Well of the Damned

Chapter 3





Water ran down the slopes of the mountains that embraced the capitol city of Tern, streaming from every direction to converge and rush down the main road. It covered the street, gushing downhill and threatening to carry with it anything or anyone not heavy enough or tied down strongly enough to resist its force. Those whose homes sat at higher elevations used bags of sand and gravel to direct the water around their houses instead of through them. Others weren’t so lucky and had to abandon their homes and seek refuge with relatives or friends whose houses had not yet flooded.

The River Athra, swollen to the tops of its banks, roared through the city like an angry beast. The river that provided the citizens of Tern its drinking water now threatened their lives with its crumbling banks and overflow.

Gavin Kinshield called for a halt where the water had started to spill over the eroded bank and form a rivulet that, if left unchecked, would damage the homes and businesses in its path. “Let’s build this bank up here,” he shouted over the roar of the river. He swung down from the back of his warhorse and joined the dozen others with him in unloading sandbags from their wagon. The people working alongside him, men and women who served as battlers and carpenters and cooks and acolytes of the church, formed a line and began passing sandbags from the wagon to where Gavin received and stacked them on the bank. With his great height, every time he bent down to place a bag, the cloak on his back shifted forward and got in the way. It wasn’t keeping him dry anyway, and so he pulled it off and tossed it over Golam’s gray rump, then turned back to the task at hand. He’d lost his hat at the last spot upstream, and now rain dripped into his eyes and mouth and soaked his tunic and trousers, making them cling heavily to his body.

“My liege,” one of the men said. “We can handle it from here. Why don’t you go inside and dry off? We wouldn’t want you catching your death.”

Gavin grinned and shook his head. “And let you have all the fun?”

He preferred any sort of physical labor to sitting on his arse listening to people bicker over whose idea had the most merit or whose fault this or that problem was. Becoming king hadn’t been his choice. Not truly. He’d gotten trapped into the job when his ancestor Ronor Kinshield made a promise to King Arek two hundred years earlier, but that wasn’t where the story started. It hadn’t even started when the king’s trusted mage, Crigoth Sevae, summoned the beyonder champion Ritol to kill King Arek. It had begun when Sevae decided to take the throne for himself, begging the question that tapped Gavin’s shoulder: why? He didn’t have the answers, not yet, though he awoke every morning with the question on his mind. Hauling and stacking sandbags in the pouring rain was a pleasant diversion.

After he’d closed the rift between the realms to stop the constant invasion of beyonders upon Thendylath, clearing the palace of debris had provided Gavin a means to keep his body strong, but that task was finished. Now, his most pressing concern — more urgent than satisfying his curiosity about the country’s history — was keeping his people safe.

He took another bag from the woman beside him and stacked it on the ground to build up the eroded riverbank. If the residents of Tern were in danger of losing their homes or livelihood from the flooding, the people living in towns downstream could be worse off. If the levees held, they might escape disaster, but many of those levees were old and in need of repair. His mind continued to churn as he arranged bags until the rivulet disappeared. How was the rest of Thendylath faring in this torrential rain? Crops would be under water, livestock would be going hungry. A hard winter was in store for his people.

Gavin paused with a bag in his hands, uncertain whether the sound he heard was a rumble of thunder or something else. There was no lightning flashing among the dark clouds.

“Anyone hear thunder?” he asked.

“No, my liege,” came several replies.

Aldras Gar, his sword whispered in his mind. He didn’t think he would ever hear the enchantment’s warning again, after the beyonders had been vanquished.

Gavin dropped the bag of sand and looked around for an enemy while he reached over his left shoulder for the hilt of his sword.

Small rocks tumbled down the face of the mountain slope on the opposite bank, and then what looked like a sheet of earth started to slide. “Get back!” he yelled, waving his arms to the people working beside him. “Everyone, get back.” He gathered them up with arms spread wide and pushed them towards the street. From behind him came a deep rumble. Rocks and bits of dirt began to rain down on the river from bank to bank and beyond. A few large rocks fell with a hard thud and spit debris and water in all directions, spattering the wary onlookers. A boulder came loose and first slid, then bounced down the slope, its leaps getting bigger as it picked up speed.

Aldras Gar.

It took an angled bounce and veered towards Gavin and his team. People screamed and turned to run. One hand grabbed Gavin’s arm and another his shirt to try to pull him out of the boulder’s path.

And then everything slowed. A couple men yelled, “Save the king!” as they leaped towards him to shield him from the brunt of the force. Gavin’s mind went immediately to the hilt of his sword. With his will, he focused through its gems as if they were spectacles for his magic. He swung the sword and at the same time pushed from his gut. The hands pulled him off balance, and he started to fall. In a brilliant flash of light, Aldras Gar sliced the boulder in two. The force of the blow sent the boulder halves hurtling through the air. One landed in the raging river, and the other slammed into the mountain, burying half of its mass in the wet dirt. The impact sent a spray of water, pebbles and mud outward. The onlookers shielded their faces with their arms just as the gush of water drenched them. The onslaught ended as quickly as it had started. Mud and rocks settled, and all was still again on the mountain slope.

Everyone cheered. Hands patted Gavin’s shoulder and back, and grasped his arm to help him stand.

“By the gods, did you see that?” someone exclaimed.

“You saved our lives,” said another.

“That was the most excitement I’ve had in three months,” Gavin said. He grinned broadly, standing there wet from head to toe and speckled with bits of earth. In his hand, Aldras Gar vibrated like the fading gong of a bell. He missed times like this — working hard, saving people, and showing off for the ladies.

“I’ve never seen such a thing!” one woman said.

“My first glimpse at your magic. It was a marvel!” another exclaimed.

“My liege,” a man said, “are you injured?”

Gavin snorted. Falling on his arse in the mud wasn’t quite enough to hurt him, though he understood their concern. He was the first king in more than two hundred years, and nobody wanted to bury him before he sired an heir. “I’m fine. Anyone get hurt?”

Assured that all had returned to normal, Gavin resheathed his sword and went to inspect their work. A few of the sandbags had taken a beating and spilled their guts into the river, but for the most part, the bank was holding. “Let’s patch this up and move on to the next spot.”

“Your Grace,” someone called.

Gavin flinched, realizing that meant him. It was going to take him a while to get used to answering to the various titles people gave him, though he supposed he preferred majesty and grace to ’ranter. If he heard that denigration ever again, he would be wearing someone’s teeth around his wrist.

A rider, hunched under his cloak, trotted towards him, splashing through the mud and puddles and waving an arm. “Your Grace, Lord Dawnpiper asked me to find you. He requests you return to the palace straight away.”