“SIR XAVIER SENDS HIS COMPLIMENTS, YOUR Majesty,” Nightingale said. “The Crown Princess and her followers have been reported at Swanhaven.”
He stopped talking, fast, as Randor glared at him. Alassa had been reported at Swanhaven, had she? How long had she been there? It had been a week since the planned execution had gone so badly wrong, a week that could easily have been used to cause a lot of trouble…he silently admired Sir Xavier for being smart enough to send the message through the wretched Nightingale. No doubt his spies had told him that the king was in a foul mood.
“Swanhaven,” he repeated. “And what are they doing there?”
“Preparing for war, Your Majesty,” Nightingale said. “They don’t have the men to succeed…”
“Be silent,” Randor growled.
He stood and started to pace the chamber, thinking hard. The Noblest–damn them all–had somehow managed to conspire with Alassa. There could be no other explanation for their attack, mounted at the worst possible time. Sir Roger had given them a bloody nose, beating back their attack on the city’s walls, but they’d still distracted his men by presenting them with two problems. Now, half the city was in revolt and the other half was only kept under control by the presence of his men. And even though the Noblest had lost the first battle, he was morbidly certain his castles were already under attack. They’d want to take and hold as much as they could before Randor rallied his troops and counterattacked.
The losses were almost too great to comprehend. Matilda was dead; her allies, the Black Robes, hadn’t had the presence of mind to preserve her head before she lost too much blood and died. The Tower of Alexis had been badly damaged, his guards had taken a beating…and he looked weak. That, in many ways, was worst of all. His enemies would take heart, while his allies would begin to shuffle away. A king could not afford to look weak.
“Stay still,” he barked at Nightingale, when the man started to shuffle nervously. “Don’t move a muscle!”
He didn’t have to demand a map to visualize his country. Alassa held Swanhaven–probably Cockatrice too, by now–and she was just far enough from the Crown Lands to make it difficult for him to raid her territories without exposing his rear to the Noblest. There was a good chance they wouldn’t be able to strike at him–Sir Roger really had given them a painful lesson in the power of gunpowder weapons–but he couldn’t take it for granted. And yet, it would take Alassa time to build up an army of her own. He had time to strike at the Noblest himself…
Unless something else changes, he thought. He’d thought the Tower was impregnable…and it had been, until someone–Emily–had changed the rules. Somehow, she’d opened a portal inside the Tower. Who knows what she’ll do next?
His mind ran in circles. He could strike at the Noblest now; hell, he really had no choice but to strike now. They couldn’t be allowed time to regroup, finish taking his castles and ready themselves for another strike on the capital. But even a successful campaign against a rebel baron would risk exposing his rear to Alassa. If the campaign bogged down into a long hard slog, Alassa would attack and that would be the end. She was his daughter. She would double-cross her allies in a heartbeat if that was what she had to do. He needed to win quickly.
I need an advantage, he thought. An idea crossed his mind. It was dangerous, very dangerous. It would unite the Allied Lands against him if the secret ever got out. But it wouldn’t matter if he lost the war. Zangaria needed him. I will do whatever it takes to secure my throne.
He glared at Nightingale. “Come with me,” he ordered. “And be quiet.”
The secret passageway opened at his command. He could practically taste Nightingale’s excitement, mingled with fear, as they made their way into a set of hidden chambers that only Randor knew existed. Nightingale was right to be concerned, he thought wryly; it simply wasn’t healthy to know the secrets of a king. Randor had killed many, some probably innocent, just to make sure his secrets remained his own.
He walked into the workroom and searched the table for the knife. It had been passed down through the generations, a remnant of the time when humanity had been forced to unleash the darkest of arts in a desperate bid for survival. The handle tingled against his palm as he picked it up, a faint sensation of unease running through him. His father and grandfather and all of his ancestors had known to study the blade, but not to use it. He was the first of his line to seriously consider it.
Nightingale shuffled, uneasily, as Randor removed his armor. “Your Majesty…”
Randor spun around and punched him in the stomach, hard. Nightingale doubled over, all the breath knocked out of him. Randor kicked him, watching dispassionately as his body fell to the stone floor. He hadn’t had a proper fight in years, not when very few men would actually try to beat him, and hurting Nightingale was almost satisfying. It wasn’t quite as good as he wanted–the crawler wasn’t even trying to fight back–but it felt good to let off a little frustration.
“You live to serve me,” Randor growled, as he picked up the knife. The ritual was already shaped in his mind. “And you will serve me in death.”
He slashed Nightingale’s throat. Red fire blazed around the blade, leaping through the stone and up into his mind. Randor screamed as flames burned through his thoughts, a surge of pain threatening to drag his mind into the next world; he wanted to draw back, he wanted to escape, but he knew it was already too late. Flames were all around him, burning his flesh and soul and…
I am a king, Randor thought. He concentrated, gritting his teeth against the pain. I rule this kingdom. Every last man, woman and child is mine. And I can rule myself too.
The magic was burning. He was on fire. And yet…slowly, very slowly, he regained control of his mind. The flames faded, but…he could still feel them, dancing along the edge of his mind. His thoughts felt fragile, as if they were on the verge of shattering–or burning–the moment he looked away. He kept concentrating, holding himself together by sheer force of will. His magic was his…
…And the power flowed through him.
Randor opened his eyes, unsure when he’d closed them. His workroom was scorched and pitted, his clothes were charred rags, Nightingale’s body was ash…but his body was unharmed. Of course he was unharmed. It was his power. It could no more harm him than he could cut his own throat. It was his to command.
He laughed, unsteadily, as he walked around the edge of the room. He’d never known what it was like to be a really powerful magician, not until now. And yet, he understood how to use magic. He could do anything, anything at all…as long as the power held up. But there would never be any shortage of victims. He snapped his fingers, focusing his mind. Robes materialized from nowhere, hiding his nakedness. He laughed, again. No one would know what he’d done until it was far too late.
And, when he inspected himself in the mirror, he saw a pair of red eyes looking back.
End of Book Fifteen
Emily Will Return In:
The Broken Throne
Coming Soon.
About the author
Christopher G. Nuttall was born in Edinburgh, studied in Manchester, married in Malaysia and currently living in Scotland, United Kingdom with his wife and baby son. He is the author of twenty-six novels from various publishers and over fifty self-published novels.
Current and forthcoming titles published by Twilight Times Books
Schooled in Magic YA fantasy series Schooled in Magic — book 1
Lessons in Etiquette — book 2
A Study in Slaughter — book 3
Work Experience — book 4
The School of Hard Knocks — book 5
Love’s Labor’s Won — book 6
Trial By Fire — book 7
Wedding Hells — book 8
Infinite Regress — book 9
Past Tense — book 10
The Sergeant’s Apprentice — book 11