Empire Awakening (Maledorian Chronicles Book 2) Page 7

  Indeed, it was the case. Madam Lassengre had seen the chilling fist of order come slamming down on the city. Examples of the clampdown were hung crucified and splayed out across the city for all to see. Reminders to everyone that a new rule of law utterly gripped the city.

  The old priest turned his eyes to Grandmaster Serebin, who appeared to be locked in a deep trance. His lips barely moved from his uttered chants. The sorceress felt sad to see the grandmaster in such a state. He had a kind heart and a charming wit. Certainly, the old man would raise no opposition against these cultists. The entire charade was ridiculous.

  “The grandmaster of fire will demonstrate his kinship with the flames.” The old priest’s eyes crinkled as he gave an evil grin. “Let us see if flame and flesh still combine and form ash, or if the grandmaster has somehow discovered the secret of transforming himself into a phoenix.”

  The wizard Serebin ignored the priest’s taunting and continued his chanting at a consistent pace. Madam Lassengre grimaced as the old man was roughly tied to a wooden beam in the center of the pyre. The crowd pressed in for a closer look as several priests dropped flaming torches to light the bonfire. Flames erupted, causing the mother and father to shriek and wail as they stared in horror.

  Smoke and flame rose up toward their helpless children. The blonde-haired girl of perhaps twelve shouted pleading cries to her father, begging him to save her. But it was all for naught. The fire caught quickly on her clothes, and despite her attempts to bat it out, the hungry tongues of flame rose steadily, dancing around her long hair. The girl screamed frantically, until at last, exhaustion and the fire overcame her, and her voice fell to nothing.

  The crowd stared—quiet now—as the inferno ate away at the four, while ignoring the grandmaster. The old man still chanted, taming the flame around him. His diminutive form was nestled in a bubble of protection. Madam Lassengre wondered how long he would last.

  His voice rose, clear and strong. “Cursed be the followers of Ba’al. Cursed be the inhabitants of this city, who refuse to oppose this wretched cult. Cursed be the rulers, who bow to the vile practitioners of the dark arts.”

  The red-robed priest raised an angry hand at the wizard as if he wanted to strike him down with a spell.

  A boy caught his arm and stepped in front of the priest. The sorceress recognized the boy. It was the friend of Lady Elendria; the boy called Remi, the child now infected with the spirit of the demon. Madam Lassengre willed herself to remain perfectly still for fear of drawing the demon’s attention. She would deal with him later in her way or perhaps die in the attempt.

  “There is no need for anger. Pray to Ba’al and beg for his forgiveness.”

  The old priest bowed to the boy and swept back to hide amongst a clump of fanatical-eyed followers.

  “If the wizard chooses to worship flame over Ba’al, then let us have more of the fire, to an intensity worthy of his devotion.” The boy aimed his fingers at the pyre, and the flames exploded in a brilliance that caused the crowd to cover their eyes. Even the sorceress shielded her face. The heat was intense. After several seconds, she squinted and saw the fire was white hot. But the wizard still effortlessly maintained his shield, though the ferocity of the flames seemed eager to consume the wizard’s blue robe.

  “Do you think I have anything to fear?” the wizard said and turned his intense gaze toward the boy. “I have known worse demons than you. Whatever you send my way will be dealt with easily.”

  “Oh, you think so?” The boy raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Nothing you did could have stopped you from being tied to the pyre. What if I command these soldiers to hack you into pieces? If magic fails to subdue you, then perhaps you are owed the gift of the sword.”

  “Nothing would please me more than to be killed by the blade.” The old wizard gave a calm, innocent smile. Madam Lassengre knew that part of the blessings of his order granted him immediate access to heaven if he were to be slain in such a fashion. He welcomed death by the sword.

  The boy sneered. “Then I will be sure to instruct my followers to fail to give you what you desire. You shall have the blade, but the blade shall not bring you death. Always we shall use it to flay your skin, but our healers will bring you back from the land of the dead. You shall beg for mercy and an end to your suffering, but you will find none.”

  Smoke billowed out as a gush of water poured forth from the boy’s hand, eradicating the flames. The crowd gasped to see the charred remains of the parents and the two children. Madam Lassengre grit her teeth, vowing to get revenge.

  A mob of soldiers seized the wizard and dragged him away. Madam Lassengre was pleased the wizard had won, for now, beating the cultists’ magic. Though, in a way, he had lost and looked forward to a far worse fate at the hands of the torturers. She did not envy what lay ahead for him and wondered if she might be able to help. Perhaps, there was a way.

  As the crowd dispersed, she followed the soldiers and the old wizard back to the prison, where many opponents of the new regime were being kept. The fortress was said to be nearly impregnable. The sorceress grinned, knowing there were always techniques available to breach defenses, no matter how good they were. Impersonation and disguise were effective at circumnavigating systems, and she knew many ways of wielding them well.

  She ducked down a dark alleyway and snapped a finger, transforming herself into the very image of the boy, Remi. There would be no way for the guards to tell her magical disguise from the real boy. Even sorcerers would have trouble penetrating her strange spell of illusion, for she used a kind of magic unknown to most of the modern magicians. The layering of the spell was too complicated, and it healed and replicated itself when detected. Besides, she doubted if the cultists came to the prison since they deigned the actual business of torture beneath themselves.

  And sure enough, as she approached the gates, the guards gaped and prostrated themselves low, allowing her to pass. There was not a sorcerer in sight. Entering the building to murmurs and chants of prayers, she gave a small laugh of disbelief, wondering if it was indeed this easy to break into their prison. Under the scrutiny of the cultists, the rest of the city certainly was not. She faced the constant danger of discovery, and disguise was her only hope. But the exhaustion of maintaining the spell was palpable and required long periods of rest and recuperation of her magical reserves.

  Inside, she entered a small room, where a fat jailor sat writing at an old wooden desk. At her arrival, the man’s saggy flesh under his eyes flared in alarm. He groaned with effort as he pushed himself up, nearly toppling the desk in the process. He gave an attempt at a dignified bow, but the move was sloppy, and his face bore a look of abject fear, instead of that of worship.

  “Take me to the wizard,” the sorceress said, her voice projected as the boy’s. “I wish to have a word with him.”

  “Of course, at once, your…” The man faltered as if forgetful of how to address the boy. He coughed to cover the slip and continued. “Your Most Holy Lord, revered by the stars.”

  Madam Lassengre knew the jailor had committed a grave error, one that the cultists and the boy would most certainly punish. He had said the honorary title incorrectly. Guards were standing nearby, with faces shocked and horrified at the situation. They took a step back as if expecting the boy’s wrath.

  She narrowed her eyes at the jailor. “What did you say? What fool put you here in this position?”

  “No, please,” the jailor said, falling to his knees. “I beg of you. I meant no offense. I only forgot—”

  “Shut up, you pig.” She stretched out a hand toward the jailor. “Allow me to relieve you of your burden.” She squeezed as if choking someone. The fat jowls of the man’s neck bulged as if struck by some enormous pressure.

  The man gasped, and his eyes widened in terror. He tried to speak but found himself unable to utter anything but a yelp of pain. She was murdering him, and she didn’t care in the least. As spittle fell from his open mouth, she raised her hand, and his
obese body rose from the ground, his short, stubby legs searching to gain purchase. His neck went purple, and his eyelids drooped as the man slumped into unconsciousness. After he was dead, she released the spell and let the jailor drop, his massive body smashing the table.

  The guards jumped, their transfixed state broken by the sound. The sorceress turned to stare at them.

  “Never forget your instructions,” she said, and the men kneeled and abased themselves before her. “Now, take me to the wizard and keep quiet. I wish to have a word with him.”

  The scene inside the torture chamber was already gruesome. The cutters had begun their vile work, but the wizard’s face was stoic, his voice silent. The practitioners of torture and the healers prostrated themselves before the figure of the boy as Madam Lassengre entered the room. She instructed the guards to come inside and close the door. They obeyed, and at her cold stare, the men joined the others.

  “You, healer, rise. Attend to the wizard’s wounds. I wish to talk to him.”

  The healer was a young, fit man of perhaps thirty, dressed in white robes. His face held an expression of disappointment as he cast the healing spell as if he would no longer enjoy the satisfaction of participating in the process. When he was done, she commanded the man to kneel, once again.

  She would enjoy this.

  The cutters were short, rotund men, who looked like they had once been butchers. They wore bloodied aprons and wiped their meaty hands on their clothes, as if cleanliness was expected. They appeared to be brothers. Both were bald with tanned skin and wore a snarl like it was permanently stamped on their brutish faces. They dared a look at the boy as if wondering what he wanted.

  She fixed her eyes on the men. They rose to their feet under the power of her influence, their eyes filled with fear. The cutters moved like puppets, jerkily reaching out to seize bloody blades lying on the surgical table. They couldn’t control themselves. Faces full of panic, they exerted a considerable force of will to resist her spell but lacked the power to stop her.

  They turned on each other and sliced. Muffled screams and wails were heard as they cut at each other. Madam Lassengre grinned and turned to face the now terrified healer. He stood against his will and lifted his hands, eyes flared in impotent disbelief. The healer cast a spell and closed the wounds inflicted by the cutters.

  “Let the endless cycle of torture begin,” the sorceress said, and the three men moved, cutting, stabbing, slicing, and healing.

  The guards lifted their eyes in horror and stared at the macabre scene, but a spell cast from Madam Lassengre caused them to sleep.

  The grandmaster narrowed his eyes at the sorceress as if he were trying to pierce through her illusion.

  “You will follow me,” she said, and the wizard stood and stumbled after her. She smiled and left the room. Tonight, she would help the man escape the city and flee south to join Arcturius.

  His life would be spared, but her work in Criswall would continue.

  CHAPTER NINE

  No wonder the girl had been so jealous and upset at Elendria’s arrival. She covered her mouth to hide a smirk and cast a curious glance at Lysha, who nodded in mischievous understanding. Shells had turned into a fawning puppy, adoring the tall, commanding Devin. For a moment, Elendria felt it was a sweet scene, but then she remembered the woman’s instant fury at the slightest provocation. She knew she’d have to be careful with her. Even Devin seemed nervous around Shells. Elendria could tell he was trying hard to avoid looking at her, despite his habit of often staring at her with longing eyes during their trip.

  Elendria found herself thinking back to when Prince Jondran held her in the alleyway behind the tavern. It was a vivid memory, and it sent chills racing through her. She missed him and prayed that he and Branwenth were still safe. If the armies of Mar Thagroth were engaged with those of Jalinfaer, she hoped they might somehow negotiate a truce, especially considering the capital was in shambles.

  “Who could care about a big oaf like you?” Shells asked, but she tightened her grip around his waist and kissed him again. “Let’s get your horses watered and fed. By the smell of it, there’s a storm brewing. You got lucky and slid through unscathed.”

  Elendria remembered the last few days and did feel lucky to have enjoyed a relatively dry spell. Though the clouds had thickened many times, nothing had come of it. At Shells’ suggestion, she sniffed the air and did sense something: rain and an electric tingling that she imagined was the promise of lightning.

  They unsaddled their horses, and the stable boys went eagerly to take care of Lysha’s mare. The older ones fought for the right to help her dismount, proudly promising to take care of her horse. The younger boys barely knew what to make of Maggie, and for some reason, they ignored her in favor of fawning over Lysha. Elendria couldn’t blame them; she was quite pretty. Even though they’d been on the road for days with little chance for a bath, her skin displayed a youthful glow and a healthy vibrancy from their time outdoors.

  Though Elendria was largely ignored, except for a few curious glances, she did catch Devin looking at her with wondering eyes, and that one look gave her a great deal of satisfaction. In her opinion, Shells was far prettier than she was and had the kind of curvy figure men loved. Elendria wasn’t sure what about her attracted him.

  “Please, that’s quite enough,” Lysha said and gave the stable boys a look of stern warning followed by a friendly smile. “I can manage walking just fine. Though from the looks of it, my horse could use water and feed, if you’d be so kind.”

  The boys’ puppy eyes danced in delight at her suggestion, and they ran off in eager competition to tend to Lysha’s mare. She sighed in relief and motioned for them to make their escape away from them.

  “Gods, I can breathe now.” She cast an exasperated glance at the boys and dashed ahead as if dying to get away. Elendria joined her, feeling exhilarated. After a long while, they stopped at the edge of a beautiful mountain lake, breath heaving, and they paused and admired the milky blue waters. Tall, spindly soldier pines surrounded the lake, and the grand, abrupt rise of sheer rock led up to the majestic Great Barrier Mountains. The view was breathtaking.

  “It’s like a whole other world.” Elendria thought of how small Criswall was in comparison to these mountains. Perhaps the entire city would fit into the size of this lake.

  The shock from all the horrors of what happened in Criswall had faded away, leaving only the stain of memories and the sense of emptiness from the unanswered questions about Remi and her father. After the attack in Wilhem, she’d thankfully not had a reoccurrence of the magical onslaught from the young magician. Though several times, in the dead of night, she’d been woken by the eerie sensation that someone was watching her, feeling her, a kind of strange sensation like invisible hands groping in the dark. It left her feeling horrible.

  Each time she woke, she could see the silvery outline of a phantom figure hovering over her, the ghostly eyes studying her with an intense, uncomfortable coldness. She thought of Madam Lassengre and wondered whether she had done anything to stop Relek.

  “I never thought I’d enjoy it up here. But it’s such an amazing place, so big, so vivid, so alive with power. Yet still…” Lysha’s eyes grew dark and weak suddenly, and Elendria reached out to hold her hands.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I try, Elendria, I do try to forget them. But it’s too hard, too intense… Every night, I sleep, and I see my parents alongside my brother. They just stand there staring at me. I wake, and I’m filled with the overwhelming feeling they’re dead, that they have joined my brother in the shadow world—the land of the dead.”

  Her voice was so strange and soft, but in her words, there was a vast certainty of the truth of her vision. Though Elendria believed Lysha’s parents were dead, she said nothing, and instead, listened to the wind and the lapping of waves against the sandy shore, the scene filled with an overpowering melancholy.

  “My dreams over the last few
nights have been horrible nightmares.” She pinched her eyes shut and saw Relek staring at her with his cold, blue eyes like he was waiting for her willpower to weaken. “I dream of being hunted by wolves and witches, who live in the ancient woods of Maren Downs. And there’s a ghost, who haunts me constantly in the witching hour. Maybe the power of magic is too strong in these mountains, and it drives women mad. Maybe that’s what will happen to us if we stay up here too long.”

  Lysha gave her a look of wonder and worry, but after a while, she nodded in slow, sympathetic understanding. She bent down next to the water’s edge and stretched out her fingers. Ice crystals scampered across the surface in an elegant dance of duplication. The ice traveled fifty feet in a matter of seconds.

  “It’s too easy for me to do magic here; that’s for sure. I barely have to exert any energy, and it just flows without draining or chilling me. Here, feel my hands. They’re not even cold.” Lysha studied her pale hands in perplexed astonishment.

  Over the last few days, Elendria had been trying to teach Lysha how to cast spells of light and fire and how to balance ice and cold with heat. She’d even showed her the beginnings of the spell of protection. But the element of fire had proven, by far, the most difficult for Lysha to learn, and she’d only been able to cast the first layer of the protection spell.

  “Be careful about casting magic around here,” Elendria whispered and glanced around to see if anyone was watching them, but she was only greeted by a murder of crows cawing boisterously. “I suspect there’s a high degree of loathing for magicians amongst the miners, considering what’s happening with the witches and the mines.”

  “I doubt they’ll care much about a few girls from the city,” Lysha said and gave a small laugh. “But I do wonder what’s going on up there.” She raised her eyes and squinted at the far mountains, as if it were possible for her to discover something.

  “Don’t be so sure about that. You saw the anger in those miners’ eyes. We should be careful.” Elendria gave Lysha a look of warning. She returned her gaze to the mountains. “It’s too bad Madam Lassengre didn’t teach me the spell of farseeing. Out here in the wild, it would’ve come in handy. Did you learn any other spells at your school of magic?”