The King of the Vile (21 page)

Roand resealed the wax across Deathmask’s lips, shutting him up. He then gently touched the disgraced wizard’s burn scars.

“I merely took your name. That I didn’t take your life was my parting gift to one who showed such promise. But instead of traveling to some remote corner of Dezrel to die in obscurity, you rebelled. You sought power, and practiced magic without our sanction. We even heard rumors of you teaching others our secrets. No matter how simple the spells, how base the cantrips you taught your guild members, you know that is something we do not allow.”

Roand beckoned Tarlak to join him. Tarlak stood, his stomach suddenly cramping.

“I’ve witnessed you fight before,” the lord of the council said. “You’ve a penchant for fire, though you don’t seem willing to specialize in it. Perhaps you should reconsider. Flame is more than heat. It is the perfect method of destruction. It purifies. All matter, all substance, broken down to ash and dust while giving forth light and warmth. If carefully wielded, it can shape stone, twist steel, even remake entire kingdoms if left unchecked.” He gestured to Deathmask’s scarred face. “What you see is a crude, skill-less application. I would show you true art.”

Tarlak didn’t know where this was going, but he knew with absolute certainty he wasn’t going to like it. He consoled himself with the knowledge that Deathmask was going to like it even less.
It’s all about perspective
, he told himself. Perspective, and patience.

“Summoning elemental fire is child’s play,” Roand said. “But if you focus it on an incredibly narrow spot, igniting what you touch with a flash, you can burn flesh faster than the mind can recognize the pain.”

The wizard placed a single finger on Deathmask’s left cheek. Words of magic slipped off his tongue, rapid and short. Tarlak saw a brief flash of red, heard a pop, and then smoke rose in a thin gray trail. Deathmask flinched, clearly expecting pain, but when he opened his eyes he seemed unhurt. Roand pulled back his finger, revealing a single mark on the scars, burned so deeply it matched the blackened skin of a piece of meat left over a fire for too long.

“No pain,” Roand said, smiling with smug satisfaction. “That is, until you want them to feel it.”

As if brushing away a tear, he wiped his thumb across the black mark. The burned skin peeled away, revealing pale pink skin beneath that reddened from a sudden onset of blood. Deathmask screamed into his wax lips, his entire body tensing as he rocked back and forth against the chains. Tarlak shuddered.

“Do you see?” Roand said. “Perfectly smooth in its searing, fully controlled in its placement. A proper application of the art. Now you try.”

Tarlak clenched his jaw tightly as Roand stood aside. Standing before Deathmask, Tarlak wished he could apologize, but he knew doing so would risk Roand’s displeasure. Gently, Tarlak put a forefinger on the other cheek.

“The incantation is the same as a fire burst?” Tarlak asked.

“Perfectly similar. Use your thoughts to shape its flow. Pour out the power, and then cease it completely, as fast as your mind will allow. A flash, Tarlak. You are creating a flash of fire, so intense nothing may endure.”

Tarlak swallowed down his nerves, his shame, and began the words. He felt the power building in his hand, power that he could unleash in a great torrent to impress a dragon, but he narrowed it down, imagining it coming out from the tip of his finger. The moment he felt the release, he ceased his words and cut off the spell. Smoke rose, and Tarlak felt uncomfortable heat on his fingertip. When he pulled back, a black mark similar to Roand’s was burned into Deathmask’s cheek. Tears ran down the captive man’s face as he shuddered in his chains.

“Good,” Roand said. “Very good. Not quite as focused as it needs to be, as you can tell by Deathmask’s pain. To release magic, and then cease it in such rapid secession, is a skill one can only learn with practice.”

He ran his fingers through Deathmask’s hair, pulling it back from his face.

“Lots and lots of practice.”

19

E
ach day that passed exhausted Jessilynn further. With eyes drooping and head hanging she walked the walls of the Castle of the Yellow Rose. The night was young, and she had four more hours before she might sleep again. The walls could never be left unguarded. They were too wide, too long, and it seemed every hour one of the beasts dared test the defenses.

“Looks like tonight might be a quiet one,” one of the soldiers said as Jessilynn passed him by. He remained stationary, spear in one hand, shield at his feet. Part of Jessilynn was envious he didn’t have to walk the entire length, but she also knew standing in one place would result in her falling asleep on her feet.

“I pray it is,” Jessilynn said, smiling at him despite her exhaustion. Her presence inspired hope, and she tried her best to act the part expected of her. The soldier dipped his head, appreciative.

“Climber!” a soldier several hundred yards ahead shouted. Jessilynn felt her heart spike, and she sprinted down the wall in the direction of the cry. Any normal besieging army would have needed ladders, ropes, or siege towers to reach the ramparts, but with their incredible strength and sharp claws, the wolves and hyenas were capable of climbing to the top unaided. It took a bit of time, but if they weren’t spotted by a patrol, a single beast could wreak havoc before being brought down.

Jessilynn raced past several soldiers, all who kept at their stations. At first they’d swarmed any attempted climber, but ceased when a group of four hyena-men reached the top after using another of their own as a distraction. The lesson had cost the lives of twelve good men. Now a handful of soldiers were placed on active patrol specifically to combat climbers, and Jessilynn was the nearest. She watched as the man continued to shout. He held a bow, and twice fired arrows down the length of the wall. Jessilynn leaned between the crenulations and spotted a wolf-man scaling the wall at frightening speed.

“Climber!” shouted another man.

“Climber!” added a third, then a fourth. Jessilynn fought down panic as she pulled her bow off her back. This wasn’t the true invasion, just another testing of their defenses. If it was the true attack, she’d have seen the massive swarms encamped beyond the wall surging toward her, but instead the several hundred yards between them and the wall remained empty. Telling herself to remain calm, she lifted her bow and sighted the climbing wolf-man beneath her. The first archer scored a hit on its shoulder, but the thing kept on coming. Letting out a soft breath, Jessilynn released an arrow of shimmering light. It hit the wall just left of the beast, blasting chunks of stone free. The wolf-man tensed, its head turning away from the bright flash, then resumed climbing.

You’re better than this,
Jessilynn told herself as she pulled back the string. An arrow of light materialized between her fingers, resting on the bow’s sight. The wolf-man put a hand on the top of the wall, claws digging in. Before it could pull itself up, she released, and this time the arrow hit beneath its extended arm. The shot ripped a hole through its side, smashing the bones of its ribs and making a mess of its innards. The beast fell, blood and gore showering the dirt below.

Jessilynn spun on her feet, already pulling on her bowstring. The last soldier she’d passed had his spear ready, but she gave him no time to use it. The moment another wolf-man flung itself atop the wall, she let loose. The arrow struck its head, shattering its skull. The force of the hit flung it sideways, where it hit the stone and then lay still.

Bow still in hand, Jessilynn raced as fast as her legs could carry her, dancing around the bleeding body of the dead wolf-man. Far down the wall she saw several soldiers locked in desperate combat. One, the man she’d greeted, kept his climber along the side of the wall, his spear thrusting so it couldn’t climb up. The angle of the wall kept her from seeing the creature. Jessilynn dropped to her knees and braced herself against the low wall. Half her body hanging over the side, she had a clear shot at the wolf-man. Her first hit was low, breaking the bones in its left leg. Her second broke its spine, dropping the creature.

Back to her feet, back to running. The air in her lungs burned, and she urged herself on despite soreness in every part of her body. She saw one last attack, only instead of one climber, it was three. The first wolf-man accepted a blow to its shoulder so it might reach the top, and it then dove upon the soldier with claws raking, teeth bared. The sounds of his screams were nails in Jessilynn’s spine. She lifted her bow and aimed shakily.

She fired three glowing arrows in rapid succession. The nearest wolf-man died, two different arrows striking its back and punching through to strike the others. Its body erupted in an explosion of blood and bone. The others howled as the arrows struck, one losing an arm, the other collapsing from a hit to the side. The trapped soldier cut one down, then shoved against the other with his shield. Jessilynn drew a regular arrow from her quiver, not wishing to risk harming the brave man. She pulled back the arrow, but had no need to fire. The soldier shoved the injured wolf-man off the side of the wall to fall to its death.

“Please let that be the last,” Jessilynn said as she collapsed onto her back and slowly caught her breath.

The thunderous cry that came from the wolf-man camp seemed to mock her request.

“Children behind the wall!” roared a voice Jessilynn instantly recognized. “I bring you gifts!”

Jessilynn groaned as she pushed herself upright and stared out across the field toward the swelling camp. At the forefront walked Manfeaster, black fur shimmering in the moonlight. The only break in color was around his long hands and claws, which were a deep red, like dried blood. Manfeaster stood tall as his pack gathered.

“Gifts!” Manfeaster cried. “Gifts from a king! Do you not want them?”

Jessilynn’s grip on her bow tightened as she saw a crowd of people pushed through the wolf pack. There were at least forty of them, men, women, and children looking haggard and frightened as they were herded before Manfeaster. Their cries reached the wall, and glancing over her shoulder, Jessilynn saw the frightened populace inside the castle stir with unease. They could hear the prisoners. They could hear Manfeaster’s mockery. Jessilynn wondered how many out of the captured were family or friends of those within.

Soldiers steadily made their way to the wall, those asleep quickly roused and sent to retrieve their armor. Jessilynn waited, surprised by Manfeaster’s patience.

“I know a lord hides within,” the wolf-man shouted. “Let him face me. Let me hear his words. Or is he a coward?”

More soldiers on the wall, including a rather alert looking Dieredon. Given how he’d been resting for less than an hour, Jessilynn felt rather jealous.

“What’s he planning?” Dieredon asked as he joined her side.

“I don’t know,” Jessilynn said. “Maybe he just wants to frighten us?”

The elf squinted into the darkness and shook his head.

“The goblins are building battering rams. It is only a matter of time before they attack. With their combined strength, they will break the gates with ease, removing our only advantage.”

“Then we kill them before they get close,” Jessilynn said. “What choice do we have?”

“What choice indeed,” Dieredon said as his eyes narrowed.

Jessilynn followed the elf’s gaze, but saw only blackness. Something didn’t seem right. “What are they waiting for?” she asked.

“For the goblins to finish,” the elf said. “That must be it.”

“Then what is all this about?” she asked, gesturing to the distant prisoners. “Will they hand them over?”

Dieredon shook his head.

“I do not believe that will be the gift Manfeaster offers. I pray to Celestia I am wrong.”

Manfeaster’s patience steadily faltered until he was pacing before the prisoners, who he’d had lined up shoulder to shoulder.

“Will you ignore me?” he cried. “Will you ignore me even as I rip the flesh from your throat? So be it. I see the eyes on the walls. I know you watch.”

Manfeaster reached out a hand. Jessilynn cried out, surprised and furious, as she saw one of the wolf-men offer him an enormous blade. Darius’s sword...

“Do you see this blade?” the wolf-man cried. “Long I heard stories of its magic. My father could not withstand the power of the sword. We could not cross the river so long as the paladins stood against us. But the paladins are dead. The river is free. The sword is mine.”

He took the weapon in both hands, turned to the nearest prisoner, and swung. It cleaved the woman in half at the waist. She died screaming, and those nearby joined in as wolf-men grabbed their arms and shoved them to their knees. One after the other, Manfeaster swung the blade, ripping open their throats, their chests, their stomachs. With each swing, he grew more accustomed to the weapon, more accurate with his executions.

Jessilynn lifted her bow, using her forearm to wipe tears from her eyes. She could not endure to see Darius’s blade used in such a way, to slay the innocent. She could not sit back and do nothing. The distance was great, but she knew her blessed arrows could cross it. Light shone upon her as she pulled back the string.

“Don’t,” Dieredon said, grabbing her elbow.

“Why not?” Jessilynn asked.

“Because what we need more than anything is time,” he said. “Manfeaster is willing to wait for the goblins to finish. Let him. Every minute that passes is one minute closer until angels from Mordeina arrive.”

“If I kill him, they might scatter,” she argued.

“Or they’ll attack at once,” Dieredon said. “I know this is hard, but you must put down the bow.”

The light of her arrow stood out upon the dark wall, and it seemed it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Little girl?” Manfeaster said after he finished killing the last poor soul. “Little paladin girl, is that you?”

“I am here,” Jessilynn shouted, keeping the arrow drawn so its light might shine upon her. “Have you come to die like your brother? I killed him in his hunt, shot him dead like the dog he was. The same fate awaits you if you do not leave this place.”

Manfeaster bared his fangs and panted laughter.

“I will taste your blood upon my tongue so very soon. Spare me your frightened words. They are feathers against my flesh.”

I’ll show you feathers,
thought Jessilynn as she pulled back her arrow for flight.

“Don’t,” Dieredon said quietly. “Your time will come. Trust me, Jessilynn, please.”

Jessilynn swallowed down the foul taste in her mouth and lessened the pressure on her drawstring.

“We refuse your gift,” she shouted to the wolf king. “And we deny your crown.”

“That wasn’t the gift,” Manfeaster said. “I will give you my gift.”

He snarled something to the wolf-men around him. They bent down to the bodies and tore off their heads. Some broke easily, some needed to be twisted and pulled. Jessilynn shivered at every
crack
and
snap
. Forty wolf-men then rushed forward, each carrying a head. The moment they were close enough they flung the heads toward the walls. They could not reach the top, but flesh-covered skulls smacked all across its lengths. The wet crunching sound made Jessilynn want to vomit. The soldiers manning the wall looked equally horrified.

“This land is mine!” Manfeaster roared. “It belongs to the King of the Vile. I will chase you from it. I will break every head upon this wall. You rule no longer. The prison you made for us shall never be our home. This is our home now. Our land. Our nation. You will enter only as food for our bellies. Do you hear me, children behind the wall? Do you hear the bones breaking? Do you hear us feast?”

The wolf-men rushed back to the army and feasted as the soldiers watched. They tore into the bodies of the villagers, ripped them into pieces to be fought over. Tears ran down Jessilynn’s face as she looked back to the hundreds of people gathered behind the wall, all relying on Arthur’s soldiers to protect them.

“I don’t care if they have battering rams,” she said as the entire horde of creatures bellowed, shrieked, and roared. “I don’t care how many they send, or how strong they are. We won’t let this place fall. We won’t let that fate befall those looking to us for salvation.”

Dieredon placed a hand on her shoulder.