had meaning, even if he did despise the man. Perhaps it is to teach us some sort of lesson. Perhaps he will take the fall so another may rise under better terms.

  He approached the closed door to the wizard lord’s chamber and nodded to Jacque, the Midnight Guard patrolling the corridor. Knocking, he waited for a reply.

  “What is it?” Thurvin sounded irritated, his voice distant.

  Despaldi frowned at the man’s mood. If he is already upset, this may go badly. “It’s Captain Despaldi.”