Spawn of Fury Read online

  “Shh, easy now my friend, easy. Look at me, Nikalus.” The boy met the knight’s eyes. “Your shin is broken. It is aligned well; it need not be set. But we will need to splint it, and you will need to ride Champ despite your pain. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded, unable to muster a response through his sobs.

  Barris emptied more of his life into the boy, offering what comfort he could for the moment before he stood to gather what was needed to make a splint. As he rose, Barris thought he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye, far in the distance through the canopy. He turned, looking northwards towards Fang. The tree line was too tall; he could make out the ash plume, but no more. Yet he was certain: he had seen something. He could feel something. Something dark. Something awful.

  Barris shook the shudders from his spine and retrieved a few strips of leather and a glass vial from his saddlebags, then unfastened Phantom’s blanket. He knew he must first warm the boy; lying on the cold ground while subjected to the icy winds would cause shock to set in quickly. He draped Phantom’s blanket over an already-shivering Nikalus and popped the cork of the small vial.

  “Just a sip, now. It will dull your senses.”

  Barris knew it would do more than that. To an elf, the onnium plant extract was but a mild sedative. To Nikalus, it would serve as a powerful pain reliever, but would almost certainly cause visions. It was not the ideal treatment, but Barris could offer no better. His magic was barely sufficient to take the edge off the boy’s pain; healing was not a skill Barris excelled at. As the boy sipped at the bottle Barris expected a grimace, as the taste was vile, but the boy was in too much pain to care. Barris pocketed the vial and went about searching for a stick of the right girth and length. Finding what he needed, he returned to Nikalus.

  “This will hurt, my young friend. Be brave.”

  Nikalus was indeed brave as Barris tied the splint in place, gritting his teeth, doing his best not to cry out. He very nearly succeeded, even as Barris secured the last strap with a firm tug. But the final step was to pass his hands over the break, infusing magic into the injury to hasten healing. The sensation was excruciating, proving sufficient to break the boy’s resolve. Nikalus let out a plaintive moan as Barris placed a gentle, calloused hand on the boy’s small brow in apology.

  As if in response to Nikalus’ cry, a deep, bellowing roar sounded in the distance, south and west of their position, in the direction of the city of Mor.

  “What – what was that?” Nikalus asked.

  Barris suppressed another shudder, bending to lift the trembling Nikalus from the ground. “A wolf, perhaps. Come. We must go now.”

  IV: MOR

  Listen to me, very carefully,” Sartean croaked. “Are you listening?”

  The terrified man stood frozen, watching the sky. Screams of dread pierced the chill afternoon air.

  “Only I can defeat this beast. Only I can stand against it.”

  The man looked to the shackled wizard but did not respond. A second roar and a deafening crash sounded from behind the stocks that held Sartean.

  “Listen to me! You must release me! Do you not see? You will die! You will all die!”

  The man flew backwards away from Sartean, yanked by an invisible rope. Sartean blinked, confused. He tried vainly to shift his head, but the stocks made it impossible to see anything aside from the throngs of panicked citizens trampling one another as they fought to escape through the court gates and away from the palace square. A snick sounded from below Sartean’s neck. He felt an arm reach under his chest, lifting him. Agonizing shocks of pain shot through his body as formerly immobile joints and muscles cried out. Suddenly, the Master of Kehrlia was no longer imprisoned. He lifted his eyes to his rescuer.

  “Jarriah–”

  “Drink!” The apprentice shoved a flask at the lips of his master. Sartean spilled more than he drank, his cracked and swollen mouth unable to close around the mouth of the bottle. Yet he drank enough. In the space of a few breaths the potion invigorated the Incantor, salving his injuries, bolstering his strength. He turned his bloody face to Jarriah.

  “Kehrlia.”

  The pair joined the mass of people running from the square. They made it through the gate, turning south, breaking at all speed for the tower. Despite fractured ribs, broken toes, a dozen bleeding wounds and bruises covering nearly every inch of his battered body, Sartean ran like a man possessed. Shouts of recognition and anger reached his ears; some of those he passed clearly knew who he was, knew he had escaped. He did not heed them. A large man made to reach for Sartean as he ran by. A gesture and a word from Jarriah knocked him to the ground. The pair ran on.

  Twice the black abomination flew overhead, roaring. Sartean ignored it the first time, mindlessly running on, caring only to find refuge at Kehrlia. The second pass of the beast got his attention, however, as a mangled human body fell from the sky, landing just ahead of the rushing Incantors. Sartean then looked up, marveling… he had never seen the beast’s like. A head the size of a small cabin, shaped not quite unlike that of a snake, not quite unlike that of a hairless wolf. Black eyes… soulless dark orbs larger than a human head. Long as twenty men, head to tail. Longer. A wingspan wider than even that. Four meaty, muscular legs hanging from its body. Claws as long as pikes. Fast. Impossibly fast. Wisps of smoke trailing in its wake. Its hide – no, not hide… scales? – seemed as if it were its own living organism, writhing and rolling along the form of the beast as its wings pumped rhythmically, gleaming in places, black as empty death in others… so black…

  A slap from Jarriah broke the spell. “Run, damn you!”

  Sartean returned his attention to the street, only then noticing he had come to a halt. He shook his head and accelerated once again, recognizing that something about the beast had begun to enthrall him. His mind was frayed by the Flightfluid potion Jerriah had given him, blighted by his tortuous ordeal, a tattered puzzle with missing pieces. He ran. The path to the tower lay just ahead. The two Incantors turned west, breaking for the steps. Sartean slid in the ash as they rounded the corner, falling, scraping his hands and a knee. Jarriah pulled him to his feet. The tower doors now stood open, as opposed to when he had returned from the battle with Mila… Sartean knew what that meant. They had chosen to let me die at the hands of the mob.

  The recognition fueled a rising rage within the wizard, focusing his mind as they climbed the steps to the great tower. Entering the foyer, several Incantors froze at the unexpected sight of their battered and bloodied master. Sartean slowed to a stop and straightened, managing a fair impersonation of a fearsome and powerful wizard, despite presently being in possession of not even a fragment of power. He approached the nearest Incantor, a middle-aged man he knew to possess nothing in the way of war magic. He glared at the man, knowing he would need to assert his authority now, lest his wizards sense weakness and kill him on the spot. The Incantor remained still, desperately trying to show courage, but clearly afraid.

  Sartean leaned in, whispering. “Did you betray me, Incantor Pima?” The threat in his voice pierced what was left of the man’s bravado. The Incantor fell to his knees.

  “No! Never, master!”

  Sartean placed a boot on the man’s shoulder and shoved him to the ground. He turned to the dozen others who stood gaping. Though his magic was spent for the time being, he gambled that his reputation was magic enough. Well-practiced at the task of instilling fear, he passed his gaze over each, pausing briefly to meet their eyes. All looked away, without exception. He decided he would not address their insubordination… yet.

  “You have seen what comes, have you not?”

  Heads nodded.

  “Then why do you stand there gaping like witless fools? Prepare yourselves! Incantor Pima, lock and ward the doors! Apprentice Jarriah, attend me in my library! The rest of you… move!”

  On another day, such an order from Sartean D’Avers to his Incantors would have been met with instantaneous compliance and no small a
mount of abject fear. On this day, after the Master of Kehrlia had arrived in tatters at the steps of his tower, been refused entry by his own subordinates, beaten mercilessly by the laborers of Mor, placed in the stocks, forced to watch his king dismembered while awaiting his own turn, the Incantors of Kehrlia were emboldened.

  On this day, it took the span of nearly a full breath for them all to scatter.

  Sartean and Jarriah climbed the steps to the master’s library. Upon entering, Sartean reached up, brushing his fingers across the top of a shelf. The stretching movement brought a bright flash of pain to his aching body, but he found the hidden trigger quickly.

  The magic guarding the library had been stolen gradually, imperceptibly over the course of centuries from the life forces of the very Incantors of Kehrlia, gathered and stored in gems placed within each and every stone surrounding the room. Each gem would continue to recharge itself indefinitely, so long as living beings frequented the tower. The trigger Sartean engaged to activate the protective magic was a mechanical one of his own design, created specifically for this eventuality: if he should find himself emptied of all power, unable to trigger the wards with magic. The wizard silently congratulated himself on his foresight.

  A click illuminated the room, indicating that the doors, walls, floors, and ceiling to his private office would now withstand any means of attempted intrusion. No magic, no physical means of assault would succeed: the very tower of Kehrlia could collapse, and the room within which they stood would remain largely intact. In addition, with the defensive enchantment now activated, any attempt to harm Sartean from within the office would be met with an immediate and lethal response: the very air in the room would ignite within the lungs of the attacker. For the first time since Mila Felsin had bested him, he was safe.

  As far as Jarriah could know, his master had merely activated a lighting spell. He would likely believe Sartean to be without protection – and at his mercy. Let us test the notion, Sartean decided.

  “Sit,” he ordered Jarriah, motioning to the chairs across from his desk. Jarriah complied, taking a seat as Sartean took his own. The Incantor was pleased to see his apprentice obey the command.

  “Why did you rescue me?”

  The apprentice met Sartean’s eyes. Sartean did not sense fear there.

  Jarriah’s reply was matter-of-fact. “Because none are yet suited to lead Kehrlia in your place.”

  Sartean cocked his head. “Yet?”

  Jarriah frowned. “Correct. Yet. You have groomed no successor. Your death would leave a power vacuum, and given the current climate, a war within our ranks is the last thing we need.”

  “The current climate,” Sartean repeated.

  Jarriah took a breath. “Master, I have no devotion to you. No one does. You learned that today. I will not pretend to, not when you certainly know better. I rescued you because Mor needs you.”

  “Hmph. How noble. And you do not seek to endear yourself to me with your act? You would have me believe you have no ambitions of your own, then?”

  Jarriah shook his head. “On the contrary. I intend to someday be master of this tower. But I am not fool enough to think I will get there by endearing myself to you. Someday you will die, as all men die, and if at that point I still live, I will claim this tower. So, it is in my interests to keep you alive, at least until the day comes that I am sufficiently powerful to lay my claim. And for that day to come, I must also stay alive myself.”

  Sartean winced; the effects of the Flightfluid were beginning to wane. Countless angry aches began seeking attention. He reached into his desk, withdrawing a brown bottle. He unstoppered it and took a long swig. He replied to the apprentice. “Considering the abomination flying around outside, the chances of survival are not all that favorable for either of us.”

  “They are better with you in power.”

  “Certainly. Although… you are not the only one who seeks my position someday. Have you considered that?”

  Jarriah scoffed. “The only one who could possibly ascend this tower has already proven she cannot defeat you. That is who subdued you today, correct?” Sartean did not argue the point. Jarriah continued. “But she could not finish the job. I doubt you will give her another chance.”

  The Master of Kehrlia loathed the idea of acknowledging the young apprentice as an ally, yet he recognized the practicality in doing so. “I will not, Jarriah. We will not.”

  Jarriah nodded knowingly. “So, what now? You instruct your Incantors to prepare, but for what?”

  Sartean stood, making his way towards a couch on the far wall. He pulled his robe up over his head, exposing his bloody, bruised and naked flesh.

  “For now, Jarriah, I will rest. You will stay with me. The potion I just drank will put me to sleep in a few moments. Within that bookcase–” Sartean pointed to a case lined with colorful bottles and powders “–you will find what you need. Tend to my wounds. Wake me in seven hours, no more, no less. Then, I will address Kehrlia.” Sartean lay on the sofa. “And Jarriah.”

  “Yes, master?”

  “Until the day comes when my death is truly near, you will never again speak to me with such irreverence and familiarity. And I plan to live a very, very long time.”

  Jarriah briefly surveyed the myriad wounds covering Sartean’s body as his master fell into a deep sleep.

  “Clearly.”

  Another fearsome roar shook the tower.

  ~

  Gerald screamed at his staff through a torrent of tears, a keening, heartbreaking desperation in his tone. “Dammit, help me with him! Get him on the table!”

  Six hands lifted the still body of Vincent Thomison onto the dining table as Gerald scrambled from the room. He called behind him as he exited the room.

  “Undress him!”

  The wizard streaked through the narrow halls of Concorde, slamming into walls as he rounded corners, frantically racing for his study. He slid into the room, diving for his chest of potions, finding it locked. Trembling fingers failed twice to make the necessary gesture to open the lock; on the third try, the chest popped open. He withdrew two identical fist-sized clear bottles, shakily unstoppered them, and quaffed down their pungent, bitter contents. The wizard let out a blood-curdling scream as the acidic liquid burned its way down his throat. He reached for two more bottles, these green and red respectively. He stood and broke for the dining room.

  As he ran through Concorde to his master and friend, Gerald felt the powerful potions of liquified magic taking effect. His heart pounded violently in a sickening, unfamiliar rhythm. A terrible pressure welled behind his eyes. He felt certain his brain would soon burst like an over-ripe fruit. Too much, he absently noted as he ran across the threshold. His staff stood meekly around the table, as if in mourning. He shoved his way through them and popped the cork of the green bottle. He shoved the mouth of the bottle directly into the knife wound in his master’s lung with his left hand, pulled the cork of the red bottle with his teeth, and poured its contents into Vincent’s mouth. His vision began to darken; the power welling within him was too much to bear. He tossed the bottles aside and placed one hand over the wound, the other on Vincent’s brow.

  What happened next would remain a subject of debate among the staff of Concorde for many, many years to come, and would spawn a series of rumors that spread among the people of Mor. On only two points would all retellings agree. The first was this: a white light, bright as a hundred suns, flashed within the dining room, seeming to emanate from the hands of Incantor Gerald Longstock. It was what they witnessed as their sight returned that varied.

  Cam Morson, Vincent’s stablemaster, had helped carry Vincent to the dining room when he and Gerald appeared out of thin air before the stables. He had therefore been one of the three present when Gerald cast his incantation, and for Cam, the experience was nothing short of life-altering. He would later tell a friend, “He opened some kinda window, or a door. Somethin’. Can’t tell ya what I saw. Can’t even remember it right. B
ut I know what I knew. All of a sudden, I knew I was nothin’. Not even a speck on a flea on the arse of all creation.”

  Miranda Fane, Gerald’s second within the Thomison household, had shut her eyes tightly at the initial flash, and did not open them for some time. It was therefore not what she saw that later haunted her dreams; it was what she heard. To hear her tell it, a rip in the very fabric of the world was torn open, and beyond that tear, the keening multitudes of Fury cried out in protest.

  Kel Bryan, member of the house watch and Vincent’s newest gateman, was the third staff member in the room. He wore Vincent’s cloak that day, a fine cloak, a gift he had been given by Vincent, an unexpected kindness in gratitude for merely doing his job. Kel stood in transfixed awe within that cloak as Gerald’s incantation infused Vincent’s body with a power he would never dare describe aloud.

  The second point upon which all agreed was this: Vincent Thomison had been dead. Dead as anyone had ever been, from the moment Gerald and he arrived on the ground of Concorde. He did not breathe. Neither did his heart beat. Yet when Gerald Longstock finally collapsed in a heap beneath his master’s table, the wound from James Thallinson’s dagger had stitched itself into a neat scar, and Vincent Thomison again drew breath.

  No one spoke as Vincent took that breath and opened his eyes. He sat up quickly, feeling at the new scar on his chest. His wide eyes met those of his stablemaster, then darted towards Miranda, who was silently rushing to Gerald’s side. Kel Bryan huddled against a far wall, mumbling a prayer.

  No one spoke as Vincent climbed unsteadily down from the table and helped a trembling Gerald to his feet. Miranda supported the exhausted wizard on one side, Vincent the other, and the three made for Gerald’s sleeping quarters.

  No one spoke as Miranda briefly recoiled at the threshold of the room, her hand brushing the cold exposed flesh of Vincent’s arm as they carried Gerald. Kel Bryan saw the flinch, and Cam Morson saw him see.