Empire Awakening (Maledorian Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  “It seems Prince Jondran is next in the line of succession. I’ve been asked by the Grandmaster Arcturius to return to Criswall and act as a sort of observer. The news has shaken him badly. He believes the witch Cambria in Jalinfaer will be concerned about the news of the cultist uprising, especially upon hearing word of the desire to return to Maledorian rule. Recent enemies might remember old friendships and negotiate. That is his hope, at least. However, there are many in the halls of power of Jalinfaer who want to exploit any weakness in Mar Thagroth and crush the kingdom forever.”

  Elendria let out an exasperated huff. “So, you’re contemplating returning to Criswall?”

  “More than contemplating, my dear, I’ll be leaving tonight.” Madam Lassengre gave her a pitying look. “I know you must feel disappointed; however, it can’t be avoided. There’s too much at stake, and I simply must fulfill my duty to preserve the balance in the world. The threat brought on by the summoning of Ba’al has created a rift. The past is leaking into the present, threatening the stability of kingdoms and our way of life.”

  She glanced at the woodsman. “You’ll be safe with Devin. He knows the way to Damak, and from there, my associates will guide you farther up the mountain. I’m afraid that’s all I can offer you, for now. But I pray it will be enough.”

  The conversation returned to the topic of the cultists, but Elendria had little desire to join. She could tell by the tension in Madam Lassengre’s eyes that the dread and worry had only begun to eat away at her mind—a tension shared by many in the inn. Despite the fragrant smell of rosemary and garlic and the pleasing smell of pork, Elendria found her appetite had fled her. All she could do was feel the empty void of hopelessness and terror lodged in the eyes of the people. They sat quietly at their tables, staring into their drinks, mouths open as if waiting for hope.

  Hope, she realized, was running in short supply.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Still in a daze from the unsettling news, Prince Jondran Damensar released a heavy sigh, glancing over at Branwenth, the Earl of Sheffeld. His friend was dressed in brilliant chainmail, his helm adorned with colorful plumage. He looked like a peacock, far too flamboyant for Jondran’s taste. The prince didn’t feel colorful. In fact, the day had soured after the arrival of messengers from the north.

  “I don’t care what you say. We’ve got to return.” Jondran gripped the hilt of his sword.

  Branwenth shook his head, eyes distant and conflicted. “There’s no way I’m letting you go back. Our orders are clear. And besides, we don’t know what’s going on in Criswall. The reports could be false.”

  “False?” Jondran scoffed. “Servants of noble families have verified the insurrection. The cultists have taken over and brutalized the upper class. I don’t question the integrity of the reports. Why would they lie?”

  “It’s been considered by the generals.” Branwenth seemed to stifle an irritated remark. “Stopping the Kingdom of Jalinfaer is far more important. I don’t doubt the constables and guards in Criswall can deal with a few rebels. They’ll soon restore order to the city; mark my words.”

  Prince Jondran questioned the veracity of his friend’s bold assertion, but he held his tongue and turned to stare out across the vast horizon illuminated by the fading remains of twilight. They stood atop a bluff overlooking a broad green plain, where cows were grazing on lush grass. Farms dotted the idyllic landscape. They had ridden hard each day on their journey to the front, where the enemy had been engaged west of an ancient forest in Maren Downs. He guessed they had another week before they’d reach the rest of their troops.

  The rulers of Jalinfaer had wasted little time after signing the peace treaty to occupy the middle lands between their two kingdoms. But Jondran questioned whether the armies of Mar Thagroth stood a chance of winning against their enemy. Their sorcerers were too powerful. Though, with the full strength of the wizards of Mar Thagroth leading their charge, Jondran hoped for a reversal in their fortunes.

  “Do you think we can beat the armies and sorcerers of Jalinfaer?” The prince gave his friend a somber look.

  “It depends on what we consider success.” Branwenth frowned. “For some reason, they’ve always wanted Maren Downs. Something draws them to the ancient land.”

  “The old cursed land of the Maledorians,” said a deep, lyrical voice.

  Prince Jondran and Branwenth turned to study the approach of an old man in tattered hermit’s clothes. A steepled hat tilted lazily atop his silver-haired head. His startling green eyes were ancient and fierce, like an old grizzled tiger stalking in for the kill. The man stopped to look at them briefly, leaning on his gnarled staff, then stared out at the view.

  “The calm beauty is deceptive.” The old man sighed, wrinkling his hawkish nose. A cold breeze gusted up, and he craned his head to study the sky. “It’s as if the wind knows what horrors await this world.”

  “Who are you?” said Branwenth, and he slid his hand down to his sword hilt. “And how did you make it past our sentries?”

  “They never saw me.” The old man grinned at Branwenth, flashing yellowed teeth stained with age. He turned his heavy gaze to Prince Jondran. “I’ve come for you.”

  Warning jolts raced along Jondran’s spine, and he went to unsheathe his sword but found his arm limp and unresponsive. Was this man a wizard?

  “There’s no need for violence. I’m not here to assassinate you. If I were, you’d already be dead.”

  Again, the slow grin flourished on the wizard’s face.

  “Then why have you come?”

  “A mere conversation—between allies.” The man glanced at Branwenth. “To answer your friend’s question, my name is Arcturius. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  Prince Jondran’s eyes widened in surprise, and he nodded. “From my grandfather, yes. You are the leader of his magical order?”

  Arcturius sniffed. “A leader of fools and devotees of the damned? As if one could ever hope of leading such men and women. I dare not presume. My role is more of a shepherd, a beacon in the dark.” He raised his eyes as the wind gusted up again. “But here we are, once again, marching off to war. Battling the wrong enemy. Bloodlust on both sides. Misunderstanding and mistrust. The name of a demon on the tongues of the common people of Criswall. We have ignored the enemy lying in wait within our gates and have charged off to fight an illusion. I’ve failed. My words fell on deaf ears, and now, the king and his trusted advisors are prisoners.”

  “What?” Jondran looked at the wizard in horror. “The king, a prisoner?”

  “Indeed. In his palace.” The wizard gave off an annoyed cluck of his tongue. “While we were aiming our sights on the armies of the Kingdom of Jalinfaer. It was all a ruse.”

  “But why have you come to see me?”

  “Because you, my dear Prince Jondran, are next in line to the throne behind your father, who is also a prisoner in the palace. We may soon come to a point where you must rule in absence at a place removed from the Senheim Palace. It can be assumed that any commands issued from the capital are tainted by the controlling influence of the cultists of Ba’al.”

  “Then our armies must return. Our capital is in danger!”

  “No, don’t be rash. There is nothing you could do there, I’m afraid.” The wizard gave a warning shake of his head. “You would be putting your life in the hands of those madmen. Worry not. I’ve asked one of my most trusted allies to keep an eye on what is going on in Criswall. They’ll find Madam Lassengre as slippery as an eel and thrice as difficult to catch. Even magicians will fail to notice her behind her disguises and shrouds of invisibility.”

  “Madam Lassengre?” The prince thought back to his conversation with Lady Elendria and her mention of the sorceress who had taught her in the Devil’s Quadrant. Wasn’t her name Lassengre?

  “Yes, though I doubt you know of her. She works in secret, living alone in a strange house in the Devil’s Quadrant.”

  Then it was true; she was the same person Ele
ndria had mentioned.

  “Do you know anything about a young lady who studied with Madam Lassengre? A girl by the name of Lady Elendria. She is from Maren Downs. Did the sorceress mention her?” Thinking about Elendria made him melancholy all of a sudden. He remembered the last time he’d been with her, when they’d kissed, and when he’d promised to meet her by the river. He’d failed to keep that promise, though he’d had no choice, since his regiment had left to march south. But thinking of her still made him feel a sense of longing and sadness.

  The old wizard’s forehead crinkled up in deep thought as he scratched his long beard. “Come to think of it, when I contacted her, she did mention she was heading north with two girls of noble birth. She was concerned for their safety and initially resisted returning to Criswall.”

  “Did she mention where the two girls were heading?”

  “They were traveling north to an enclave of witches in the Great Barrier Mountains. Why do you ask?”

  “Lady Elendria Orensal is very precious to me.”

  “From the House of Orensal?” Arcturius looked alarmed. “My spies have told me Lord Rigar Orensal is one of the leaders of the cultists. A follower of Ba’al—called Lord of the Fallen on the streets. We have been following him for months, suspicious of his involvement in the cult. He has pretended to be an outcast, a drunk, a homeless living on the streets. But he has lived a double life and is known as the master to many of the magicians of the cult. How is it you’ve befriended such a girl?”

  “It is a long story. But this I do know, Lady Elendria is opposed to the cult. I fought side by side with her against the cultists and the Duke of Wrainton.”

  “You mean the Ravenswood fire?”

  “Yes, the very same. But there is more to the tale.” Prince Jondran told the old wizard about the night when the dark god was summoned and what Lady Elendria had told him about her father.

  Arcturius listened patiently, only asking a few clarifying questions about the summoning ritual. When Jondran had finished, the wizard’s face tensed as he returned his gaze to the last remnants of twilight and the dark valley below.

  “Then it is worse than I feared. If the cultists have succeeded in summoning an ancient god into the body of a boy, then there is likely little we can do to oppose it. I must warn Madam Lassengre of the danger. There is only one thing to be done: consult with the only other person I know who still possesses intimate knowledge of the Maledorians and their worship of Ba’al.”

  “Who is that?”

  A sly, bemused grin came to Arcturius’ face. “The witch Cambria.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The misery had sunk deep into his mind, like tendrils of poison slowly draining away his life. Lord Rigar Orensal couldn’t get Elendria’s look of sadness and betrayal out of his mind. He raised a mug of ale to his lips and downed the remaining contents. He shook his head and exhaled, disgusted with himself for drinking again.

  What could he have done differently to convince his daughter? Or did he even want to? Maybe it was better that she had escaped from the madness pervading this city. He glanced around at the downcast faces sitting around the bar. Their eyes were filled with hopelessness as they stared at their drinks. Wasn’t he to blame for what had happened? Hadn’t he been the one to discover the secret texts of the spell that summoned Ba’al into the body of that boy?

  The old personality, Remi, was no more, and instead, another more powerful entity ruled the host. Though, from time to time, Rigar thought he glimpsed a juvenile in those eyes, peeking out while Ba’al slumbered. This often occurred during times of meditation or idleness or when Ba’al journeyed to other realms while sleeping. Those moments tormented Rigar, as he remembered the boy was Elendria’s friend. More than that, the boy was someone she cared about, sheltered, and protected. It was almost as if Rigar had killed her child.

  He forced himself to remember the times when Elendria smiled patiently at him, during her visits with him in the old alleyway after his drinking binges. Better times. When she still cared for him. He didn’t deserve her love and concern. She was too good for him. What kind of a father was he, anyway? The worst kind, he told himself. The kind who throws away all tradition and moral compasses for a wild-eyed crazy dream. A dream that had become real, more real and more powerful than any nightmare. Besides, nightmares disappeared when you woke up, but this… it was too real, too raw, and too painful.

  Though it was what he had wanted. The culmination of a lifetime’s worth of research and experimentation, all imbued with a deep belief in the old ways, the old religion of the Maledorians. Once, such a belief would have been considered heresy by the church, but now, it was the standard religion in Criswall. Anyone who had dared disobey had been crucified and burned at the stake. But those rare acts of violent display were few and far between. Most of the guilty were taken elsewhere, to be used in the laboratory.

  “Oh, here you are. I’ve finally found you,” said a woman’s accusing voice.

  Lord Orensal turned to meet the condescending, haughty face of his wife. Lady Shallia wore a neat, form-fitting blue gown and a mink coat. Where other wives her age had let go of themselves, dressing dowdily and plain, she looked as put together as when they’d gotten married.

  He groaned, not wanting to deal with her right now.

  “I’ve been looking all over this foul city for you. Couldn’t you at least pick a more predictable place for your vices?” She cast a disapproving glance around the bar and remained standing.

  “Can’t you let me drink in peace? After all the shit I’ve been through…”

  “Grow up already. So, your experiments have been failing. And your daughter hates you, so what? Don’t you think I also feel bad about the situation? We were supposed to figure out a way to have her join us, not alienate her.” Her eyes studied the door. “Can we get out of this place?”

  “Why should I? I’m sick of you ordering me around.” His outburst drew some curious stares.

  “Save your anger. I’m only the messenger.” She gave him a knowing look. “You have been summoned.”

  Lord Rigar grunted and pushed himself to his feet, realizing the boy—or more correctly, the god inside—was calling for him. That sobered him up. But despite his newfound clarity, the world rocked back and forth, his body unsteady. After the world stopped spinning, she led him to the door. The light outside was so bright he had to shield his eyes from the sun.

  He saw a girl his daughter’s age walking down the street, and his thoughts returned to Elendria. “How was I supposed to know the boy was her friend? I never knew. Besides, there was no other way. He possessed the gift of magic and was a perfect fit. Only his body and mind were strong enough to bond with our god. We had no other choice.”

  “You don’t need to explain to me. She’s the one you should have told that.”

  “It’s too late, Shallia. She’s gone.” Rigar stumbled a bit, and his wife steadied him as they walked. “Relek said he lost her scent in his farseeing. Who knows how far into the northlands she’s gone. It’s a brutal place with a brutal reputation. She might even be—”

  “She’s not dead, Rigar. I can feel it. Someday, you’ll see her again. Perhaps we can still turn her. She is our daughter, after all. And she doesn’t fully understand her lineage. If she did, we might be able to persuade her. We have to, considering what a terrible job we did before she left.”

  “You raised her to be too independent. The girl is young, stubborn, and foolish. She refuses the wishes of her parents. What girl of class would do such a thing?”

  “Perhaps it was unwise of you to keep her in the dark about everything.” She gave him a skeptical eye. “You could have been more forthcoming.”

  He scoffed, stopping to look at his wife. “What did you want me to do, let her in on every aspect of our plan? It’s unthinkable. There was no way she would have understood.”

  “Now, you have to make amends. Find her, bring her back. She’s family, no matter what foolish t
hings she believes. I won’t give up on her and neither should you.”

  “But how?” Rigar wished his wife didn’t always have such unrealistic expectations. “The girl is long gone by now.”

  “You shouldn’t have allowed her to leave. Why don’t you send the young Relek after her? With a skilled tracker.”

  She raised a good point, but Rigar hated to admit she was right. “It’s likely a wasted effort. Though, I could spare Relek and perhaps one additional companion. He will need the backup. Otherwise, I fear I will lose him, too.”

  “His loss is nothing compared to the loss of our daughter. Think of our family lineage.” She gave him a significant look. “Do it; send Relek. Don’t waste another moment. Have the young man go north with another more experienced sorcerer. Track her down while we still have time. The farther north she ventures, the greater the chances of her disappearing forever, and you know it. People often don’t come back from the northlands, especially once they’ve set foot on magical lands.”

  “I doubt Madam Lassengre would be so unprepared. But I understand your point and will send Relek.”

  They entered a carriage waiting outside the pub and continued toward the palace in silence, similar to how they often spent time together. Lady Shallia returned to her usual state: distant, inscrutable, and cold. She stared out the window, her mind elsewhere. Now that their plan had succeeded, he had hoped things would change for the better, but they hadn’t. It was almost as if his wife had gotten used to doing things her way—apart from him—and was unwilling to go back to how their lives had once been in the south.

  The whole thing made him angry, and when he was angry, he drank and drank so much he often woke up in some random alleyway or a trash-littered gutter. It felt like his world was slipping away from his fingers. All the fulfillment of his plans had done nothing to stop his self-loathing; in fact, they had only served to magnify those feelings. His wife despised him and refused his affections. And the one person who meant the most to him in his life, his daughter, hated him. He’d utterly failed at winning her loyalty and understanding.