The Restored King (The Fallen King Chronicles Book 4) Read online

  He left her in the darkened alley, alone. He dismissed his armor and blade as he walked toward District street.

  —

  Aramis found the house easily enough. It was the only building on the street that seemed out of place. Everything else was in good condition and well taken care of. The boarded windows hid any light that might be shining within.

  The door was unlocked and opened with a soft creak. The main room was alight with a fire burning in a stone hearth. The walls showed signs of age and the floor squeaked as he made his way toward the figure standing in front of the fire.

  “Brother,” he called out.

  “Aramis,” Adamar replied. “Did you bring the items?”

  “I brought the blood.”

  Adamar turned from the fire to face him. “What of the bones? Did the templar get them?”

  “No,” Aramis said. “They are still hidden by the spell. I can get the magic to release them anywhere I am.”

  Adamar stared at him. “What happened? You look like you ran to get here.”

  “It’s nothing,” Aramis answered with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Aramis knelt on the floor and drew his rusty dagger. He cut a circular shape into the wood and crossed through it with an intricate set of lines. After he finished, he sheathed his dagger and closed his eyes. Feeling the power of the Mark flowing through him, he channeled it toward the symbol he’d cut. The air rippled in front of him briefly before a brown sackcloth appeared. Cutting off the flow of power, he snatched the bag up just as the symbol burst into flames. They seared the floor and then quickly diminished.

  “The Mark gives you magic?” Adamar asked curiously.

  “No. Well, not that I know of. The spell was cast by a wizard. She told me how to unlock it.”

  Adamar eyed him greedily. “I’ve begged Mordum for the Mark,” he said softly. “Yet he makes me wait for it.”

  “You shouldn’t want it,” Aramis replied. “It’s brought me nothing but death.”

  “So where is the blood?”

  Aramis produced the wineskin from his belt.

  “The blood, the bones, and the ashes,” Adamar said with awe. “I knew it would be me. I knew I would be the one to perform the ritual and bring him back.”

  “What are you talking about?” Aramis said. “We’re hiding these from the Prophet until we can kill him. Then we need to find a way to destroy them.”

  Adamar laughed. “No, little brother. I will not keep Mordum from what he desires. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

  Aramis took a step back towards the door. “I am going to stop the plague that is Mordum from spreading.”

  “I don’t think you are going anywhere,” Adamar said.

  Rough hands grabbed him from behind. He dropped the wineskin and the bag as he struggled against his attackers. He saw a glint of steel and then felt a stinging pain on his arm. He managed to glimpse his arm and saw that his tattoo had been cut.

  “Hurry,” Adamar commanded. “The Mark will heal. Get him to the ceremony. Quickly!”

  Aramis was struck in the back of the head and then there was only darkness.

  “To abandon a friend to the darkness

  would be an assault upon my conscience.”

  —Melchiades

  CHAPTER thirteen

  When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was the noise. Hundreds of people, most of them wearing the robes of Mordum’s priests, were gathered around a large pit that had been dug. Aramis guessed it must have been created recently, as the dirt was dark and fresh.

  The crowd was chanting, but he couldn’t make out the words. The ringing in his ears was hindering him from making out their words. He also had a pounding headache. He was standing upright, bound by thick ropes across his legs and chest. Aramis tested their strength. They didn’t budge. He tried to summon his blade, but nothing happened. The connection he felt to the Mark was nonexistent. Glancing down, he saw why.

  His tattoo had been cut and the skin was pinned back, keeping the two pieces from touching. Disgusting, he thought. The way his arms were tied, he couldn’t reach to remove the small metal pins. He looked up. He was standing atop a raised platform in front of the pit, overlooking the crowd. It was like looking at a sea of blackness. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of the robed men. All of them followers of Mordum.

  Aramis cursed them under his breath. He listened intently to their chanting. He could only hear it faintly above the ringing, but he could swear that the words were calling to him. He grew uncomfortably warm. Something was happening, but he didn’t know what. The crowd continued their chant, and Aramis suspected they were saying the same words, over and over.

  The sky filled with storm clouds. They came suddenly, with incredible speed. Solid black, roiling and churning like some sort of monster. The clouds devoured the tops of the castle’s guard towers, crawling over them to consume them whole. The chill wind strengthened, whipping dust from the ground into eyes and mouths.

  A bolt of lightning flashed out from the clouds above, spearing the ground near the pit. Thunder exploded. The concussion knocked some of the priests to the ground. A small group of women screamed. The men who were still standing tried to calm them, but the women would have none of it. They fled in a mad panic.

  “Forget them!” Adamar shouted from beside Aramis. He wondered if his brother had been there the whole time, or if he had just arrived.

  The storm clouds raced across the sky, battling the sunlight, defeating it easily. The sun fell, overcome by darkness. Night was upon them, a night thick with swirling dust. Aramis could see nothing, not even his own feet. The next second all around him was illuminated by another devastating lightning bolt. Rain slashed sideways, coming at him all like arrows fired from a million bowstrings. Hail pounded on him like iron-tipped flails, cutting and bruising. Lightning walked among the crowd, casting its flaming spears. Thunder shook the ground and roared.

  The rain fell harder, if that were possible. Aramis wondered how long the raging storm could last. It felt like a lifetime, like he had been born in the storm and would grow old and die in the storm. The rain and ice pelted him and felt like stinging nettles across his entire body. He could only lower his head to try and shelter his face, but even that seemed futile.

  A lightning flash momentarily blinded him. The blast deafened him. The force of the thunderbolt lifted a man off his feet and slammed him back down. The bolt had struck so close, Aramis could hear the sizzle in the air and smell the phosphorous and sulfur. He could also smell burnt flesh. As his sight slowly restored, he looked in the direction of the man who’d been struck. The priest’s flesh glowed red beneath a black crust, like a hunk of overcooked meat. Smoke rose from it; the wind whipped it away, along with flecks of charred flesh. The skin of the man’s face had burned away, revealing a mouthful of hideously grinning teeth.

  Adamar braved the wind and rain and leapt down from the platform, landing at the edge of the pit. He grabbed a sack from one of the cowering priests and climbed down into the pit. From Aramis’s vantage point, he could barely make out what his brother was doing. Adamar reached into the sack and pulled out something white—bones. He lay them out, piecing them together until it looked like a skeletal man lay in the dirt. Then he pulled the wineskin out of the sack and poured the blood on the bones. He covered the skull with it and even kneeled to smear it, ensuring the entire skull was covered. Then he pulled out a small box and dumped out what Aramis assumed were the ashes.

  The wind died. The rain softened to a steady downpour. The hail ceased altogether. Thunder rumbled a drumroll, which seemed to mark time with the pace of a strange figure of darkness steadily growing nearer with each illuminating flare. The storm receded, carrying its fury to the other side of the castle, to other parts of the world.

  Soaking wet, Aramis shook the water and muck from his face. The wind was cold and crisp and chill, and he was shivering. The dark cloud filled the pit, obscuring Adamar within it
s clutches. Slowly, yet steadily, it flowed forth out of the pit, coming towards the platform, towards Aramis. An intense feeling of dread spread through him. He struggled against his bonds again, but they wouldn’t give way.

  The shadowy cloud pooled onto the platform at his feet, gradually shifting and turning until a vague outline of a man formed. The face was insubstantial and shifted amongst itself, never staying the same. Despite that, Aramis knew exactly what—who—stood before him.

  “Mordum,” he whispered.

  The form pulsed in recognition of its name. Suddenly the pins in his arm came loose and clattered to the ground. His skin rolled back together, healing by the power of the mark. Heart thudding against his chest, Aramis stared into the face of darkness, the face of death. And then the shadow plunged into his mouth.

  —

  Adamar climbed out of the pit just as the shadowy cloud that was Mordum entered Aramis’s body. He watched in envy while Aramis’s body twitched and jerked as Mordum fought for control. Suddenly, a horn split the air. Adamar looked from tower to tower to see who was sounding the alarm. Spotting a guard waving a flag, he ordered one of the priests to go find out what was happening.

  He turned his attention back to Aramis. His younger brother writhed and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. “He’s putting up a stronger fight than I expected,” he muttered to himself.

  A tremor shook the ground, following quickly by another. The horn sounded again, this time from the other side of the courtyard. A whistling sound filled the air. Adamar looked in every direction, but he didn’t see anything. A crashing sound echoed through the air.

  “What is going on?” Adamar demanded angrily. The priests were standing around confusedly. They began to murmur among themselves. “I have to do everything myself, it seems.” Adamar pushed through the crowd toward the first guard tower he’d spotted that had been sounding the alarm. As he got closer, it was evident something was wrong. Soldiers were running towards the main gate, hauling long timbers.

  “My Lord,” a breathless soldier hailed him. “Creatures,” he gasped. He placed his hands on his knees and bent over, trying to restore his breath. Adamar waited impatiently while trying to get a view beyond the gate.

  “Forgive me,” the man finally said. “There are creatures attacking the gate. I’ve never seen the like before. The others are trying to fortify the damage from earlier.” The soldier’s eyes strayed towards Aramis and the pit.

  “Creatures? What do they look like?” Adamar asked.

  Metal clanged as the gate shuddered inward. Shouts and curses rose from the soldiers who were trying to brace the damaged gates. Adamar stalked to the crowd of soldiers, leaning left and right to try and see what creatures were attacking his castle. And then he caught sight of one of them, just barely. Its head was large and round and looked like a stone.

  “Golems,” a voice said. Adamar turned to see his remaining body guard standing beside him.

  “What?” Adamar said, wondering where his guard had disappeared to. “I’ve never heard you speak before,” he added.

  “Golems,” the templar said. “They are creatures formed of magic and earth. There are few who can summon them.”

  Adamar looked back at the gate. “How do you kill them?” he asked.

  “You must kill the one who summoned them,” the templar answered.

  “What are you waiting for?” Adamar demanded. “Go deal with them!”

  The templar wavered for a brief second before bowing and leaving. The hesitation was not lost on Adamar. What, he wondered, could give a templar pause? As far as he knew, nothing could stop Mordum’s most powerful servants. Perhaps the templar was not used to fighting solo. The blasted Prophet of Edria has killed his other templar guard and Mordum had not answered his call for a replacement. He pushed his doubts from his mind.

  “My Lord,” the priest from the crowd jogged over to him. “There are creatures attacking the gate.”

  “So I’ve seen,” Adamar said, his annoyance plain.

  “To the west, a large army is approaching.”

  “How large?” Adamar asked.

  “I think you’ll want to see for yourself,” the priest answered.

  “Show me.”

  The priest led him across the courtyard to a curved stone stairway that led upwards to the battle ramparts. They climbed the flight of stairs quickly and Adamar saw a trio of soldiers pointing in the distance.

  “Let me see,” Adamar growled. He took the spyglass from one of the soldiers. If that priest is exaggerating …

  Lifting the device to his right eye, he gazed out across the plains and scanned the horizon. At first, he didn’t see anything. Then he noticed a plume of dust. He followed its length until he found the source. A black mass encompassed his view. He tried adjusting the device, but he only made the image blurry.

  “Someone fix this thing!” he shouted in frustration. The soldier he’d taken it from adjusted it and handed it back to him. This time, the image was clearer.

  Cavalry. Hundreds, if not thousands, were riding straight toward him. His hopes soared as he thought they were more of Mordum’s mercenaries, but his hope quickly turned to surprise when he saw the banner being carried at the front of the army.

  The flag of Keswick.

  Adamar clenched his jaw and threw the spyglass. It clanged as it struck the stone.

  “Orders, my Lord?”

  Adamar’s thoughts went rampant. An army marching on him. Creatures at his doorstep. Mordum would soon fully possess his brother, if he hadn’t already. He needed to hold them off.

  “Ready the catapults. As soon as the army is within distance of the walls, rain hell on them.”

  He left the wall, taking the stairs two at a time. He ran towards the pit. Climbing onto the platform, he noticed Aramis’s body had gone slack and pale. Turning his attention to the crowd of milling priests, he shouted, “To arms!”

  The priests glanced askance at one another, obviously confused.

  “An army approaches! We must hold them off until our dark lord has taken his vessel. Quickly!”

  Adamar knew he might be pressing his luck. Although it was known that he was favored among Mordum’s servants, his official rank was not very prestigious. The Prophet himself was likely among the crowd.

  In a display that Adamar found truly beautiful, the horde of priests threw back their hoods and summoned their armor and blades. The hissing of mist overpowered any other sound, including the clanging of the gates. A sea of shiny blackness filled his vision and pride swelled within him. This would be his army soon.

  “To the west!” Adamar shouted as loud as he could. The legion of priests streamed forth, heading to the gates.

  He turned to Aramis. It didn’t look like he was breathing. Good, he thought. If Aramis is dead, then Mordum is in control.

  Everything was going in his favor. Aramis was dead, the priests were following his commands, and soon Mordum would walk in his midst. Mordum would bless him with the Mark and he would be the new Prophet. All his sacrifice, everything he had worked for, had led to this moment. He shook visibly with excitement.

  The clash of steel and the shouts of battle erupted nearby. Adamar turned his attention to the raucous. A small band of men, perhaps thirty of them, were clashing with his soldiers less than a hundred feet away. Adamar looked to the gate, but the creatures had not breached it. In fact, the priests swarmed the gate, pushing it outward and attacking the stone golems.

  How in Mordum’s name did they get in here?

  Drawing his own sword, he leapt off the platform and ran to join the fray. As he neared the battle, he recognized one of the men as Aramis’s priest-friend. He’d heard the rumors of the man. Supposedly, he was a priest of Edria before she was killed. If that were true, then his armor and blade had left him. He would be an easy kill.

  Adamar charged into the fight, bringing his sword in a downward arc toward the priest. He immediately regretted it as soon as he’d eng
aged the man. From afar, he appeared to wear normal armor. But as he stood before him now, he realized that the priest still had god blessed armor. He tried to retreat.

  “Come now,” Mel called after him. “You aren’t very brave without your templar guards, are you? Come, let’s dance.”

  Adamar sprinted away, fleeing the battle altogether. He could hear booted steps of pursuit. He ran towards the platform, desperately hoping Mordum had gained full control of Aramis’s body. As he clambered on, he risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the priest had been intercepted by his soldiers.

  His stomach dropped when he saw that Aramis’s body was gone. The ropes lay at the base of the stone slab. He whirled around, bracing for battle. Yet Aramis was nowhere to be seen. Another horn, this one different than the last two, split the air. Adamar looked from the empty slab towards the gate where the priests were swarming out into the main city. Biting his lip in indecision, he left the platform and made his way back to the battle ramparts.

  The soldiers were gone, but the spyglass lay where he left it. Snatching it up, he checked to see if it had broken. The only damage was a few scuff marks on the metal. The lens was still intact. He looked out at the advancing army. They were closing on the main city gates. Black armored priests were forming into ranks outside the city, preparing for close quarters battle.

  Figuring out how to adjust the device, he turned it to the gates. Large piles of stone lay strewn about. He grinned triumphantly, knowing his templar had found those responsible for the creatures. The last of the priests filtered out of the gates, rushing toward their fellows outside the city. A thunderous boom filled the air and drew Adamar’s attention. Flashes of light coming from the approaching army crackled to life, forking their way toward the ranks of Mordum’s priests.

  The magical lightning shattered upon an unseen barrier. Black flames erupted from the priests and spread across the distance, striking the cavalry. Both men and horses were consumed by the unholy fire. Screams of agony reached Adamar’s ears.