epic-fantasy-adventure-book-series-the-severed-empire

An Epic Fantasy Adventure Book Series

The Severed Empire by Phillip Tomasso

Series Excerpt

The Mountain King sat at the end of a twenty-foot-long table; clawed feet at the end of thick legs gripped the floor; pointed arches along the undersides ran its length. His high-backed chair was solid mahogany, kiln-dried, and finished with a dull brown polish. The king’s sigil was carved into the back frame above the burgundy leather cushion, and spires rose like castle towers to either side. Queen Chorazin sat across from him, a matching chair for comfort and prestige, and his princesses at their mother’s sides.

He felt an outsider in his own castle. He watched them eat and whisper. Unable to hear a single word of their hushed conversation. They weren’t whispering to exclude him. They whispered because they all sat close together and there was little reason to talk above a whisper. Long ago he’d thought of ordering all three to sit closer to him. Then he considered having just his daughters near him. Instead, he did nothing. He was not going to force his family to be next to him. If they wanted to sit at the opposite end of the table and ignore him, so be it.

His irritated feelings did nothing more than ripen, fester, and spoil, becoming a diverticulitis of the mind and soul. The temptation to throw grapes and pieces of sliced turkey at them grew as they giggled, especially when they didn’t show the common courtesy of including him. He refrained if only because he was hungry and the cook’s gravy coated the meat so evenly. Throwing food across the room would be a waste; the meal was so good he didn’t even want leftovers scraped into bowls for the royal hounds.

Tall stained-glass windows graced the western wall of his dining hall. Sunlight filtered in through the array of sectioned colors, playing across the room and giving everything a patchwork reddish-orange and greenish-blue glow, except during storms. When the sky was black, the palace was so dark that often torches seemed useless against the shadows. King Hermon Cordillera preferred the grey. The drab blocks of the stone walls, and slabs on the floor, were color enough. The outside of the castle was lighter grey than the charcoal rock of the mountain. Even the banners hanging everywhere inside the castle—the Cordillera sigil displayed on tightly woven silk cloth—detracted from the peace he found in the solidarity of grey surrounding him.

The king held up his chalice. The cup-bearer stepped forward, poured more wine. “Sire,” he said, and stepped back, away from the table.

King Cordillera drank the vintage in gulps, leaned back in his chair, and never looked away from his family. Was there a time he cared for his wife? In her youth she was pretty, he supposed, with long auburn hair, and small waist. Her breasts had been full, and her legs shapely and long. She had never lost the weight gained during each pregnancy, however, and there had been more than the two. There had been a miscarriage after the birth of Raaheel, and a stillborn after Sarah. That had been his boy and heir to the throne.

The weight gain wouldn’t matter so much if he didn’t also loathe her as a person. Not a single redeeming quality remained once the lusciousness of her form had passed. He wasn’t sure why she was such a bitter woman. She came from a kingdom of nothingness. In his Osiris Realm, he’d showered her in wealth. Her largest complaint was isolation. It didn’t matter to her that the Rames Mountains were a natural and nigh impenetrable barrier. An enemy could attempt to scale the jagged cliffs, but his guards would spot them long before any damage could be inflicted, before any breach assayed, and they’d be knocked from the face as easily as a stone could be nudged from the ramparts. The Rames were perhaps the sole reason the kingdom had never been under siege, never mind the strength of the fortress itself. Other nations easily understood the folly of any attack, just not his wife.

The chamberlain entered the hall. “Sire, forgive me for disrupting your meal.”

Cordillera set his cup down, snapped his fingers at the cup-bearer. He wanted more wine. “The disruption is most welcome.”

The chamberlain stood aside and waited while the cup-bearer refilled the chalice. He cleared his throat. “The knight guarding Ida’s tower. He indicates that she has summoned you.”

“She summoned me?” Hermon Cordillera poked a finger at his chest, ready to yell, and knock things off the table, but stopped himself. In all the years Ida’s been in the tower, she had never once sent for him.

She had found something.

He had been patient. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. The wizard must have used magic. “Did she give an indication what this was in relation to?”

The chamberlain shook his head. He held a red velvet hat in his hands, and turned it over. “Just that you were the only one she would talk to, sire. She refused to answer a single question. I came for you immediately. I did not want to disturb your dinner, but neither did I want to wait. I knew this must be important, sire.”

Cordillera drank the wine. He held the cup in one hand, and picked at food in his teeth with the pinkie on his other. Pushing away from the table, he slapped a hand on the wood. The queen and his two princesses looked up. It was as if they had forgotten anyone else was in the hall. Their meals, and whispering, were momentarily halted.

“I regret to inform you that I must attend to urgent matters and that you will be forced to enjoy the rest of your meal without me.” Sarcasm was wasted on the queen. The children were ten and eight. Unfortunately, they were spitting images of their mother after the weight gain. Like her they spent the days grazing. Food was her priority, and now it was theirs as well. If they understood the wit thrown at them, they gave no sign. It seemed his vitriol was also wasted on his offspring.

He wanted a son desperately, but was torn. Coupling with the fat queen repulsed him. He felt no guilt in wishing that she suffer some dangerously unavoidable fate. Accidentally, of course. The only thing that prevented him from ensuring such was the princesses. They did seem to love their mother, though he couldn’t imagine why.

He snatched a large hunk of white meat from his plate, and stormed out of the dining hall, chamberlain in tow. He walked proudly, chest puffed, head held high. He cherished the halls, and loved the echo his footfalls produced as he strode across the stone floors.

With his palace having been built on the side of a mountain, he didn’t have the luxury of spreading out over acres of land. His castle went into the sky, and was often in low hanging clouds. It also went down into the belly of the mountain. Many of the halls were actually caves covered over with cinder walls. Import and export of supplies and goods was straight forward. The shipments were received and sent out of the Fjord Range, where the king kept a fleet of vessels, despite the Voyagers claim on the sea. However, he rarely sailed his ships. There hadn’t been a need in the past.

There may be a need in the near future, though.

The foundation was constructed on the plateau of one mountain top, and backed up directly into the rise of another peak. From a distance the castle blended with the rocky terrain. If you didn’t know the castle was there, you might never spot it amidst the rocks. Once you recognized it, you couldn’t look away. It was magnificent.

The castle was sleek, narrow and tall with six towers, each fit with its own bartizan that contained machicolated floors, designed to allow rocks or boiling oil to be cast upon enemies foolish enough to climb the mountain with malicious intent. There were additional such defenses along the parapets that led from tower, to tower, to tower.

Ignoring the salutations of those he passed, Cordillera tore into the hunk of turkey, gravy dripping to his chin. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then ate the remaining meat in a bite. All the while his mind ran wild with possibilities. At his behest, Ida focused her energy on tracking down wizards. They existed, but where? He knew the stories. During Emperor Henry Rye’s rule, King Grandeer had unleashed his Watch; warriors specifically trained to hunt and destroy those that wielded witchcraft. The large numbers over powered even the most skilled wizard. Their magic proved to have limits. The spells and incantations were oftentimes too little, too late against a charging army. An arrow in the heart, or a chopping swing of a sword that left a head decapitated from the body was as deadly to someone using magic, as it was to a mortal. The ensuing slaughter had been perceived as justified and right and reached across all kingdoms under the empire. To the Mountain King, fear of the unknown and blind ignorance was what it had actually been. Destroy what you don’t understand. During dark times dark things were often handled darkly. That was simple truth, and a shameful waste.

There had been books in his library penned by fools who claimed to know where wizards hid, and the number that still walked the lands. Cordillera had sent knights not to the locations outlined, but to track down the authors of these works. Under questioning, with very little … persuasion, the writers admitted to crafting fiction published as fact. Disgusted by their ruse, he had each individual summarily executed. Who had time for made up stories? They did not educate, or entertain. The volumes were removed and burned along with the bodies of their authors.

There were no windows inside the towers, only slits from which archers could fire if needed. An Iron bowl with burning coals sat on every third step of the spiraling staircase. The flames within these braziers created flickering shadows that grew, shrank, and multiplied like childhood nightmares dancing along the walls.

Cordillera despised this particular tower most of all. He didn’t consider why he had chosen it for Ida, if he even knew. Climbing the stairs was never easy. His thoughts always took him back in time. When his father was alive, he used the chamber at the top of the tower to punish him. Usually the king’s majordomo carried him up the stairs by the scruff of his neck, Hermon’s feet kicking in lame attempt to find purchase. He would never forget the mechanical click of the king’s key turning tumblers in the door’s lock, and the protest of rusted hinges whining as the door was opened.

His father never beat him, but without word would lock him away for days in the tower. In the tower he received no food, and not even a bucket to use as privy. There was just the one window out of which he could watch the sun and moon battle for placement in the sky. He would relieve himself out of it as well. The crisscrossing iron bars prevented him from doing anything more. This was the only room in all of the towers without a machicolated floor. Before being released the head of household would drop off a bucket filled with soapy water. He was expected to collect feces, and scrub the floors clean finally able to escape the horrid stench in which he had been forced to live.

A beating would have been better. He would rather a few good swats for sins committed, and then be able to move forward. Initially there would be pain, the king’s hands had been big, strong, as if he’d spent his days with steel smiths hammering out imperfections in swords, instead of sitting behind mahogany desks and barking commands.

The silence and isolation of the solitary confinement extended beyond the days spent locked in the tower. That emotional pain, always present, ruined his entire childhood, but (in his mind) he refused to let it sour the rest of his life.

King Cordillera carried the same ring of keys his father had carried. They were tied to his belt, but wrapped in thin cloth which kept them from rattling as he walked. He didn’t need to search through the keys for the one to the tower door. It didn’t look any different from the others. He knew it by touch.

The king always assigned a knight to guard the room, who acknowledged the king and stepped aside as the king unlocked and pulled open the door.

“Sire?” the Chamberlain said.

He knew the man craved praise, or at the very least, approval. It was as obvious on the man’s face as it is the royal hounds’ when they begged for scraps. Just like the hounds wouldn’t get a morsel of turkey with gravy tonight, neither would this man get a thank you for meeting his responsibilities as Chamberlain. “You can return,” Cordillera said.

Ida stood near the bars across the window. Thankfully, her hood was covering her hideous head, and keeping her face where it belonged, in shadow. A putrid aroma filled the room. Cordillera knew it came from a mixture of the herbs and ingredients Ida kept for her magic, as well as from the witch’s flesh. She disliked water, bathed infrequently, and was going to force him to command that she cleanse the stench from her body.

Thick black candles sat on flat plates set around the room. The sun was, thankfully, setting on a relentlessly hot day. As long as the clouds thinned, the heat could escape and the breeze of the sea might provide a reprieve from the humidity. Autumn was ending soon. Winter would fall on the kingdoms fast. Then the cold would be what they were forced to deal with. There was no winning when it came to weather.

King Cordillera stood still, and did not announce his presence. She had summoned him. Surely she’d heard the heavy door open when the hinges squeaked. It didn’t take magic for ears to work.

It did take insolence to ignore royalty. He knew she thought she was different than his other subjects, that her magic made her better than most. But she was no queen.

He allowed her silence for a moment longer. Her power did frighten him; he just didn’t want her to know how much. It was also important letting her believe she was more than a prisoner, more than the tool he’d use to get the things he wanted. In preparing for the war, her role was essential. She knew as much, and it was where her insolence stemmed from, unfortunately.

Did she know she was a prisoner? Of course she did. The locked door was more than proof enough. Even his half-witted wife would know she was being held against her will if locked inside a room. He had never mentioned to Ida the extent of her captivity, and she never questioned it. The arrangement was transparent. He was king, and she served him under lock and key. Quite simple, actually.

Quite simple, and yet he sometimes wondered how he’d respond if she ever demanded freedom, or worse, threatened it.

Her magic was strong, even though she was a lone witch.

He knew the room was enchanted. The spell cast was straightforward, but unbreakable. It sealed the entire room, keeping a wizard locked inside; a dungeon amidst the clouds. When he’d brought Ida to his keep, and led her up the winding tower staircase, he thought for sure she’d recognize the magic. The promise of her own room where she was free to work her spells, potions, and live mostly undisturbed apparently appealed to her. The enchantment, the lock, the key, she had not seemed to anticipate. Or had she?

He’d not lied. She was encouraged to work on spells and potions. Just not as freely as she might have originally thought. The magic created was dictated by him. He had a library of books on magic. His collection had become extensive, and had taken time to acquire. The plans made would require many things to happen. Everything needed to fall perfectly in place if he expected to succeed. And he did expect success. They talked through what he expected a potion to do; expressed what he hoped, and wanted the magic to accomplish, and she worked to make it happen. Her trials weren’t always fruitful, or quick. Getting things right took time. Patience and time.

When Ida spoke, it was softly. Her words lightly bounced off the rock walls. “There has been a disturbance. Magic has been used.”

“And the potions?” He wrung his hands together. It was the first small taste of victory to reach his tongue, and he salivated at its possibilities.

She waved a hand in the air. “They’re ready. They’ve been ready.”

“And do you have a location?” he said.

“Not specifically. I am thinking it happened on the west bank. But I am not yet positive. More magic will be used. And when it is, I will have more accurate information. I simply wanted you made aware. We’re getting closer.”

“Keep me posted. Night or day. Any time you have something new, I want to know,” he said, before turning to leave.