“Open the gates!”
The guards stutter at my command, but I stand undeterred by the world that awaits me outside these walls.
“Lady Morgana, wait! You do not understand.” Wistler tries in vain to slow my haste, but I care not for the words that fall from his lips. His face is red and blotchy as he scurries to keep up with me.
“I understand clearly, Wistler. You have let these people run amok. They do not know fear like they should.”
“They do, the people do. The Wyverns govern with it. The people who are in command out there.”
I look to the skies and wish for the gods to strike this man down where he stands. It is something I’d consider myself, but that would not work well with the bureaucracy of Levanthria. Such tales could stop my ascension. True, I hold power, but even I know that a leader needs followers.
“You allow them to command a name as if they are some faction worthy of anything other than the dungeons,” I continue. “It is these Wyverns who need to know fear, this is the only way you will bring your people back to heel.”
“What do you intend on doing out there?” Wistler snivels.
“I intend to show them fear. It is the only way we will get Eltera back to how it once was. This is the kingdom where ironite armour is forged, is it not?” And now my true purpose is revealed to the Lord of Eltera: it is armour and weaponry that I desire.
“At least take a couple of my men with you.”
“Do you feel that I need protection, Wistler? Do you consider me a mere damsel needing help?” My eyes flare and a surge of magic shivers through my body, the raw energy raising my hair from my head.
“No, not at all, Morgana. I mean no offence.”
I stare at the guard who stands by the gate, and he gestures for it to be opened. Chains begin to draw, and the grinding noise tells me that these gates are not opened often. I stand impatiently as the gates open at a sluggish pace.
“I shall be back before long, hopefully with some good news,” I announce.
I take a step from the castle and begin my descent into town, my dress trailing through the dirt as I walk. I am not long into my walk when an unpleasant smell greets me. Sewage, waste, and death is all I can liken it to. The slums of Askela are lavish compared to Eltera’s, and I find myself shocked once more by the state the kingdom has fallen into. These Wyverns have a lot to answer for, and I seek to find them as quickly as possible so I can return to Askela and plan for the Great War that is coming, equipped with superior ironite armour and weapons.
I find my mood darkened with my mind fixed on Laith and the anger he shows towards me as he kicks me over the edge of the castle tower to my death. In truth, it is all I have been thinking about for the past few moon cycles, since my visions revealed Laith as the person responsible for the end of my life. The fact that I am stuck here dealing with Wistler’s foolish problems instead of seeking a solution to my own fate grates on my nerves.
As I head towards the markets, eyes follow me in my fine red dress. Everyone I see looks pale and gaunt, as if the sun does not shine light on the people here. I have seen people in the dungeons appear in a better state of health than some of these. The clothes they wear are dirty and torn, and I can’t help but question how these people are surviving.
Still, it is access to the forge that I need, and to gain that, I must find whoever is in charge of the Wyverns. The markets are often the best place to gather information. I have no doubt that someone will loosen their tongue with a little persuasion.
The odious smell makes me gag a little, and for a moment I worry that I might empty the contents of my stomach. I hold it back though, thinking of the scalding bath I will take when I return to the castle to remove the stench that clings to me.
My mood lifts slightly when the market comes into my line of sight, and I spot a crowd gathered with raised voices. I head to it at once, eager to see what it is that has so many people in an uproar.
A lifeless corpse lies slumped on the ground, his face beaten and unrecognisable. Two other men lie groaning in pain, one holding his leg, another holding his hand to the thick gash down his cheek. Four men are attempting to box in a hooded figure who stands taller than all of them, his face covered by a scarf. Something doesn’t seem right about this man. His eyes are yellow, his skin indescribable at this distance. I would need to be closer to see, I want to be closer to see.
A brute attempts to take the yellow-eyed man’s head with a sword, but the hooded figure traps his attacker’s arm before slamming his head into his face. He brings the man’s arm down and drives the sword he is holding into one of the other men’s stomachs. The snapping of the attacker’s wrist causes him to scream out in pain and the tall man growls. It is a noise I have never heard come from a man. Another five men and women enter the fray to try and subdue their quarry.
One of them launches a dagger that embeds into the yellow-eyed man’s leg. He growls at them with fury as he reaches down and pulls it free. Blood streams down his leg, but he does not seem deterred by his ailment. Enraged, the hooded man removes a weapon from his side, and I am amazed to realise that he unleashed this destruction up until now without use of a weapon. He roars as he swings his mace, connecting it with the side of a man’s head. A sickening crunch causes the crowd to groan.
The hooded figure’s attackers circle him. Now I count six in total. It would seem these people are like a hydra; for every one he strikes down, two more rise up. Blood decorates the ground around them, moans and groans escaping the lips of those lucky enough to still cling to life. Two of the attackers prod the air with their pikes from a safe distance, but the strange man easily parries them away, all the while emitting a low grumbling noise from under the scarf he hides behind.
“Steady, we attack together. Breyton will not be happy unless we bring his head,” a woman commands. She is a strong, well-built woman, and appears to hold some form of rank over the others. Her dirty-blond hair is matted with her comrades’ blood, a section of which is shaved to her scalp, revealing a serpentine tattoo. Judging by the dragon inked into her skin, I assume these are the very Wyverns that I have come here looking for. How delightful.
The hooded figure staggers slightly and, sensing an opportunity, the leader of the group steps forward and shoves her pike into his side. He growls with pain but looks at his attacker with vengeance. He yanks the pike from his own flesh, then uses it to swing the woman to the side. She clatters into the crowd, sending a score of bodies tumbling. This man is incredible, and I know what I must do, what I want to do.
I draw my hood and step forward from the crowd, a surge of magic coursing up my body and down my arm. I move my fingers to ensure the magic keeps moving. I have found letting it remain in one place inflicts more pain on me if I am not channelling through another body. A green blast of raw magic sparks from my fingertips and into the back of one of the Wyverns. He is knocked forwards into the path of the man with the scarf, whose eyes widen like a ravenous monster ready to feast on its prey. He brings his mace down onto the skull of the man standing before him. The Wyvern begins to convulse before dropping to the ground, blood cascading from his eyes and ears.
“What the fuck was that!” the leader cries as she gathers herself from the crowd she was hurled into.
“It’s a witch!” another brute calls as he points his pike at me.
A witch! How dare he. I am much more than a mere witch. My power has already far exceeded my own expectations.
“I think you will find I am a sorceress!” I glower as I stare into the man’s soul, then begin to channel further magic. I aim both of my hands, one at the hooded figure and one at the balding fat brute before me. The spark of energy sends a flutter inside my chest as I connect with both men. The yellow-eyed man drops to his knees, growling as he clutches his injured side. I focus on the man pointing the pike at me and a look of terror overcomes him. He drops his weapon and clasps his hand to his side as blood begins to flow through the gaps of his fingers.
“What are you doing to him? Stop!” the leader demands, her voice ringing out from the dispersing crowd. They do not wish to see the spectacle now that they know magic is involved, especially dark magic.
With a flick of my wrist, I fire a jolt of magic at the now injured man, having transferred the hooded man’s injury to him. It connects with his face and there is a sickening crack as his head snaps. This isn’t the first time I have used that spell, but it is the first time I have used it in open combat.
I count three people remaining, and with two against one, I find these odds much fairer than previously. As I dash forward, the leader of the group panics, evidently not expecting such a move.
“You’re all cowards,” I snarl as I clasp either side of her head. I need to replenish the magic stores within my body if I am to prevent myself from succumbing to the aftereffects of magic use. Her eyes meet mine and her face contorts in agony as I absorb the life force within her. Her face thins and becomes gaunt until it resembles that of a rapidly ageing woman. The sensation in my hands is as if they are attempting to propel themselves from one another as the pressure builds. I maintain my focus and fight to keep them in the same place, all the while the pressure growing, causing my hands to vibrate intensely.
I know what comes next. I turn my face to the side as the woman’s head explodes from the pressure, her flesh and blood spraying over me. I feel alive, as though a freshness has taken over me. I pant heavily as I gather myself from the life force I have just absorbed. It is as though the coldest water has washed over me and my skin prickles with the sensation. I embrace the feeling, devouring every moment.
The remaining two men drop their weapons and bolt into the crowd. They have seen sense, and I have caused enough of a spectacle for one day.
“You there. Follow me, before more people arrive.” I beckon the hooded figure towards me. I have channelled enough energy for one morning, and although I could continue, I wish not to draw further eyes upon myself or my magic. I have done enough for people to recognise who I am, and this will no doubt reach whoever is in charge of these Wyverns.
Breyton. The name rings in my mind as I remember the woman speaking his name as if he commanded some form of influence over them. “Come!” I command once more to the yellow-eyed man who stands in shock, blood of his enemies pooled around him.
He searches around him as if looking for something as blood drips from the spiked ball of his mace.
“If you wish to see how I use my magic on those who disobey, then I suggest you stay where you are.”
The man remains rooted to the spot, looking for something.
“You must not value your own life. Come, I want you to hear what I have to offer.”
The man’s eyes meet my own and I am mesmerised by the deep-yellow colour. This man intrigues me.
Finally, he takes a step towards me. He looks at his legs, no doubt shocked and confused by the lack of pain that he should be feeling from his injuries.
“Where is it you take me?” he grumbles, a hoarse husk in his voice.
I point toward Lord Wistler’s home at the top of the keep. “You shall take refuge in the castle.”