Magician Prince (2 page)

-An excerpt from the journals of Tire
Goldennaire, Council Magister

The common room of The Shaving Axe was
covered in shadows from the quartet of lamps placed one in each
corner. Though it was midday no natural light could reach the inn
located a hundred yards under the surface of the earth in the
bustling dwarven city. The low light was not a factor for most of
the bearded populace, but for the human, Byrn Firemas, and his
traveling companion, Sarianna of the Red Tree Forest elves, it was
still difficult adjusting to the total blackness of living
underground even after the months that they spent in the dwarven
kingdom of Ghant and the seaside city of Cardamon.

Byrn sipped some rock-ale, a nasty concoction
that was a favorite of the underground denizens who had never had
the pleasure of tasting ale made with the wonder of wheat. He
forced the liquid down his throat and did his best not to gag, an
act that would have earned him some good-natured ridicule from not
only Sari, but the two dwarven magicians, Nikare and Tire.

Nikare watched Byrn closely for any sign that
the human was having difficulty with the brew and nodded agreeably
when Byrn’s mug rested on the table and took several large gulps of
his own before slamming his mug triumphantly with a toothy
grin.

“Boys, if you are quite done, the bard is
about to begin,” the elder dwarf and father to Nikare, Tire told
them and they turned as a group to watch the lone dwarf in his
fancy leggings tuning an out of key lute. As bards go, this one was
fairly dreadful when it came to the much vaunted musical talents of
the human kingdoms, but they came to The Shaving Axe for the other
bit of value that bards were known to provide: gossip mixed in with
a bit of news.

The bard scanned the crowd before him with a
thoughtful expression. “I have news that most of you will find
disturbing,” he told them without cheer, “It is no secret about the
trials that have been happening across the Great Sea in Aurelia.”
He strummed his lute lightly as if he were reciting a poem and not
speaking plainly. “For the past year, Aurelia has been accosted by
magi bent on overthrowing their good King Kale. We all know that
the war there has been terrible with much loss of life. Aurelia
continues to struggle against their magi and worse yet our own magi
have been very vocal about seeking what they call restitutions from
the Council.”

“Death to the Firehawk! Death to them all!”
shouted one dwarf who was bolstered by shouts of agreement from a
few others in the common room.

“Aye! Death to the Firehawk!” Nikare repeated
and held his mug for all to see. He gave Byrn a none-too-subtle
wink and they clinked their mugs together though Nikare thought it
far more humorous than Byrn did.

“Death to the Firehawk,” Byrn repeated less
boisterously and gritted as he took another sip of his rock-ale as
Nikare finished off his mug. “I should have left you in that prison
camp,” Byrn whispered to him.

“I was just joking with you. We are friends
just like you and father. Are we not?” was Nikare’s quiet response.
He pretended to take no notice of Tire’s glare.

The bard held up his hands for silence before
continuing. “The Firehawk is nothing more than superstition. It is
an old wives’ tale meant to inspire the dwarven people, but the
magi have sought to turn this legend against us for their own
ends.” The bard continued talking, but Byrn paid him little mind.
He had heard all that he needed to know. Fighting was still heated
in Aurelia. He had tarried for too long in helping the dwarven
magicians, not that he had any recourse to cross the Great Sea
since arriving in the city. The magi protests started with the best
of intentions for equality, but the dwarven magic users were soon
on the brink of defeat due to their own unwillingness to resort to
violence when Byrn arrived and took up the guise of the Firehawk-
an old character from dwarven lore who was said to have been the
one to lead the dwarves underground to avoid a long forgotten
catastrophe at the hands of the orcs thousands of years earlier.
The Firehawk saved them, but more importantly it inspired them to
fight on all those years ago, and it was that same inspiration that
Byrn tried to bring the dwarven magicians.

“Are you sure you want to go back? Think of
all we could still learn from one another.” Tire asked snapping
Byrn from his thoughts. “Nikare will not admit it, but even he
appreciates all that you have done to aid us.”

Avoiding locking eyes with Byrn, Nikare
twisted his head around and hollered for the waitress to refill his
mug.

“I must go,” Byrn told them, “There are
people I care about back home and I must know they are safe. I have
tarried here too long already.”

“Luck be with you,” Sari extended her hand
and they clasped each other by the wrists.

“You can still come with me,” Byrn offered,
“Your bow would be of great help.”

Sari shook her head, “It is not my fight and
I now have a duty to return to my people.” Shortly after being
transported to the Red Tree Forest, Byrn and Sari learned that her
father, Shatala, had grown ill in her thirty-year absence. Though
she would not be the next leader of her clan due to her long
absence, Sari still decided that she wanted to be there for her
father in his final years. “Just promise me that you will find Sane
if he still lives and give him my rune.”

“I will.”

“Then this is the end of our alliance,” Tire
lamented, “but know that you will both always be welcome in my
humble alchemy shop.”

“Enough with the goodbyes,” Nikare cut in,
“Byrn, we have found a vessel that should meet your needs and is
set to disembark within the week, but it will require no small bit
of magic on your part.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Byrn assured
him.

The incessant bickering of the nobles drove
Prince Janus to distraction. They stood before his father’s court
and pleaded for favors like back alley beggars or tried to position
themselves to improve their social standing, but when Aurelia
needed them to protect their own cities, they could not be counted
on to do even that much.

For a year the Collective magicians had
terrorized the kingdom with great success. They would lay waste to
a fort or a Kenzai outpost, and then disappear as quickly as they
came. Usually they kept their attacks limited to military targets,
but every few weeks they would grow bold and raid a city just to
show that they could. The only advantage that the kingdom held was
the magicians’ lack of manpower. They could attack any place in the
kingdom seemingly appearing from nowhere and disappearing just as
quickly, but they lacked the bodies necessary to occupy and hold
those outposts that they seemed to take such delight in attacking
without spreading their numbers too thin, so the kingdom could
always take them back though there was little left once the
magicians were done.

Worse than the loss of buildings and
resources was the effect that it had on the commoners. They were
frightened for their lives and their confidence in the nobility to
protect them was waning. As sentiments against the nobility grew
the poor sheep would eventually throw their lot in with the
magicians to regain that feeling of safety, no matter how false,
then the crown and its loyal servants would be crushed.

What were the nobles’ responses to these
attacks? What was his father’s response to a danger that could take
his kingdom if nothing were done to stop it? It was to do nothing
and live in fear! They wanted to fortify larger garrisons and
abandon smaller ones altogether in favor of waiting for the
magicians under Janus’ control to complete their training before
considering their next move. It was ludicrous to think that giving
up ground without a fight could be considered anything other than
an admission of defeat and relying on Janus’ collared magicians to
rout the Collective sent the wrong message.

They needed to be more aggressive. That
damned sorcerer had a vision of death coming from Wolfsbane in the
east nearly two months ago. His father should be bolstering his
army by conscripting able-bodied men and preparing to march them
east now, but the old man refused to listen to reason. He believed
that it was too risky to move the army without hard proof, but when
the sorcerer served as the king’s adviser for decades he had no
trouble acting on Sane’s premonitions.

The truth was there, but Janus did not want
to admit it. His father, the king, was soft on the magician threat.
Perhaps it was because the sorcerer had been a trusted ally for so
long or because his second son, Byrn, was a magician, but whatever
the reason it was clear that the old man was putting the entire
kingdom at great risk for his misplaced sentimentality.

Janus had no such notions of weakness when it
came to the wizards. If he were in charge, then he would amass all
of the kingdom’s armies under his banner and march them to
Wolfsbane without a second thought. He would use all of the
collared magicians from the domains against their own kind. Then
when the battle was won and the magician threat was no more; he
would execute the domain magicians too. It was almost too tempting
to keep them as a military force like he kept Kennath Altermas as
his personal bodyguard, but it would be far safer for the kingdom
as a whole to be rid of all of the domain magic users especially
after they had learned so much about the infernal magical arts from
Kennath and the sorcerer.

A portly nobleman from the south was talking…
for how long? He was one of the warlords, so Janus should know his
name, but he could not bring himself to care. The prince watched
with apathy as the man’s double chin jiggled with each word. What
did this one want? He was going on and on about his daughter. She
was a striking girl to be certain, probably around sixteen years.
Her hair was a soft golden color and possessed radiance not unlike
the early morning sun. The silky strands flowed down her blouse
ending just above her ample breasts. Finally, there was someone
worthy of his consideration in the king’s court.

Now the fat warlord was introducing the young
woman. Splendid. “Your highness,” he blubbered, “please allow me to
introduce my betrothed, Lady Chirsten of House Lionfang.”
Disgusting. To think that fat, lecherous windbag would be defiling
such a lovely young creature soon if he was not already. Now Janus
had no choice, but to show the gorgeous thing a night of
satisfaction before she was married to such a grotesque man and
became his forever. The prince was honor-bound to give the girl one
brilliant memory of pleasure before being subjected to a lifetime
of misery.

The fat warlord was still talking. Was it
possible that the man was growing fatter even as he stood there
yammering incessantly? Another woman was stepping forward. She was
not as large as the warlord, but she had the potential for
greatness of girth. “And as you may recall this is my eldest
daughter from my first marriage,” the warlord boasted.

“Yes, the good lady, Gwyneth,” King Kale
stated warmly as if he truly cared. It was a remarkable talent that
the shrewd king had to remember the names and faces of the most
unimportant of his subjects and act as if they mattered. Of course,
it was only remarkable in the fact that it was a foolish talent to
even entertain. His father was the most powerful man in all of
Aurelia what did it matter if he knew the name of some warlord from
the south land’s husky offspring.

Speaking of the cow, she was smiling
expectantly at the prince and everyone was looking at him. “Pardon
my rudeness, dear… Gwyneth. I must have been captivated by your
beauty.” Janus tilted his head deferentially and graced her with a
warm smile that made her blush. That should appease them.

The daily court went on for far too long and
the prince did his best to keep his mind on the matters at hand to
avoid the embarrassment of being caught not paying attention. These
daily gatherings were a joke anyway. Part of the meetings were
devoted to direct edicts of the king and that was easily the most
important part of these sessions, but most of it was taken up by
his father being forced to listen to other people’s ideas,
requests, and grievances as if he were somehow beholden to them
instead of the other way around.

When the court was dismissed, Janus took his
place at his father’s right hand side as was customary at the end
of these meetings. “Do you think anyone caught you daydreaming?”
King Kale asked tersely.

“Not likely, father, and if they did it would
not be their place to say so,” the prince answered coolly. Few
would dare to respond to the king in such a familiar manner, but
being the man’s only heir did afford Janus a little more leeway
than most.

“No, they would say so behind your back and
that is far worse,” the king corrected him, “because it would be
the grumbling of men at their dinner tables to their families or at
a tavern with their friends. It would seem so inconsequential to
them that they would think nothing of saying that Prince Janus does
not listen to the people around him, but that would be the seed of
discontent being planted and in hard times such as we now face that
seed could grow into rebellion.”

“We already face a rebellion, father,” Janus
reminded him, “and to speak ill of the king or a prince during a
time of war would be tantamount to treason.”

King Kale shook his head. “You miss my
point.”

“I guess I must,” agreed Janus.

“The point is that if you do not value those
that serve under you, then you will find yourself one day as a king
with no one to lead.”

“You valued the sorcerer, did you not? And he
still betrayed you.” The words came unbidden from the prince and he
regretted them as soon as they left his lips. “Father, I am sorry.
That was uncalled for.”