Black Kerthon's Doom (2 page)

The archers increased the speed of their volleys, pinning down the Calendian army, slowly picking them off.

It was over quickly. The rebels did not leave their positions, waiting for their orders and an eerie silence filled the trees. An occasional groan from Calendian soldier broke the silence. The birds were silent for several minutes before a raven cried. After a moment Mira whistled and a group of rebels began moving the bodies and cleaning up the obvious traces of battle. The bodies were dragged up the ravine and hidden in the brush. All the spent arrows were recovered and the trail was brushed. In a quarter hour, they were ready. A double whistle. The rebels faded back into the forest.

Gareth stood, looking back down the ravine to the scene of his latest setback. He had planned so long for the defeat of the High King and prepared this attempt in secrecy, yet the Calendian army was in place to thwart him. So many lives wasted and the rebels were few to begin with. Was this course worth the price? So many had already died for him. He was committed to see it to its conclusion - the crown or death. He muttered under his breath, turned away, and entered the trees. He stopped, and turned, listening for a sound that he felt rather than heard. He waited. Several moments passed. Then he finally followed his rebels still unsure of what he felt at the ravine. His instincts were usually true, yet he had become unsettled. Clearly, something intruded upon his awareness. He sensed nothing now, but there had been something or someone. He hated to try to use such senses because he feared the legacy of Kerthon's descendants of which he was one. Sorcery was the legacy and each descendant that claimed the birthright to the power of the King of the West, the Sorcerer King, Kerthon the Great, dead these many centuries, each pretender gradually lost his life as the darkness of sorcery encompassed their life, suffocating them in the desires of power. This was Gareth's great fear: to use sorcery to gain his objective only to be destroyed by the consuming nature of his own darkness.

This internal war waged as he followed Mira. He did not notice the return of the presence at the ravine.

Above the ravine among the shadows of the trees, a shape reluctantly detached itself from the darkness and followed Gareth for a moment. It stopped and turned around, curbing its bloodlust, barely. There would be other times. The Master calls and must be obeyed. Obey. Obey. The sorcerer lifted his arms and he vanished in the mist that had risen out of the ground. Scithers had returned to the land. Not far away, dark ruins of a castle tower once used to safeguard the land rose in defiance of the bright sky. Scithers moved among the shadows, waiting for true night to free his wanderings. Once his power returned in fullness he would be able to be abroad in daylight. The tower was his goal. His master drew him there, pulling with strength ancient with malice, strong beyond measure. The power of Kerthon was still green in strength, even beyond the grave.

The ruins of the tower sprawled among the shrubs and trees. It had been overgrown centuries ago, but the plants withered and most died in the chilly gloom of Kerthon's resting place. The King of the West once lived in the tower before he built Castle Moorld where he ruled for a generation. Near the end of his time, he returned to the tower, his enemies closing in around him and only Scithers by his side. The battle was long and bloody, a dozen wizards throwing their might against Kerthon, all perishing in the battle but it was enough. The tower burned, Scithers escaped, but the body of Kerthon was never found. It was said that under the tower was a labyrinth of vaults and passages. Perhaps his body is there. No one knows. A new king was crowned in Nantitet.

But in the years since a brooding watchfulness had risen about the ruins and few would venture near it. Some never returned and the voices in the wind warned travelers to keep clear. The air was colder near the tower and the vale was empty of life, as appealing as an asteroid. Rumor had it that the spirit of Kerthon had infected the land, poisoning it and all who ventured near it. This visitor found the withered landscape a welcome sight.

The spectral shape of Scithers walked over the stones again. He listened to the wind and smiled. He was home, welcomed by the faerie voices in the wind. Six hundred years he lay in darkness amid the whispers of the dead and the unknown. Now, the voice of his Master calls out again and the sorcerer returns to prepare the way for Kerthon.

He found the entry passage and thrust back the blocking door. Its hinges creaked painfully and the foul air rushed out of the hall. It was dark and cold; no creeping vine had been bold enough to venture inside. Inside was where the decay waited, waited for the time to be unleashed.

He walked directly to the gathering room, his memory undimmed by centuries. In his mind, he saw not the burned and broken remnants of the past, he saw the blazing color on the tapestries, the glorious music filling the hall, and the banquet tables loaded with food. He looked for his Master. The massive stone chair appeared empty but Scithers sensed the presence near the rotted tapestries. He bowed. A shimmering form appeared to hover over the throne and it raised its arms. Scithers nodded in understanding. It was time. He felt the slices of air crease his skin exposing the rotting flesh. Black blood oozed out of the wounds, more and more as the biting wind ripped him to shreds. He trembled at each exquisite throb of pain, remembering life, how it was to be alive, and how it felt to die. Spasms racked his bleeding body. The pooling blood was lifted up by the wind, its voices screaming in agony and pleasure, and Scithers remembered how it once had been and hoped again for his master's will to control him. The encompassing will of Kerthon. The shape near the throne began to take on substance, if only for a brief time. The eyes glowed with pleasure and Scithers knew his master was pleased. Then blackness consumed him.

The High King did not speak. He tried to think it through. His thoughts were muddled and that was unusual, giving weight to Daura's statements. Was it possible? He did seem a bit confused these past weeks. Would they be so bold?

"Are you positive?" he asked. He lost his appetite, momentarily. He sounded so uncertain, he felt his control slipping. It would be seen as a weakness.

"I have no doubts," said Daura de Arayr, cousin to the High King. "Prosty is drugging your drinks."

"Why would the wizard do that?" He was thinking furiously. Did they not follow his commands? He still made decisions didn't he? How can this be turned to his advantage? What damage has already been done? Can he reverse it?

"I do not know. I only know that I saw him do it once and heard Kaell and Prosty mention it one other time."

"Those wizards. I don't know why I thought I needed their service."

"Perhaps they enchanted you," said Daura. She was fascinated by the High King's attempts to clear his mind. He was obvious angry with himself for the questions he was asking but he could not yet control himself. It was good that their meeting was not public.

"No. It was my own folly. I have no magic of my own and I wanted the prestige of wizards in my court as our forefathers enjoyed. Now, what can I do? I am not ready to call them out. They would be too powerful for me alone. I wonder." He reached for a sweetmeat.

They sat in the High King's chamber at Lord Isnal's home in Rhath. The High King had been weary from his trip and Prosty had left a tonic for him as usual. The High King had become quite fond of them. He wasn't particularly thrilled with Daura's news because it was two edged. Despite the fact that Daura had always supported him, she was Gareth's sister. The High King had always overlooked that relationship, but the two had been very close when they were young, causing the High King to doubt the story Daura had told. On the other hand, the wizards were not entirely trustworthy. Was there no one he could trust?

"How can I trust you?"

"I do not understand," said Daura. "I have nothing to gain."

"But Gareth does. I do not believe you are unsympathetic to your brother's goals despite the good help you have been at court. The wizards trouble both me and you, but the reasons are different I think. I thank you for helping me see what they are up to, but I feel I should be keeping a closer watch on you as well. Gareth has something to gain in this, and I will find the answer."

"As you wish."

"Indeed."

"What will you do about the wizards?"

"I will figure something out," said the High King. "First, I must let them think I am still under their spell. What to do with this vile potion?"

"Just wait until Prosty is gone and then throw it out. He'll never know."

"That's right. He usually leaves it for me and goes on his way. That's just what I'll do." He pondered how to execute them without damaging what has been accomplished with their help? He dismissed Daura with a wave of his hand, the other holding the side of his head.

Daura took her leave of the High King intending to return to her quarters. On the way through the dim corridor, she met Kaell. She had no opportunity to avoid him, smiling as she had been trained to do, ever a lady of the court. Her practiced smile always bothered Gareth. She and Kaell were alone in the narrow corridor. Not a servant was present. It appeared to Daura that it was not coincidence.

"Where have you been?" asked Kaell, looking behind her. He moved to block her path.

"With the High King, if you must know." She tried to walk by but he continued to block her way. His pale face drew close and she could smell the grease in his goatee.

"Move, Kaell. You have no business with me." Her hand held a dagger, its point an inch from Kaell's abdomen.

He looked at her and snarled. His countenance was pinched to begin with and his expressions of anger created an image of a ferret, a term used by the peasants to Kaell's everlasting outrage.

"Soon I shall find out your secrets. I will bring you down from your pedestal. I will. You will bow to me."

"You are a pig, Kaell. Somehow, you learned magic, but I bet it wasn't honestly. I doubt you can learn at all, dumb as you are. Perhaps you are a puppet for Prosty."

Kaell's face turned purple. Daura pressed her dagger into his midsection. Kaell coughed turning away and she moved quickly.

Daura pushed by him and walked away without another word. She heard Kaell muttering to himself, almost arguing with someone although he was now alone and wondered how long she could keep out of his clutches. He was slowly turning Nantitet into his personal playground, bribing several on the High King's staff to support him. Kaell was careful to include his supporters on this trip to Rhath; his insecurity a badge that everyone except himself could see. The High King suspected Daura loyalty to Gareth overrode her loyality to the High King but he had no proof. She had to be careful, one slip and the watchful Kaell would expose her to the High King and she would be thrown into the dungeon. It had been rumored that Kaell had begun an active involvement in the care of prisoners and even used torture. Of course, it was not acknowledged in the court, but outside the direct influence of the Lords, the rumors persisted. And Kaell had done nothing to refute them. He appeared to appreciate the image he was gaining. Or maybe he not only appreciated it, perhaps he promoted it, and that thought depressed Daura. She would have to discover the truth to those rumors. It was not a pleasant thought, but the information could be useful.

Daura returned to her room, unsure of her next step, other than the scheduled meeting with Gareth's messenger. She would take Parean with her for added protection. It would look like a romantic walk in the woods in case anyone saw them. She did like him. Not too strongly but it did get lonely in her isolated position. And Parean was very considerate in her company.

Prosty sat on a box and scanned through the pages of the old books he had found. His tattered brown cloak pulled tight around him. Kaell had tried often to talk him into wearing finer clothes but he laughed the younger wizard off.

"What would I do with fine clothes? Clothes are nothing, no reflection of the man they cover. You should look within yourself; I don't think your understanding of people is keen."

Kaell cursed as always when words escaped him. Prosty shook his head, wondering why he joined up with Kaell. The young wizard was hotheaded and not very sharp in many respects. However, Prosty's ordeal would be over soon. Very soon.

The leather-bound manuscripts crackled as each page was turned and he cringed at each sound. Occasionally, he would rub his hand over his bald head to wipe the sweat away. It all led to this; his search for Kerthon's magic. Let Kaell play his power games with the High King. Prosty would keep himself above it and continue his quest, the quest that brought him to Nantitet. An intellect like his cannot long endure the petty intrigues of government. Power, power such as Kerthon wielded that was destined to be Prosty's power, not political power

Prosty's quest had now run seven years and he accumulated much knowledge during that time. Certainly, his skill was far superior to Kaell's. He oversaw their political maneuverings, but he had little patience for them. He wanted to learn about magic and Kerthon's in particular. A king, a man, became the greatest sorcerer in the history of the world within a few short years. Somewhere laid the source of Kerthon's power and he would find it.

The slender wizard deftly turned the pages with his bony hands. The few spells he uncovered were not of merit. Old wives' remedies mostly, and he knew almost all of them. The others were really only variations on earlier spells and nothing, nothing to waste his time on. He was in an older wing of Isnal's home and had received permission to look for old manuscripts that might reveal some of the history of the west. At least that was the story he used. He was searching for books of magic. Kerthon's books of magic. There is a source for all magic and Prosty knew even Kerthon had learned it from somewhere. It was said that Kerthon's vast library had been stolen from the tower before it was burned and the library's current location was unknown. Prosty wanted to reach Castle Moorld one day and search every room. Moorld too, was in ruins, cursed by Kerthon even as he fled. The dust would be thick in those corridors, thought Prosty.