The Wizard's Revenge—Chapter 1

The sequel to The Witch's Curse!

The early morning sun streamed through marble arches and cast an orange glow against the vibrant tapestries that hung on the opposing wall of the long hallway. The only sound that pierced the silence of dawn was the echo of boot heels striking the floor tiles.

A gentle breeze filled the hall with the crisp freshness of autumn and threatened to cool Ezoleus’s burning temper. He hated being interrupted in his work, especially in the early morning when his concentration often peaked, after long hours of effort.

He stifled a yawn against the back of his veiny hand as he turned a corner. He continued his way through the ancient castle, his boots tapping against the stone floor. Last night had been moonless, so Ezoleus had stayed awake and worked on a number of important spells. On the darkest of nights, certain powers were at their peak, and he would have to be a fool not to take advantage of them.

Ezoleus had been finishing up the last of his studies and preparing for sleep, but now he stalked through the hallway, answering a summons as though he were no more important than a common lackey. Servants and handmaids scurried silently on slippered feet as they completed their errands, pointedly avoiding Ezoleus’s corpse-pale gaze. Royal messengers also apparently kept early hours, which was the reason Ezoleus stalked through the halls.

If the hour was any indication, the messenger had brought bad news. That the king had needed his wizard to advise him seemed to confirm that notion. Wizards advising kings was a tradition as old as both wizards and kings.

With their never-ending studies, wizards were among the most well-read people of the land, so they were able to use their considerable knowledge to help kings and queens make the right decisions in all things. Usually, the right decisions were ones that helped the realm or their people. For Ezoleus, the right decisions were ones that helped him gain power, which meant international politics often took on a more complicated edge.

Fortunately, King Thyrill was a simple man, so he was easy to manipulate.

Ezoleus reached the end of the hallway, where a set of elaborately carved double doors stood tall. Nearly ten feet in height, age had darkened the carvings of the doors to a dull brown. Intricately carved scenes of warriors battling each other covered the doors, but in the sleepy castle it almost seemed out of place.

Two guards in heavy plate armor flanked the doors, standing so motionless they could easily be mistaken for marble statues. As Ezoleus approached, one of those living statues raised his steel visor to get a clear look at the wizard. Such a silly thing, to wear armor like that inside these stone halls. Upon seeing Ezoleus, the guard spoke up.

“He’s waiting for you. You may enter, but be warned; he is in a foul mood.” The guard lowered his ridiculous visor and reached for the handle of the heavy wooden door. Together, the guards pulled the doors open.

Ezoleus passed through, his posture stiff and erect, annoyed that a simpleton in metal clothing felt it appropriate to give him permission. He had half a mind to poison the guard, so that he would be found one day in a nearby river, face bloated and black. That would have to wait until another day, when Ezoleus had more time.

The king’s chambers were a reflection of the man himself, or more appropriately of the man he thought he was.

Tapestries that displayed battles covered nearly every wall, although King Thyrill had a horrible reputation as a battle leader. A massive painting hung on a far wall, depicting King Thyrill in his youth with heavy shoulders that he had never possessed. It was flanked by hunting trophies—the heads of an enormous bear and an elk—that had been killed not by his own hand, but by his knights. An elaborately engraved sword that he had never wielded hung point-down on the wall.

Nearly everything in the royal chambers was chased in gold, giving it a gaudiness that made it seem like a mockery of royalty than the real thing. It took his kingliness and somehow made it cheap and tacky.

The king slumped in a heavy wooden chair that was nearly a throne, so covered in gold and gems it was. He still wore his nightclothes, which were so heavily embroidered with thread-of-gold and lace that they could be mistaken for royal robes.

Dark eyes glared at nothing, and a slackness to the king’s face looked familiar to Ezoleus. He had seen that weak, undisciplined look all too often as of late. In the king’s grip was a golden goblet encrusted with enough rubies to buy a hundred horses. It smelled of spiced wine. The king gestured with the goblet as he saw Ezoleus approach, careless of what he spilled over his wrist.

“It’s that fucking bastard Ivar,” King Thyrill grumbled, then raised his goblet to his lips and drank deeply, clearly not for the first time that morning. He set the goblet on the table with a loud clang and stared at it forlornly for a moment, his mouth hanging slack.

“What has he done now, sire?” Ezoleus asked patiently. He slowly stepped in front of the aging monarch. Dealing with the king always took a great deal of patience; the man liked to babble on incoherently, rarely arriving at a point other than how great he once was.

He always seemed to miss the fact that he had never been great.

The king’s tendency to boast was always at its worst when he had been drinking, which as of late was something that happened on a daily basis.

King Thyrill wrapped his fingers around the stem of his wine cup and smacked it on the table next to him. He leaned forwards, anger and disgust plain on his lined face.

“He’s a snake, I tell you. A dog! The man lacks honor, so I suppose I shouldn’t be entirely surprised. His words, his promises, all of them are dung!”

King Thyrill leaned back in his chair and scowled at his goblet for a moment, then snatched it up and brought it to his mouth. After draining it, he slammed it back onto the table.

“More wine!” he called out.

A serving man seemingly appeared from nowhere and rushed to his side to refill the golden goblet. He poured what was probably priceless wine into the king’s cup, then began mopping the spilled wine from the king’s wrist and table.

King Thyrill waved him away. “Oh, off with you. Go wait against the wall or something, until I actually need you.” His lidded gaze swung to Ezoleus. “I swear, they would wipe my ass if I let them. I’m a fucking king, not an invalid!” he slurred at the serving man, who nodded in acquiescence.

“I’m sure they would, sire, and it would be an honored task. But what were you saying about King Ivar?” As usual, he had to steer Thyrill back to the topic at hand.

King Thyrill stared at his goblet for a moment before continuing.

“We’ve been in talks for months now, trying to get him to agree to a marriage between my son Vestar and his daughter, Freya. I tell you, she is a hot piece of ass. I had plenty like her when I was younger, and I could still have them today, but bah!” He scowled at his goblet. “No time for fun when one is a king.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Ezoleus said, struggling to keep the disdain from his voice. “So, what happened?”

King Thyrill glared at the wall for a moment before speaking. “There is blood in our past, wizard. A sea of blood, and the years haven’t dried it up. I would give half my fortune to see his head on a pike, but…. This marriage would have solidified peace between our nations for generations to come. Both economies would have thrived! But of course, an issue always arises. Especially with Ivar. That fucking bastard, Ivar.”

“Yes, he’s never been easy to deal with,” Ezoleus said. King Ivar was a hard man with a sharp mind, and King Thyrill was a sloppy fool barely able to avoid wetting himself on a daily basis. Any interactions between the two monarchs tended to have a predictable outcome.

Thyrill’s red-rimmed gaze lifted until he glared at Ezoleus. “No matter what the situation is, there’s always an issue with him. Things would have been peaceful.”

“I can’t help but notice you said ‘would have,’ sire,” Ezoleus said. How he grew tired of constantly steering Thyrill in the right direction.

King Thyrill glared at Ezoleus for a moment, then stared at his goblet and drank from it. Ezoleus schooled his face to calmness while watching the king get even more drunk than usual less than an hour past sunrise.

“He married that bitch off to someone else!” the king shouted. “He could have at least had the decency to send a messenger my way, but there was nothing. No messenger, no pigeon, nothing!”

Ezoleus bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from frowning. A king’s pride was a sensitive thing, Thyrill’s more than most. The idiot king continued prattling on about this nonsense.

“No apology, no word as to why he suddenly changed his mind and threw months of careful plans straight into the sewer. We were to have a wedding that would have been talked about for years! Decades! The fireworks would have been seen for miles in every direction!”

Ezoleus grew tired of hearing the king’s baseless complaints, but at least this one had a tiny bit of merit. That was, indeed an insult to his status as king. Still, he struggled to care about the king’s emotions.

“And a fucking commoner!” the king roared. “He chose a commoner for his daughter instead of my son, the prince of Midsandur!” He turned and hurled his goblet across the room, spraying spiced wine across the marble floor and ruining the nearby wall hanging.

The serving man rushed forwards and gathered up the ruined goblet, then began hastily wiping the wine from the floor and walls. When he reached the king, Thyrill backhanded him with a sneer of anger.

“So he called off the wedding to your son without any word, and then let her marry a commoner?” Ezoleus asked, trying to sound as if he cared. It was indeed quite an insult. Royalty marrying commoners was not entirely unheard of. However, when two kings worked hard to arrange a marriage between their children…. Yes, her suddenly marrying a commoner was quite the insult.

Ezoleus refused to mention that he had his own plans, had he been able to get his hands upon the princess from Akranes. She was known as a strong-willed woman, a maiden pure of heart. Such a thing could be useful when it was boiled down and ground into a powder.

King Thyrill would pass out if he heard even a word of it.

But the truth was, Ezoleus couldn’t care less who Vestar married. The crown prince was a buffoon that spent much of his time drinking and whoring. He was a horrible prince and one day he would make a horrible king.

Even still, Ezoleus understood how Thyrill would take this action as a direct insult. The king was an idiot, but his pride was as prickly as any other monarch’s.

“Your Grace, I know your honor is important to you,” Ezoleus began.

“You’re damn right it is,” Thyrill grated in a voice he probably thought sounded intimidating. The reality was that it just sounded like he needed to clear his throat.

“Please, let me advise caution,” Ezoleus continued. “I do not wish to bring up old wounds, but remember what happened two decades ago. It would be highly disadvantageous to start any form of conflict between our two nations.”

That was a gentle way of putting it. The reality was that twenty years ago, King Thyrill had tried to conquer the eastern part of Akranes in an ego-driven battle. After all, King Ivar had been a new king, yet unproven. The opposite of his father, he had ridden out into battle with his foot soldiers and fought an incredibly bloody battle that resulted in not only King Thyrill failing his attempt at stealing the land from Akranes, but losing part of Midsandur in the process. Granted, the land was all inhabited forests, but the wound still stung deeply.

There were few things more petty than the pride of a king. King Ivar had sent a messenger, saying he wanted no more fighting after that. He stated that he was keeping the land he had taken as a reminder not to cross him again, but he pleaded for no further attacks. He even pulled his troops back from the border as a show of goodwill.

But Thyrill dwelled in his hatred, his wounded ego making him terrible. He stalked the halls, shouting curses with Ivar’s name in them, praying to every god, old and new, that might listen. He prayed for disease, death, famine. Anything to get revenge.

He almost went as far as to kill Ivar’s messenger, but when the moment came his dagger dropped from impotent hands. Thyrill was all anger, no backbone.

Ezoleus had cut the messenger to pieces and sent them to King Ivar when Thyrill proved too spineless to properly handle matters. Kings had to show strength, and his cowardice would have made the entire nation look bad.

Trade between the two nations eventually recovered and flourished, but relations between the two kings stayed dark. After so many years they had progressed to some level of begrudging respect, no more. The day one of them died, the other country would likely throw a celebratory feast.

“You advise caution,” King Thyrill muttered, his mouth twisting as if the word tasted foul. “Where has caution gotten me over the years?” He looked down at himself and slapped his round belly. “I’ve grown old and fat, and the only thing that gives me reason to live anymore is my new young wife. I say to hell with caution,” he said, slamming his fist onto the table. “He needs to know that I won’t stand for such an insult.”

“Trade between our nations has never been stronger, my king,” Ezoleus explained. “They buy our grain, and we buy their iron. We send them coal, and they send us leather and wool and spices. Conflict would harm us both.”

Ezoleus chose his words carefully; he needed the old fool to see reason; if war were to break out, Ezoleus would have to waste his time dealing with that instead of…other things.

“I’m sure it wasn’t meant as an insult against you,” Ezoleus continued. “It was probably just…young fools in love.” Ezoleus wanted to spit the words onto the floor. Love. Bah!

Convincing King Thyrill to avoid a war over an insult wouldn’t be too hard, especially in his drunken state. A small stroking of the king’s ego, another goblet of wine, and he would sleep most of this anger off in a few hours.

“Yes, well….” King Thyrill looked over at his servant. “Bring me wine, you dumb bastard.” As the servant hurried to obey his king, Thyrill looked up at Ezoleus. “Bring a cup for the wizard as well.”

“No thank you, my king,” Ezoleus said smoothly. “I don’t take wine this early in the—”

“Bollocks to that. I’m your king, and I’m telling you to drink.”

He waited until the serving man had placed a fresh goblet of wine in his hand and silver cup in Ezoleus’s, then raised his drink towards the wizard.

“To Princess Freya and the commoner Owyn. Long may they live, and may they be stupid enough for me to somehow profit from.” He lowered his goblet and drank deeply.

Owyn.

The name hit Ezoleus like a hammer between the eyes. It was possible another man possessed the same name, but…. “Did you say Owyn, my king?”

“I did. Owyn from Styrkur, some tiny village far to the north where the sheep number more than the people. A completely forgettable man from a completely forgettable place.”

Ezoleus felt his mouth go dry and his face flush. Using his scrying mirror, he had watched the very same Owyn of Styrkur destroy the witch Valdis only a month gone. That had dashed many of his carefully laid plans to the dirt.

Ezoleus had brokered a deal with the witch that involved Princess Freya; he was to receive her as a captive and extract every ounce of pain from her through days, even months of torture—there was immense power in such things. Owyn had stolen that from him.

He felt wine slop over his hand and looked down. In his hanger, he had crushed the thin silver cup in his grip.

“Your Grace, perhaps you are right,” Ezoleus said, his voice remarkably calm although inside he raged like a storm. “You are, after all, the great King Thyrill. The ground shakes where you tread, and the entire nation speaks your name in tones of reverence. Who is Ivar to show you such great disrespect? He is an honorless dog, an eyeless maggot beneath a rotting log.”

King Thyrill’s chin raised during the praise, as if his very ego became a physical thing and doubled in size.

“However, we must remember Ivar’s prowess in battle,” Ezoleus said, a plan forming in his mind as he spoke. He tossed the cup to the floor—the serving man practically materialized out of thin air and caught it before it bounced twice.

“I suggest we cripple their economy,” Ezoleus said finally, as if announcing a great proclamation. “A poor nation is like a wild dog without teeth or claws.” He rubbed his hands together as the plan grew in his mind.

“How do you suggest we do this?” King Thyrill leaned forwards, taking sudden interest in Ezoleus’s words.

A dark smile spread across Ezoleus’s face as he spoke. “We can’t attack him directly; we learned that the hard way. We’ll have to use cunning for this, our wits. Bandits,” he finally said, baring his teeth in what might be taken for a smile.

“Bandits?” the drunken king asked.

“Yes,” Ezoleus said. “I will round up some of the most vicious bandits I can find and employ them—in secret, of course—to watch the primary trade routes between our nations. When goods come in from Akranes, the bandits will strike.” He stabbed his finger into his other palm to emphasize the word, then continued.

“They will slaughter the merchants and decorate the trees with their entrails. Their goods, however, will make it safely—and secretly—into Midsandur. Our bandits could leave a merchant alive on occasion to carry news of the attacks, should we choose.”

“Go on,” the king said, his drunken slur fading.

“When our merchants travel the highways, they will also be intercepted. However, they won’t be hurt. Their goods will be confiscated and resold to other nations, and the merchants will be paid an appropriate sum as long as they agree to carry stories into Akranes; stories that bandits are raiding the trade routes and King Ivar is doing nothing about it.”

King Thyrill barked a laugh. “Oh, he will bristle at that.”

Ezoleus continued. “Meanwhile, we will increase our trade with Hafnir to the south, and Reykholt to the west. That, along with us stealing the goods from Akranes, should ensure we do not experience any troubles with our economy during this time. Both of those nations will also hear rumors that trade with Akranes isn’t safe, as King Ivar can’t handle his bandit problem.”

“How is this going to punish Ivar?” the king asked irritably.

“Because,” Ezoleus said as if explaining to a child. “We will essentially be stealing their trade goods from them while sowing discord among their people that their king cannot protect his own citizens! At the same time, they lose their most valuable trade partner—us. Their only other option would be to increase trade with Reykholt, which is unlikely considering their conflict-ridden history. Their trade with Hafnir has to pass through our lands, so that will be affected. One or two attacks on caravans from Hafnir would probably halt any goods coming from that nation as well.”

“That sounds like the beginning of something good,” King Thyrill said, leaning back in his golden chair. “However, I’d like to see Ivar punished before I die. I don’t want to wait ten years for a plan to come to fruition.”

“Because that is only one leg of our plan,” Ezoleus continued. “They are certain to send their soldiers to police their trade routes, and that is when and where we will strike. We will pick away at their troops little by little, weakening his offensive capabilities. After seeing his troops decimated, King Ivar himself is likely to ride with his soldiers in an attempt to defend his pride.”

King Thyrill’s eyes brightened at that. “Ivar himself riding for the border, you say?”

Ezoleus nodded. “I would bet a substantial amount of gold on it, Your Grace. If we’re lucky, his new crown prince will be with him. When one or both of them come down with an army to deal with the problem….” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “That is when I’ll step in and destroy them all.”

King Thyrill leaned back from the intensity of Ezoleus’s gaze. “And how do you plan on destroying an army? You are not so strong, wizard. You have failed in the past.”

“You underestimate me, my king. Perhaps I wasn’t strong enough twenty years ago, when we last dealt with Ivar, but things have changed. I have grown considerably in my knowledge and power.”

Ezoleus had committed horrifying acts to gain such power. His younger self would have balked at such deeds, but his quest for power had led to him performing rituals so vile that most men would lose their minds just to hear of them.

“As I am now…I will lay waste to them all,” Ezoleus said, his voice picking up heat. “I will follow their chain of command all the way up to the top and decorate our keep with Owyn of Styrkur’s head on a pike! I will bathe in his entrails and drink his blood!”

His last words echoed through the chamber. The room fell silent as King Thyrill stared at Ezoleus in shock.

“I will find the bandits and contact them,” Ezoleus said before the old drunk had time to react. “My king,” He said with a bow, then turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

On top of finding the bandits, he had certain ingredients he needed to obtain. Some of them were particularly difficult, but an absolute necessity.

He would finally have his revenge, and Owyn of Styrkur would die in a world of pain.