Empire Awakening (Maledorian Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  At the end of their journey to Damak, though, she could see his resolve weakening. Luckily, or was it unfortunate for her, she didn’t know, they arrived in Damak, and now, all those unspoken expressions of yearning were only warm memories of cold nights. Though she could still feel everything, and it made her restless, and that restlessness drove her to seek the openness and freedom of the outdoors and the coolness of the night air on her skin.

  Outside, the stillness of morning haunted her, and the settling mist infected the village with a cloistered feeling, suffocating her breath and causing her to crave the clear view of the stars. Only a hint of starlight shimmered behind the mist, and the lonely moon lay low on the horizon, like an actor drifting from a stage. She longed for clarity and made her way toward higher ground. She snuck around silent cabins, aiming her eyes at an outcropping of rocks touched by the somber shine of moonlight. In her heart, she knew she’d find something meaningful up there: solitude, a feeling of freedom, a consoling quietude for her restless mind.

  A few more steps and she picked up the pace the farther from the town she went, but a dull, painful blow to the back of her head sent her tumbling down into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  None of the experiments they ever tried worked. Lord Rigar ground his fist into his hand, staring at the mangled blob of tissue and bone on the floor. It had been almost a week, and after hundreds of experiments, they had failed to produce anything of value. He stood, clenching his teeth as he kicked a stool and sent it tumbling over to where it crashed into the oozing remains of what had once been an old woman.

  He knew this was all a sacrilege to Nenlil, his old god, the protector of the forest. To Nenlil, all life was sacred. Why had he lost respect for the living? How could he apologize to this woman for taking her life? If his actions in stealing her life had been for something of benefit, then he could attest this to Nenlil and pray for her soul’s swift passage to the shadow world. But what good was all this… mess?

  He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. Instead of looking away, he opened his eyes and studied the disgusting remains, hoping to decipher some meaning. But there was nothing there, nothing but the corrupted mixture of her body with a deadly spider… and the stool.

  The stool, he thought, narrowing his eyes. The three-legged stool was broken, with one leg cracked by the force of his blow. He’d broken it. Now it would never hold him or anyone else for that matter. It was unbalanced…

  He snapped his fingers and found hope flooding into his mind from a sudden rush of inspiration. That was it. It was the answer to all his frustrations and failed experiments. He’d only been mixing two things, but what about three? Could he somehow modify the spell to enable three creatures to fuse together?

  “It might work!” he shouted, looking at his stunned assistants. The fools were probably thinking he had gone mad. But what to try first? The last thing he wanted to do was attempt another experiment using an inferior combination of creatures.

  “Give me the journal,” he said and clapped his hands together to get their attention. “Quickly! We need to find the strongest combinations during all our previous attempts. Or do any of you know them off-hand? Don’t look at me like that. Get to work!”

  Cavanish, his lead assistant, stammered as he fought to speak. “The… the trees, some animals—foxes and wolves—several of the insects—beetles and ants… and praying mantises. Those were all better kept together, and a few even survived for a short time before expiring. Yes, I believe those were the best subjects. The bushes and the smaller plants fared poorly—”

  “I don’t care about what failed. I only want the combinations that were better suited. Do I make myself clear?” Rigar’s voice rose in excitement and irritation. His assistants bowed to him and scrambled off to the office to get the documents.

  This was it. He had a good feeling about the idea. Yes, they would return to the forest and try the trees and perhaps mix a human subject with a fox or a beetle. It might just work. If he held the three objects in his mind while he cast the spell of merging—the one Ba’al had taught him—then he could hopefully fuse them all together into a living, functional fabrication. Holding more than three things in one’s mind while casting a spell was usually impossible, at least in his experience.

  He realized he didn’t want to wait for those idiots to rummage through their stacks of notebooks, especially when Rigar believed he had the answer. Out in the forest they would go, to a weeping willow tree, and there they would try the experiment again, but this time, they would add a Sanga Beetle, or the Battling Beetle as it was known.

  “Come back, you fools!” he shouted and turned to go. “Bring me a strong subject, a young subject, and a Sanga Beetle. We leave immediately for the forest.”

  The snowy path ran underneath a line of red willow trees, their long, arching branches denuded and swaying in the wind. Rigar examined the cloudy sky and sniffed. A storm was coming, and at this temperature, there would be more than a light dusting of snow. They had to hurry before the weather turned too foul to complete their experiment.

  The subject shivered under the gusting wind, pulling her cloak tightly around her neck. The girl’s blue eyes glanced around, terrified. Rigar guessed she was perhaps nine years old. She had an oval face and an upturned nose that dribbled snot. Her tongue darted up to lick it.

  “What are ya gonna do to me?” Her teeth chattered under the cold. “I’ve been faithful to the Lord of the Fallen. I’m devout; just ask the priests. What’s that for?”

  One of the assistants brought out a small box and opened it, displaying the Battling Beetle. The insect’s armored head possessed a split horn. It was one of the largest specimens Rigar had ever seen, measuring about four inches long.

  “That’s why you’ve been chosen by our god to serve him.” Lord Rigar stretched his hands out wide and gazed at the branches dancing in the wind.

  “But how? How do I serve him?” The girl’s frightened eyes followed Rigar’s gaze.

  “The Lord of the Fallen wishes to transform you into something stronger. A warrior for our god. You will be the first in our army, a force destined to fight the nonbelievers and turn them from their evil ways.”

  “Fight? But I don’t know how to fight. I’m just a girl—”

  “You will learn. We will teach you. And our god will fill you with his strength. You will be his holy warrior.” He gestured at a mature willow tree. “Rest a moment, beside this tree. It will fill you with strength for your journey ahead. Do you like trees, child?”

  “Trees?” She glanced up, eyes hesitant and fearful. “I guess… I guess I used to like climbing trees. At least in the summer, when it’s not snowing and cold outside.”

  A smile came to Lord Rigar. “When you climbed trees, did you ever hug a branch and feel its power? You know, like feel something funny, like the tree whispering to you, or maybe you sensed the tree’s feelings.”

  “I don’t know, maybe I have.” The child looked confused. “What does that have to do with being a warrior?”

  “Everything, child.” He nodded patiently to her. “Now, you just lean back against that trunk and try to feel something from the tree. Open your hands and hold this. It’s a Battling Beetle, a gift from the Lord of the Fallen, a gift to make you strong.”

  The obedient child unfolded her hands and accepted the gift.

  “Close your hands and keep it safe. You wouldn’t want to waste a gift from our god, now would you?”

  The girl shook her head, eyes trusting and innocent.

  Lord Rigar was determined to make this right; he didn’t want to squander the life of this girl and the lives of the tree and the beetle. The spell had to be cast perfectly. Enough was enough. Too many living creatures had been destroyed as a result of their experimentation. The boy had been useless during the entire process, only teaching Rigar the spell of merging living entities. And even that spell, the boy had forgotten in subsequent days.

  “Good, n
ow close your eyes, girl. Feel the tree at your back and the beetle crawling on your hands.” He cupped the girl’s small face. “Bring both those feelings together. If you do it right, you will become a holy warrior.”

  Her eyes fluttered behind her closed eyelids as he began to cast the spell. He closed his eyes and pictured the girl and the willow and the beetle, allowing the magic of his spell to weave them all together.

  Something was beginning to change. The girl’s skin on his hand was stiffening, turning smooth and hard like carapace. Despite the change, he kept his eyes closed, concentrating, and continued his casting.

  The girl’s skin cooled to the touch, and she rose as if she were growing. Rigar released his hold over the girl’s face and took a step back, eyes still closed, focusing on the finishing touches of the spell.

  Everything had to be perfect.

  The girl’s mind had to fuse together with the mind of the beetle’s. Her skull had to weave with the wood of the tree. Her organs had to merge with the organs of the insect. Her bones had to bind together with the wood of the willow, gaining flexibility and strength. But most importantly, she needed to remain subservient and obedient to his will.

  Everything had to be perfect.

  And indeed, at the completion of his casting, everything did feel perfect. When he opened his eyes, he gasped, horrified and fascinated by what he had created.

  The girl was still alive, at least if you could call the creature in front of him a girl. She did have a feminine appearance, of sorts, but she was not a human anymore, though the shape was humanoid. The creature towered over him, standing some twenty feet tall. The fabrication was covered in black, shiny scales the texture of the Battling Beetle. Segmented between the scales was a kind of wood—Rigar guessed it was willow. Its insect-like eyes were of a weak red, the color of the red willow bark, and within those eyes shone the wisdom and strength of many years.

  Beyond, Rigar noticed the tree had disappeared. Only a sunken hole remained where the willow and its roots once stood. Likewise, the beetle was nowhere to be seen. The spell had worked. At long last, the merging magic had succeeded in fusing together three separate creatures. The resulting construction was a mighty warrior, standing tall and obedient before him. He was the master, and the fabrication was the soldier waiting for its orders.

  “Come with me,” commanded Lord Rigar, feeling the thrill of power, and he turned to go.

  The soldier followed close behind, moving jerkily like a beetle.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Prince Jordan sat down on a stump and cleaned the blood from his blade. He let out a long exhalation, pinching his eyes shut. What a mess the day had been. He returned his gaze to the remains of the battlefield, where men carried bodies over to be burned. The battle against their enemies had been long and hard, and he wished they’d never left Criswall.

  They’d captured a captain and brought him to a tent in the heart of their encampment. Now, it was Jondran’s turn to talk to him, to find information that might prove useful against their enemy. But he was no torturer. He had no desire to harm the man. He wanted peace and a chance to return home. This wasn’t his war. The war he wanted to wage was in Criswall, against the cultists.

  If only he could strike an alliance with the Kingdom of Jalinfaer. He’d tried several days ago, but the only answer to his gesture of peace was to return the emissary’s headless body on his horse. That began the two-day long battle, which led to no gains on either side and heavy losses to both armies. They were at a stalemate, their men demoralized, and talk of retreat on many lips. All because, Jondran knew, Lady Elendria had murdered Prince Silvren and broken the peace with the Kingdom of Jalinfaer. But in his heart, he refused to blame her.

  “Your Royal Highness?”

  “What do you want?” Jondran’s words came out sharper than he’d intended. He looked over at a squire dressed in green. The boy cringed at the inspection. The lad was perhaps twelve years old, and his short-cropped hair gave his round face a severe look.

  “Oh, I see. Is it time already?” Jondran sighed. “I’ll come.”

  The squire nodded and turned to walk toward the tent.

  Inside, the prisoner’s bruised face greeted Jondran. The man was perhaps forty, with broad shoulders, a thick beard, and was built like an ox. His eyes were obstinate and mean.

  “Take off his gag,” the prince said, and a soldier obeyed, leaving the tent at Jondran’s gesture of dismissal.

  The enemy captain spat blood and spittle and studied the prince’s approach with a mixture of coldness and curiosity.

  “Why don’t you kill me? You’ve slaughtered enough of my men already today. Why don’t you let me join them in the afterlife?”

  “It’s too easy. Besides, I believe the gods have a purpose for you living.” Jondran used his blade to cut the leather straps that bound the prisoner.

  The man was taken aback. He eyed him cautiously, rolling his shoulders and working out the soreness in his wrists. “You mean to use me to seek peace again?” He scoffed. “It won’t work, you know. We’ve no interest in peace. Revenge is our only aim for what you did to Prince Silvren.”

  “I didn’t do anything to the man. I was there. He insulted a lady of the court, and she defended her honor.”

  The man huffed. “Is this how your ladies defend their honor? By killing?”

  “Men would kill for less and you know it.” Jondran glared at the man. “Besides, I’m not here to talk about your prince’s murder. There’s a far greater threat coming, one that will affect us both in the long run.”

  “What threat? We’ve heard nothing about it.”

  “I doubt you would have. But the fact is there, all the same. We believe the Maledorians have returned.”

  “What? You’re insane.” The lieutenant snorted in disbelief. “That old empire has been dead for over a hundred years.”

  “Cultists who worship the Maledorians have risen up and taken control of our capital—after our armies had left the city.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Then what are you doing here fighting us? Shouldn’t you be fighting them?”

  At the prince’s long silence, the man gave a small laugh. “You can’t, can you? Defeat them and us. You’re too weak. And you’re sandwiched in between. If you turn back to save your capital, we’ll assault your retreating flank. A mighty fine situation you’re in.”

  Jondran glared at the man but knew he wasn’t far from the truth. “We’re not so weak. You weren’t able to beat us today. So, imagine this; if we’re so afraid of this threat in Criswall, then shouldn’t you be?”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it. I doubt our sorcerers couldn’t handle them.”

  “They’ve somehow managed to summon an ancient Maledorian god. Through a lost ritual.”

  “What do I care? It’s your problem to handle. If anything, this is good news for us. You’re facing a battle on two fronts. You lose, and we win.”

  “No, if we lose, you’ll lose. This is bigger than the both of us. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “You’re crazy. Kill me or let me go. But I’m not going to bring your lunatic story back to my chain-of-command. They’ll think I’ve gone insane. What exactly am I supposed to tell them?”

  “Tell them we want to talk. We’ll meet in a neutral place in the middle of the battlefield. No tricks. Our intent is peace.”

  “And you speak for all your leaders?”

  A twitch spasmed across Jondran’s face. “I am the leader of Mar Thagroth now.”

  The man smirked. “Then with you in charge, I’m certain we’ll be soon winning.”

  “We’ll see about that.” A flare of anger caused the prince to leave the room. He told the soldiers to continue torturing him. “If you don’t get any useful information, then kill him. And be sure to make it painful.”

  A frown settled over the prince’s face, feeling like he’d failed. Why had he shown weakness to the man? He stormed over to the magi quarter, hoping to f
ind Arcturius. He wondered whether the wizard had returned from his journey to the south. His expression brightened when he located Arcturius amongst a council of mages in their war tent. A map of the battlefield sat on a table in the middle of the tent.

  “Did you find her?” Jondran studied the old wizard.

  “Your Royal Highness.” Arcturius made a polite bow and gestured for the other mages to leave.

  The prince recognized Grandmaster Severin, the retired leader of the Order of Fire, and bowed to him. “Good to see you here, Grandmaster. I was relieved to hear of your escape from the capital.”

  “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.” The old wizard’s face was grim. “It is a terrible situation in Criswall. I am lucky to have escaped, thanks to Madam Lassengre. Truly lucky. She is a blessing to us all and a hope for our future survival.”

  The wizard bowed and turned to leave. When the prince was alone with Arcturius, the wizard cast a spell, and the air bubbled around them. He continued. “We don’t want prying ears listening in on our conversation, now do we?”

  “Well?”

  The wizard chuckled softly. “Impatient as ever, Prince Jondran. Very much like your grandfather was at your age.”

  The prince never recalled his grandfather ever possessing much patience; nothing had changed over the years.

  “To answer your question, yes, I found her. The witch Cambria was quite angry to discover me in her dream, especially after all these years apart. We didn’t exactly leave on friendly terms.” The old man frowned. “We had a most unpleasant reunion and failed to reach an agreement. Though, needless to say, she was concerned at the news of the cultists in the north.

  “She left open the possibility of coming to Maren Downs and having a word with the leaders of Jalinfaer. But she refused to commit and was doubtful of whether the cultists were a threat at all. I pray that those from Jalinfaer will find sense in ending this ridiculous war.”