War of Succession

War of Succession – Prologue

As Darbon bore the oaken staff into the circle, he knew six people would die. He had watched the Order of Archmagi for his entire career, carefully avoiding the politics of the Order while he pursued his arcane knowledge. But he knew from the beginning that this generation of Archmagi was an ambitious one. There would be seven candidates for succession.

He looked up at the funeral pyre for a moment, watching the Grand Magus’ body burn, the smoke rising high into the sky. Some folk lore said it was a good sign, that the higher the pillar of smoke, the quicker the soul would reach the All-Father. Those who believed such things were generally dismissed as superstitious; most Archmagi claimed to know the true sources of power, but Darbon was never too sure about that. To him it always seemed more like arrogance than wisdom.

He stopped for a moment to look at the circle. The courtyard was filled with Archmagi, all waiting for his arrival. For a moment Darbon wished he could retreat back into the great tower, hiding behind the stone walls until all the nonsense about succession was finished with. The sickeningly sweet smell of burning flesh from the pyre in the courtyard of the Grand Magus made the butterflies in his stomach flutter harder. If only the Grand Magus hadn’t selected him, he would be able to spend this time with his wife. She was expecting their first child, and he wanted to be there. But some duties were more important than family.

He scratched his greying beard and looked at the staff. The wood pulsed with power, magic greater than any Archmage could imagine. The length was carved with runes of protection and binding, holding magic to it that could not be bound otherwise. The power had come once the Grand Magus had died, retreating to its home in the ancient wood. Nobody was quite sure how old it was; it had been in the order since the dawn of time, some legends said. None questioned those stories.

Taking a deep breath, Darbon walked into the circle. The Archmagi gazed on him expectantly, waiting for the rites all of them knew but none had witnessed. He silently rehearsed what he was supposed to say, hoping that if he got a couple of words wrong, it wouldn’t matter.

Clearing his throat, he began to speak, voice rasping. “The Grand Magus, the great spell-weaver, has gone to the next world. He sleeps with the All-Father, waiting for the rebirth of the world when this cycle ends. He watches the great Road, seeing those beyond us.”

Darbon swallowed and took a breath, wondering if he would ever understand half of what he’d just said. Probably not; even the Grand Magus was said to know only after he crossed from life.

“As per the old ways, handed to us by the first one, we begin the rites of succession,” he said, holding the staff out. The runes began to glow, and Darbon felt the magic trying to escape. “We begin the first rite: we select the chosen ones. Who here claims right of succession?”

Ten Archmages stepped forward, their robes flapping in the autumn breeze. For a moment Darbon lost his train of thought, the coming winter and the supplies Kara would have to purchase flooding his mind. Then he returned to the moment, and held back a grimace. Six people would definitely die by the end of the year.

He held out the relic. He knew all the Archmages; most were decent people who tended to keep to themselves, others were ambitious, some positively fearsome. The ten who stood forward were all middle-aged, and while he feared none of them, there were one or two he wished the staff would not pick. But the choice was out of his hands now. He already felt the magic taking control.

There was a sudden flash, and one of the Archmages reeled back, the air around the staff smelling burnt, as though lightning had struck. Darbon cursed inwardly: he didn’t terribly like Gasanus.

“Gasanus, you are granted a power of succession,” Darbon declared, holding the carved oak out towards the Archmages again. There was an explosion of light, and another wizard staggered backwards, a burnt mark on his robes.

“Feladon, you are granted a power of succession,” Darbon intoned, waiting for the next power to be granted. The bolt of energy leapt forth, leaving a smouldering smell, and a candidate fell to the ground, blinking smoke out of his eyes.

“Conadar, you are granted a power of succession.”

The staff flashed again. Darbon breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the power flow from the wood. Finally, once seven Archmages in total were granted a power from the relic, the magic was gone. Once again, for a hundred years, the staff was merely a carved piece of oak. Darbon wiped some sweat from his forehead; despite the chill growing in the air, he still found himself overheating from all the energy around him. However, there was now only one last thing for him to do for now.

Darbon saw the three remaining Archmages step back into greater circle, discontent in their eyes. Darbon shook his head; if only they knew how lucky they were the relic had not selected them. He cleared his throat to speak. “Gasanus, Feladon, Conadar, Bervus, Malichus, Tergibar and Hargan, you have all been granted power of succession. He who unites the seven powers, he shall be the Grand Magus. You must be careful, for no innocents must be harmed in the second rite. Thus it has always been. Thus it shall always be. The second rite, the contest for succession, shall begin in two weeks. Let he who survives, who bears the power of the Grand Magus, rule with wisdom. Let the six who fall be remembered with grace. The first rite is concluded.”

Darbon strode from the circle, winding his way back to his room in the tower. He stared for a moment at the stark stone wall, the simple bed and desk, and felt a great longing for the rolling fields of home. The role of arbiter, chosen for him by the Grand Magus, did not sit well on him. He took out a pen and parchment and began to write, explaining to Kara why he wouldn’t be coming home this winter.

He was in mid-paragraph when the knock sounded at his door. He stood up, noticing for the first time how low the sun lay in the sky. “I’ll be just a moment,” he called, using a tinderbox to light the candle on his desk. Once the candle burned brightly, he opened the door.

Hargan stood before him, rubbing his tanned hands to keep warm in the drafty hallway. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” Darbon said. “I got caught up in my letter. Please come in.”

Hargan stepped in and sat on the bed, his brown eyes glancing around the room. “So you will live here until the rites are over?” he asked.

Darbon nodded. “It is my duty to ensure that the rules of succession are upheld. If an Archmage should break the rules by enlisting help, or something similar, I must use the staff to regain the power of succession.”

“And it must all be single contests?” Hargan said, plucking absently at his red Archmage robe.

Darbon nodded, puzzled at the question. “Of course. Surely your master taught you this when you were an apprentice Mage?”

Hargan smiled kindly. “I fear that he was a bit unclear about one or two things.”

Darbon sat down beside the young Archmage. Hargan was so young, he reflected. There was not even a wisp of grey in his beard. He probably wouldn’t stand a chance against one of the more experienced successors.

“Why don’t you ask me about anything you’re unclear on,” Darbon suggested, giving Hargan a fatherly pat on the back.

“Is it true there can only be one arbiter?”

Darbon nodded. “Just as there is only one staff, there is one arbiter. It is a great challenge, and I hope I am worthy of it.”

Hargan smiled. “I’m sure you will be.” Then he reached into his robe.

By the time Darbon realized what was happening, it was too late. Before he could even cast a warding spell, Hargan’s dagger slid between his ribs. Darbon’s chest suddenly felt as though it was on fire, and every breath was agony itself.

Hargan twisted the knife, and the pain exploded. Darbon screamed in agony, but Hargan only smiled at him. “I cast an enchantment before I came here,” the young Archmage explained. “I didn’t want us to be disturbed.” Darbon fell to the ground, turning his head to watch the Archmage standing over him, blood on his hands.

Darbon felt the darkness reach out towards him, dulling his pain. “Why?” he rasped, struggling to stay alive, trying to see his wife for one last time.

“The rules of succession are changing,” Hargan replied. “Unfortunately, you’re in the way.”

Darbon wanted to reach out, to tell Hargan that what he was doing was wrong, but the darkness enveloped him first.

* * *

Watching the water drip into the puddle, he listened as it echoed in the cave. The light from his staff left a green glow on the moss beside him. He turned and looked at the creature of power before him.

The Dragon’s coils wrapped around the cave walls, the black scales reflecting the light from his staff. The great wyrm’s head rose above him, gazing into his eyes with immortal indifference.

“I have waited a long time,” he said. “I have traveled the Road, returning every century to see if the time has come. I bid you to answer, by what we once shared. Has my time come?”

The great head retracted into the coils, and for a moment there was silence. Then the Dragon’s answer echoed throughout the cavern.

“Yes.”