Authors: Robert P. Hansen
19
It isn’t possible!
King Tyr thought as he stared at
Argyle.
It isn’t possible!
But there he was. Argyle. The
real
Argyle, bathed in
a green aura. How—
Argyle looked down at him and clenched his fist. “I control
him now,” Argyle said in a calm voice as he raised the massive hand and brought
it down as if it were a club.
King Tyr’s eyes widened as the fist came toward him, but he
couldn’t move. It wasn’t fear that paralyzed him; it was Argyle’s hideous
appearance. He was even uglier than he had remembered—perhaps it was because he
was naked and had a sickly green glow? He was repulsed to the point of
immobility; he didn’t know
where
to move to escape from the ugliness,
the disorder, the
chaos
of the situation. Then the fist came to a stop a
foot away from his face. The fingers flexed open, and one of them pinned him
down. It pressed down, and the pressure grew to the point that it was difficult
to breathe.
“No,” Argyle said. “It would not do to kill a king—if that
is what you are.” Argyle grinned, his horrid breath spewing thick, warm spittle
on King Tyr’s face. “Not yet, anyway.” Argyle straightened up and backed a step
away. He began flexing his arms and looking around the room, completely
ignoring King Tyr as the king eased himself into a sitting position and then
stood up.
King Tyr’s legs were shaking as he turned his gaze away from
Argyle—and saw Phillip’s slumped form. There was a smear of blood on the wall,
but he seemed to be breathing. King Tyr hurried over to him, keeping a wary eye
on Argyle as the monstrosity explored the room. Phillip was alive, but for how
long? He frowned. He had invested too much time training Phillip to have to
replace him so soon. Phillip needed a healer, and quickly. He glanced back at
Argyle—long enough to have his revulsion renewed—to confirm that Argyle was
still ignoring him, and then half carried, half dragged Phillip through the
disorder and to the open mirror. He was almost to it when Argyle howled, “Be
gone, you foul beast!” and waved his arms around as if he didn’t know what to
do with them.
“Now, Argyle,” Argyle said as King Tyr gently let Phillip
fall to the ground so he could pull the mirror door shut behind him. “Surely
you remember—”
King Tyr lifted Phillip onto his shoulder the way he had
seen workmen do when they tended to the castle. It was difficult—there was
warm, wet blood on Phillip’s back, and more blood was running from the wounds
in King Tyr’s right hand—but he managed it. He started up the stairs.
“Grayle!” he called out when he was close enough to the
entrance of her rooms for her to hear.
“Uncle?” she immediately replied.
“Help me!” he snapped.
Together, they managed to get Phillip to her bed, and then
King Tyr turned to Grayle and snapped, “A robe, quickly.”
Grayle hurried to her closet as King Tyr made his way to her
bathing chamber. There wasn’t time for a proper scrubbing, but he needed to at
least wash Argyle’s sputum off his face and rinse the blood off his injured right
hand. There were several deep gashes that needed a healer’s attention, but they
would have to wait. He wrapped his hand as neatly as he could with one of her
towels, and then hurried back into Grayle’s chamber. She had a robe ready—one
of her brightly-colored affairs that seemed like a dragon had swallowed a
rainbow and vomited it back up. It would have to do until he could get a proper
one from his own chambers.
“Tend him until the healer arrives,” King Tyr said as she
helped him into her robe. It fit like a shoe three sizes too small—one more
thing that he would have to tolerate—and he strode quickly from her chamber. On
his way to his private chambers, he passed one of the cleaning wenches and
paused long enough to say, “Go to Captain Blanchard. Tell him to bring his best
healer to my private chambers without delay. Speak of this to no one else.”
“Yes, Sire,” she said, bowing and turning to walk quickly
away from him.
“Make haste!” he added as he continued on. There was no time
for delays.
She ran down the corridor and was already around the corner
before he had reached the other end. Then he put her out of his mind and
hurried to his private bath chamber.
Symptata?
he wondered as he removed
Grayle’s robe and let it fall in a heap on the floor.
I’ve seen that name
before….
* * * * *
King Tyr rushed into his closet and quickly ran through the
sequence necessary to access his secret library. As he stepped back from the
receding wall, he draped one of his own robes over his shoulders, wincing as it
rubbed against his injured hand. By the time it had settled comfortably into
place, the library was exposed, and he hurried back inside. He ignored the
index of forbidden books and scrolls and went to a familiar shelf in the back,
where the largest tomes were kept. There was a bit of dust on most of their
bindings, but he ignored it as he ran his fingers quickly past the names of his
ancestors. He didn’t touch any of them until his finger fell upon the journal
of King Cyr, the sixth in King Urm’s line. He almost grabbed it with his
injured hand but hesitated. He pulled it back and reached up with his left hand.
A flurry of dust puffed up as he tugged the tome loose, and he used the back of
his injured hand to balance it until he had a firm grip. He tucked it under his
arm and almost ran to his reading desk. Another puff of dust wafted up as he
dropped the old tome haphazardly onto the desk, and he waved his left arm over
the book in a half-hearted attempt to shoo away the musty odor.
A loud, crackling snap cut through the silence as he opened
the tome and a clump of pages broke free from the binding. He frowned; if it
wasn’t so urgent, he would tend to the binding, but he needed to find the
passage
quickly
. But the pages were fragile, and if they crumbled in his
fingers, they would be useless.
I must have the journals transcribed,
he
thought as he carefully peeled apart page after page, impatiently scanning the
contents for the entry he needed. It was something his father had mentioned
when he had introduced him to Argyle.
It happened during King Cyr’s reign,
his father had told him.
Tyr had become a large city by then. As with all large
cities, there were elements of disorder, and they were becoming intolerable.
The lawless elements had grown in power, and King Cyr tried to eliminate them.
It was an effort of futility. For each ruffian that was removed, there were two
more ready to replace him.
After several years of striving to cleanse his city of
disorder, King Cyr finally realized an essential truth: Some disorder is
necessary. It was a painful insight. He had lived in accordance with the rigid
order established by our forebears and had imposed that same order onto his
city. The city rebelled from it. The kingdom was still young then, and he
responded by sending the rebellious ones from the city or forcing them into the
army. Some he killed. You will too, when you take the throne. Public examples
are necessary, and some threats cannot be allowed to fester. But King Cyr’s
actions weren’t enough to maintain order. He needed some disorder to justify them,
to show the people why order was necessary, why it was beneficial, why it is
such a precious, delicate thing. A murder here, an arson there, the theft of a
moneylender’s coffers—these were disruptive, these were disorderly, but they
showed the people how important order and stability really are. It was a
paradox: some disorder was, in fact, orderly. But there was too much disorder
in those days, too much chaos, and he sought to bring it under control, to bend
it to his will.
They had nearly reached the bottom of the secret stair by
then, and his father had stopped to put his hand on the young Prince Tyr’s
shoulder—a rare gesture that made both of them uncomfortable.
You are about
to meet his solution
, his father had continued.
Do not be frightened of
him. He is your friend, perhaps the closest friend any king can have. His name
is Argyle, and when the time comes, you will realize how valuable he is to our
kingdom.
His father had smiled at him as he had finished.
We will speak
more of this later, but for now, you must prepare yourself. Argyle is not a
very tidy creature.
That first meeting with Argyle had been a frightful one. It
wasn’t Argyle’s towering size—King Tyr could barely reach past his knees—or
even the blasphemous stench—which reminded him of the privy next to the compost
heap on a hot summer day—that unnerved him; it was Argyle’s disorderly
appearance. Argyle was
ugly
. He had warts, nodules, and scars in strange
places; his right arm was longer than his left; and his ears were lopsided. A
tangled, greasy mass of hair flopped about on his shoulders. His outfit was
hideous
:
a bright yellow blouse, forest green pantaloons with orange frills, dark gray
belt, and one pink and one black boot. The court jesters dressed with better
color coordination and symmetry than he did! It was only later that he found
out that his crazy cousin Decker was Argyle’s host, and then the outfit made
perfect sense.
That first time, Argyle
was not
enveloped in a green
aura.
He was about to turn another page when he saw the name
Argyle and backtracked to the beginning of the entry.
I have found the solution. It has taken nearly sixteen
years to locate it, but now it is in my possession. It is a remnant of the Time
of Chaos, a large stone of incredible power. It is but one of three that are
known to have been made and thought to have been destroyed during The Taming.
They were not.
One resides in the Western Kingdoms and holds the essence
of Tarnak. He is a cold, calculating fiend, and it was largely through his
efforts that that ramshackle group of fickle, petty kinglings were able to
resolve their disputes and unite as a single entity. The timely assassinations
he orchestrated removed uncooperative kings and inserted more pliable men on
their thrones. His subtle manipulation of kings led to skirmishes that weakened
their armies and brought about the need for collaboration against superior
foes. His network of spies is vast, and his ability to create discord or
harmony with little effort is astounding. It is through his efforts that the
Western Kingdoms have become a worthy adversary while remaining too impotent to
pose a serious threat to us—for now. If he should decide to expand his reach,
there is no telling what havoc he could do. He bears watching.
The second stone is far to the south. It contains an elf
that has nothing but disdain for humanity. Her callousness and anonymity are
legendary, and she employs them with ruthlessness and efficiency. She has
maintained discipline within her own kind for centuries, and now controls The
Southland’s Matriarchy. Their queen is her puppet, while she lies hidden in the
shadows pulling the strings. Her tools are subtlety and viciousness, and her
sight is far-reaching. None know her name. When they speak of her, they do so
softly and with great reverence and fear. She is one to be obeyed, and it is
fortunate that her lands are far from us.
The third is in my possession. In it is the last of the
giants who ruled this land until our forebears conquered them. He is called
Argyle, and there is much hatred within him for our kind. His mind is cold,
calculating and that has mollified his hostility for the present. He
understands that he has but little influence without my grace and accepts that
I am in control of his very existence. I have allowed him to express his vile
impulses on those I wish to control or eliminate, and he has begun to gather to
him a loose affiliation of ruffians and scoundrels. If I ever lose control of
Argyle, they may become a significant threat to our stability, if not to our
existence. For now, Argyle is an ally. How long that alliance will last, I do
not know.
There are rumors of a fourth Gem of Transformation—that is
what the wizards have called them—that dominates the others, but it was lost
during the sinking of Bryn. I am assured that every effort to locate it has
failed, and it is good that they have. When I am with Argyle I share his
thoughts, and when I have pursued the question with him, his fear and anger run
through me like the tidal wave that swallowed Bryn. This master gem, as he
thinks of it, terrifies him. The first time I broached the subject, I had to
extricate myself before Argyle’s hatred could consume me. It was still present
when I hosted him next, but I was prepared for it. I managed.
It has been painstakingly difficult for Argyle to think
about this master gem. He is a free spirit, and the thought of being bound to
it again infuriates him. I find that ironic. He is already bound by the Gem of
Transformation, but the bondage to the master gem must be different. I am his
vessel, and he has considerable control over what happens while I host him. I
can override his influence, but it takes a concerted effort to do so. Mostly, I
observe and offer counsel. I have tried to push past his resistance, but it is
too strong. All that I have discovered is that a wizard of incredible power
resides in it, and his name is Symptata. Perhaps my heirs will learn more. For
now, only one thing is certain: Argyle does not want that master gem to be
found.
The passage ended, and King Tyr thumbed through the
following pages looking for more on this Symptata. He had found none when he
heard Captain Blanchard burst into his private chambers and called out with
alarm, “Sire!”
King Tyr reluctantly left the book where it sat and quickly
made his way out of his private study.
The old healer standing beside Captain Blanchard was out of
breath, but when he saw the blood-soaked towel wrapped around the king’s right hand,
he hurried forward. He
almost
took hold of the king’s elbow before he realized
what he was doing and asked, “With your leave, Sire?”