Филип Этанс - The Death Ray

“Bastard!” the wizard shouted, a thin, reedy edge to his voice. “You have no idea what it took to create that masterpiece. You have no idea what it means to build something. You, who kill and kill and kill until that boot-shining moron of a duke hands you the duchy on a silver platter—hands you Maelani like he’s selling you a goat.”

Maelani? Regdar thought. What could she have to do with all this?

Fire washed over the broken wall. Regdar barely ducked in time before flames licked through the hole he was looking through. He avoided getting burned, but when he looked out again, all he could see was thick, black smoke.

“You have something of mine, lord constable,” Vargussel called, letting the title drip with contempt. “The rod. Give it to me and I’ll kill you quickly.”

The rod?

Regdar shook his head. Rage and pain had slowed the parts of his brain that he found himself in need of but his intellect came back to him fast enough. The rod the wizard was talking about must be the weapon the behemoth used to kill Naull.

“I have it!” Regdar shouted.

“Give it to me!” demanded the wizard.

Regdar stood and looked through the hole again. He saw two of the six wizards hovering a few yards away, below the crest of the wall. Regdar saw him put the wand away.

“I’ll destroy it!” Regdar threatened.

The wizard laughed in response. The thin, reedy edge of his voice made the sound even more unsettling.

“You couldn’t begin to know how to destroy that rod, you drooling deficient,” the wizard replied. “It’s not a stick to be snapped over your knee. It’s an item of power your mind couldn’t even—”

“I’ll use it, then,” Regdar interrupted.

There was a long pause, then the wizard’s voice rang over the ruins again, low and threatening. “In all your pitiful, mundane, blade-polishing existence, you couldn’t muster the psychic resources necessary to call forth that weapon’s power. Your tiny brain couldn’t hold that much hate.”

Hate? Regdar thought.

“I’ll take it out of your scorched, ruined, dead hand,” Vargussel said, then he began casting another spell.

A bolt of lightning blasted into the already leaning wall. Regdar dived over Naull’s body and put his arms over his head. His hair stood on end again, and his skin crawled uncomfortably but the bolt missed him. The shadow of the wall was gone, however, so he knew he was exposed. He felt the rod, hard and cold against his back. Regdar grabbed it and rolled into the nearest shadow. He clutched the rod in one hand, his bow in the other. Both clattered against the fallen timbers.

The warrior rolled to his feet and stood, back against what remained of the wall. Greasy, black smoke whirled up into the gray sky.

All this, Regdar thought, for a girl?

“You know I’ll do what’s best for the duchy,” Maelani told her father, “and if that means I must marry sooner rather than later, I’m willing to accept that.”

“Are you indeed,” the duke replied, settling into a comfortable leather armchair.

Swirling the fine elven cognac in an oversize snifter, the duke took in a long breath through his nose, letting the heady aroma of the spirit waft through his head. A fire crackled next to him, more a bonfire than a simple hearth fire in the massive, marble fireplace. He reminded himself regularly that many of New Koratia’s citizens made their homes in spaces smaller than that fireplace, and that thought often guided his hand in matters of domestic policy. In matters of the heart, he was at a loss—most of the time.

Maelani sank onto the bearskin rug at his feet, curling up like a young lioness surveying the veldt she’d claimed as her own.

“You’ll make a fine duchess,” he found himself saying.

Maelani smiled and said, “Like Mother?”

The duke took a small sip of the cognac, letting it burn his bottom lip for a second before swallowing.

“Father?” Maelani prompted, concern creeping into her voice.

“No,” he said with a sigh. “No, your mother, may Pelor forever hold her in his embrace, was never much good at it. She was a lord’s daughter, to be sure, but her family’s estate was a rural one. They were farmers at heart, and it was a farmer’s blood that warmed her veins the whole of her days.”

“Doesn’t that same blood flow in my veins, too?” she asked. “I always loved visiting Grandfather’s estate…the horses, the flowers…”

The duke laughed cheerfully and said, “You may have enjoyed it for the occasional fortnight’s repose, my dear, but even when you were still in diapers, you couldn’t wait to get back to the city. You were born a noblewoman and have only grown further into that role since.”

“Is that so bad?” she asked with a delicate frown.

The duke shook his head.

Maelani laughed and said, “But my nobility, mixed with a warrior’s strength of arm and character—”

The duke took another sip of cognac, a longer one this time, and studied his daughter’s face.

“It sounds to me,” he said, “as if you’ve made up your mind about something.”

Maelani smiled—a sincere and bright expression—and was about to answer when the door burst open and the elite guard Officer of the Day entered almost at a run.

The duke stood to receive his officer, who slid to a stop and stood at attention.

“Your Highness,” the officer said, “there is a disturbance in the city.”

The duke glanced back to see Maelani slowly stand, smoothing her gown as she did. He held the snifter out to her and she took it from him.

“Where?” the duke asked.

“The Trade Quarter, sir,” the officer reported, “in the ruins of an old slaughterhouse. Your Highness, it seems the murderer has been run to ground.”

The duke blinked but began walking to the door with purpose. The elite guard officer fell in behind him, and Maelani followed as well.

“Has the lord constable been advised?” the duke asked as they walked.

“Your Highness…” the officer replied, hesitating.

They stepped through into a corridor bustling with elite guard officers and men, their faces betraying anxiety and excitement.

“Where is Lord Constable Regdar?” the duke roared.

“Your Highness,” the officer answered, “it has been suggested that the lord constable is the murderer.”

The duke stopped dead in his tracks, and the officer almost collided with him. Maelani did in fact lightly bump into the officer, who turned to apologize, his face red. He stopped when the duke’s meaty hand fell on his shoulder and turned him back around.

“Who made such an allegation?” the duke asked.

The officer swallowed and said, “Vargussel, Your Highness. They fight to the death even now.”

The color drained from the duke’s face, and he found it difficult to draw in a breath. His eyes met his daughter’s, and she looked the same.

“To the Trade Quarter then,” the duke said, “and let’s see for ourselves.”

Regdar rolled the rod over in his hands. It was surprisingly heavy, heavier even than his greatsword. To Regdar’s untrained eye it appeared to be made of solid platinum. The metal alone was worth a king’s ransom. The power to kill in a way that left no trace and cut whatever spiritual connection a soul had with its body must have cost even Regdar’s heart sank. His blood ran cold. He began to sweat and shiver at the same time.

The victims couldn’t be brought back.

Families of the murdered young men had tried. They employed the most powerful priests in the city, who had tried every prayer to no avail. Whoever was killed by that beautiful, platinum abomination stayed dead.

Naull would stay dead.