The King of the Vile (15 page)

“Your men will not be enough to hold back the tide,” he said. “What you see out there is but a shadow of Manfeaster’s full power. When they arrive...”

“When they arrive, they will find elves and paladins to stand against them alongside us,” Arthur said. At their awkward silence he paused, and leaned back into his chair. “Reinforcements are coming, are they not?”

Jessilynn stared at the map, and the Citadel that seemed so close on paper, yet so far away.

“No,” Dieredon said. “The only reinforcements will be soldiers for Mordeina, though I cannot say when they will arrive.”

“A cruel jest this is, isn’t it?” Arthur said, sighing as he drummed his fingers. “Representatives of both elves and the Paladins of Ashhur arrive at my doorstep, yet you come alone in offering aid? Forgive me for saying this, but you two are not enough.”

“We were never meant to be,” Dieredon said. “Nor should we
need
to be. Where are the angels? Have you not called for their aid?”

“I have,” Arthur said. “Again and again I shine light from the little cylinder they gave me, lighting up the night sky like a thunderstorm, yet nothing. No message. No reinforcements.”

Arthur stood, and he picked up one of the parchments detailing their provisions.

“I haven’t been rationing as carefully as I should,” he said quietly. “I wanted to keep my soldiers strong and ready to fight. Once aid came, we’d scatter them with ease. Once...” He looked up at Dieredon. “I’ve talked with the various refugee groups as they arrived, and it’s clear we’re being converged upon from all sides. You said this...Manfeaster commands them. I believe you, if only because it explains why the different beasts are working together to lay siege to my home. Tell me, how many of these creatures does Manfeaster command?”

Dieredon did an admirable job keeping his expression passive.

“Fifteen to twenty thousand, by my estimate.”

“Twenty thousand,” Arthur said. He slumped in his chair. “Ashhur save us all. I only have five hundred, Dieredon. Five hundred against twenty thousand! Even with the aid of my walls, it won’t be enough. And if they find a way to break through the doors, it’ll be a massacre.”

The lord’s words left Jessilynn more and more unnerved. She’d thought being inside the walls would allow her to feel safe, but now she only felt trapped. Why had they come? Why had she thought she might accomplish anything against such numbers? She’d seen the army for herself. She knew the numbers Manfeaster commanded.

Dieredon put his wicked-looking bow atop the table and stared at Arthur with the confidence of an elf who had never once suffered defeat.

“You lose faith,” he said. “With Jessilynn and I guarding your walls, your five hundred will fight like five thousand. No matter how well organized they might seem, no matter how strong their king might be, these creatures are still primal beasts that will turn on one another in enough time. All we have to do is survive, so that is what we’ll do. Help will come, from the Citadel, or Mordeina, or the angels. This threat is too grave to be ignored.”

Arthur rose from his seat, leaned his arms atop the table.

“I know the reputation you carry, Scoutmaster,” he said, meeting the elf’s gaze. “And I watched Jerico stand against waves of enemies like an immovable mountain. Even if that little girl over there is capable of doing the same, it won’t be enough. You’ve not come to save us, only die with us.”

That was it. Jessilynn could stand no more, especially to hear herself belittled so insultingly.

“There were once two Kings of the Vile,” she said, “until this ‘little girl’ killed one of them, alone and surrounded by dozens more of the creatures. I didn’t give up then, and I won’t give up now. If we die, we die, but we’ll die protecting innocents from the evil of this world. It’s not our fault so many others refuse to do the same.”

Arthur turned her way, and it took all her willpower not to wilt under his gaze.

“When the end comes, I will be out there with my soldiers, bleeding and dying with a sword in my hand,” he said. “And after I fall, the people I swore my life to protect, those not already slaughtered on their flight here, will be torn to pieces. I have not given up, paladin. Do not misread my frustration for hopelessness. My fury is not for you, but those who would abandon us in our time of need. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. You have my permission to explore the castle as you wish, as well as all castle grounds. Forgive me, though, for I have no rooms to offer. Right now, my castle is reserved for the sick and the dying.” The lord shook his head. “Which is everyone behind my walls, if the south abandons us to our fate.”

He turned from the table, and a moment later Lord Arthur vanished down the stairs. Jessilynn felt herself trembling in the cavernous room, overcome with anger, frustration, and fear. When she caught Dieredon looking at her, she bowed her head and crossed her arms behind her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap like that. Jerico told us of Lord Arthur, and of how noble he was, but that dour old man was nothing like the stories.”

“Do not judge him too harshly,” Dieredon said. “Nothing is crueler than giving hope to a hopeless man and then immediately snatching it away. Now come with me. We need to see how much time we have.”

Jessilynn kept quiet and followed the elf back to the stairs. Instead of going down, they climbed up until they emerged onto the roof of the castle. Jessilynn crossed her arms against the sudden chill of the wind. Dieredon walked to the parapet and gazed westward. From such height they had a beautiful view of the surrounding grasslands beyond the protective wall surrounding the castle grounds. Everything in the far distance was hazy, but Jessilynn knew Dieredon’s sharp eyes would be the envy of a hawk.

“It’s as I feared,” Dieredon said as he shaded his eyes from the sun. “Pray angels come swiftly, Jessilynn. We have two days, maybe three at most, before we’re out of time.”

“Why? What do you see?”

Dieredon shook his head and grabbed his bow as if needing its comfort.

13

“S
o how goes your studies?” Roand asked as he stepped through the door.

“Wonderfully,” Tarlak replied. He sat at his desk in the room that doubled as both his residence and study. On one side was his bed, mattress stuffed with down so soft it hurt his back upon waking. Near it was a dresser with what few clothes he had, mostly black robes. Tarlak hated the color, for it reminded him too much of Karak’s priests, but it was hardly the highest entry on his list of daily things driving him insane. There was also his entrapment in the tower and Cecil’s constant presence. The worst, though, was the burning, itchy pendant sticking to the skin around his neck.

The vast majority of Tarlak’s room was dedicated to the study and practice of magic. Three shelves lined the walls, each filled with notes, tomes on random, obscure topics such as astral projection and polymorphism, and various alchemical ingredients and spell components. Roand had given him complete freedom to choose studies, so long as he shared his results with the rest of the tower.

Tarlak pointed at Cecil, who sat in a chair opposite him.

“Tell me, does that hair look natural to you?”

Roand crossed his arms and looked over Tarlak’s assigned apprentice and servant. Cecil sat hunched in the chair, face and neck flushed from anger and embarrassment. On his face grew a red beard that hung a foot below his neck.

“Natural as in to him, or as in real hair?” Roand asked. “Because it clearly does not match Cecil’s blond hair.”

“Real hair,” Tarlak said.

“Of course it looks like real hair,” Cecil muttered, scratching at it. “It itches like mad, too.”

Tarlak slapped at his apprentice’s hand.

“Don’t scratch. Wait, go ahead and scratch. Does me no good if it falls right off the moment someone gives it a good tug.”

“I take it this endeavor is of a selfish nature?” Roand stated.

“That’s right,” Tarlak said, patting his own burned face. “Need to replace what you and your ilk took from me. Two weeks now, and not a whisker. Clearly magical interference will be required to look like my dashing self again.”

He waved his fingers through motions he’d learned from one of his books. Cecil’s beard thickened the tiniest bit, the hairs losing some of their curl.

“An illusion spell would be easier,” Roand said.

“I don’t want illusion spells,” Tarlak said, frowning as he examined his work. “I want the real thing. I want to feel the wind blowing through my hair. I want to tug at my beard as I think deep thoughts, such as ‘how does one escape an inescapable collar of disintegration?’ Speaking of beard, Cecil, yours is clearly not red enough.” He snapped his fingers. “Hrm, too much red now, and it’s still too long. Each tweak’s just making it worse. We need to start all over. Go back to your room and give yourself a good shave. I’ll wait.”

Cecil glared as he rose from his stool. The combination of his mop-top blond hair and reddish beard made him look ridiculous, and Tarlak grinned ear to ear as his apprentice left the room. Cecil’s constant presence was annoying, true, but it did allow occasional moments of entertainment.

“So,” Tarlak said, swiveling on his stool to face the lord of the tower. “I’ve been giving some thought to this pendant of yours. Would a transitional state of matter do the trick?”

Roand frowned, the fire in his hair rippling.

“The moment you left a physical state, the spell would vaporize the substance you did become.”

Tarlak clapped his hands as if disappointed. After he’d been inducted into the Council, Roand had brought him to his room and attached the pendant he currently wore about his neck. It was a chain of thick gold, with the front containing seven rubies of varying sizes. The rubies stuck to him like honey, and no matter what the time of day, or the temperature of the room, they remained uncomfortably warm. He tried shifting it up and down his neck as much as possible to keep the discomfort minimal, and every time he revealed thick red blotches on his skin. The purpose of the pendant was incredibly simple: should Roand ever desire it, for any reason, he could activate the magic of the pendant, turning Tarlak into dust.

“What if I teleport?” Tarlak asked.

“The pendant would travel with you,” Roand said.

“Polymorphed myself into a mudskipper?”

“The pendant would resize itself to match your new size.”

Tarlak tapped his lips.

“Waves of dispel magic?”

“Automatic activation prior to any detrimental effects.”

Before Tarlak could ask again, Roand sighed, interrupting him.

“That pendant is the finest product of my lifetime of work,” he said. “Four men have worn it, and all four have died attempting to remove it after varying lengths of time. No spell, no trick, no method possible will remove that pendant from your body or protect you from its disintegration. But let us presume otherwise. If you
did
discover a method to safely remove the pendant, what makes you think I would tell you?”

Tarlak grinned.

“What makes you think if I discovered a method that actually worked, I’d ask you?”

“You are amusing, Tarlak,” Roand said, chuckling. “I am glad you did not die during Antonil’s defeat.”

“Same here,” Tarlak muttered as Cecil returned, his face cleanly shaven. “Ah, welcome back, baby-face. Are you ready to grow a beard?”

“No,” Cecil said, kicking over the stool he’d been sitting on. “I will not endure another beard, or change of my nose, or turning my hair into that bloody awful shade of red.”

Tarlak wagged a finger at him.

“You’re my servant, mister Towerborn, which means you’ll aid in my experiments in any non-lethal way I see fit.”

“No,” Cecil said, a feverish look in his eye. “I’m not your servant, not anymore. Tarlak Eschaton, I hereby challenge you for your seat on the Council. Do you accept?”

Tarlak raised an eyebrow as he peered over Cecil’s shoulder to the bemused-looking Roand.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked.

Roand’s subdued laughter was answer enough.

Tarlak and Cecil stood on opposite ends of the bridge connecting the two towers, Tarlak before the Masters’ door, Cecil the Apprentices’. Wizards and apprentices watched from windows of both towers. Their judge, Roand, stood to the side of the bridge on a floating disc of flame that swirled beneath his feet but did not singe a single thread of his orange shoes. It felt like a spectator sport, including cheers from the onlookers as Roand announced their names.

“Cecil Towerborn, you have claimed a seat on the Council,” Roand said, his voice booming with melodramatics. “Tarlak Eschaton, it is your seat he has claimed. You must defend it with your life, or surrender your magic forever.”

Tarlak beckoned over the Lord of the Council.

“Just for curiosity’s sake,” he asked, “how is it you will enforce such a punishment should I decide to surrender and vacate the premises instead of fighting that loon over there?”

“Dead men cast no spells,” Roand said.

“Fair enough,” Tarlak said. “Then I’m keeping my seat. Sorry, Cecil. Better luck next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Cecil shouted from the other side. “Your corpse will float upon the Rigon before this day is through!”

“Sure it will,” Tarlak muttered as Roand floated back to the center of the bridge on his burning disc. “Overeager little brat.”

Roand resumed his little speech, with Tarlak convinced it was more for the onlookers than him and Cecil.

“The rules for the duel are few, and handed down to us by Turock Escheton in the early days of the founding. These rules will be enforced by myself, and by others of the Council if necessary. Whoever leaves this bridge, be it of your own accord or at the hands of your opponent, forfeits the duel. Though the bridge is protected with many ancient runes; anyone attempting to destroy the bridge immediately forfeits the duel. Once the duel has begun, it shall continue until a winner is established, halting only by my direct intervention. You may use any magic at your disposal, so long as you do not violate either of the first three rules. Is this understood?”

“Understood,” the two said in unison.

Roand raised his right arm and glanced back and forth between them. “May this duel be one of honor, skill, and courage.” His arm dropped. “You may begin.”

Cecil immediately took the offensive, just as Tarlak thought he would. Twin lances of ice shot from the apprentice’s hands, arcing over the bridge only to collide with the magical shield Tarlak summoned to protect himself. As the ice shattered, the shield rippled and distorted his sight of Cecil on the other side. The apprentice laughed.

“I’ve watched you, you know,” he said, several more lances streaking in. Tarlak grunted as he poured more power into the shield. The ice struck, then broke, the shards scattered across the red and black brick before plunging into the Rigon River far below.

“Have you now?” Tarlak asked. “I should have guessed you were into that.”

Just to annoy the petulant apprentice, Tarlak flicked a ball of fire no larger than a beetle toward Cecil’s head.

“Joke all you want,” Cecil said as he ducked beneath the attack, the fire striking the tower and fizzling into white smoke. “I watched you perform your experiments. I’ve seen how you struggle.” Fire swelled around his hands, bright and golden. “You’re weak. You’re soft. You’re pathetic.”

He punctuated each sentence with a ball of flame. Tarlak dropped to one knee, his fingers dancing. Ice swelled before him, rising up to form a wall. The fire struck its smooth surface, filling it with cracks but failing to penetrate.

“Oh stop,” Tarlak shouted over his ice wall. “You’re making me blush.”

“Enough!” Cecil screamed. The apprentice slammed his hands together, and a wave of forced shattered the ice wall and sent Tarlak rolling. He hit the door with a thud and let out a gasp. It seemed he’d struck a nerve.

“I am tired of never being taken seriously!” Cecil said as lightning crackled around his clenched fists. “I am tired of being everyone’s joke!”

Lightning crashed against Tarlak’s revived shield. He gritted his teeth as the lightning slammed in again and again, vanishing mere feet away from his body against the invisible protection.

“No jokes then,” Tarlak said when Cecil finally stopped. The apprentice doubled over, gasping for air. He’d overextended himself, and Tarlak had no doubt a pounding headache would soon follow. Cecil had potential, but no control, no subtlety. The only problem was, he wasn’t exactly wrong when he mentioned how weak Tarlak felt...

“No jokes, just wisdom,” Tarlak continued. “Surrender now. This isn’t worth your life. I’ve fought prophets and gods, Cecil. You don’t compare.”

Instead of calming him down, Cecil was enraged further. Dozens of red arrows shot from his palms, each one shimmering with heat. Tarlak slammed his hands together, summoning a powerful gust of wind perpendicular to the bridge. It shoved the arrows off course, and then with a thought, Tarlak adjusted the wind so it blew against Cecil as well. He hoped the apprentice would go toppling over the edge, ending the duel before anyone was seriously hurt.

He wasn’t so lucky. Cecil planted his feet and pushed a hand toward the wind. Arcane words of power poured off his tongue, countering the spell. The wind died, having mussed his hair.