ASCALON

The edge of the moon finally disappeared behind the rocky foothills in the distance, plunging the night into uncertainty. Several minutes went by before the man crawled from his hiding place among the rocks. He had been waiting there several hours, and the sudden movement made his legs cramp. He ignored the pain and waved his two companions forward.

The borrowed cloak he wore reeked of sweat, dirt, and cloying spices. It was as repugnant as his mission tonight. His stomach roiled and burned, and fear threatened to paralyze him. Still, he must find the witch—only she could help him, though it was illegal by his own decree to consult a witch. He and his two companions would be executed for their treason if discovered. The witch too.

He was glad the cloak’s foul-smelling hood obscured his face.

The men discreetly entered the unguarded village of Endoria and slipped unseen through the dark streets. The occasional scrounging rodent paused, watched, then scurried away. The men crept down alleys and around corners, hugging the stone walls, and searched for the witch’s house. The buzz of insects and a cat screeching in the distance were the only sounds the men heard. Their mission weighed heavily upon them as though millstones hung from their necks. The man leaned close to one of his companions and whispered.

“Don’t you know where she lives?” he said, gritting his teeth. The companion nodded. “Then how much farther?”

The companion hesitated, his gaze searching the surroundings before he answered. “Not far. We are almost there, my lordship.”

The houses were dark and silent, their occupants unaware of the interlopers who passed just under their windows. Then the companion pointed at a home where light spilled from the lone window. The man gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment and motioned to the men to move closer. The crumbling stone pathway led to a splintered wood door.

A flickering candle on the table in the middle of the room was visible through the window. A small earthenware pot sat next to the candle, wafting tendrils of smoke, and hazing the air. An old woman sat at the table, chanting and swaying side to side, her hands raised. He lightly tapped on the door and waited.

The door finally creaked open a few inches, and the hag, pale and wrinkled, peeked at him through the opening. The woman’s straggly gray hair hung limp next to hollowed cheeks, and her eyes appeared glazed from the potent ritual herbs that burned in the pot.

“Who are you?” she said, her voice husky. “What do you want?”

“A séance. I need you to consult a spirit for me,” said the man. He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat and kept his face hidden under the cowl. The two companions stood silently behind him.

“I am a simple seamstress. Go away,” said the hag, shoving the door closed. But before she could latch it, the man put his hand on it and pushed it open. She glared at him through the crack as she struggled to close the door.

“I know who you are, old woman,” growled the man. “Don’t lie to me, or you won’t live long enough to regret it.” The man easily held the door against the woman’s struggles.

“You know what the Suzerain has done! He has driven the witches and mediums away and issued warrants for their deaths. Why would you do this to me?” demanded the crone. “You fool! If the authorities catch us, we will both die.”

“As the High King lives, I promise no one will harm you,” said the man, bracing his foot against the door. He stared at the witch. Her eyes swiveled back and forth in her face as she contemplated his request. Finally, she relented and stepped aside. The man entered and shut the door. His companions stayed outside, guarding the house.

“Sit,” said the witch, pointing to a chair by the table. The man gathered the folds of his cloak and sat in the chair. His glance moved swiftly about the room, taking in the meager furnishings and the threadbare covers on the cot in the corner. She resumed her seat and splayed her hands on the table.

“Who do you want me to call up?” asked the witch, cautiously watching him.

“Eliamas, the Oracle.”

“You deceiver! You are the Suzerain!” The witch of Endoria glared at him and pointed an accusing finger at the official.

“Don’t be afraid!” said the Suzerain, pushing the cowl back and revealing his face. The features had once been handsome with large, expressive dark eyes, aquiline nose, and close-cropped beard. Now the beard was laced with gray, and shrouded a haggard face. “You are safe, I promise. But please—do this for me.”

The witch hesitated, wary of the high-powered overlord in the smelly cloak. Then with a harrumph, she raised her hands and began to chant, swaying rhythmically. Soon, an apparition rose from the ground before her. The hag jumped up, screeching. The chair crashed to the floor. Her hand clutched the fabric at her throat while the folds of her dress quaked.

“What do you see?” asked the Suzerain, rising. He stood with his hands before him, pleading for an answer. “I must know if it is him.”

Eliamas had not responded to her call. The High King had expressly forbidden anyone to interact with those who practiced necromancy. Besides, the oracle had died weeks earlier. Now, in spirit, he lived in Ascalon with the High King.

The apparition who stood before the woman was a high-ranking daemon she had dealt with before. The spirit stared fixedly at the witch; his message was clear.

The hag shook as she stared at the apparition, then nodded and answered, “I see an old man wearing a priestly robe and rising from the ground.” She pointed to the spot where the entity stood. “He is there!”

“Eliamas! It must be the oracle,” said the Suzerain, and falling to his knees, he laid his head to the ground and worshiped the unseen entity. The witch stumbled away from the spirit and clutched at the wall.

The daemon smirked at the foolish man. He knew that his master, Darnathian, had deceived the overlord.

“Why have you disturbed my rest?” said the daemon, mimicking the oracle’s voice.

“The High King has left me!” said the overlord. He sat back on his heels, his gaze searching the abode for the oracle, but did not see the spirit. “He doesn’t answer my pleas for help, and I am afraid. A hostile faction of the Senetillarians is making war against us. They want our territories. Please, tell me what to do!”

The daemon strolled about the dwelling. It dragged a claw over the table, scratching the wood. Then it placed a hand into the flame of the burning candle, the flame licking greedily at its fingers. The old hag shuddered at the maliciousness of the entity. She pressed against the wall and nearly forgot to breathe.

The entity smiled and circled the kneeling man, then it leaned down and whispered in the overlord’s ear. “I already told you what the High King said to me.”

Hearing the voice, the Suzerain stood and searched the room for the prophet. He saw no one except the witch, trembling against the wall.

“You did not obey the High King,” said the daemon, still pretending to be the wise man. He stepped around the overlord and whispered in the other ear. “In your arrogance, you turned from believing. Instead, you thought you were irreproachable and wiser than the High King. Now, he has left you as he said he would. He has taken your kingdom and given it to another.” The entity paused, then it gripped the overlord’s shoulder.

A searing pain shot through the Suzerain’s body, and his muscles convulsed. His breath hitched, and he shook uncontrollably.

“Worse yet,” whispered the daemon, his mouth near the overlord’s ear, “tomorrow you and your sons will be like me, and your enemies will destroy your army.” His forked tongue flickered in and out of his mouth as he released the overlord.

When the Suzerain, the most influential man in the province, heard these words, terror engulfed him, and he toppled to the floor like a mighty fallen tree, stunned and unmoving.

The daemon smiled, winked at the old hag, and slowly descended through the floor again.

The following day, the Suzerain, nursing a growing hatred for the High King, decided he didn’t need the High King’s help or blessing. His seasoned army would defeat the enemy. He put on his armor and went out to the battle.

The Senetillarians overran the Suzerain’s army and killed all his men. Their archers critically wounded the Suzerain himself, and each of his three sons was killed by an enemy’s sword. With his sons’ death and the destruction of his faithful men, the Suzerain realized the cost of his broken fealty. He fell on his sword and died.

When the High King in Ascalon received the report of the Suzerain’s death, he retired to his antechamber and wept for the loss of his friend.