Just as he had been told, Sylas and Desmond were waiting for him two miles further ahead. Desmond eyed him with a smug expression. In complete contrast, Sylas' face was an expressionless mask.
Martok dismounted and slapped his horse on the rump, sending him into a quick gallop. He then took stock of his surroundings. The tree line was more than half a mile away on either side, and the open field was blanketed in nothing but short grass and an assortment of wild flowers. No cover whatsoever. This would be a battle of attrition.
“I wish you hadn’t come, Martok,” called Sylas. “I truly do. It’s not too late to turn back.”
“Yes,” added Desmond. “Run home like the coward you are.”
“Shut your mouth,” Sylas snapped. “One more word from you and you'll be fighting me next. Understand?”
This was more than enough to cow Desmond who simply nodded.
“You killed your own brother,” Martok told his uncle. Though his heart was filled to bursting with rage, his tone was calm and even. “You have betrayed your family. All for power. You are nothing to me. You are not my uncle, and you are not a member of the Dragonvein family.”
“I am sorry it has come to this,” Sylas replied. “Though the fact is, I had no choice in what I did. Kytain was becoming too powerful. Soon he would have declared himself the ruler of all Lumnia. I tried to make Ralmar see reason, but he instead chose to honor the pact he had made with Kytain.”
A snort of derision slipped from Martok. “Strange that you should choose to use the word
honor
, as you possess none of your own. Kytain never desired to rule. The rumors were false. You have allowed the Bronstar family to poison your mind. You have been twisted and misled. Not that any of this matters now. Kytain is dead, as is my father. Soon you and he can debate this among the ancestors. Perhaps he will be more forgiving than I am.”
Sylas stepped closer to meet Martok’s gaze. “I implore you, nephew, leave while you can. You are strong, but I am stronger. If you choose to fight, you will die. I have already tried to spare you once by delaying matters until you had departed for your yearly hunt. But I cannot do so now. Turn back…or this will truly be your end.”
Martok could sense the wards surrounding both Desmond and Sylas. Those around Sylas would be challenging to break. Those around Desmond however were of little significance. In a flurry of motion, he extended an arm, fingers splayed.
“
Vurusi Zin
,” he shouted, then closed his fist.
Desmond’s eyes popped wide as he realized that his wards were gone. He looked desperately over to Sylas for help, while at the same time backing hurriedly away in anticipation of what he knew would surely follow. Martok merely smiled wickedly and flicked his wrist.
An orb of blue flame appeared just above Desmond’s head. He burst into a run, casting back bolts of lightning at Martok as he fled. But this time Martok had planned the attack on his father’s murderer carefully. He had calculated his weaknesses and devised how to make it a reasonably quick, albeit extremely painful end for him.
He easily deflected the bolts while watching the orb pursue the terrified youth. Sylas merely stood there looking on with apparent interest, but making no move at all to intervene. After a few more yards the orb found its target. Desmond's entire body was engulfed. Flames licked hungrily at him, first at his clothes, then at his bare flesh after these were consumed. Just as Ralmar Dragonvein's flesh had blistered and burned, so did Desmond's - only twenty times worse. His agonized screams, increasing in intensity with every second that passed, finally reached a crescendo. And then, with a final gurgling whimper, the cries went silent. As the flames faded, all that remained of Desmond Bronstar was a pitifully small pile of ashes on the grass.
“Impressive,” said Sylas, clapping his hands together. “I must thank you for saving me the trouble. I never could stand the little brat. Though his mother will be somewhat distraught.”
“His mother will not suffer long,” Martok responded. “Once I am finished with you, I intend to erase the name of Bronstar from living memory.”
Sylas shook his head and chuckled. “You believe it was only the Bronstar family involved in this? You're wrong. More than a dozen great houses took part. Will you destroy them all? See reason, Martok. You cannot win.”
“You think not? Kytain taught me many things about diplomacy and relationships between the houses. The one I remember most of all is that the majority of them are cowards. When they see the home of the Bronstar family in ruins they will scatter to the winds. You are the only mage with the steel to attempt such an attack on Kytain. So don’t try to make it seem as if you are simply a pawn.”
“I would not attempt such a deception with you,” he replied. “You know me too well. It is true that I have taken control of the Bronstar family – much to the dismay of Evelyn. But it was the other houses who pressed me to action. That, and your father’s timid nature.” An ugly sneer appeared on his face. “He all but turned over control of our house to Kytain: a man who was merely using you as a vehicle for his own ambitions. And to make matters worse, you were too foolish to know you were being used.”
“My father was many things,” Martok shot back. “But timid was not one of them. And though Kytain did use me, our relationship was mutually beneficial.”
Sylas huffed. “In what way? What did you get aside from false status – something that Kytain could have stripped away from you at any time he chose?”
“I gained knowledge. I learned many things from him. Unlike you, he could see the true value in loyalty. It is a prize bought dearly. But once possessed, it can overcome even the gravest of perils.”
“You were the
only
mage loyal to him, Martok. And it did not save his life, did it?”
“No,” he admitted. “It did not. But it
will
avenge his death.”
“Then you have chosen. I was hoping that I would not be the last of our family.”
Martok’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “I've already told you once. You are no longer a Dragonvein. Do not dare speak as one.”
With the final word barely out of his mouth, he unleashed a rapid series of short energy bursts. Though Sylas’ wards absorbed them without even slightly weakening, Martok was not discouraged. This was only a test. His final burst, instead of striking, exploded short of the wards in a sizzling shower of blue sparks in an attempt to blind his opponent.
Sylas, however, had anticipated this move. He countered with a cloud of black smoke that instantly consumed the light and then rushed toward his nephew.
“
Blivio
,” Martok shouted.
The command summoned a mighty gust of wind to disperse the cloud. It was a short reprieve, however. Before he could mount another attack of his own, a beam of red light struck him in the center of his chest. He staggered back, nearly toppling over, before looking down to where the beam had struck. His wards had held…barely.
Sylas was now on the offensive. With a clap of hands above his head he conjured up three eagles and sent them streaking toward Martok, all of them with vicious looking talons extended and ready to strike. Martok knew this was not the main assault, also that Sylas was unaware of just how far he had come as a mage. At a flick of his hand, a green mist materialized just ahead of the eagles' flight. The moment they passed into this, they vanished.
Barely had this happened when he felt the ground beneath him heave. He tried to halt the spell with one of his own, but it was already too late. The earth ruptured in a mighty boom, throwing him skyward. While rising, though his body was flailing around like a child's angrily discarded doll, he somehow managed to keep hold of his wits.
The spell came out accompanied by a heavy grunt. “
Mul Minis Lomnia.
”
In a rush of air, his body was lifted even higher. Now though, his ascent was controlled and his tumbling had ceased. Another blast of red light struck him, once again almost shattering his wards, but not preventing him from starting a controlled descent toward one side of the crater left by Sylas’ spell. While still falling, he tried to counter the attack by upending the ground beneath Sylas, but his uncle was alert to this and quickly cancelled it out.
The moment Martok’s boots touched the ground he cast a protection spell directly in front of his feet. He was on the defensive and weakening. If Sylas were to hit him with one more blast, he knew that his wards would fail. He needed to time his next move perfectly.
Sensing his advantage, Sylas cast a spear of energy at the barrier, obliterating it in a single blast. This, however, was exactly what Martok had wanted. The protection spell had been merely a decoy to draw Sylas' attention. The instant his uncle sent the spear, and before he had time to summon another attack, Martok thrust his arms forward and with all the power within him, shot a wave of raw magical force at his foe.
Sylas was sent staggering to one knee. But that was all. His wards had held.
He looked up at Martok and grinned while regaining his feet. “I have to say that, with a little more guidance from me, you would have likely become the greatest mage in all Lumnia. Now though, it is time to end this. I have toyed with you quite enough. Goodbye, nephew.”
Had Sylas attacked immediately without the parting speech, Martok would have been left with no time to gather himself in order to match his uncle's next onslaught. He would have certainly been destroyed. As it was, the short breathing space was just sufficient for him to react. Both mages simultaneously released beams of fiery magic that collided with violent force at the midway point between them, instantly nullifying each other. The colossal impact of their coming together resounded and shook the earth with an impossibly deep thud. For a moment, the shock waves were enough to prevent any further action from either combatant.
Despite this temporary reprieve, Martok knew that it was now all over. This final release of energy, together with all that had gone before, had seriously drained him. He could feel that Sylas was unquestionably the more powerful mage. In just moments, his own strength would fail him completely and he would then be consumed. The look in Sylas’ eyes was now one of a savage predator. It was clear that he was keenly aware of his supremacy. With teeth bared, he was drawing himself together for one final and fatal strike.
Martok raged against his inevitable defeat. He refused to give up, even knowing that rage would merely delay his death for but a short time.
We are with you
.
The voice called to him from the dark recesses of his spirit. It came with a passion and strength the like of which only
he
could understand. His mind flew back for an instant to when he had been enduring the lash of Desmond's cane. It was the same voice speaking to him now.
Rise, Martok Dragonvein. We are with you
.
A surge of unbelievably powerful raw energy flooded into his body. In an instant, it all made perfect sense. This was the true gift of the Dragonvein line. His uncle just a few yards away had always blocked it from his mind. He saw it as a burden. What a fool! In truth, there could be no greater offering.
Martok locked eyes with Sylas and smiled. “As you said…uncle. Goodbye.”
Sylas’ mouth hung open in sheer astonishment as he saw Martok’s power visibly increasing way beyond anything he could ever have fathomed. He sent his attack nevertheless – the one against which he knew there was absolutely no defense – only to see it brushed aside and his wards shattered as if he were a mere novice. His jaw was still hanging loose when Martok’s reciprocating spell penetrated his body. He was turned to dust before uttering a sound.
Martok drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Thank you, my friends. My brothers and sisters. Thank you.”
With power such as this, there was absolutely no one who could defeat him. And now there was nothing that would halt his vengeance. The Bronstar’s would know fear. They would realize the foolishness of their actions. And then…they would perish.
After retrieving his horse, Martok continued on his way to the Prustoni Estate. As he rode, a picture of his father's face entered his mind. He would not have wanted him to fight Sylas, but there had been no choice in the matter. At least, not one that he could have lived with. And though his father would not have approved, Kytain most certainly
would
have. He would have said, even without the need for vengeance, the necessity to show your enemies your strength would make any other course of action unthinkable.
Memories of the two men provoked a smile. He had become the child of two fathers, both of whom had passed on wisdom for which he was truly grateful. Sylas was not wrong in saying that Kytain had been using him, though he could not come even close to comprehending the man's motives. Kytain was well aware that he lacked the power to realize his own dreams. He had the wealth, but wealth alone was not enough. He had seen in his protégé the potential to cultivate the qualities that he himself lacked. Though he would often jest that Ralmar was too kind by far, the fact was, there were limits to his own ruthlessness as well. And in order to rule…to truly rule...one had to be able to harden their heart like tempered steel.
His father had gifted him with the ability to look into people’s souls and see them for what they truly were. Though his love for Sylas had caused a kind of self-imposed blindness, he'd long been aware of his uncle’s deceitful nature. The man had always been ashamed of being a Dragonvein. He'd actually
wanted
the union with House Bronstar.
As the gleaming white walls of Kytain's house came into view, Martok pushed these idle thoughts aside. There was still much to be done, and the fury in his heart was far from spent.
At the gatehouse, he saw something that astonished him: two guards bearing the crest of the Bronstar family on their breastplates, both of them fully armed with long swords and steel tipped spears. It was an almost unbelievable sight. Under normal circumstances, mage families only faced possible danger from other mages, so they had no need for this sort of physical protection. Their wards were usually more than sufficient to keep their homes secure. That was almost certainly the reason why Sylas had employed the Urazi to dispatch Kytain, rather than face him in single combat.
Martok had learned from the staff at his own house that Desmond had used trickery to lure his father outside and beyond the protection of his wards. But Kytain was obviously not as trusting, so cruder methods had been employed.
The two guards stepped forward to block Martok’s path as he approached. “No one is allowed entry without permission from the master of the house,” one of them growled.
Containing his rage, Martok forced a smile. “Then would you kindly fetch him for me?”
“He's not here,” the man replied in the same gruff tone. “So you had better turn back.”
Martok sighed, feigning disappointment. “Alas. And to have come so far.” He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me: Do you serve the Bronstar family?”
The scowling guard pointed to his chest. “Are you blind? Of course I do. Now be off.”
“Very well. But one last question, if you please. If
I
am master of the house, should I not be permitted entry?”
Before either man could reply, at a wave of Martok's hand, a pack of six snarling wolves materialized around them. Easing his horse away, he watched calmly as both guards were torn to pieces by vicious fangs. Only when their bodies were utterly ravaged did he dismiss the spell.
Armed men at the gatehouse? Kytain would have been appalled.
He dismounted and passed through the gate into the front garden. Literally seconds later, obviously alerted by the cries of the dying guards, the frail form of Vernon Lamplock came hobbling out from the main entrance of the house.
Vernon was Kytain’s personal attendant and most trusted friend. More than once his insight had saved the Prustoni family from disaster – though Vernon himself would never seek to claim credit for this. His thinning, silver hair was as disheveled as his clothes, and his face streaked with soot and dirt. Martok frowned at the obvious reason for this. He had been put to work laboring. A man of his age. Disgraceful!
His weathered face beamed at the sight of Martok. “Oh, My Lord Dragonvein. It
is
you. I was so afraid that your uncle had killed you.”
“He is no longer to be considered my uncle,” Martok told him firmly. Then, realizing he had startled the old man with his aggressive tone, he smiled warmly. “Sylas is gone. And you should never speak of him again.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
Martok placed a hand fondly on Vernon's shoulder and saw him wince at the touch. He immediately sent healing magic into the old man’s limbs. “There. That’s better now.”
“Thank you, My Lord. The brutes have had me cleaning the hearth in the kitchen, and I’m afraid this old body isn’t as strong as it once was.”
“Who ordered this?” Martok demanded.
“One of those cursed guards,” Vernon told him, not attempting to hide his anger. “Sylas Drago…Bronstar...he brought them here to keep the house staff in line. Brutes and thugs they are. No better than animals, My Lord. If my poor master were alive he would have…”
Tears choked off his remaining words.
Martok held him in a consoling embrace and waited until the old man had regained his composure sufficiently before saying: “It's all right, Vernon. I will set things to rights. You can be sure of that. How many of these guards did he bring?”
“Fifty,” he replied, then glanced over at the macabre scene by the gatehouse. “Though it seems there are now only forty-eight.”
“Have some of the other staff fetch them all here,” Martok said. “Send them the message that the master of the house commands their presence.”
An impish smiled formed on the old man's lips. “At once, My Lord.”
“And one more thing before you go, Vernon. Are there any of Kytain’s kin still here?” Though he asked, he feared he already knew the answer.
“I’m afraid not, My Lord. My dear master’s wards vanished the moment he died. Sylas then killed every mage who dwelt in the house.”
Martok nodded grimly. “I see. Very well. First have the guards come. Then we will attend to House Bronstar.”
It took more than an hour before all of the guards were gathered in the garden. The estate was indeed enormous, and to enforce their presence over the workers they needed to spread themselves far and wide. As unseemly as it was, Sylas' logic was clear. The staff, virtually all of whom would have hated him, numbered in the hundreds, and he was just as vulnerable to poison or a dagger through the heart as any other man. Almost any of the servants could have easily slipped in unnoticed and caught him either distracted or asleep. None of them were soldiers however, and the guards, though relatively few in number, were vicious enough to instill the proper fear Sylas would have required to ensure his own safety.
Having already used a spell to hide all trace of the carnage outside the gatehouse, Martok told the early arrivals that Sylas would be along once everyone was gathered. This did not go down at all well. Those waiting shifted around impatiently, whispering to one another while eyeing him with deep suspicion. Several dozens of the estate staff had also gathered near the main door and at the house windows and were watching events unfold with keen interest. Most of them would recognize Martok, and from the expectant looks on their faces they already had a good notion of what was about to take place.
“I know you are expecting to see Sylas,” Martok announced once the assembly had fully gathered. “But I have to confess that I was being less than truthful with you. He will not be coming.”
“So who the hell are you?” demanded a particularly angry looking guard. “What’s this all about?”
“A valid question,” Martok replied, beaming a friendly smile. “And you shall have your answer.” He gave them all a low sweeping bow. “I am Martok Dragonvein. And I am now the master of this house. Your employer is dead. That being the case, you have a choice to make.”
A short, stout man with a scarlet chevron stitched to his sleeve stepped forward. His hand was resting on the hilt of his blade as he regarded Martok with hostile eyes. “I am Captain Pel Charo, and I serve the House Bronstar. As do all of these men. Kytain Prustoni is dead. And as far as I have been told, Sylas Dragonvein has taken possession of his lands and wealth. So unless he tells me otherwise, you can just go f –”
These were his last words.
With thumb and forefinger held up for all to clearly see, Martok simply touched them lightly together. As the captain's speech came to an abrupt end, his eyes bulged grotesquely. An instant later his head literally exploded, spewing blood and small pieces of brain matter in all directions. Apart from the guards at the gate, this was the first time Martok had ever used magic on anyone other than a fellow mage. The complete lack of any defensive wards or spells made it seem far too easy. In a way, it was almost disappointing.
As a demonstration of his power, it was devastatingly effective. Every single one of the remaining guards began backing away in fear, many of them with hands raised in front of their faces as though they imagined this might serve to protect them in some way. But Martok was not about to let any escape. With a casual flick of his wrist, a wall of flames sprang up from the ground, blocking their path and forcing them together into a huddle. Some drew their swords, though none dared to attack.
“As I was saying,” he continued, his smile never dimming. “You have a choice. You can die running. Or you can die standing still.”
With another flick, he allowed the wall to encircle the terrified guards completely. Slowly but surely, the flames then began to close in. Cries for mercy and prayers to the ancestors mingled with the ever increasing roar of the fire. As the circle continued to shrink and the heat became unbearable, some of the men began risking all by bursting through. It was to no avail. Their bodies were quickly set afire as they ran for their lives. Flapping wildly with their hands at the flames eating away at them made no difference whatsoever. Soon, the garden was littered with their bodies, every single one of them reduced to a barely recognizable smoldering heap. Meanwhile, those who had become paralyzed by fear and remained inside the circle could only wait, petrified, until the wall finally closed in completely and reduced them to ashes as well.
When it was all over, Martok surveyed his handiwork. He had never killed helpless people before and was not exactly sure how to feel about it. But the loud cheers coming from the house told him that, at least in the eyes of the people here, he had done the right thing. Seconds later, they poured from the front door and raced over to him, some stopping briefly to glare hatefully at the smoking remains of their former tormentors. Martok looked for Vernon amongst them as he received countless offerings of appreciation and blessings. Eventually, the old man made his way through, a look of blissful calm on his face.
“You have avenged my master and laid low those who desecrated his home. I think he can now rest.”
“Where is his body?” Martok asked.
“In the west garden. At least Sylas allowed us to bury him there with the rest of his family. When you are ready, I will take you to him.”
“Thank you, Vernon. But that must wait. I will not be staying.”
The old man furled his brow. “You cannot leave, My Lord. Please. The entire estate is in disarray. We need you here.”
“And I will return,” Martok assured him. “But this matter isn’t over yet. Not until every last Bronstar is dead.”
Understanding dawned. “Yes. Of course. That must be done. And I shall be coming with you to bear witness.”
Martok could see by the determination written on his face that there would be no debate. Vernon would be there to see the fall of the house that had murdered his master come what may. And that was the end of it.
“Then you should make ready to depart,” he said.
Vernon bowed and hurried back to the house as fast as his aged legs could carry him. Martok stared after him as he went. It would be quite some time before the old servant returned, more than enough for him to visit Kytain’s grave if he felt the need. But at present he did not have a mind to. For some reason it simply seemed wrong for him to pass over the threshold while any member of the Bronstar family still remained alive.
With Kytain and all of his immediate kin dead, it would be left to him to sort out the estate and holdings. Kytain had many cousins scattered throughout the various houses, and all would want to lay claim to his wealth. The thought of such carrion feeders lurking about the halls of this magnificent estate was truly bothersome.
Kytain had been secretive regarding his heir. With no children, he'd made little secret of the fact that he'd have liked to leave Martok his wealth. But both of them knew this would cause outrage among the great houses and almost certainly result in much fighting. Martok did not desire the inheritance anyway. The wealth of his own family was more than enough thanks to Kytain’s alliance – and in no small part to the lessons Martok had received from him.
Without him having asked for it, a member of the house staff brought out food and drink while he waited. He took this and sat under a nearby pavilion. No one questioned why he had not entered the manor. They seemed content merely that he was there. Like his true father, Kytain had treated those in his employ with respect and dignity. And for this he was well-loved.