Triumph of the Wizard King: The Wizard King Trilogy Book Three

Book 3: The Wizard King Trilogy

by Chad Corrie

Genres: Dragons & Mythical Creatures; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

The first battle has been fought, but the war has just begun.

As Cadrith savors his success, the mercenaries deal with the aftermath of their last confrontation.

The thread that's bound them to this point is hard to break and is pulling them into yet another conflict where even the gods are bracing their gates.

The battle lines have been drawn. The pieces are in place. The conflict to come will be waged on many fronts and through many faces, but victory is far from assured.

Warring gods, secret plots, ancient feuds, and cosmic adventure fill this final volume of the Wizard King Trilogy, returning readers to a world rich in history, faith, and tales of adventure--of which this story is but one of many.
 
“Corrie has created a world of warring gods and goddesses; peopled it with humans, dwarves, elves, and other races; and infused it with life and color. This saga of faith triumphant belongs in larger fantasy collections.”—Library Journal
 
“. . . Corrie manages to stick the landing and deliver an ending to his trilogy that is both epic and emotional.” —Geek’d Out
 


 

Release date: October 5, 2021

Publisher: Dark Horse Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Death is not the end, merely the beginning of another journey.

—The Scrolls of Dust

Broken and alone, Dugan hung before one of the portals composing Galba’s stone circle. He couldn’t see the peaceful heather-covered hill behind him. He couldn’t see anything as he floated between lucidness and unconsciousness. Each of his hands was affixed to a stone post by a twitching band of violet energy that bit into his flesh. He could feel most of his ribs had been broken. A few had even sliced into his internal organs, adding to his agony. His head sunk into his chest, chin digging into his sternum. He couldn’t feel his legs or his arms past his elbows, but he kept a tight grip on life.

That tenacity had kept him alert enough to witness the final confrontation with the lich, following his own failed attack. He wasn’t clear on what happened after that. It had all happened so fast, and it was getting harder for him to think. He recalled the violent force, the cracking of his back, and the searing set of claws assaulting him from within. He’d also been raised a good four feet above the ground. It looked like he was getting his crucifixion after all. No matter how far he thought he’d come, it had found him in the end. At least he’d have these last few moments of freedom.

It hurt to think, hurt to lift his head or look around. Before him was a battlefield. With its surrounding circle of stones, it could just as easily have been an arena. In the end, he couldn’t escape that either. His body felt lighter—much lighter than it should. He began to wonder if he was still breathing. As he drew closer to Mortis, it felt as though he was on a real cross. Its splinters dug into his back as he struggled for life. In his mind’s eye he could see the arena’s roaring spectators shouting at the gladiator who’d suffered his whole life for their amusement.

As he hung on the cross, he saw his life play out before him. He saw himself as a fair-haired, scrawny youth from a village long since lost to Elyelmic violence. He watched his younger self play with a stick, swinging it like a sword as he fought off imaginary monsters and villains. There was an innocence about the boy that brought a deep sadness to Dugan. Another thing that had been taken from him. The images grew faint and his mind grew fuzzy before fading into darkness.

Tebow wasn’t sure if they’d won or lost. He’d barely survived the attack. The stench of burnt flesh and hair wafted through what he knew was his ruined nose, and there were constant agonizing echoes of the angry flames that had wrapped around his flesh.

Using his hammer as a cane, he rose on shaky legs before letting the object fall upon standing. He wouldn’t need it anymore. He could see the bodies but couldn’t see Cadrith anywhere. He knew they hadn’t taken him down with their hammers, and Gilban didn’t strike him with the scepter—the elf’s dead body made that clear enough. So did the throne finish him off? That hardly seemed fair. Not after all they had gone through.

Too much to ponder and not enough time to do it. He could see Cracius was already at Sheol’s gates, and knew he wasn’t too far away himself. He might as well do some good while he could. He’d join him soon enough and then the next journey would begin. The Scrolls of Dust taught he’d get to serve Asorlok even in the afterlife, ushering souls to their final destination. The same thing they were called to do in this life for the living. And as long as he drew breath he might as well continue that mission. He could see Vinder, Cadrissa, Alara, and Rowan were wounded, but not as badly as Dugan—though Vinder was gaining ground on the Telborian. The dwarf would be Tebow’s second stop if he survived his first.

He hobbled over to Dugan and placed his charred hand upon the Telborian’s limp leg. Even though his hand, like much of his body, had suffered severe burns, the priest could feel the growing coldness in Dugan’s veins. “Asorlok, Lord of Death, Master of the Afterlife, I humble myself before you. I beseech you for a peaceful transition for Dugan, a man who died in service of a great cause—one that you issued to your servants. Give him the assurance he needs to pass over without regret, without anger, and without fear. Grant him peace.”

Dugan moaned and opened one bloodshot eye, staring through the loose strands of his blond mane.

“Rest, Dugan,” Tebow said, looking him full in the face. “Be at peace.” He knew his own face was far from the image of calm he wanted to project, but at such moments it was more important to convey the full weight of the words.

“I’m in the arena.” His voice was weak and distant. “I-I see them . . . ” Dugan drifted between this world and the next. “I have splinters in my back . . .”

“Be at peace. Don’t fight it. Let go . . . Sleep.” Dugan’s eye closed again. His chest fell like tired bellows once more, and then Dugan was dead.

“Safe journey, brave warrior.” Tebow allowed himself a rueful smile, ignoring the tearing of skin and fresh pain it created. He turned toward Vinder, who was also ready to cross into Mortis. On his way to the dying dwarf, he got a closer view of Gilban’s body. His neck was broken, suggesting a quick death. Merciful, he supposed, and easier too, as he wouldn’t have known how to offer comfort to the elf anyway. Gilban followed a different god. While Asorlok ushered all on to their final destination, Tebow didn’t know what rituals were right and proper for a priest of Saredhel. It was better to let the body lie. His spirit was with his goddess anyway.

He didn’t see Hadek anywhere, which raised questions the priest didn’t have time to consider. Surveying the others, he wondered where Galba was. It would have been nice to learn what had happened with Cadrith. He supposed he’d find out soon enough, once he’d crossed over. He could wait.

Tebow shuffled to Vinder. The dwarf remained stoic as he fought to stay conscious, though savage pain was clearly gnashing its teeth over every inch of him. His gray skin and clothing were pitted with black circles of burnt flesh and cloth. His hair was singed and his salt-and-pepper beard was partially burned around his face, but his ice-blue eye still blazed with stubborn life.

Tebow studied the dwarf closely. Vinder stared back. Much of his brigandine armor still remained, but parts of it still emitted thin blue-gray, greasy plumes of smoke. His right hand held his rune-etched axe with a white-knuckled grip.

“You promised . . .” His lips bled with his words, black gel globbing in the corners of his mouth.

Tebow squatted beside the dwarf, biting back his own pain. “Vinder—”

“Don’t . . . you . . . dare . . .” Vinder’s eye blazed. “You promised . . . honor . . .” More blood flowed over his chin and down his singed beard and chest, where it spilled around and behind his head and neck.

“Once this was . . . done . . . you told me . . . I’d have . . . my honor. I did . . . my part . . .”

“Yes, you did.” Tebow placed his hand on Vinder’s battered chest and closed his eyes. No matter what had happened, they still had made a promise, and it needed to be kept.

“No tricks . . .” Vinder huffed.

“No tricks,” Tebow repeated, then prayed. “Asorlok, grant this warrior the honor which he sought as he comes before your majestic throne for judgment. Honor the promise made to him by your priests so you are known as a fair and impartial god that looks favorably upon your priests and honors his word.” With these words spoken, Vinder faded from sight. All that remained was a pool of blood on flattened grass, outlining where the dwarf’s body had once lain. Tebow forced himself to stand. He needed to see to the others.

Vinder felt his spirit seeping away from his ruined body. He knew his time was short, and that made his plea all the more urgent. He wouldn’t die without honor. He’d been promised this by the priests and would hold them to their agreement, even if they were dying with him. They owed him as much. He’d done his part. Now it was their turn.

He didn’t know what followed Tebow’s prayer. His mind was fuzzy. His vision grew more and more narrow. It was like he was looking through a tunnel. He didn’t think he could hold on much longer, and that was fine with him.

He knew Tebow wasn’t able to heal his wounds. The priest’s beliefs and his god forbade such things. It would have been nice to go back to his family and clan . . . to live an honorable life for the rest of his days . . . but he understood his final return to the clan in death was just as important, if not more important, to him. If given a choice, he’d choose death with restored honor over more years with the ones he loved without it. He’d already made that choice when he’d stood at the mouth of Cael’s lair. He knew he’d probably die, but he also knew it would bring him the redemption he desired.

Now as he lay dying, Vinder had an epiphany. The most important things in life were faith, honor, and family. Duty was only the byproduct of these ideals. Only in death did it all make sense. What would he leave behind? What mark would his existence make on the world? And how would he be remembered? Life was not so much about being alive, but how one lived, and what one left behind. That was the basis of the dwarven philosophy. Without death, life would have no meaning. Here was the purpose and meaning of it all. Here, on the precipice of death, he learned what he should have been living for all along.

Vinder didn’t even realize the scenery had changed. The green grass had given way to cool, rocky earth. The blue sky had darkened to a foggy twilight, and the stone circle had transformed into a womb of rock. There was something familiar about the place. He struggled to sit, his fading vision weakly scanning the area around him. A smile found its way across his pale and worn features, even as he coughed up blood. He was back in Cael’s lair. He noticed the Troll’s bones beside him, skin and muscle melted away by the death priests’ earlier attack. He fixed his narrowing gaze upon the skeleton. It was nothing but a hollow, meaningless thing now. It would be the last thing he saw when Drued called him to his ancestors.

As he contorted his body to better view the Troll’s remains, he understood this wasn’t enough. This wasn’t going to win him his lost honor. He may have been willing to die in battle with Cael, but now his foe was dead. Failing to fall in battle wouldn’t win him anything if he died alone here on the cold stone floor. Though those who would find his corpse later would assume he’d died in battle with the Troll, he and Drued would know the truth. His family might have comfort in his perceived restored honor, but he’d be unable to rest in his afterlife knowing the truth.

Worse, if it wasn’t believed that Vinder died in battle, his death would serve no purpose. His family would have lost not only a son, but honor within the clan as well. No, something had to be done. Reaching under his clothing, he retrieved the small figurine of Drued he’d worn around his neck since heading out with Alara and the others into the marshes.

He gave the quartz pendant a kiss. Suddenly his head lolled backward and his body grew cold and slack as it slammed into the rocky ground. A bloody groan escaped his mouth, jarring his mind toward action. He had one last thing he could try.

Slowly, fighting against the cold numbing of his flesh, he turned his head toward Cael’s skull. He forced back the growing blackness long enough to fix his gaze upon the skull’s empty sockets. For what seemed like a great span of time he eyed the jaws that would have split his bones and torn muscle and skin. Now they were dull and silent.

With one last burst of will, he called upon the deepest reserves of life that yet remained. He’d have to face Drued on the merits of his own life—as all dwarves did—and live with the verdict his god decreed, but he could at least leave behind some comfort for his family.

Vinder forced his numb right hand to tightly grab his axe. Laboriously, he focused his mind, his will, and his faith on the task. He watched Cael’s skull fade into darkness before it disappeared altogether, and then his heartbeat ceased.

The dwarf took a deep, rattling breath. It was slow, painful, and labored but gave him his last bit of strength. He let out a powerful yell that fueled the weapon’s arc, severing the skeleton’s neck with a single hit. The head rattled away and struck the nearby wall like a child’s spinning top. And with his final strike, the last of Vinder’s life fled from him.

Alara managed to sit up, ignoring the throbbing in her gut and temples. She tried to make sense of the scene coming into focus. Her stomach was bruised, she knew, and there was going to be a welt on the side of her head, but she’d live. She spied Gilban not too far from her. His body lay on its side, neck broken and face staring blankly into space. Near him was the silver scepter, half-hidden from view. He didn’t deserve this—none of them did.

She didn’t see Cadrith anywhere. She wanted to believe that was a good thing—perhaps the throne took him—but in her heart she knew that wasn’t true. And then Tebow came into view. The priest was a horrid sight. His body was as black as his singed sable cloak, most of his dark brown hair was gone, and the remaining skin on his face barely covered the bones beneath it. A thick black ichor oozed from his ruined flesh.

“Are you able to stand?” His voice was rough, crackly.

She didn’t answer.

Tebow drew closer with careful steps. She was surprised he was able to stand at all. He was probably in a great deal of pain—much more than she—and yet he seemed unconcerned.

“Take care of the others,” he said, placing his cinder of a hand upon her shoulder. “You’re all they have left to hold on to. You have to be strong for them in the time to come. You still—”

His speech was cut short as he fell to the ground. He landed on his side, his eyes locked on hers in a gaze holding the last of their fading light. A heartbeat later, the priest’s body and even his charred clothes crumbled into dust, leaving only a pale gray blanket of ash. She thought of Cracius and dared a look, only to find another swath of gray dust a few yards away. Even their silver hammers were gone.

First Gilban and now Tebow had appealed to her leadership, urging her to guide the others. With Gilban she had accepted it, in part knowing she’d be able to let it go once the mission was over. Now everything had changed. Part of her didn’t want to do anything but run to Rexatoius as fast as she could. But she knew that wouldn’t change anything. Then there was Rowan, and her promise to him.

Sliding on her right side, she dragged herself close to Gilban and the scepter. With her left hand, she pulled it free. She used it to prop herself up and rose with agonizing effort.

She didn’t want to lead anymore. She didn’t want to fight. She felt beaten and tired, alone and afraid. This wasn’t what she’d pictured on the fields where she’d been a child, watching her father’s herds and practicing with her imaginary sword. She didn’t see the suffering behind such actions and quests, only their completion. She never would have imagined what it might be like to truly suffer defeat.

Alara forced her feet forward. She made it to Rowan, lying unconscious across the dais’ white marble steps. Thankfully, he didn’t seem too much the worse for wear. He’d have a headache, but the measured rising and falling of his chest showed he still lived. She couldn’t find Vinder and assumed the lightning had totally consumed him. A grisly fate, for sure, but at least it was quick. She also saw no sign of Hadek. She hoped the goblin met his end as painlessly as possible. If anything, he was an innocent in all this. He’d had the potential to live a decent life in Rexatoius, she supposed, but now she could only hope he’d found some peace somewhere.

To her amazement, Cadrissa was awake and sitting upright. From how Rowan had reacted, Alara had thought she’d been killed, yet here she was looking better than any of them. When last they’d been together Cadrissa had been wearing travel-soiled golden robes. Now she was dressed in a clean white gown and hooded gold cloak with matching sash. As with many things she’d been encountering, Alara wasn’t sure what to make of this new attire.

“What happened?” Cadrissa’s movements were weak and labored. Her face was lined with fear and exhaustion.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Alara. “I thought you were dead.”

“So did I.” Cadrissa’s mind started to clear. “How did you get here? The warding was almost too strong for—” She broke off suddenly. “Where is he?”

“The lich?”

“Yes.” A note of fear crept into her voice.

“I don’t know.” Alara figured that was the best answer for the time being. She didn’t want to explain everything, not until Rowan was awake. And at the moment she was more interested in what Cadrissa could share about her time with Cadrith than anything else.

“Then did he become—”

“I don’t know.”

Cadrissa nodded, lost once more in her thoughts, until she caught sight of the crucified Telborian. “Dugan!” She bolted for the dead man, her feet betraying her a few times in her rapid flight. Alara followed, wincing.

Tears filled Cadrissa’s green eyes. “You’re going to be okay.” The image in the portal behind Dugan had changed to a snowy wasteland—a flat arctic tundra of white winds. “We just have to get you down. We—”

“He’s dead, Cadrissa.” She tried to be as gentle as possible, but there was no way around the truth. “Leave him be.”

“He’s just wounded,” Cadrissa said, tenderly stroking Dugan’s knee. “He’ll be okay.”

“He’s gone, Cadrissa. There’s nothing we can do.” Alara’s eyes misted at the finality of the words, feeling the weight of all she’d seen since she herself woke to this nightmare.

Cadrissa sobbed violently, burying her face in Dugan’s lifeless legs. Alara tried to administer some comfort, but she knew the wounds of the heart were painful to endure. While helping Cadrissa, she pondered how she’d deal with the same grief. Even if she and Rowan lived to a ripe old age, she’d still outlive him. Worse still, anything could happen to them in the meantime. Events even worse than what they’d just survived. Silently, she thanked the gods Rowan hadn’t left her yet—there was one positive note in this dark ballad.

She’d become so absorbed in her own thoughts that she failed to notice the portal’s image behind Dugan change once more. The frozen wasteland was warping into a desert realm with tall volcanic mountains, meandering streams of lava, and roving flames resembling fiery serpents.

Cadrissa jumped from Dugan’s body as if bitten by a snake. “It’s like he’s on fire.” No sooner had she spoken than a geyser of flame erupted from Dugan’s chest, spreading over his whole body with such speed that his entire frame was devoured by the famished fire before either of them knew what was happening. It consumed him entirely, melting his flesh and blackening his bones into a fine dust. Neither could do anything but stare open mouthed at the empty stone posts. Nothing of the former gladiator remained.

 

CHAPTER 2

At the center of the cosmos was the world of Thangaria.

—The Kosma

“I trust this was all part of what you’ve already seen,” said Asorlok. He entered through an intricately designed wooden door. Sooth, Saredhel’s realm, was far removed from Mortis, but Asorlok thought it wise to come in his true form anyway. Though the pantheon were using guises to meet in their council, the gods could engage in other matters as their true selves. This also allowed for momentary distraction, which would serve the god of death’s purposes well.

Saredhel was undisturbed by Asorlok’s sudden arrival. She kept her back to the door and her mind focused on meditation. It wasn’t customary for a god to burst into another’s realm unannounced, but Asorlok wasn’t in the mood to move through the normal channels. Such things could take extra time, something he didn’t have a great deal of.

The bald goddess’ eyes remained closed as she hovered near the edge of a reflecting pool. The white skirt about her waist, slit on both sides to her light brown thighs, dangled between her crossed legs and bare feet, almost touching the smooth water.

“What brings you to Sooth?” Saredhel asked, keeping her pose. The pool was six feet deep and at least twice that in width—its smooth lavender-colored stone lining like glass shimmering beneath the calm water. The pool’s surface reflected the brilliant torches lining the top of the chamber, whose pure-white radiance was akin to the brightest of days.

Besides the torches and the scrying pool in the center, the chamber was rich in design, opulent frescoes painted on its domed ceiling and bright mosaics encircling the walls. The images and scenes were of events that had taken place in the realm from its beginning all the way up to the coming of Saredhel and her rule over it.

“I think you know very well what brings me here.” Asorlok curled his lip. His blue eyes, hawkish nose, and clean-shaven head only accentuated his air of royal discontent. The god of death stood fifteen feet, just like his floating sister, but was more somberly attired. A deep claret cape flowed down his back, stopping at tall black sandals. His black samite robe was encircled by a red satin sash.

“One of two options,” said the goddess, “neither of which need concern you.”

“We went through all that effort getting them to the circle. And for what? They’re dead.”

“Not all of them.” Saredhel spun in midair. “You should know that.” Rays of light struck the various jewels and gems she wore—most noticeably the silver chain connecting her left nostril and earlobe. Twin silver serpents, which made up a portion of her metal brassiere, glistened in the light.

“But they just as well will be if he’s left to enact Nuhl’s will.”

“And what is that will?” Saredhel’s solid white eyes stared deep into the god of death.

“I don’t have time for your games.”

“Then why are you here?” She floated to the middle of the pool, returning her gaze to its liquid confines. The opaline shawl she wore over her head hid part of her face in shadow.

“I want the truth for once. You told Endarien and me that we needed to join you to stop Cadrith, and we did. But I couldn’t help but notice that new revelation you shared with the council. So which is it? Or are they bothfalse?”

“What I’ve seen, I’ve seen.” Saredhel fixated on some rainbows sliding across the pool’s surface.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Asorlok’s frustration grew.

“And why does this trouble you so?” Saredhel raised her head. “Why is the god of death so concerned over the possible destruction of Tralodren and its gods?”

Asorlok took a deep breath and slowly let it out before saying, “I just want some answers. You can’t have this both ways. What we did at the circle was supposed to be the end of this. Now we have Endarien looking to go and fight this lich with what’s left of Vkar.”

“A choice he made,” she explained. “As did you when you joined him in gathering the others at the circle.”

“Which you also led us to undertake.”

“That isn’t how I recall it.”

“Then what did take place? Can you tell me that? In fact, what’s going on right now? Because I don’t think any of us really have a clue.”

“All things serve their purpose.” Saredhel’s voice was calm and clear. “The artist who must give an explanation of his work to the viewer is indeed a poor craftsman. It is in the interpretation that the piece comes into its own.”

“This is pointless.” Asorlok slashed his hand through the air like an angry blade, as if the action could clear away the verbal clutter. “You could at least give me something of an answer.”

“You haven’t asked the right question—not the one that matters most.”

“Which is?” Asorlok crossed his arms, causing his silver bracers to shimmer in the light of the room.

“You already know it but have yet to ask it of yourself. When you do, I will be here to help you find your answer,” she said, turning away from him to resume her meditation. “I have other matters to attend to. I’m sure you do too.”

Asorlok glared at Saredhel until it was clear nothing further was going to be said. He released a snarling huff as he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. With the loud clap still vibrating off the walls, Saredhel closed her eyes and focused on the pool.

“I’ll see the final piece is put in place, but what is chosen shall be counted as final.” With these words the pool swirled into a solid white, as if the water was liquid marble. This whiteness shimmered with a brilliance like sunlit snow, covering the goddess in a living radiance and making all the colors onto which it fell a few shades paler. “And no choice will be made under compulsion.”

A voice arose from the pool. It was both feminine and masculine at the same time. “What is chosen shall be respected.”

“Yes, it shall,” said Saredhel. “For good or for ill.”

Asora joined the rest of the pantheon, save Endarien, in their adopted guises deep beneath the Hall of Vkar. She and the others had finally made their way through the maze of disused tunnels and corridors beneath the ancient palace. Like much of the hall above, the area felt like an old shrine, a relic of days long since past. Days that would never—could never—be again. No gods nor titans roamed the tunnels anymore; none had any reason. The cosmos had changed with the deaths of Vkar and Xora, a sudden and irreversible change that had forged the current pantheon. A new order for a new age, which now faced a similar fate as its predecessor.

Ganatar had led the council though ironclad doors, twisting tunnels, and a seemingly endless number of stairs. Lit by the radiance of the god of light’s presence alone, the corridors they traveled eventually slithered to a cold dead end. It was here, amid the rock walls, that a small, plain silver chest sat nestled in a tight niche about waist level to a titan.

A nod from Ganatar told Asora to gently pull the chest free. The container was no larger than a human head, the goddess’ large frame dwarfing the object as her delicate fingers enveloped it. It was amazing to think that something so powerful could be contained in such a small vessel. Vkar had been the first to rise to godhood and had ruled a far-flung empire for years. And now here was all that remained of the Eternal Emperor.

The other gods were silent as Asora brought the small box to her chest. She rested it just above the swell of her stomach, where still more life waited to be birthed. As she brought it to the others, they formed a circle in the open area of the tunnel. She was loath to do what they were about to do, but she understood the greater benefit. Any loss of life sat poorly with her. But if it would keep death’s grip from claiming many more, it was worth the sacrifice. It was with this resolution she’d convinced herself to hold true to the task. She entered the middle of the circle; the others closed ranks around her. Taking the center of the circle for her mark, she stared at Ganatar.

“Let it begin.” His voice was even, measured.

Asora opened the chest. As she did, an aggressively bright light manifested, overpowering Ganatar’s luminous presence with a blinding white glow. Together, the gods concentrated, digging deep into the chest’s contents, using their wills to draw forth that which had been held inside for millennia.

They had to subdue it, to make it obey their command. Though Vkar had been the strongest of the gods—and still was, even in death—what remained of him wasn’t able to stand against the collective will of his progeny—or the Race Gods—even in their guises. A moment later, the pantheon had hold of Vkar’s essence and were wrenching it free from the silver box. As it was removed, it took the shape of a globe of bright white light, a foot in diameter, and began to hover above them.

“We must send it to Endarien,” said Ganatar.

Once more, the gods concentrated their wills. The globe became hot, flaring with a life all its own so that the room became like the center of a sun. Just as quickly as the heat and light had come, the globe disappeared.