Twenty-Two

Atop the craggy castellation of the ruins at Tullen Spee, three figures met. The moonlight gave them all an equal glow on their hooded heads and their cloaked shoulders but that, and the fact that they were all wizards sharing a single purpose, was about all they had in common.

The tallest was Tarkwayne; he considered himself above the others in more than just the literal sense. The other two were necessary evils for the project to succeed, for Tarkwayne could not take over the world alone. They were to be endured - but only up to a point. The goal achieved, Tarkwayne would make his next project their removal.

To his right stood bald Pezzackeron, glowering at his brother wizards. Similar hatred boiled in his blood. As soon as this was over, he would despatch the other two and be sole ruler. But for now he must smile and play his part. There was dread work to be done.

Of the three, only smelly, dishevelled Smedlock suspected the other two of treacherous designs. He had seen their true desires in a bowl of pottage - it is easy to discern the fell motives of others when they match one’s own. I shall have to watch my back while I am seeking to plunge my daggers in theirs, he smirked.

In turn they reported the success of their several missions. The invisible walls were in place and ready for action at Herran’s Polp, Lurkin Mount and Ptorf.

“It is well done, brothers,” Tarkwayne smiled with a condescending pout. “But tell me, did you not...” His words trailed off; he thought the question perhaps a foolish one.

“Did we not what?” said Pezzackeron.

“Spit it out, man!” snapped Smedlock, who had no patience for Tarkwayne’s melodramatics. Tarkwayne was struggling to complete the question - it was tantamount to admitting a weakness.

“Did you not - sense - get that feeling - of being watched?”

Pezzackeron and Smedlock eyeballed each other, reluctant to speak.

“Like there was a presence? Something there? Had I not known of his death, I might have been tempted to say our brother Bradwyn was prowling around. That was his style.”

“Our brother’s dead,” said Smedlock. “I saw him. He was dead as can be. And pretty tasty too, with the right seasoning.” He snickered to see the look of disgust wash across his remaining brothers’ faces.

“You don’t think-” Tarkwayne hesitated. “You don’t think there’s someone else? When you were putting up the walls, did you not sense it as I did?”

Pezzackeron looked absently at the sky while Smedlock looked intently at his own feet. Tarkwayne was encouraged. He took their silence on the matter as confirmation.

“There was...” Smedlock began, “...a lot of seagulls.” He chuckled. “Good eating on a seagull. Mind, I like them raw with their hearts still beating.”

“Revolting,” said Tarkwayne.

“Disgusting,” said Pezzackeron.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Smedlock.

“I think,” said Tarkwayne, “now the moon is at its zenith, we should begin.” With a swish of his cloak, he stalked away, descending a spiral staircase to the courtyard. The others looked at each other and pulled faces.

“Who does he think he is?” grumbled Pezzackeron.

“The biggest turnip in the pot,” said Smedlock. And, he added to himself, turnips get eaten.

They joined the big turnip on ground level and stood in a triangle, their backs to the direction of the three distant points: the Polp, the Mount, and the lighthouses. Tarkwayne, taking the lead, nodded. The wizards extended their arms, placing the palms of their hands against each other. Pezzackeron had a prosthetic fashioned from silver - it should fetch a pretty penny, Smedlock mused. Afterwards.

They began the incantations with Tarkwayne’s voice a piercing treble. The others provided baritone and bass accompaniment. Smedlock closed one eye, trying to listen out of one ear. The harmonics had to be pitch perfect; the resonance was as important as the words.

For hours they sang, making the triangle bigger by degrees. Their hands parted but beams of light linked them like bright ribbons. Power coursed along their arms and through their bodies, down their legs and through the soles of their feet and into the ground, warming the mossy flagstones. The chants had gone on for so long, it was as though the wizards had never done anything else, as if it was as natural as breathing and just as vital to their continuing existence. Around them, a wind swirled, snatching at the folds of their robes, whipping their hoods against their faces, carrying their voices to all corners of the citadel.

Eventually, the sky lightened as deep blue was replaced by thin grey. Tarkwayne staggered, breaking the connection. It took Pezzackeron the longest to realise the chanting had stopped. Breathing heavily, the wizards looked at each other and at the broken bits of building being revealed by the growing light.

Everything was the same. Nothing had changed.

The spell had failed.

***

Tarkwayne sat on a piece of fallen masonry and held his head in his hands. “I don’t know where it went wrong,” he repeated. “Everything was in place. Wasn’t it?” He turned accusing eyes on the other two.

“Yes!” said Pezzackeron and Smedlock as one voice.

“Then I don’t understand!”

Oh, dear! Smedlock smirked. Let’s not have tears on top of everything else.

“It just doesn’t add up!” Tarkwayne paced the flagstones. “We did everything right.”

“Actually,” said Pezzackeron. “I think you were a little pitchy.”

Tarkwayne was aghast. “I most certainly was not. How dare you! If anything, you were a little sharp!”

“Bollocks I was,” snapped Pezzackeron. The two looked set for a fully-fledged squabble but Smedlock intervened.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he stepped between them with a placatory gesture. “We did everything right and in the right order. We did, however, forget one thing.”

“Did we?” frowned Tarkwayne. “Unlikely.”

“What?” said Pezzackeron. “And why didn’t you mention it before, you festering bag of shit?”

“The final ingredient,” Smedlock ignored the insult, “is the spilling of life’s blood on the spot.”

“Ah!” Tarkwayne nodded.

“Is it?” Pezzackeron wrinkled his nose.

Again, Smedlock ignored him. “Yes, gentlemen,” he said, “It is.”

He spun around on the spot, the sleeves of his robe fanning out. Then he stood still with his sickle dripping and the other two staring at him in shock. Their hands wandered to their throats as gashes yawned open and the blood glugged out. Wide-eyed, they toppled, clutching at their wounds, grasping at the traitor’s robe.

They died.

Smedlock wiped the blade on his sleeve.

“Bravo! Bravo!” A man stepped from the shadows, clapping gauntleted hands. He was wearing the burnished armour of a monarch but the silver circlet around his head was modest and unadorned, for Argolef the Seventh of the Eastern Realm was not one for ostentation - at least when he was sneaking around in what he considered to be enemy territory. He clapped the wizard on the shoulder and his grin stretched his lengthy, braided moustaches of blue hair. In the cold morning light, his skin also took on a faintly bluish hue, denoting the purity of his eastern lineage.

“My liege,” Smedlock dropped to one knee.

Knuckles on hips, Argolef surveyed the carnage. “What now?”

Smedlock straightened. “Now, Majesty, we wait.”

***

They repaired to a tower to overlook the courtyard. At first there was nothing but the fading streaks of sunrise to admire until, after an hour, the building seemed to lurch beneath them. King and wizard alike clung to the masonry as if that would help them should the tower tumble.

“There, Majesty!” Smedlock pointed over the parapet. “See!”

Argolef peered over the wall. The dead bodies of the slain wizards were moving but not of their own volition. Small stones bounced around and the weeds waved as the ground shook.

“It begins!” said Smedlock with melodramatic delight. Argolef gaped in wonder as the flagstones cracked and separated. The courtyard floor dropped into a yawning chasm, swallowing the bodies of Tarkwayne and Pezzackeron, and the citadel shook to an alarming degree.

“Perhaps we should-” Argolef gestured to an exit but Smedlock waved dismissively.

“We are as safe as houses up here, my liege.”

“Houses in an earthquake,” muttered the king, clinging on for dear life.

Smedlock laughed like a maniac falling down a drain and enjoying the ride. A mighty wind rushed from the gaping hole, a waking giant’s morning breath. Smedlock exulted. Leaves, twigs and rocks were hurled upward in a column of air as the ground beneath Tullen Spee gave up its secrets.

Argolef stood back with his face averted and the back of his hand to his mouth. What have I done? What have I set in motion? It was a fine time to start questioning oneself. Perhaps one should have thought of that before.

And then, suddenly, it stopped and silence and stillness reigned. Argolef found the wizard’s filthy finger tugging at his cloak.

“Majesty,” the wizard grinned, inviting the king to peer over the parapet. “Your army awaits.”