Wizardoms- Objects of Power Read online

  Kyranni soldiers were experienced, most having served time in the Murguard. They knew to harry the enemy during a retreat, never turning their backs until they were beyond the gate.

  The moment Eviara and her soldiers were inside, she shouted, “Close the gate!”

  The portcullis slammed down, the thick, iron barbs impaling a half-dozen goblins, trapping the horde outside. Twenty had made it beyond the gate but were rapidly dispatched. In the end, only three Kyranni were wounded, none dead.

  She pushed past soldiers and found her scout, a woman named Halata Kain. Between breaths, Eviara asked, “Did you reach Nandalla?”

  Halata nodded as she gasped for air. “The city was intact when I arrived.” She wiped her brow, black hair sticking to her forehead. “They gave me shelter, but it didn’t last. Darkspawn attacked that evening.” The woman shook her head. “It was horrible. Even with wizards on our side, the city is surely lost. I was lucky to escape.”

  Eviara grimaced. Now that the woman was safe inside the city, she needed a report. “I expected you back two days ago.”

  “I tried but was forced to travel three times the distance to circumvent the monsters.” Halata’s eyes took on a haunted look. “They are everywhere.”

  With a sigh, Eviara closed her eyes. Blessed Kyra, what must we do to survive? Opening them again, she put her hand on Halata’s shoulder. “Go rest and get food.”

  The Tower of Devotion flared brightly, beams of orange light bursting across the sky, connecting to the other major Kyranni cities. Those surrounding Eviara fell to their knees and began the chant, offering Devotion to their wizard lord. The expression of faith would grant Kelluon the magic of their god, but with Prianza and Nandalla fallen, the lives and prayers of those citizens had been lost forever.

  Hurry, Kelluon. We may need your magic tonight.

  While the others chanted, Eviara turned toward the gate tower. She had a battle to fight.

  Body covered in sweat, Eviara strode along the top of the wall, calling out commands. Below, divers at the end of their lines twirled with long, sweeping strokes, naginata blades slicing through goblin flesh, limbs, and bodies, adding to the pile at the base of the wall. Her squad leaders called out targets, archers firing upon command. An hour had passed since the fighting began, her soldiers tiring, so she called for a shift change.

  The crane operators reeled the divers back up, while archers kept the horde at bay. Male wizards ran in, one every fifty feet. One waved his hands, a resounding thunderclap echoing in the night. The wizards then began launching fireballs upon the monsters nearest to the wall, the goblins shrieking as they burned and set the piles of dead on fire in the process. This continued while the new divers relieved the old, fresh archers replacing those who were exhausted, their quivers empty.

  By the time Eviara’s troops were ready, the wizards were drained, breathing heavily, beads of sweat running down their faces. A bloom arose from the goblin horde, balls of flame arcing up from three of the braziers.

  “Look out!” Eviara shouted.

  The fireballs struck, one landing just ten strides away, setting a crane and the man on it ablaze. Two wizards were among those burning, arms flailing as they tried feebly to escape. More fireballs emerged from the night, and Eviara urgently commanded the archers to fire upon the goblin magic users. Arrows sailed through the sky, but they fell short of the nearest shaman, striking and killing ordinary goblins instead.

  A roar echoed in the night, the sound sending a knife of fear slicing through Eviara’s soul. She had hoped they would not face a rock troll. Moments later, she realized they had even bigger problems.

  Four giant, gray bodies emerged from the darkness, each rock troll standing three stories tall, thick of body, massive feet stomping on goblins in their way.

  “Prepare the ballistae!” Eviara shouted, the command relayed along the wall.

  They only had two of the war machines, each newly built and mounted to the wall to add to their defenses. She ran to the nearest ballista and slowed as two men positioned it, a third standing behind, gazing through the sight. A four-foot-long bolt, three inches in diameter, rested in the launch chamber, cocked and ready. The trolls stormed toward the wall, and the man pulled the trigger. The missile flew toward the nearest troll and struck true, the bolt impaling the monster’s neck. Lurching but not stopping, the troll continued forward, while the three men urgently cranked the launch arm back. Warriors along the wall loosed arrows at the massive monsters, some soldiers launching spears. Nothing had any effect.

  Before the next bolt was in place, the troll struck the wall.

  A hundred feet tall and eight feet thick, the wall had stood for two thousand years. Yet the impact shook it violently, soldiers stumbling, a handful falling off to their deaths. Two more trolls struck moments later, the beasts pounding on the wall with fists the size of a man.

  Four male wizards rushed over, each waving his hands and calling upon his magic. A bolt of lightning arced from each, all striking the same troll. The massive, gray body shook, smoke rising from its greasy, black hair as its skin fried. Another troll roared, bent, and scooped up a handful of dead goblins, some burning. It launched the goblins, bodies smashing into the top of the wall, others striking the wizards. Eviara watched in helpless horror as two wizards fell toward the city below.

  Another pile of goblins came flying toward her. She dove behind the merlons as the bodies struck, some hitting the merlon, three sailing into the city beyond, one landing on the wall in a twisted, bloody heap.

  She paused and considered what to do. Trolls were incredibly difficult to kill, even with ballistae. Without them…

  A figure in orange-trimmed black robes appeared, striding along the wall. Kelluon lifted his hands high and called upon his magic.

  A blinding white beam of light shot from the wizard lord’s hands and struck the nearest troll, knocking it backward. The light faded as the troll stumbled, a two-foot hole gaping in the monster’s forehead. It fell with a tremendous crash, crushing dozens of goblins in the process

  Kelluon continued past Eviara and attacked again, a bright beam of light striking the next troll, burning a hole through its body and killing it instantly.

  Foulfire…

  Eviara had heard of the legendary spell. Pure energy able to burn through anything.

  As the man destroyed the remaining trolls, she realized he had saved them. It would be a long night, but the city would survive…at least for one more day.

  1

  Shifting Tiles

  Terrin Delmont, better known as Rindle, huddled behind an outcropping of rock, clutching his cloak around his chest, hood over his head. Wind whistled through the pass, the surrounding tents billowing as if they might break free of their stakes and sail off at any moment. Pale, morning light gradually gave shape to the valley below and the mountains beyond, all beneath a gray sky. It was the beginning of a miserable day, leaving Rindle colder than he had ever been before. Having lived his entire life in Fastella, he had never known winter until now.

  Two long, dreary days had passed since he and the Farrowen Army had departed from Dorban, the captured Ghealdan city now under the control of Farrowen. More importantly, the fire above the Obelisk of Devotion had been converted from purple to blue, the prayers channeling to Wizard Lord Thurvin in Marquithe.

  By the end of the first day of travel, they were far from the coast, steadily rising in elevation, the weather growing colder with each mile. By the end of the second, they encountered a winter storm high in the mountains, coating everything in a layer of snow. It wasn’t much. Even so, it was Rindle’s first experience with snow. He had stopped his horse and faced the blowing flurries, mouth open and tongue extended. The brief sense of wonder did not last, the bitter wind soon freezing such thoughts until they fell off and shattered. The ride the remainder of the day had him huddling against the weather and dreaming of shelter. An evening in the tent he shared with Lieutenant Garvin wasn’t much better – tossing and turning, dozing briefly before waking to the cold again and again. Still, he must have caught some sleep, for when he opened his eyes to the predawn light, Garvin was gone.

  He breathed into his hands, attempting to warm them as he paced, his gaze repeatedly going to the large, white tent of the Farrowen Army commander. Two guards stood outside the entrance, their armor covered by cloaks, hoods lowered, faces obscured by shadow. Rindle wondered if the men were cold. They stood still, silent.

  Shouts arose from the tent, familiar voices, the argument lasting a full minute before Lieutenant Trey Garvin emerged. The man stomped past Rindle, toward the tent the two shared.

  Rindle caught up to Garvin, still rubbing his hands for warmth. “What’s happening?”

  His gaze fixed straight ahead, the man said, “I am leaving.”

  “Of course,” Rindle replied. “We are to break camp and cross the pass today.”

  Garvin stopped, his intense gaze turning toward Rindle. “No. I am leaving the army, heading back to Marquithe.”

  Rindle frowned. “Why? What happened?”

  “What happened is…” He lowered his voice to a growl, “I have lost my faith in this campaign. I…cannot continue.”

  “What of capturing Westhold and Tangor?”

  “Captain Henton’s problem, not mine any longer.”

  “The sapphires?”

  “I passed that responsibility to Henton, as well.” Garvin turned and continued toward the tent, ducking in while Rindle waited outside.

  Moments passed, one man busily packing, the other chewing on his lip as he considered the situation. When Garvin emerged carrying his loaded pack, Rindle made his decision.

  “May I come with you?”

  Garvin fixed him with a stare, ey
es narrowed in thought. “What you do is your own choice.”

  “I would prefer to come with you. I did not come to join an army. What I search for is…purpose. I need something more from life. Something I have yet to discover.”

  “And you believe I am the one with the answers?” Garvin shook his head, walked over to his horse, and began strapping his pack to it. “I thought I knew my place in this world, but I have lost my way. Doubts now choke my thoughts and leave me questioning every action.”

  Hands gripping the saddle, he rested his forehead against his horse, his voice dropping to a hush. “A soldier is taught to follow orders unquestioned. For years, I did as commanded, believing my superiors knew the right of things. That belief came from a trust in my captain, a man named Despaldi. During my years in The Fractured Lands, he proved time and again to be a man of integrity and honor. Our post became renowned for our heroics. More importantly, our survival rate outstripped other posts by a fair margin. When he left the Murguard, I traveled with him to Farrowen and joined the Midnight Guard, where I rose in his wake. Every task assigned, I executed per my orders, never doubting the motives.

  “This campaign is different. Rather than giving me satisfaction, our victories leave me hollow, my actions lacking conviction. I can do it no longer. I must go back. In Marquithe, I will either regain my faith or validate my suspicions. Until then, I find myself caught upon a stormy sea without stars to guide me.”

  Rindle stepped closer to Garvin and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. They stood the same height, Garvin’s body muscular and athletic, Rindle’s lean and lanky. “Perhaps we can navigate our doubts together. I believe there is something more for me in this world, and my instincts tell me I will find it by following you.”

  Garvin mirrored Rindle’s action, clapping a hand to the other’s shoulder. “Very well. Pack your things. We leave immediately.” He frowned. “The sooner we return to the coast, the sooner we escape this blasted weather.”

  Roddem Despaldi, Captain of the Midnight Guard, strolled down the Marquithe Palace corridor, which was dark, save for an enchanted lantern at each end and one in the center. Urlon, the guard on duty, thumped a fist to his breastplate. Despaldi walked past the man and stopped outside the wizard lord’s private chambers. Pausing, he stared down at his gloved hands, the black mitts lined with the silvery script of an enchantment. With the gloves, his hands had regained their practical uses. When removed, they held power unlike anything he had ever dreamed possible.

  His gaze lifted to the door, thoughts drifting to the man waiting inside. For years, Thurvin Arnolle had a tether tied to Lord Malvorian’s ear. The other end was secured to the network of thieves, smugglers, and spies – a network Thurvin had developed. At the time, Despaldi felt disdain toward the scheming wizard, never trusting him, secretly calling him a weasel.

  My, how things have changed, Despaldi thought as he now found himself bound to Thurvin.

  The wizard lord had demanded his loyalty when he had assumed the throne, and Despaldi did so out of duty. That requirement, his dedication to his new master, became something profoundly intrinsic and unbreakable when Thurvin had gifted him with a magic all his own.

  Clenching his hand into a fist, Despaldi felt the heat rise inside the magically cooled gloves. With his power, he could burn the palace to the ground and even imagined doing so – a raging inferno of fireballs and heat hot enough to burn stone. Instead, he released the power, his fist cooling as he banged it on the door, a thumping echo carrying down the corridor.

  “Who is it?” a voice came from within.

  “Despaldi.”

  “Come in.”

  Opening the door, Despaldi crossed the dark sitting room and headed toward the connecting office, pale blue light streaming through the open doorway. As expected, Thurvin sat at his desk, his precious book laid out beneath the light of a lantern. The new desk still smelled of oiled oak. Despaldi had accidently destroyed the prior one.

  “I am here to provide an update on our training,” Despaldi said.

  The man looked up from the book and sat back in his chair. “Go on.”

  “The extent of our abilities seems to have leveled, but our skill continues to grow, even if less than when we began. I believe we will be ready soon. I also suspect my men have more uses to discover when we combine our magic.”

  “Good.” Thurvin nodded, his squinty eyes narrowing further. “Among the augmentations in Vanda’s journal, I have discovered another that appears useful to our cause.”

  The wizard lord stood, the top of his head barely reaching Despaldi’s shoulder. He might be small of stature, he thought, but his power exceeds that of any living wizard.

  For many centuries, the magic of wizard lords had outstripped other wizards by a fair margin. Since the capture of three Ghealdan cities, Lord Thurvin’s magic and the prayers feeding it had expanded greatly, perhaps double that of any other human. Ever.

  The wizard lord strode to the window and looked out over the city of Marquithe, the center of his power. He spoke while staring up at the moon, full and bright in the eastern sky. “You will need to select a fifth soldier to join you. As before, choose wisely. He must be fit, strong, and a skilled warrior. More importantly, he must be loyal.” Thurvin turned toward Despaldi. “With the power I have gifted you, I require unwavering fealty.”

  Despaldi dipped his head. “And you have it.”

  “Good. Select your man and bring him by tomorrow evening, prior to Devotion. I will bestow the augmentation before I recharge.”

  “Very well.” A question lingered. “What…ability will this augmentation provide?”

  Thurvin walked back to his desk, finger absently stroking a page of the open book, the parchment covered in an elaborate pattern the man had undoubtedly been memorizing. “The text speaks of power, but I believe it refers to strength. How strong exactly has yet to be determined.”

  Despaldi considered the statement and what he knew of the prior three augmentations. “That does seem useful to our cause.”

  “Agreed,” Thurvin said, looking back up at Despaldi. “Once he has been gifted, you have one week to train him while continuing to train with the others.”

  “Seven days?”

  “Yes. I will then recharge each of you with my magic before you depart.”

  “Where are we to go?”

  “Tiamalyn.”

  Despaldi arched his brow. “The capital of Orenth?”

  “Yes. I have reached out to Lord Horus, as we discussed, extending him the offer to work together against Pallanar in an effort to prevent Orenth from attacking my unprotected front while the armies are away.” The wizard lord’s expression darkened. “He declined, called me mad for believing I could expand my wizardom.”

  “You wish me to persuade him?”

  “No. I wish you to assassinate him.”

  The statement struck Despaldi like a whip. He blinked in shock. Even the most skilled of wizards had little hope of surviving a confrontation with a wizard lord. If he possessed the Eye of Obscurance, things might have been different, but thus far, the amulet had evaded him.

  I hate that blasted thief.

  “Do you believe my men and I can do such a thing?” he asked.

  Thurvin lashed out with his hand, invisible ropes tightening around Despaldi’s chest and lifting him off the floor. The wizard lord then floated up until his face was level with Despaldi’s, the shorter man glaring, eyes filled with fire.

  “You five will become the new order – the Fist of Farrow. Through my actions, you have been gifted magic beyond what any normal wizard might wield, even if each ability is highly specific in nature. However, you possess another advantage, placing you in a position to defeat anyone you face. Unlike wizards, you were a warrior first, trained and experienced in combat. Even now, you train and test your abilities, hone your skills. Most wizards surround themselves with luxuries, more concerned with parties than confrontations. They cannot comprehend what it is to fight for their lives, something you understand well.

  “Together, you can defeat Horus. Together, you will eliminate him.”