3
A hideous, hunched goblin soldier marched back and forth before the castle gate.
Emperor Beld of Marmo looked on, wondering which was more normal—the goblin’s wretched nature or his own twisted heart. The demonic sword at his left hip rattled as if mocking his thoughts. Beld gripped the handle forcefully, like he was strangling a hated enemy.
“What’s wrong?” a voice came from behind. “Odd to find you so thoughtful in the middle of the day.”
It was Wagnard, the court wizard and Beld’s most trusted advisor.
“I was considering the hideousness of that goblin gatekeeper. Shining Hill was once called the finest castle in Lodoss—now look what it’s become under its new master.” Beld’s jet-black cloak billowed around his blood red armor. The demonic sword let out another unearthly cackle.
“I heard that Karla’s plans in Valis have failed.”
“Yes. But no matter. I will defeat Fahn without having to resort to cheap tricks.”
Beld took a moment to look at his advisor. Wagnard wore black robes. It was rumored that he’d dyed his Academy robes with the blood of a dark elf.
Like the dark elves, Wagnard used the black magic of
Phalaris. Physically, he was also much stronger than the traditional wizard and was an expert swordsman. To most sword-hating wizards, that alone was enough to brand him a heretic. Despite his great power, however, Wagnard only used magic under the most extreme circumstances. In truth, he was unable to use it most of the time. His master, Larcus, had cast a forbidden spell on him—whenever he cast a spell now, no matter how simple, his body was wracked with unbearable pain. Most people would immediately lose consciousness when experiencing pain that intense, but Wagnard had endured. He even learned how to conduct complex, hours-long rituals without his concentration slipping.
It was that sinister strength of will that gave Beld complete confidence in the wizard—and that had earned him the title “The Black Mage.”
“The witch failed in Alania, as well. It seems she has less talent for scheming than she does for magic.”
“You think so? She has always been shrewd, and she has plots within her plots. She still says that all but Valis will self-destruct.”
“That’ll save us a lot of trouble, if it’s true.”
“Did you bring a report, Wagnard? I thought I saw a messenger arrive on horseback.”
Wagnard laughed dryly. “You see everything, Your Majesty. I did receive a report from the spy I left in Valis. King Kashue of Flaim recently arrived there with a hundred knights. It seems that King Fahn will soon bring the battle to us.”
“So the day has come.” Beld smiled thinly and looked up at the sky. “Hide the sun during the battle. Goblins don’t like sunlight.”
“Understood. Where is the witch now?”
“She should be in Moss. She said she had a scheme to finish up there, after which she wanted to see an old friend.”
“She sounds busy,” Wagnard said. “Why is she even working with us? What is she after?”
“Why indeed?” Beld remarked mysteriously. “It’s more interesting when you don’t know.” With that, the Emperor turned with a flip of his cloak and went inside, footsteps ringing on the stone floor. Wagnard followed his lord as silent as a shadow.
Deep in the mountains of Moss, Parn and his companions struggled up the steep mountain path. Two weeks had passed since the group left Roid. They had made it through the ruins of the dwarven stone kingdom, battling evil creatures on the way, and were now getting close to Wort’s tower. Due to the dangerously steep path, however, they had to pause every few steps to avoid losing their footing. They were all sweating hard from the effort.
“What a terrible place to live,” Deedlit sighed, leaning heavily on the dead branch she’d picked up to use as a walking stick.
“Agreed. Isn’t this Wort an old man? How can he live out here?” Woodchuck asked.
They scrambled along the ridge of a craggy mountain where only sparse grass grew. Earlier, Slayn had been buffeted by a strong gust of wind and slid down a slope—Woodchuck had had to pull him back up with a rope. Etoh healed his wounds afterwards, but the experience had left the wizard both wary and grumpy. Since the incident, he’d been so focused on his footing that he barely said a word.
“Is that it?” Woodchuck asked from his place in the lead. He straightened up and used a hand to shadow his eyes, staring into the distance.
Deedlit could just make out what might have been the tip of a tower—though it also might have been a mountain peak. Slayn began murmuring. They all recognized his farsight spell and so waited for his verdict.
“No mistake—it’s a stone tower,” Slayn said cheerfully. He quickly cast a floating spell just to confirm, floating up until his feet were about level with Woodchuck’s head. “We can get there in a quarter day,” Slayn continued, but no one seemed particularly relieved—at that point, even a few more hours of hiking seemed way too long.
“Let’s rest a little while longer, then push through,” Parn said, and he plunked himself down on a nearby rock. He pulled out a hand towel and mopped his damp brow—there was no way to escape the summer heat, especially for a man in heavy armor.
Little did Parn and his companions know, but they were being watched at that very moment. Not far from their resting spot, at the top of the tower they’d just spotted, two wizards gazed at an image inside a crystal ball.
“These are the ones who managed to outwit you?” an old man said with a derisive snort. He wore a grey robe and his hair—once raven-black in his youth but long since faded to white—grew long down his back. He was clean-shaven, so there was nothing to hide the deep wrinkles of his aged face, but he still had a curious twinkle in his eyes.
“Say what you want, Wort. Even I am powerless against fate,” the second wizard replied. She wore a purple dress and her white teeth peeked from between voluptuous red lips. The jewels on the thin circlet on her forehead sparkled like a pair of eyes. She appeared more thoughtful than angry as she watched the people in the image.
She was the witch, Karla.