Conflict (29 page)

The slab hit the man full in the face.

The axe fell to the ground. The giant took two unsteady steps backwards, tripped and fell.

Yakumo pulled with all his might on the chains which held his hands, but he could not free himself. He could not break them, even increasing his strength with his Gift. Not the chains, they were beyond the limit of his power, but the wooden structure in the shape of an inverted U which he was hanging from was something else… He began to swing from side to side, slowly at first, then gaining momentum. While he swung he used his talent once again, conjuring a dark whirlwind. He began to spin at great speed. The source of energy within him was almost spent. The structure began to creak, both side-posts began to gouge grooves in the ground and the upper joints began to loosen.

The second of the Norghanian giants got up and shook his head with a grunt, his long golden hair catching the dim light of the torches. He picked up his axe from the floor and went up to Yakumo, who was swinging with dizzying speed. The structure was beginning to fail under the pressure of the brute force of that movement.

But the giant was nearly upon him.

Yakumo would not have time to break loose.

In a desperate attempt, taking advantage of the inertia of his spinning, he launched his body, with all the kinetic force it had built up, to the right.

The Norghanian battle axe came down in a deadly arc toward Yakumo.

The upper fixtures of the wooden structure gave with a sharp crunch, then the crossbeam came free and flew off, dragging the Assassin with it.

It hit the giant at the same moment as the axe grazed Yakumo’s head.

The beam fell with a brutal impact on the enormous soldier.

The Norghanian stumbled back in confusion, tripped over the unconscious torturer and fell on his face, knocked out.

Yakumo too fell violently to one side. The blow was painful, but what really worried him was the noise it had made. He freed himself from the beam and crawled across to the torturer; in his belt he found the keys to the chains which kept his hands and feet tied. Swiftly he freed himself from them and tried to stand up.

His body failed him.

The punishment he had suffered had been too much for his legs, they would not obey him. It would take him time to get the use of them back again, time which he did not have.

The curtain at the entrance opened and a soldier walked in, alerted by the loud crash.

Yakumo, on the floor and unarmed, looked around desperately for something to fight with.

The soldier was taken aback by the grotesque death-scene before his eyes. After a moment of doubt he reacted and unsheathed his sword.

Yakumo took advantage of his hesitation and threw the torturer’s sharp shears at him as if they were a dagger.

The soldier took the impact in the neck and fell to the floor with his hands to his throat, unable to shout for help. His Adam’s apple had been pierced and blood was streaming down his chest. He would die in a matter of moments.

Yakumo dragged himself across to the fallen soldier, unable to use his lower limbs. The man was going to die, but he could not risk his raising the alarm. He covered his mouth and nose with both hands and pressed hard until he had asphyxiated him.

Free! I must escape, but how? I’m in the midst of the whole Norghanian army, and my legs won’t respond. But, it’s now or never. I won’t have another chance like this. I must flee, I have to find a way.

Fearfully, he searched his inner energy. There was still a tiny blue remnant in the empty lake in his chest.

Enough to activate the Discipline of Shadows. It’s time to disappear in the night, to blend with the dark…

Mirkos the Erudite was thinking about the journey he was to take to Silanda. It would be a long and tiring one which would make considerable demands on his battered body. At his age he no longer enjoyed such things, even though when he had been young he had wanted nothing more than to go on adventures, to experience new worlds, to meet new peoples. But at last his years of glorious adventures were taking a toll on him. Now the old mage had to prepare thoroughly before every trip to protect himself from the rigors of the road.

But something else had him worried, more than that, upset and nervous. Something unthinkable had happened to him, something out of a terrible nightmare.

The night before, an assassin had tried to kill him in his sleep!

Now, he had to travel in the company of those six soldiers, so stern and grumpy. They never smiled, they inspected every shadow, every breath of air, always in a state of tension, alert all the time. They made Mirkos deeply nervous. King Solin had imposed on him a personal escort that did not leave him, day or night. Six elite soldiers of the Royal Swords protected him, the best of the best, from the King’s personal bodyguard.

Luckily that murderous traitor had not managed to bring his already long existence to an end, and the attempted murder had ended in just that: an attempt. But the perpetrator had managed to avoid the Royal Guard of Rilentor and infiltrate the Palace, which was a feat in itself. The Guard was made up of the best soldiers of the kingdom, loyal to the core, of unimpeachable behavior and with the best possible training. King Solin was angry: more than that, he was furious. No wonder: an enemy assassin had managed to violate the sanctity of his own home.

His Majesty had ordered a full inquiry. He needed to calm the doubts which plagued his mind. His fortress was not safe now; in it Solin, and what was even worse, his family, were vulnerable. Mirkos was aware that the incident had been deeply upsetting for his friend, the King. That unfortunate event was absolutely unacceptable as far as Solin was concerned because of its implications. The King needed to find the reasons behind it, resolve the gross error and reestablish safety in his most personal domain. Rilentor and the Royal Palace must once again go back to being safe and unbreakable.

Mirkos had survived the murder attempt by a hair’s breadth. Luckily he had woken up an instant before the poisoned dagger could pierce his heart. The attempt to end his life had been carried out while he slept peacefully in his rooms in the Royal Castle of Rilentor. The murderous dagger, unadorned and blackened so as to avoid any tell-tale gleam, had nearly finished him. It was true that Mirkos had been sleeping badly for weeks. He had attributed it to the change of bed and the humidity at night in the Capital. This was a very different environment to what he was used to in his beloved jet-black tower in the north of the kingdom, his home.

But on that crucial night that restlessness had surely saved his life.

Mirkos smiled, remembering the monumental fright he had had.
I nearly had a heart attack
!

The assassin had not survived the frantic, disproportionate response which Mirkos had conjured under the stress of the fright received. The powerful Mage had not measured the strength of the spell he had wielded, which had come out spontaneously, in a reflex act. In fact now that he came to think about it, he could not even remember having decided which spell to use to defend himself from the attack. It had all happened in the blink of an eye and he had let himself be carried away by the purest instinct, which apparently, in spite of his age, was as sharp as it had ever been. All he had been able to see was that black dagger. When he opened his eyes and saw it right above his head his fright was so great that without thinking he raised his arm and pronounced a spell.

He really scared me, that bastard. He nearly killed me just with fear. My heart almost leapt out of my mouth!

An outrageous flame had consumed the attacker in an instant, and with him nearly the entire room. The strength of the spell was such that for a moment Mirkos thought he would be caught up in it too. He had to flatten himself against the bed-head while the room blazed.

By pure good luck the fire did not spread to the neighboring rooms. He made use of the Water Magic to put out the spreading fire. He had been able to quench it by creating a small, localized rainstorm over the intense flames.

What a mess I caused, I almost burnt down half the fortress. Thank goodness I thought of making the rainstorm. Not bad for a crazy old man. Not bad at all.

But now he was regretting his disproportionate reaction in incinerating the attacker. He would have been useful to the King if he had been taken alive and questioned. Who had sent him? What did he wish to gain from the death of the King’s Mage?

At least I’m alive, I can consider myself very lucky.

If they had tried to kill him once and failed, who was to say they would not try again? Perhaps soon… The thought unsettled him even more. He was no alarmist, rather the opposite, since the experience which the years bring with them calms all insecurities of the spirit. But he had to admit it had been a daring act. To try and kill the Battle Mage of the Court at the Royal Fortress of Rilentor! That was an audacity! An inconceivable act!

It seemed the attack had been the work of the Nocean Empire, or at least so it would seem from the type of killer used. Mirkos had been able to recognize the murderer’s origin.

He was a Motuli.

The great scorpion tattooed on the arm which held the dagger was unmistakable and had given him away.

The assassin, his eyes black as a moonless night, was dressed like a man of the desert with head and mouth covered by a black scarf, together with a long dark blue tunic and over it a black breastplate.

Mirkos had only seen him for an instant, but he had no doubt: he was a Motuli, and by extension a Nocean. It was common knowledge that this perverse sect of assassins from the heart of the desert worked for the Great Malota, Emperor of the Noceans. Enemies of the Empire had the misfortune to receive inopportune visits from these expert brown-skinned assassins. That could only mean that Mirkos was considered an enemy of the Emperor. In fact the idea seemed ridiculous to him, almost absurd.

What danger can I pose, a scholar of magic and arcane arts like me? None at all. I don’t understand why they’ve sent an assassin from the far south to kill me… unless they were looking to provoke a war, or gain an advantage by eliminating the only Battle Mage the King of Rogdon has at his command. That may be the reason…to get the upper hand in a possible war, and that can only mean that the Noceans are getting ready to invade…What an ominous conclusion!

In fact King Solin had no doubt that the Noceans would invade Rogdon. They had first attacked the Prince, although they denied it. And now they had tried to eliminate the only Mage of power the Kingdom had, since surely they would be well informed of Haradin’s misfortune by their spies. And what was even worse, that attack meant that the Noceans took it for granted that the Norghanians would declare war on Rogdon, or else they had reached some kind of agreement with them to invade jointly. Otherwise they would not have dared attack, not in this isolated way; the risk was too great, and the Noceans were very crafty when it came to this type of action.

Things are getting more complicated, and it’s all beginning to look nasty. I fear evil days are coming, days of horror for all Rogdonians
.

On the other hand they could still call on diplomacy, last card the King had left to play. The two ambassadors, Albust and Gelbin, must already be nearing their destinations. If they managed to dissuade one of the two powers, the other would not attack.

It would be better if Albust convinces the Norghanians to sign a treaty of cooperation, otherwise the greedy Noceans will surely invade us. I very much doubt that Gelbin will be able to get the Noceans to commit themselves to anything, it’s against their nature
.
Getting any commitment from a Nocean is like getting blood out of a stone
.

Although all the evidence suggested that both the attack against Prince Gerart and his own attempted murder had been the work of Nocean agents in an attempt to destabilize the fragile balance of power in the continent, the old Mage was not totally convinced. Something did not fit, there was a dark gloom hovering over them which prevented them from seeing the true nature of what was unfolding. A very dangerous cover was being laid in front of them, and it would not let them see the real game being played, the true enemy behind those actions…

Drocus, First General of the Army, walked into the Mage’s room, waking him from his reverie.

“Everything ready for the journey, my good Mage?” he asked with his characteristic good humor and booming voice.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” the mage replied, not so happy at the thought of the journey in front of him.

“We’ll be there before you realize it, Mirkos, don’t you worry.”

“Thank you for your good wishes, but we both know it won’t be like that.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather travel in a carriage? The Royal House has several, very comfortable and elegant, at your disposal.”

“By all the Ancient Gods!” burst out the Mage. “The day I can’t ride a horse will be the day I stop traveling!”

“It’s just an elegant carriage…”

“It’s for ladies and courtesans…”

“No more about it, then.”

“No more.”

The General went to the door of the room, where the escort of six Royal Swords was waiting, turned to Mirkos and said:

“These Royal Swords get uglier every day, but I see they’ve assigned you the
nicest
ones of all.”

Mirkos grunted between his teeth.

“I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun in their happy company in the course of your pleasant journey,” the General said sarcastically, and roared with laughter.

The old Mage, laughing too, threw a tiny ball of fire at the wall just beside Drocus. Scared by the Mage’s spell, he ran out of the room as if the devil were after him.

These modern warriors, how much they still have to learn
!

Mirkos laughed uproariously.