Game of Pawns

Chapter 8

Dawn came as it always did. Jun didn't want to acknowledge the first rays of light for fear that it would commence the onslaught of an army. Everything about acting normal seemed like it would jinx them in some way. But there he was, on the balcony overlooking Prolozia in all its solemnity. The houses that never became homes. The darkened windows that had never been opened. The streets that had been paved but never walked upon. These were mere reminders that they had had a mission, one that may never be fulfilled. Should this forewarned battle be as disastrous as Jun's mind led him to believe, there might not be anything of Prolozia left.

A part of him ached for the chance to defend his home, to don armor and meet the swords of intrepid soldiers from across the Strait. The other half was begging for that same sword to stab him through the heart and end the curse of his life.

To be forever chained to a stagnant, timeless kingdom. To some, it may have been paradise. To others, it was torture.

As for Jun, his perceptions of his life teetered one way or the other depending on his mood or the weather. Today, it happened to be his mood that was dismal. The weather, on the other hand, was perfect. He tried to see the kingdom as something more than what was before him as the rays of light brightened even the darkest of shadows and birds took to wing. He truly did. The attempt to change his opinion failed to deliver, in the end. Jun sullenly turned from the view, telling himself that he needed to get it together. After all, Zander had arduously worked throughout the days and nights, exhausting himself to near death, in order to shore up defenses along the Wall of Thorns.

Junius would fight for the mage's sake, if not for his own.

He moved through his chambers, picking things up as he went and mindlessly pulling on pants and a shirt. A sudden knock made him pause halfway between the window and the door.

"Uh, yes?" he asked, perplexed.

"A message from Mage, sire." It was Zan's voice but not Zan. Sometimes, Jun wondered when the clones would become a fixture of the castle that could be disregarded entirely.

"What is it?"

"The army has appeared at the northern wall and has sent scouts to and from their camp. It appears they number in the hundreds. The banners they carry are from the Main Land's Aragon Empire." The clone spoke in a modulated, emotionless tone, making the information all the more distressing.

Jun stared into the lines of the tiled floor, his mind transported to the front lines of the battlefield. Illusions would be controlling the siege engines and baffling the troops for the first half of the breach, but that was if the army could make it through the Wall. If what Zan suspected was true, the enemies would be using intelligence gathered from the scholar and their scouts to work around the Wall. It had few weaknesses, except one. Once they figured that out, it would be over—and they would be forced to defend their home.

"Anything else to report?" asked Jun, simply to see if the clone was hanging around. They were silent buggers.

"Yes, Your Highness. Mage requests that you meet in the throne room. That is all."

Beyond the closed door, Junius heard the snap and pop of magic as the clone, whose job was completed, phased out of existence. He grabbed the sword sitting on the stool near his wardrobe, tied it to his belt, tried smoothing his untamed hair, and then he made for the lower levels of the castle. The windows around the castle had been fixed with protective wards that moved like viscous prisms as Jun passed by. Braziers lit the halls with blue-green flames. The colors were the result of Zan's alchemical concoctions.

Every section had been weaponized. Cantrips were set to explode when an enemy trod upon them, and trip lines that caused arrows to be fired from the ceiling through hidden murder holes cobwebbed the halls. Junius doubted many soldiers would make it to the castle since a minefield awaited them just beyond the Wall.