The season for magic was almost upon them, and it had been the only plan conceived that could free the people of this world from their torment.
The insane King had ruled over them since the end of the last season, spending half of his time sending the armies after his enemies and the other half proclaiming some new rule from the parapets of his castle.
He had used the magic to install himself as King, and the magic would be used to undo it. Even now, the skies foretold of its arrival, the red and the blue both blinked in the inky darkness, increasing in size and intensity. If talk was to be believed, some of the most talented wielders of the power were already starting to see their spells flicker and dance. All they needed was time.
The King strode down the long, dimly lit hallway, gesturing and yelling about something. Behind him, a few yards back, his three primary advisers followed, just far enough to be out of his range.
“I can feel it,” the King yelled. His hands waving at the ceiling, engraved and painted with the history of this world. The end of the hallway approached and branched off to both the left and the right. The left was the main hall, the throne and another myriad of petitioners come to ask for the aid they so richly deserved and had been denied for almost a generation.
“I can feel them stirring,” the King continued. He took the right hand corridor, surprising the advisers who spun to follow, swearing to each other as they got tangled together. “They come to undo what we have done,” his voice was no longer shouting, but he was still walking fast and gesturing to nothing.
Out of nowhere, he stopped, spun on his heels and stared daggers at the people following him. “Did you send the messages?” he asked. “The ones to the generals on the front.”
A moment of rare lucidity.
“Of course, Sire,” one of the advisers said. She was a small woman, with bright pink hair and thick rimmed glasses. She was the least afraid of the King, but that didnt mean much since she was still absolutely terrified of him. “They will arrive within the week.”
“Good,” the King said. “Good,” he repeated, slower, as if the word had lost meaning. His eyes snapped from the pink girl to the others, two older men, one with a messy white beard which almost reached the floor, and the other impassive and stony faced. “You,” he said, pointing at the bearded man. “Leave. Prepare.”
“For what, Sire?” the man asked, his voice ravaged by age and who knows what else.
“They approach,” the King said and raised a single finger to the sky. “Prepare.”
“Of course,” the bearded man said and left.
Once he had gone, the King scoffed and carried on walking down the corridor. The history on the ceiling was now at the point where this person had arrived on this world. Very soon they would arrive at the only section off limits to even the king. The part of the castle where the carved history caught up to the now.
“Traitors everywhere,” he mumbled. “Anyone who can feel it is a traitor,” he said. “Cant stop them, must stop them.”
The King walked into the forbidden part of the castle and left the other two advisers to wait and wonder how long he would be this time.
Another castle sat within eyesight of the royal castle. This was the traditional site of the opposition. Here, a family that wasnt aligned with the one that sat on the throne was to make their home. They would do everything they could to take, or re-take, the throne.
Currently the previous King lived there, having been granted mercy by the current King as the previous season of magic ended and his rule with it. Here he sat with his own advisers and, importantly, a legion of magic users, all of whom had spent the better part of a century learning and creating new spells in order to be prepared for when the time came to evict the usurper from the throne and take back what was theirs.
The previous king, an elderly man now, already older than he should have any right to have been, sat at the head of the table. He was slower now, and his mind was on the wrong side of addled, but he still sat. Still commanded.
His sons, the real power behind this nothing-throne, would defer to him to his face and advance their own plans when he wasnt around.
They were offended that their family had been thrown from the real throne and sentenced to this disrespect and they planned a revenge that would see them back there, but neither of them wanted it for themselves. They may have been younger than their father, but they were still old men. The season of magic drew closer, but no one could say when, exactly, it would arrive. Their own sons, ignorant of the power and influence inherent in their blood, would also not suffice to rule. They needed someone else. Someone willing to be the one to make the killing blow.
“Sirs?” a small voice said from behind them as they pored over the maps from the everlasting war almost a months ride from where they were. “You have a visitor.”
The owner of the voice, a young page who was loyal to the end, stepped aside and let a tall, handsome woman enter the room. Her eyes burned with red liner and she pursed her lips, taking in the sight of the map and the little wooden statues that represented the various factions involved.
“Youre supposed to be out here,” one of the brothers said indicating one of their factions, safely back from the actual fighting.
“We need you to return a war hero,” the other said unkindly. “You cant be taken seriously as a monarch if you hide yourself away in here when the fighting starts.”
The woman stared each of them in the eyes in turn before swinging her arm around, knocking all the statues off the map and replacing them with a thick scroll.
“I know the game we play,” she said. Her voice was as solid as a rock and almost as impervious. What she said went, without question. “I play the general and I get the throne. The first real Queen in something hundred years. I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because of this,” she said, unrolling the scroll. “This was sent to me by the insane one, the usurper.”
“Why?” the two brothers asked simultaneously.
“Because he is quite mad,” she replied. “This was meant for his own people. Plans for his final offensive before the world turns on him.”
As the men watched, the woman pointed out various bits of the plan the King had sent down to his people. As they watched, realisation dawned in their eyes and big grins swam across their faces.
“We could-” one said.
“We should-” the other agreed.
“We already have,” the woman said, rolling the scroll back up. “As this says, his forces have started to move already. We will follow and rort them. They will have no choice but to retreat and we will come out the victors. No one has won a battle against him almost since he took the throne and it will give me much more of a claim when the time comes.”
Throughout the castle, there was much celebrating, yet only three of them knew the real reason why.
He could feel it. The conjunction that made it all possible. The way the meteors flew through space on their regular orbits. He could see it all and as the days passed, it only got stronger. He had no words for what he saw, just pictures. Images. Feelings.
But there was something else in the air today. Something that chilled him to the bone. Something moved against the natural order of things. Something else was coming and, if it was allowed to, would change the entire world.
This man had no name, none that anyone knew, at least. He went about his life as a mute monk. One of so many around the castle. But unlike them, he could speak, he just chose not to.
He was sitting outside the gate, acting, as he did often, as a beggar. His plate was empty and anything that did end up in it was passed on to the others. Right now he was waiting. The world would tell him when he should move and it had been quiet this morning. He had a feeling the world could also feel what he felt.
After almost a day of waiting, he saw what he had been waiting for. A market wagon with a loose wheel was hobbling down the road. It was heading into the castle, but the man could tell that the ruts and poor road that led inside would knock the wheel loose before it got here.
The guards, also waiting for the wagon – although more explicitly than the monk – saw it and started the raising of the gate, a slow process that had to be started well before the wagon arrived. Standing in the opening gateway was three guards, all armed to the teeth, just in case anyone had any ideas about sneaking in.
The monk eyed the guards. They were the small guards. Young. Not entirely trained. Perfect. He turned and focused on the wagon which was almost there. As he watched, the pin that held the wheel to the axle snapped in two from the wear and tear of the rough road and the wagon lurched and stopped as the wheel slid off and rolled down a small hill towards the town below.
Yells from the guards above sent the three young guards after the wheel and before anyone else could do anything, the monk was inside the gate and running for his life towards a door in the side of the castle.
The bearded man grumbled as he focused on the paperwork in front of him. How was he supposed to prepare for an onslaught he could not predict? The enemy would have a host of magicians to use against the king and even a well trained magician like himself couldnt hope to predict everything that could be thrown at them.
There was a knock at the door. Light and rapid, not someone using the brass knocker that existed for him to see who it was.
He walked over and opened the door and the monk immediately ran in stood, defensively waiting to see if anyone else was coming in after him. When there was no one, he relaxed and looked up at the bearded man who considered him closely.
“Youre one of those mute monks, if Im not mistaken,” he said.
The monk tried his mouth a few times before any sort of sound came out.
“My boy, try this,” the bearded man said, handing the monk some water. “Try again.”
The monk drank the water in a single gulp and now he was able to speak. “There is more to the events,” he said, then shook his head. “Wait,” he continued, slowing his breathing.
“All the time in the world, lad,” the bearded one said, not entirely ironically. “When a mute monk chooses to speak, we listen.”
“The magic comes,” the monk said, nodding and getting the same gesture back.
“Yes, very soon.”
“Magic means the death of the King,” the monk said, this time though he wasnt as sure of himself.
“Not if I can help it,” the bearded man said.
“No, you cant stop it,” the monk said. “But something else comes with it. I cant say,” the monk shook his head. “I dont understand.”
“Neither do I, lad. Tell me what you see.”
“The king dies, that happens, but with him, so do the lights.”