Robert Newcomb - Rise of the Blood Royal

During Dale’s fall, his hunting knife had plunged into his body. The weapon stood upright in his chest, and blood ran down Dale’s already blood-soaked sides and onto the ground. An experienced hunter, Rolf was well acquainted with sudden death. No one needed to tell him that his only son had just been killed. A sudden, savage anger flooded through him, and with his last bit of strength he finally grasped his knife and freed it from its sheath.

While the other curious monsters surrounded them, the one holding Rolf suddenly unwound its tail and dropped him to the ground. Gasping for breath, Rolf stood shakily and slashed at the thing, but it only hissed and then backed away with amazing speed. Before Rolf knew it the monster arched its back and lunged again, this time picking Rolf up with its two muscular arms as if he weighed nothing. Curling its tail beneath itself, and with Rolf still in its arms, the thing levered its upper body several meters high, into another cobralike pose.

Rolf tried to again to stab the thing, but his reach was not great enough. As the monster held Rolf before him, it turned its head this way and that, as if it was examining him for some reason. Then the slimy tongue again appeared to test the night air and retreated into the awful mouth. His strength gone, Rolf could do nothing but wait for death.

The creature reared back, opened its jaws, and bit savagely into the base of Rolf’s neck. It tore a large chunk of muscle away, then spat it out. Knowing that Rolf would soon die, the beast let go, sending him tumbling to the ground. Twisting its head this way and that, the thing hissed and looked down at the dying woodsman. To Rolf’s added horror, the beasts started wantonly slithering over and under one another in an orgiastic display of victory.

Amid the chaos, in another area of the pool the surface of the water quietly broke again to reveal a different kind of being. This creature was unlike the many others still rising from the depths. Striding from the pool, it walked up the riverbank to stand over the dying Rolf.

The being wore a dark, tattered robe that spilled down over his wrists and feet. So as to hide his face, the hood of his robe was pulled up over his head. He gripped a gleaming silver staff in one hand as he dispassionately watched Rolf suffer.

As his vision slowly dimmed, Rolf watched the strange figure raise his silvery staff. At once a great shaft of azure light streamed from the staff’s end and went tearing into the forest. The ground started to shake and Rolf heard explosion upon explosion as the craft mowed down ancient trees and dense brush. Wildfires soon cast their orange-red flames into the dark night sky.

As his azure bolt faded, the robed figure continued to point the staff toward the charred path that he had cleared. Then he looked down at his servants as they hissed and slithered about in their orgiastic frenzy.

“That way, my children,” he said quietly. “Our work here is done. Kill no more until you are again ordered to do so.” His voice was deep and resonated with the power of the craft.

As the creature that had wounded Rolf slithered toward the path, the others quickly followed. With their great tails snaking back and forth, their speed soon became as great as the swiftest horses. Rolf turned in agony to see still more of the monsters rise from the water and slither up the charred trail.

There had to be hundreds of them by now, he realized. If their rampage continued, the monsters would soon number in the thousands. But his mind could not fathom how or why the terrible things and their mysterious master had so suddenly appeared.

To Rolf’s further horror, the hooded figure dispassionately turned and levitated into the air. He then hauntingly glided to a place just above the beasts’ onward-flowing column. With his dark robe billowing in the wind and his strange staff gleaming, he flew down the path and shepherded his newborn charges away.

While the forest fires crackled and smoke rose into the air, ever more of the newly born monsters exited the pool to follow their master. As Rolf drifted toward death, he heard a distant Hartwick wolf suddenly call out to announce another night of foraging.

How odd, Rolf thought, as he felt his warm blood spill out onto the ground. The wolves that once worried me are now the only familiar part of this fiery, monster-strewn madhouse. It seems that the old wives’ tales about these woods are true, after all. The craft really does live here…

For the last time, Rolf turned his head to look at his son. If he could summon enough strength, there was one thing left to do. Reaching toward the stag carcass, with a trembling hand he gathered some of the deer’s sticky blood onto his fingertips, then gently smeared it onto Dale’s cheek. Goodbye, my son, he thought. You did well today.

As Rolf’s eyes closed for the last time, the faraway wolf again let go his plaintive cry.

TRISTAN WAS THE LAST CONCLAVE MEMBER TO AWAKEN. He tried to sit up but his head spun sickeningly, forcing him to lie down again. He soon realized that his weapons had been taken from him and that Shailiha sat by his side. Searching his face, she smiled cautiously.

“So you finally decided to rejoin the world,” she said. “Welcome back. We were worried about you.”

The princess sat on a chair that had been pulled up beside the sofa on which Tristan lay. He tried to sit up but again his grogginess won out, forcing him back down. As best he could tell, he was still in the Archives of the Redoubt.

“What happened?” he asked thickly.

Shailiha handed him a cup of hot tea. “Drink this first,” she ordered. “Abbey laced it with some herbs. It will help bring you around.”

Tristan took the cup and gratefully sipped its steaming contents. After giving it back to his sister he finally managed to come up onto his elbows and look around.

As he thought, he was still in the Archives. From somewhere across the room, the other Conclave members were talking in concerned tones. Except for the Tome and the two Scrolls having been released from the wizard’s box, the room looked much as it had before everyone passed out. The oil lamps seemed to twinkle even more pleasantly, and mounds of disheveled archives still lay on the floor. Then his vision finally cleared and things came into better focus. A look of wonderment crossed his face.

The entire chamber and all six of its upper levels were sprinkled with a fine azure dust. It lay atop the furniture, coated the displaced archives lying on the floor, and dirtied every oil lamp and chandelier. Then Tristan realized why the lamps twinkled so prettily-their lamplight was filtering through the strange material that dusted them. The dust shimmered with a life of its own, adding a faint azure glow to the room.

When he looked back at Shailiha, he realized that her hair, clothes, and skin were lightly tinged with the stuff. He looked down to see that he was similarly dusted. He collected some of the strange material from his vest and onto his fingers to discover that it felt soft and fine, like highly milled flour. Suddenly he remembered what Faegan had whispered, just before he blacked out.

“Subtle matter,” he said, half to himself.

Shailiha frowned. “What did you say?” she asked.

“He said ‘subtle matter,’” Wigg’s voice announced.

The First Wizard stepped closer. He had brushed most of the azure dust from his person but shimmering bits still clung to him here and there. Kneeling, he placed his face near Tristan’s and looked deeply into the prince’s eyes.

“Remain still,” he announced. “I doubt that you have been harmed. Even so, it seems that you were the most deeply affected. Most of us awakened hours ago.”