Authors: Robert P. Hansen
21
Embril sat rigidly on the edge of the cot, her mind reeling.
Angus was dead, but she couldn’t think about that know. She had failed him.
Darby was gone. He had stolen the scroll Angus had given her and disappeared.
If he knew how to read ancient dwarf….
Is Angus dead?
she suddenly wondered.
Giorge
hadn’t
seen
him die….
There were dwarves around. She had seen them tossing dried
mushrooms into the fires….
But he
was
dead. No one could have survived what
Giorge had seen. No one, not even—
Darby didn’t need the scroll; he had the scarf with the map
Angus had woven into it. She blinked back tears. She had even told Darby to
follow the red thread.
Why did I tell him that!
Lieutenant Jarhad knelt in front of her and lifted his hand.
She stared through him as if he wasn’t there. He didn’t matter. Angus—
Darby had taken the Angst bracelet. It was important. But why?
Angus had told her she would understand when the time came. She had thought he
had meant when she had read the scroll, but the scroll never mentioned the
bracelet. When, then? At least she hadn’t told Darby about what it meant. How
could she? She didn’t know. If she had known—
“Darby’s a Truthseer,” she said, her voice flat,
unemotional. It was the only explanation. Tears began to creep from her eyes.
Why was she crying?
Angus—
Lieutenant Jarhad’s stern eyes softened as he nodded. “Yes,”
he said, keeping his voice low.
“Why—” Embril’s eyes widened and her mouth hung open as the
breath froze in her lungs. A moment later she blinked through the blurry haze
and met Lieutenant Jarhad’s gaze. “Why would Darby want The Tiger’s Eye?” she
asked, her tone as empty as her forlorn heart.
“The what?” Lieutenant Jarhad asked, leaning back on his
heels to study her.
“The Tiger’s Eye, of course,” Embril repeated in the sharp
tone she sometimes used with her students when they weren’t paying attention.
“It seals the nexus point. Removing it—” Her eyes widened and she blinked
rapidly. “Oh, no!” she rasped, her voice quivering from the sudden onrush of
dread. “He wouldn’t—” She lifted her clenched hands to her lips and shook her
head. But he had. She was certain of it.
“Wouldn’t what?” Lieutenant Jarhad asked, his lips tight and
a bit of his usual surliness settling back onto his face.
Angus
— She shook her head and tried to clear her mind
of him, but she couldn’t. Every time she thought of Darby, she thought of
Angus, and her anger and indignation held the sharp edge of grief and loss.
Darby hasn’t done it yet!
she suddenly realized.
If
he had taken The Tiger’s Eye, the disruption in the magic would be seen for
miles! There’s still time to stop him!
Her heartbeat quickened for a
moment, and then a second thought fell upon her, almost silencing it.
How
can I find him? There’s no trail because of the Soft Passage, and without the
map, there’s no way for me to know where to look if—
“Giorge!” she half-shouted as she bit into her knuckles.
Giorge
knows the way! He was with Angus when—
“What do—”
Embril suddenly leapt to her feet, and Lieutenant Jarhad rapidly
backstepped a few paces.
“Fetch me a fresh horse,” she ordered. “The freshest one you
have. And find Giorge. I need him now.” She turned to her books and rapidly
shuffled through them. When Lieutenant Jarhad didn’t move, she paused long
enough to glare at him and say, “Hurry! I must catch up with Darby before it’s
too late!”
Lieutenant Jarhad lingered a moment longer, nodded as if he
were acknowledging an order from a superior officer, and ran quickly from the
tent. He had been gone less than a minute when Giorge opened the tent flap and
he and his mother walked in.
“Embril?” he began. “I—”
Embril had found the tome with the Swiftness spell and was
thumbing through its pages. “You know where it’s at, don’t you?” she demanded
without looking up. He was with Angus when Angus found the nexus, and he was
with him when—
Giorge paused a moment, and then asked, “Where what is?”
“The Tiger’s Eye,” Embril said, her fingertip falling on the
Swiftness spell.
“The Tiger’s Eye?” Giorge laughed. “That’s just a myth.
Nobody knows where it is.”
Embril glared at him. “You were with Angus in the Angst
temple, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Giorge said, shuffling uneasily from one foot to the other.
“But we never found it.”
Embril brushed the tears from her cheeks and turned back to
the tome. “Did you find the nexus?” she asked.
“Oh, that,” Giorge said. “Angus said something about a nexus
just before he ran off and left us in their dungeon.” He paused and then shook
his head. “I didn’t know him well, then, and thought it was a silly reaction.
Now,” he shrugged. “I think I’m glad we didn’t stick around.”
She nodded. “It was wise for him to run. I would too, but I
can’t. Darby knows where it is. So do you. I need you to take me to it before
he can find it.”
“The nexus?” Giorge asked. “It’s not that difficult to find
if you know where to look. Angus knew where to look. So do I, but I can’t see
what he did. You might be able to, though, since I think he was seeing
something magical that led him to it.”
“All right,” Lieutenant Jarhad said as he entered. “Are you
going to tell me why you need the horse?”
“Bring the horse inside,” Embril said as she turned to him.
“Pack provisions for a week for Giorge and I. We will be leaving the moment I
finish casting the Swiftness spell.”
“Leaving?” Giorge repeated.
“Where are we going?” Lieutenant Jarhad demanded without
moving.
“We’re going after Darby,” Embril said. “He’s gone to the
Angst temple.”
Lieutenant Jarhad demanded, “How do you know that?”
Instead of answering, Embril snapped, “Bring in the horse.
There may still be time to stop him.”
Lieutenant Jarhad glared at her and demanded, “Stop him from
doing what?”
Embril turned sharply and moved to stand before him. Her
tone was icy as she said, “There is no time, Lieutenant. If I can’t stop him,
it will be disastrous. There’s no telling how many volcanoes will erupt if he
disrupts the nexus.”
Lieutenant Jarhad was standing with his hand gripping the
tent flap. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered. “There’s no hint of an
eruption—”
“Lieutenant!” Embril roared. “
There
won’t be!
The eruption will happen without warning, and it will stretch the length of the
mountain range before it’s over. Now,” she took a deep breath and tried to
force her anxiety to settle down. “Please bring the horse in here, and while I
am casting the spell, you should break camp and make haste to return to
Hellsbreath. There may still be time to warn them.” She turned and quickly went
back to the Swiftness spell.
Lieutenant Jarhad hesitated a moment longer, as if he were
about to continue his protest, and then something seemed to shift in his
demeanor. He stepped outside the tent and a moment later led a horse inside.
Giorge and his mother hastened to the back of the tent to get out of the way,
and as soon as it was inside, one of his men led in a second horse. “I’m going
with you,” he said, as if it was an order that could not be broken.
“No,” Embril said as she brought the magic into focus and
stepped up to the horse. “You have already wasted too much time, and I won’t
waste any more casting a second spell.” She patted the horse on the neck and
nickered in its ear, then reached for the first strands.
“You’ll need protection—”
“Go!” Embril shrieked, gripping a strand of flame so tightly
that flames danced over her fist. When she released it, those flames shot
outward much further than they normally would have, and she shook her head. “It
may already be too late,” she muttered, staring at the flickering residue of
the magic fading from her grip. Then she sighed and rapidly brought together
the strands she needed for the Swiftness spell, effectively dismissing
Lieutenant Jarhad from her mind.
By the time she finished the Swiftness spell and had led the
horse out of the tent, their provisions were ready and Lieutenant Jarhad was
issuing orders to break camp as quickly as possible.
When Giorge and his mother joined her, she handed him the
reins and said, “You are a better rider than I am, and you know the way. We
need to get there as quickly as possible.”
Giorge nodded and clambered into the saddle and gave her a
hand up behind him. The saddlebags containing the provisions were secured and
they rode quickly out of the bustling camp. As they left, Embril brought the
magic into focus to see if there was any sign that Darby had already succeeded,
but the glare of a strange aura around Giorge obscured her vision. She gasped;
the aura hadn’t been there when they had ridden together from the cave. After
she had recovered, she leaned forward and asked into his ear, “What happened to
you?”
There was a long pause before he answered, “Symptata’s curse
has ended.”
Symptata’s Curse?
Embril wondered, then focused on
staying in the saddle as they galloped through the sparse trees.
Giorge told
Darby about that, didn’t he? I should have listened better
….
22
“Sire,” Captain Blanchard said as he stood at attention in
the king’s study. “There have been more losses in The Borderlands.”
“Losses?” King Tyr repeated as he stood three steps in front
of Blanchard. He was pleased to see the Captain had found the time to clean the
scuff mark from his left boot and polish the third button of his uniform. His
hair was crisply manicured, and he held himself rigidly erect with his eyes
staring directly at the King’s forehead. “The fishmen?” he asked, not expecting
it to be confirmed. There hadn’t been any sign of an incursion for nearly a
year.
“No, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said.
The king frowned. “The Lake of Scales?” he prompted.
“Sire,” Captain Blanchard responded. “It will take at least
a week to reach the Lake from Hellsbreath. They left four days ago.”
King Tyr nodded. “What is causing the losses, then?” he
asked.
Captain Blanchard gulped before he replied. “We don’t know,
Sire.”
King Tyr frowned and lifted his right hand to his chin. He turned
to the left and began pacing. He did so methodically. Three steady steps, pivot
to the right. Pause. “How many men?” he asked. Six steady steps, pivot to the
right. Pause. Six steady steps, pivot to the right. Pause.
“It was worse this time,” Captain Blanchard said. “We lost
an entire outpost. Thirty-six men were found dead.”
Three steady steps. Pause to glare at Captain Blanchard
where he stood in the center of the square King Tyr had marked out. Three
steady steps, pivot to the right. As he paced off six more steps, he asked, “If
it wasn’t the fishmen, what could be causing these casualties?”
He was in the middle of the third leg of his second square
when Captain Blanchard finally responded. “We don’t know, Sire. The signs
suggest men did it. The footprints are shod, like ours, but the weight
distribution is different. Most of their weight falls on the toes instead of
being distributed over the length of the mark. It could be that they were trying
to walk quietly.”
Pause to glare at Captain Blanchard.
“They use bows and arrows, Sire,” he continued. “Fishmen
never use bows or arrows. The Death Swamps don’t have the kind of trees they
would need in large enough numbers to make them, nor the kind of rocks to forge
the arrowheads.”
Pivot to the right. “I did not ask what
didn’t
kill
them, Captain Blanchard.”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “We don’t know what
they are. There have been no survivors to tell us what has happened. All we know
is that they aren’t fishmen, and they aren’t an army we’ve faced before.”
Five, six. Pause. Pivot. One. Two. Three. Pause to glare at
Captain Blanchard. “Oh? It’s an army, then?”
Captain Blanchard frowned. “Well, Sire,” Captain Blanchard
said. “It stands to reason that it would be an army. They’ve attacked in many
places along The Borderlands with little time between them. A small group
couldn’t have done that.”
“Really,” King Tyr stated in a flat, sarcastic tone. “Angus
did, didn’t he?” He turned away and resumed pacing. “You said so yourself. He
was here in Tyrag four days ago, and now he’s in Hellsbreath. By all accounts,
he was on foot when he arrived, and such a journey would have taken weeks to
walk.” He frowned. It was another riddle, and the simplest answer was that the
Angus who arrived in Tyrag was a different Angus from the one who arrived at
Hellsbreath. If they
were
different wizards, then who had really
confronted Argyle?
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard agreed. “A wizard might be
able to do it, but all of the attacks have been against isolated patrols and
perimeter sentries. This is the first time they have attacked an entire outpost.
From what I was told, they did it at night and likely slaughtered them without
being discovered.” He frowned and grumbled. “They came like rats in the
darkness and left unscathed.”
Pivot. Six steady steps. “Perhaps,” King Tyr offered, “a
wizard is helping them?”
Captain Blanchard said nothing until King Tyr paused to
glare at him. Then he said, “Yes, Sire. It is possible. If so, there should be
hints of the wizard’s presence at the outpost. A diviner would be able to
detect them. Shall I send for one?”
King Tyr’s glare softened a bit. It was a reasonable
suggestion. He turned his face away from Captain Blanchard and took three
steady steps. “I should think you would have done so already,” he said. “Are
there not diviners in The Borderlands?”
“Not many, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “The wizards we
employ up there are either Truthseers or those trained for battle. The few
diviners we have are in the major outposts. This was a minor one.”
Pause. Pivot to the right. Rub chin. “I suggest you send
one, forthwith,” he said.
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard acknowledged. “It will take a
few days for the diviner to reach the location of the massacre.”
King Tyr continued pacing in silence for three orbits. He
was troubled by the increasing disorder in his kingdom. He disliked it when
things did not go as smoothly as they should, and the unknown assailant from
the Death Swamps added too much chaos for his tastes. It wasn’t the loss of
men—he had lost far more than that from the yearly fishmen incursions for this
small of a loss to trouble him—it was the uncertainty, the unpredictable nature
of this new foe. If they were an army, where had they come from? How could they
have passed through the land undetected? He frowned. The fishmen had found a
way, and there were tens of thousands of them. Was Angus right about them? Were
the fishmen at the Lake of Scales? Had the dwarves—Onus curse them!—helped them
escape from his wrath? Could the dwarves have helped something else move into
the Death Swamps without him finding out? A force of men from The Western
Kingdoms, perhaps? He shook his head. No. His spies there would have told him if
there had been a mustering of that size. So would his spies in The Southlands.
Where else could an army of such size have come from? The only place was north
of the Death Swamps, and that was a desolate wasteland of ice. A sizeable army
could not live there, could it?
North of the Death Swamps? Was it really a wasteland? He had
thought about sending scouts there, but it had always been pointless. The
fishmen were in the way. Now? The fishmen were gone, and there was something
else there, and they were attacking. They were methodical in their attacks, but
the full pattern had not yet emerged. All he was certain about was that they
were testing his defenses and decimating his sentries.
He stopped and faced Captain Blanchard. “Organize an elite
patrol,” he began. “Men who have been in The Borderlands for years and have had
experience in the Death Swamps. A small group that can move without being
easily detected. Have them go through the Death Swamps to find out what lives
on the other side. They are not to engage the enemy.” He paused and rubbed his
chin. “There is still no sign of the other members of The Banner of the Wounded
Hand? This may be a task suitable for them.”
“None, Sire,” Captain Blanchard replied.
King Tyr frowned. “That is unfortunate. If I thought it
could wait, I would send them on this mission.”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “Before I issue the
order, I will check to see if word has come from Hellsbreath. If The Banner of
the Wounded Hand has returned, I will send them.”
King Tyr dropped his hand from his chin and said, “If they have
not returned, do not delay the mission. It is possible, just possible,” he
mused, “that this enemy tormenting us is from beyond the Death Swamps.”
“Of course, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “Will there be
anything else?”
“Yes,” King Tyr said. “Come with me.” He led Captain
Blanchard into a side room. A large table stood in its center, and on it was an
ornate model of the Kingdom of Tyr and the surrounding territories. He walked
around it until he was on the north edge of the model where the Death Swamps
were located. Between them and the kingdom proper was The Borderlands, a series
of outposts providing a barrier between the kingdom’s expansive grain fields
and the fishmen who were wont to destroy them. They were represented as small,
expertly crafted models of the forts, and he pointed at them. “Which outpost
did we lose?”
Captain Blanchard barely hesitated before pointing to a
small one near the center of the northern border. That fit the pattern nicely.
All of the attacks on the sentries and patrols had occurred near the center
westward. There had been no incidents near the eastern edge of the border. Why
not? Why spare that part of The Borderlands? It was the most fortified, of
course, since it protected the capital, so it made sense that a weaker enemy
would avoid it. Still, every time the enemy killed a sentry or destroyed a
patrol, it weakened their defenses in that area, and now that they had
massacred an entire outpost, he would have to send more reinforcements from the
eastern border to replace them. The enemy—if it were an army—could be drawing
his defenses away from the city. “I assume you will be repopulating the
outpost?”
“Yes, Sire,” he replied. “We have reassigned soldiers from
the adjacent outposts to temporarily man it until reinforcements arrive from
here.” As King Tyr expected, Captain Blanchard pointed to the southern-most
outpost near the eastern border.
“Very well, Captain,” King Tyr said. “If further attacks
take place, I want you to respond as you normally would. However, over the next
few weeks, I want you to draw upon our reserves in Tyrag to quietly bolster
these outposts.” He pointed to several of the ones near the eastern border. “Do
so surreptitiously,” he added. “Send small groups at varying intervals, and
when they arrive at the outposts, they are to remain hidden from view. I want
it to appear as if those outposts are being depleted by the redeployment of
troops.”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “It will diminish the
city’s defenses.”
King Tyr nodded. “I am aware of that,” he said. “If we get
confirmation that the fishmen are at the Lake of Scales, I intend to
temporarily abandon these outposts—” he pointed at those from the center of The
Borderlands to the western edge. “I intend to show the fishmen that they cannot
escape us by running away.”
“Sire,” Captain Blanchard paled a bit. “That will leave us
completely vulnerable to attacks from the Death Swamps. Also, the villagers in
the valley near the Lake of Scales will not take kindly to an invasion of their
territory.”
King Tyr shrugged. “We have delayed overlong in annexing
them. If it weren’t for the Fishmen Incursions, we would have done so two
centuries ago.” He paused for a moment and pointed at the model of Hellsbreath.
“There is a large contingent of men at Hellsbreath. We will draw upon them as
needed to quell any resistance from the villagers.” He paused and added, “It
will take a considerable amount of time for the army from The Borderlands to
reach Hellsbreath, and during that time, we will send an envoy from Hellsbreath
to negotiate with the villagers. I am sure they will be amenable, once they
realize our intentions.”
Captain Blanchard looked skeptical as he said, “Yes, Sire.”
King Tyr looked at the map for a few more seconds to make
sure the models were in their proper places, and then said, “That will be all
for now, Captain. Keep me apprised of any changes.”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said as he bowed and hurried
from the room.
Changes
, King Tyr thought.
There are too many of
them of late.
As he returned to his private chambers, he thought about the
other major disruption he had to deal with: Argyle. Grayle had finally put him
back inside the Golden Key, and now she refused to let him out again—even
temporarily. He didn’t blame her, of course, but word had already gotten out
that Pug was dead, and the longer Argyle was absent, more and more scoundrels
would begin to believe he was dead, too. He couldn’t have that. Argyle was
necessary to maintain order among the ranks of those who lacked order. Without
him at the head of his organization, his underlings would break into factions
the king couldn’t control. There would be strife among those factions, and he
would lose valuable resources as they killed each other off. Someone would
eventually rise from the muck to take control, but how much damage would be
done before then? Worse, what if the new scoundrel couldn’t be manipulated to
serve the king and fought against him instead? No, he
needed
Argyle.
Especially with the loss of Sardach.
And what about Grayle? He had been elated when Phillip had
told him she was still alive, so much so that he had even forgiven his young
manservant for the dust and cobwebs he had tracked in when he had brought him
that news. She was still sequestered in her rooms—and would stay there until he
could find a way to explain her reappearance. If he could. She was officially
dead, and that created a difficulty that could not be easily dispelled. He had
told the court that she had died after a prolonged illness, and her body had
lain quietly on display for the traditional two days of mourning. Hundreds of
his most influential subjects had seen and touched what they
thought
was
Grayle, but it hadn’t been her on that bier. It had been difficult enough to
counter the rumors about the young serving girl’s disappearance at the time,
and those who were emboldened had even hinted at the similarity in their
appearance. There would be more than rumors if Grayle suddenly reappeared as if
nothing had happened….
And what was he to do about Sardach? How could she have been
so stupid as to let Argyle word his command in such a way that Sardach could
escape from bondage? If—
when
—they realized Sardach was no longer with
Argyle, what would they do? The smoke elemental had been the final piece of a
carefully orchestrated image that kept Argyle’s unruly minions in check. Even
if they thought they could get past Pug, even if they had killed Argyle, they
would still have to contend with Sardach. That added level of threat would be
enough to staunch the courage of even the most capable soldier, since blades
were useless against him. Even spells—
most
spells—were wasted on him,
and that kept the Wizards’ School at bay. He needed to do something about that,
but what was there to do? Sardach had been conjured in the time before The
Taming, when magic roamed free and wizards were powerful enough to stretch
their will to other planes of existence. Now, the magic was weak, diffuse, and
the knowledge was forgotten.