Pravus scoffed. “And you believe these rumors?”
Credan nodded.
“Why would he need an army?” Pravus glared at Credan and waited several moments for an answer but only got a shrug out of the man.
Is Cinolth trying to usurp my kingdom?
Pravus shook the thought away. The war piece dug into his clenched fist as he squeezed harder. “There is no basis to these absurd lies. People spread rumors out of fear and nothing more. Cinolth controls no army. I control him.”
But if they are true…
“As you say, my lord.” Credan paced next to the table, his brow furrowed. “How does one kill a dragon?”
Good question, but he’s no ordinary dragon.
Every account Pravus read of Cinolth solidified his fear of the beast. Tightly clustered and stronger than steel, he’d read of no weapon that could penetrate Cinolth’s scales. Not only that, but Cinolth’s scales resisted most types of mezhik attacks as well.
How had Cyrus defeated him in the Great War?
“I don’t have an answer.” Pravus tossed the war piece onto the map and rubbed his palm where it had left a dent. “First and foremost, we need to find out if the rumors are true. In the meantime, I’ll feign interest in reconciling my differences with the beast.”
Credan stopped pacing. “I agree. Turn him, and he’d be a great asset.”
“Yes, but only until the war is won.” Pravus brooded. “But how?”
“Queen Aria.” Credan’s eyes twinkled behind wire-rimmed spectacles. “She seems to have as much influence over him as anyone else.”
Pravus sneered. More than me is what you mean. He paused and allowed his anger to quell before responding to Credan. After all, the man merely spoke the truth.
“It is true.” Pravus began righting the fallen war pieces. “Somehow, she’s bound to that beast, and I’m not certain she has the strength to persuade him the way he does her.”
Credan stepped over to the table and helped Pravus place the war pieces back where they belonged. “If I’ve witnessed nothing else, I’ve seen the strength she possesses. She commands everything in her path. She’s a true queen if ever I’ve seen one.”
“Then we shall make a concerted effort to persuade her to influence the beast to join our cause.”
“We, my lord?” Credan cleared his throat. “Tell me what needs to be done, and I will make it so.”
“Prepare an elegant feast for lunch. Like most men, she has a fondness for lavish food and good wine.”
Credan dipped his head. “As you wish, my lord. It will rival that of your wedding feast.”
“Good. See to it at once and notify me when it’s ready. In the meantime, I’ve got a war to orchestrate.”
Credan bowed low and then exited the room.
Pravus circled the table, viewing the map from every angle. Attacking the Three Kingdoms would prove tough, even if they had the element of surprise. Only three paths led into the Orbis Mountains, each fortified well. An assault from all three directions at the same time would tax their army and spread them thin, but that wasn’t the plan. The brunt of their attack would come from the south, through Elatos. Once King Zaridus fully committed his forces there, Murtag would lead a second force south along the Hotah River and attack Vallah, the King’s city, to the north. With luck, Murtag would sever the head of King Zaridus’s army and force surrender.
Pravus moved the war pieces into position, surrounding the cities of Vallah, Elatos, and Borza. Then he toppled the piece representing King Zaridus. They would have the element of surprise with the second attack. The plan would not fail.
He cracked his knuckles. “Soon, the Ancient Realm will be mine.”
Chapter Seven
It took the better part of an hour for Nardus and Theyn to navigate the debris field of shredded books, toppled shelves, broken tables, and dismantled chairs to reach the door with the blood-smeared frame. By the time they did, water dripped from several new cracks in the ceiling. More water trickled down the walls from several of the high windows. Lying underneath miles of ocean, the Great Library hemorrhaged water like a boat pocked with holes.
This isn’t good.
Nardus turned the handle, but the door wouldn’t open either direction. He slammed his shoulder into the door several times, but the door didn’t budge. “Gnaud must’ve barricaded himself in there.”
Theyn spoke directly into his mind. “We must breach the door. I see no other way in. Maybe there’s an axe or some other tool lying around that we could use.”
Nardus shook his head, anger in his voice. “We don’t have the time to search this place for tools. Go see if you can find something to break the door down with.” Theyn nodded and trotted away.
He kicked the door and beat it with his fists, but didn’t even leave a dent in the thick, hard wood.
Theyn’s voice entered his mind again. “Over here to your left. I think I’ve found a piece of wood that you could use as a battering ram.”
Nardus stumbled over several mounds of debris before locating Theyn and the long piece of wood that’d splintered from one of the massive shelves. “This might just work.”
The piece of wood proved far heavier than it looked, taking most of his strength just to lift it off the floor. With a grunt, he got the piece of wood balanced on his right shoulder. His legs trembled beneath him, but he managed to keep his balance. The door stood forty paces ahead, a far greater distance than he would’ve liked, but he had no alternative.
Nardus staggered toward the door, his chest heaving and his vision a bit blurred as he hauled the piece of wood across churning chaos. On his second to last step, his boot clipped a chair leg. He stumbled forward, and the piece of wood tumbled from his shoulder. It missed crushing his foot by the width of a hair.
Theyn growled deep in her throat. “We’re running out of time.”
Nardus shook off his fatigue as best he could. He turned toward Theyn, but his words caught in his throat. Water pooled in the valleys between the mounds of debris.
Damn!
Somehow, water had yet to reach the door he hoped Gnaud hid behind. Nardus gathered his strength and lifted the piece of wood back onto his shoulder. He roared and slammed the piece of wood against the door. The jolt sent shock waves of pain down into his toes. Several splinters tore into his hands and arms. He shook off the pain, ignored the splinters, and continued pounding the door, roaring like a beast with each strike.
The sixth blow splintered the door top to bottom with a loud crack. Another hit, and the door split completely in two. Nardus dropped the piece of wood, kicked the door all the way in, and climbed through the narrow opening.
The small room contained a single desk that hugged the right-hand wall. Several books sat atop the desk, each in a different phase of repair. Gnaud lay on the floor in the far corner to the left, unmoving. A crimson puddle surrounded Gnaud’s midsection, his grey fur matted with blood.
“No!” Nardus hurried over to Gnaud and knelt by his side. Nardus took Gnaud’s small wrist between his fingers and felt for a pulse but found none. He pressed a finger against Gnaud’s neck. At first, he felt nothing, but then a faint heartbeat lifted his finger ever so slightly.
Nardus exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. “He’s alive, Theyn!”
Theyn nuzzled Nardus’s neck. “Thank the gods!”
Gnaud’s bloodied shirt lay across his abdomen, little more than a shredded rag. Four gashes flayed his fur-covered skin, two far deeper than Nardus would’ve liked. He shook Gnaud gently, but the little gordak didn’t respond.
Nardus turned to Theyn. “I don’t think he will last much longer. We’ve got to get him out of here and to someone who can help heal him.”
Theyn gestured at the floor with her head. “I agree, but we don’t have much time either.”
A good two inches of water stood on the floor now. Nardus hadn’t noticed that his trousers we
re soaked through. “Damn!”
They had no time to formulate a plan. Besides, Nardus only knew of one way to leave Nasduron. What he didn’t know was what they’d be walking into when they arrived back at Pravus’s castle. He’d have to trust fate, Ƨäʈūr, the gods, or whatever else one might rely on to keep them safe.
Nardus lifted Gnaud into his left arm as gingerly as he could, mindful of Gnaud’s open wounds. He stood and grabbed Theyn’s collar with his other hand.
This had better work.
His gaze met Theyn’s. She nodded, and then they stepped out of the library together.
Chapter Eight
Qotan’s staff didn’t sit in Savric’s hand the way his own had. He’d changed hand positions several times during the sixteen-mile journey to Tyrosha before conceding that it would never feel the way his did. Giving voice to his frustrations over it garnered no sympathy from Eshtak either.
The little man seemed oblivious to everything going on around them, skipping and dawdling about throughout the entire journey. He’d chased every moving thing with childlike wonder, except for Qotan and Zerenity of course.
Twice, Savric thought he’d lost Eshtak altogether and admittedly felt a bit of relief in those moments of separation. In truth, he feared bringing Eshtak along might’ve been a mistake, but that ship sailed long ago. So, he’d prayed that Ƨäʈūr would grant him the patience to stave off his growing frustration toward Eshtak. It hadn’t worked, but he did find the strength to hold his tongue.
The docks of Tyrosha ran a good quarter mile along the southern shoreline of Custos Bay. Bony-fingered piers stretched far into the bay, ships of all sizes moored along either of their sides. Savric gazed upon the large ship docked at the end of the longest pier, their gangplanks extended as droves of people boarded it.
Ten yards ahead, dozens of men dressed in black with red, dragon head emblems on their breasts guarded the end of the pier and the ship. Each guard held a rigid, leather switch in their hand as they examined each person, granting passage to only those who were infected.
Many people screamed, yelled, and wailed as the guards separated them from their infected family members and friends. Several tried to fight their way through the line of guards, but the switches proved a great deterrent. Each strike from the switches produced a purple energy arc that cracked the air like thunder and incapacitated the would-be attackers.
Savric couldn’t grasp where these men had come from or where they’d gotten the switches. The best he could surmise was that they belonged to some sort of dragon-worshiping cult. It certainly wouldn’t surprise him if it were the case. People worshiped just about everything.
As they neared the checkpoint, Savric grabbed Eshtak’s arm and pulled them out of the line. They ducked behind a large stack of wooden pallets and empty crates. Savric eyed the ship and pulled on his beard. “We stand no chance of walking past those guards. We must find another way aboard.”
Eshtak pulled on Savric’s sleeve, but Savric waved him off. “Give me a minute to conjure a plan.”
Beyond the checkpoint, the infected formed two distinct lines to board the front and back of the ship. He spotted Qotan halfway up the front gangplank. A minute later, he located Zerenity boarding from the rear gangplank.
At least there is only one ship. But how can Eshtak and I board it unnoticed?
Eshtak tugged his sleeve again. Savric frowned. “I have yet to formulate a plan. As I am certain you are aware, these tasks take time.”
Eshtak’s lower lip bulged out. “Eshtak has plan.”
Savric guffawed. “You have a plan?”
Eshtak nodded and pointed at himself. “Eshtak black and white like people. Eshtak walks with others. Friend wizard blinks.”
Savric opened his mouth to refute Eshtak’s plan but came up with no objections. Instead, he chuckled. “Wizard blinks…”
Eshtak nodded vigorously.
Savric had never heard anyone refer to teleportation as “wizard blinking,” but logically speaking it made sense. He peered down at Eshtak with renewed vision. Perhaps I have exercised haste in judging Eshtak’s intellect. Qotan would relish this moment were he present.
Savric clasped Eshtak’s shoulder. “I believe that your assessment of the situation and your plan are both of sound mind. I have no objections. Shall we execute accordingly?”
Eshtak nodded. “Eshtak sees friend on boat.”
“Indeed. We will see each other soon.”
Eshtak nodded and skipped over to the line of infected people. He glanced back at Savric, winked, and then he turned away, lowering his head and merging into the line.
Savric grinned and looked skyward. “May your creations never fail to amaze me, Ƨäʈūr.”
A blunt object poked Savric’s spine. “Ain’t nothin ta see here, old man. Take yer leave before ya meet me friend.”
Savric turned and faced the stout man. The man wore the same black outfit as the other guards. His right hand gripped a switch.
“Yes, of course.” Savric raised a finger. “However, I do have one question for you.” The man grunted but didn’t object, so Savric continued, “Are you privy as to the destination of the vessel, per chance?”
The man glared at Savric. “Ain’t sayin.” He spat on the pier. “Yeh’ve had yer question. Now git.”
Savric dipped his head. “As you wish.”
Savric slammed the butt-end of Qotan’s staff against the pier and disappeared in a whirlwind. The next moment, he reappeared on the ship’s deck. Several guards stood around the deck, each with their back to him. He pulled his hood down low, lowered his head, and concealed his hands within his sleeves. A few others held staffs too.
Once aboard, none of the infected moved or spoke, all of their black eyes peering straight ahead, perhaps into another plane of existence or maybe at nothing at all. Their eerie silence and countenance jittered Savric.
A wake with no victim.
Savric leaned against the center mast, easing some of the burden from his weary legs. The walk from Zerenity’s house into Tyrosha sapped most of his energy, and the use of mezhik to teleport on board the ship took him to the brink of collapse.
A bite to eat and a quick nap would help build his strength back up, but he had no way of doing either without garnering unwanted attention to himself. Depending on the destination of the ship, he might need to find a place to rest.
The ship rocked gently, weighing down his eyelids and pulling him toward sleep. He fought the urge to give in to his weariness and sleep, electing to stand up straight. But soon, his shoulders drooped, his knees quaked, and his eyelids couldn’t be held open.
Savric jerked awake with a jolt. His tailbone ached and his neck angled toward his chest, so stiff that he had a hard time lifting his head back up.
“Outta the way,” said a gruff voice with a thick accent.
An islander? Savric blinked away the sting from his eyes.
Large, sun-bronzed arms parted the sea of people that stood before Savric. A man with one small, golden hoop through his left eyebrow and another one through the left corner of his lower lip glared down at Savric.
From Savric’s right came another man. The second man had the same piercings as the first, same color as well. The piercings signified rank amongst the islanders. Iron outranked every other metal, then bronze, silver, and gold. The more piercings, the higher the rank as well. These two ranked near the bottom with only two gold hoops each.
Grunts.
“Looks Like we got ourselves a stowaway,” said the first man.
The second man snarled, his lower lip quaking. “Shark food, says I.”
The first man nodded. “Aye.” A ghoulish grin warped his face. “On yer feet, dog.”
Savric couldn’t get his legs to cooperate with his mind, but an escape plan of sorts formed in his head.
”Ya deaf, oldtimer?” The second man nudged Savric with his boot. “Me friend here told ya ta git
up.”
Savric smiled at the man. “To be certain, my hearing is not what it used to be, but I assure you that my ears work better than my traitorous legs at this present moment. If one of you would be so kind, I fear I need assistance getting to my feet.”
The second man spat on the deck and eyed the first man. “Thinks he better than we with fancy talk.”
“Aye.” A devious grin curled the corners of the first man’s lips. “Means he got coin ta give us.”
“Let’s take im below, Bierch.” The second man rubbed his hands together. “Squeeze im fer gold.”
Bierch winked. “Aye, Ashter.”
The two men grabbed Savric by the arms and hauled him backward through the sea of infected people. He opened his right palm, and Qotan’s staff flew into it. He’d need it soon enough. Darkness engulfed the three men as they descended the narrow stairs leading down into the ship’s hull.
They dragged Savric a good twenty paces before depositing him on the wood-planked floor. Rusty hinges groaned, and then a latch clicked into place.
“We be back in a shake,” said the man named Bierch. “Best yeh find some coin.”
It took several minutes for Savric’s eyes to adjust to the darkness before he could get his bearings. He sat in the middle of a crude holding cell made of wooden walls and a wooden door with a small, barred opening toward the top. A pair of manacles hung from each of the two sidewalls. Had the men any smarts, they would’ve at least strung him up.
Savric rose from the floor and retreated to the back of the cell, Qotan’s staff clutched in his hand. A minute later, Bierch and Ashter returned.
The cell door creaked open. Light poured into the cell from the torch Ashter held. “Time’s up, oldtimer.”
Savric shielded his eyes and grinned. “I understand what you just accomplished. I surmise you find your wit endearing?”
Ashter cocked his head, straightening the scar that crossed the bridge of his nose and ran the length of his right cheek. “Think he hit his noggin.”
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