Renegade Wizards (41 page)

“A ritual circle,” Hort said addressing his concern to Dumas more than in answer to the mercenary’s question. He rose slightly to get a better look over the rock at the sorcerers transcribing the circle, but he could no more distinguish the specific runes and marks than he could the renegades involved.

“Ritual?” the mercenary said nervously.

Without regard, Dumas nodded him back, down the rocks where twenty of his men waited with the horses. “Go back to your men and prepare to attack.”

“But that circle—” he said.

“That’s our concern, Migress,” Dumas said. “You just worry about cutting down anyone who gets in your way.”

Migress nodded, uncertain but more afraid of Dumas than of any danger lurking down below. A sorcerer was bad enough, but Dumas could wield both magic and a sword, both with frightening proficiency. That made her doubly dangerous in anyone’s book. He headed back to his men.

“Do we have enough men?” Hort asked.

“Maybe,” Dumas said. “We’ll attack them during the ritual, when they’re distracted.”

“Dangerous,” Hort said. “We don’t know what ritual that is. Could threaten us all.”

“If that’s the case, then letting them complete it would be even worse,” Dumas said. “They seem almost ready. We should be ready as well.” She paused, searching the ranks of the renegades. “You’re sure only one of the three wizards is down there?” she asked.

“Certain,” Hort said. “Maybe they’re hiding. Or due along shortly.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dumas replied. She nodded toward the small ant of a figure below them. “That’s Tythonnia,” she said. “She’s the one who delivered the killing stroke on Thoma. It’s only right that she die first.”

The Journeyman watched quietly. He knew vaguely what came next and had moved away from the excitement. He’d watched matters unfold and avoided Tythonnia lest she recognize him. He was invisible, thanks to a bit of magic and he was both unseen and far from everything, far enough to survive what happened next … he hoped.

The renegades were ready, everything in its place. Mothers and fathers escorted their children and the animals away from the ritual circle. They stayed no closer than five hundred feet away, under the supervision of Snowbeard, who wielded a double-edged axe of polished brilliance, and Lorall with his longbow.

Berthal offered last-minute instructions to the sorcerers remaining behind to help, thirty all told. Some could barely cast a handful of minor, inoffensive spells, while others such as Tythonnia and Berthal had passed (or were capable of taking) the Test of High Sorcery. A select few versed well enough in Wyldling magic to use it with any proficiency also waited in the wings.

Five would conduct the ritual; another ten, led by Shasee, would then enter the gate and secure the keep on the other side. The remaining fifteen sorcerers would remain between
the camp and the ritual to protect the camp if necessary.

Kinsley, Mariyah, and Tythonnia stood at the four cardinal points of the ritual, Tythonnia and Mariyah across from each other on the north-south axis, and Kinsley and a sorcerer named Hundor along the east-west axis. Hundor was a quiet man, a product of the White Robes who eventually found himself at odds with his own order. The Journeyman suspected a growing thirst for power drove Hundor, not that it would soon matter.

They were about to begin. Berthal stepped into the center of the circle and raised his arms for the ritual’s opening stroke. It was everything the Journeyman had been preparing for, waiting for—the moment was upon them.

He needed to see what happened that forced the orders to rewrite history and wipe out almost all mention of the event.

Tythonnia smiled as Berthal took his place at the center of the circle with his staff in one hand and the book in the other. He smiled back, his eyes practically glittering with anticipation. It was the kind of day the future would never forget. Shortly, the fortunes of spellcasters everywhere would change; nobody would be deprived of choice ever again. Nobody would be forced through the tortures of the test for the right to learn magic.

Berthal opened the book and stared deeply into its pages, as though each word were a keyhole. Tythonnia chanced a last glance at Shasee and the men and women waiting outside the circle. Then she looked at those forming the circle. Already Kinsley and Hundor had their eyes closed; Mariyah smiled at her. Both women closed their eyes as they focused to channel the magic through to Berthal.

He began speaking, his words reverberating deeply as though it were the song sung by ancient trees.

The language of the mystic unfurled through him, each word like a fat droplet of rain, pregnant with power. The magic flowed out of her like warm blood, comfortable and soothing.

Berthal suddenly caught his breath, and Tythonnia’s eyes flew open. More people gasped, the sorcerers outside the circle taking a step back. The book no longer rested in Berthal’s hands, but levitated before him. The pages flipped open, past lines of black and red scrawl. Some pages stopped turning long enough for a specific word to flash and vanish from the text.

Tythonnia cursed; it was a hidden spell, layered within the first.

“S—stop—
aku colang keawetan,”
Berthal cried, his own mouth revolting against him as it shifted between his words and the hidden spell. “St—stop—me,
aku mencelik mati.”

Tythonnia struggled to act, to move, but the trap gripped her too and bled the magic from her. She felt one spell evaporate from her thoughts then another.

“Break the circle!” Shasee shouted. “Break the circle!”

“What’s happening?” Migress asked, watching as the sorcerers in the circle struggled against themselves, it seemed. The mercenaries lay near a small thatch of pine trees, hidden in the shadows of their boughs. Migress’s men fidgeted with bow or sword, nervous with such open displays of magic. Before them was the circle of sorcerers and beyond that the second group of fifteen watching the camp.

“Something’s wrong,” Hort said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dumas said. “Attack!”

“This isn’t right!” Hort said.

“It’s our only chance!” Dumas replied. She stared at Migress and Hort, but when they seemed too scared to move, she snarled a small curse. “Fine, but if you won’t attack—”

Before Hort could stop her, she pointed her blade at
the group of sorcerers standing immediately outside the ritual circle.

“Halilintar,”
she cried. Electricity traveled along one chain of her book and up her sword arm. A bolt of lightning crackled outward from the sword tip, the edge of its fan catching three renegades in the back as it spread. They screamed in pain and fell to the ground in spasms. The remaining renegades seemed caught off guard, putting out the ignited robes on their three injured companions, and slowly turning to face their attackers. Two were reaching into their pouches and preparing spells, however.

“—then defend yourselves!” Dumas concluded, an absolutely wicked leer carved into her face, a woman possessed by the madness that would stay dormant no longer.

In that moment, Hort realized how insane Dumas had actually grown.

At that moment, the kaleidoscopic flash and thunder of spells erupted.

At that moment, the sky above the ritual circle tore open like an iris.

At that moment, a legion of bone-chilling wails filled the air.

A peal of thunder and cries most dreadful rolled around the tongues of the mountains. Ladonna and Par-Salian had just entered the narrow line of trees when they heard the world itself becoming undone.

“It’s happening!” Ladonna shouted, running past the trees.

Ahead of them was a group of sorcerers, some running to help those trapped in the ritual circle and some retreating to the camp. Berthal had carved the circle into the earth, its borders set with rocks and the ground stained with runes. The markings and small trench seemed to glisten with a crimson
sheen, as though filling with blood. In the circle, Berthal and Tythonnia, among others, stared helplessly at the red gash in the sky. Wails and howls erupted from its depths.

Beyond the circle, a group of sorcerers fired spells of fire and darts of light at another thatch of trees. Armed men emerged from the small grove and charged the sorcerers with swords and arrows. Dumas led the charge, her blade deflecting the darts of light aimed at her. Two sorcerers fell dead as arrows plunged into their necks and chests.

To Tythonnia’s far left was the encampment, the men, women, and children there frozen between fear and curiosity.

“Par-Salian, over there.” Ladonna pointed to the camp. “Help them escape; they’re too close! I’ll save Tythonnia!”

Par-Salian didn’t argue. He ran straight for the camp, waving his arms to get everyone to run. Nobody moved. They were all too dumbfounded to uproot themselves.

Ladonna ran toward the ritual circle, praying she could reach it in time. As if in terrible response, the first of the blight shades dropped to the ground.

They had been alien to Ansalon … until that moment.

The heavens were uncorked, the evil unleashed. Tythonnia watched in frozen horror as the first creature fell through the iris above them and landed nimbly on the ground. It appeared humanoid, with a tattered hood for a head, and a black cloak covering its otherwise naked body. Shadows wreathed its emaciated limbs and sometimes, when they parted, the creature’s skin vanished as well to reveal an oily bundle of exposed muscles. Tentacles of shadow rose from its body. A terrible and bitter chill emanated from the aperture above Tythonnia, an aperture into a world where a ruined keep stood on mud-cracked earth and the orange skies smelled of sulfur.