Authors: Robert P. Hansen
5
Hobart squinted at the mountainside where the strange orange
and green lights were wrestling with each other. He tried to piece together
what was happening, but he couldn’t. If they were using swords, he might have
been able to tell who had the advantage, who was the superior foe, who would be
victorious, but they weren’t fighting with swords. They were fighting with
magic. Even the patrol had fled from the wizards’ confrontation—and rightly so,
by the look of things. Angus darted about throwing fire at a green blur, but it
ignored him. Dagremon’s staff sent orange beams to torment the green blur, and
it countered with its own whip-like tendril of green. If it was a swordfight,
he would think they were two expert swordsmen sparring with each other, testing
their boundaries, looking for weaknesses to exploit when the decisive blow was
struck.
Then Embril flew up from underneath them like a fletching
landing in its aerie. She pointed at the green blur—it had to be Giorge or
someone very like him—and it slammed into the mountainside. He thought that was
the end of it when the writhing orange beam leapt in for the kill, but the
green blur recovered quickly. It thrust the killing stroke aside as if it were
but a flesh wound and resumed its attack. Hobart clenched his jaw shut and
fervently wished to be closer, to be able to actually see and hear what was
happening, to give aid to the side that deserved it.
Angus knows what he’s doing doesn’t he?
He wondered
as he watched Angus fluttering around with whip-like flames snapping from his
hands to strike out at the green blur.
Or has The Tween claimed another
victim?
A small shadow ran toward Embril, and she turned to it. It
had to be the woman that had ridden with Giorge; it was too small to be anyone else.
They huddled together for several seconds, and then Embril turned and flew at
Angus.
Is she attacking him?
Hobart thought with concern for the man he
wasn’t sure was his friend. She was the one Angus was after, wasn’t she? What
would he do when he saw her? He found out a moment later: the flaming whips
fizzled out.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Angus
swooped in close to her and cast his Lamplight spell. That helped Hobart survey
the scene, but they were still too far away for him to note the details. Still,
if he thought of them as toy soldiers, it helped him assess the tactical
situation. Only their strategy wasn’t making any sense. Angus had quit
harassing his foe to engage Embril, but then he didn’t attack her. Instead, they
seemed to be working together to do something that had nothing to do with the
battle at all. Why would they fly off to the side like that and leave Dagremon
so vulnerable? He would never have done that unless it was a subterfuge, an
attempt to lure the assailant away from his ally by pretending to be vulnerable
to an attack—unless he
was
vulnerable. But this didn’t look like a ploy;
it looked like Angus had completely dismissed—
Hobart’s eyes widened as he watched Angus wave his hand and
point it at the mountain. A moment later, thunder burst from the mountain and
Angus fell backward. But he didn’t fall far; Embril swooped down to catch him.
Strange way for an enemy to act; he would have let Angus fall.
The green blur was gone. The orange one remained, pinning
the little toy soldier against the mountainside. It held him there for several
seconds before retreating back to the staff.
Is it over?
Hobart
wondered. It was never easy to tell with wizards, but nothing seemed to be
happening. Embril and Angus were huddled together, probably talking strategy,
and Dagremon was stepping up to the man who had been green. The patrol was
staying well away, but the little woman was hurrying over to help Dagremon—no,
she was helping Giorge.
The gods take them!
Hobart grumbled to himself.
What
in the nether hells is going on up there?
His puzzlement grew as he saw Angus separate himself from
Embril, jump off the ledge, and fly directly into the flames of the forest
fire.
Suicide?
he thought, trying to dismiss it.
Angus wouldn’t do
that!
Then he sobered as he realized that The Tween Effect had caused more
than one man to throw himself off a cliff. Was it doing that to Angus, too? He
watched him for as long as he could, hoping he would turn around, but he
didn’t. Then he turned back to the battle—which wasn’t much of one anymore.
Dagremon and the little woman were hovering over their fallen foe as if to
protect him from Embril. Why would they do that? They should be slitting his
throat to make sure he doesn’t get back up and cause more mischief. That’s what
he would do if it was a fishman and they didn’t need information from him. If
he didn’t do it, the fishman would try to find a way to end him. That’s what
Giorge—if it was Giorge—would do to them if he had a chance. It would be better
to slit his throat and be done with it, Giorge or no. He had already died once,
anyway.
Embril moved over to them and the little woman stepped
between her and the fallen enemy, as if she were about to ward off a killing
thrust—or take it in his stead.
Who is she?
he wondered.
Why does she
care so much about what happens to him?
He squinted—was there a candle in
Embril’s hand? A flame of some sort? Is that why the woman is intervening? To
keep Embril from torturing Giorge? He frowned. He had never been fond of
torturing, but sometimes it was necessary—at least with fishmen. Torturing
another person was something else entirely, and it would take a great deal of
convincing for him to do it. Maybe that’s what the woman is demanding? Strong
reasons for torturing him before she would allow it to be done?
Now what in the world is Dagremon doing? She should be
watching over their foe; he could be faking his infirmity and attack her from
behind! Unless he’s dead, but if he was dead, Embril wouldn’t be threatening to
torture him. Dagremon’s staff started glowing again, as if she were preparing
to send that orange beam at Embril. Is Embril attacking them? If she were a
threat, wouldn’t Angus have attacked her? But he hadn’t done that, had he? No,
just before he flew off, it looked like he was holding her up—or she was
holding him up. Had she done something to him that made him fly into the fire
like a moth to a candle’s flame? She was a wizard, and they could do many
strange and horrifying things—why not that? It would be a good tactical
maneuver, wouldn’t it? Rid herself of a potentially lethal opponent without
even lifting her sword. It would tip the scales of the battle in her favor; all
she would have to do was defeat Dagremon—and the patrol.
He glanced away, trying to find the patrol. Most of them
were about a mile away from the battle, bathed in the eerie orange glow from
the burning forest. They looked almost pretty. They were riding slowly,
cautiously forward, but it would take time for them to get there at that
speed—and they’d have to cross the rut Angus had made with his wand. No, Embril
didn’t have to worry about them, did she? She had plenty of time to deal with
Dagremon.
Hobart frowned and looked at the plateau again.
Taro saw
Angus in a fire like that in one of his visions. He said it was midday, and
Angus was standing there fiddling with things he couldn’t see. But Angus was
alive! Maybe he wasn’t committing suicide, after all? Maybe he was going after
another enemy?
He frowned.
The king ordered us to find what was taken
and return it. Angus said the king meant for them to find The Tiger’s Eye, and
it belonged in the Angst temple. Could he have found it? Did he know where to
find it? Is he—
A burst of flame snatched Hobart’s attention back to Embril
and Dagremon. Other bursts followed, like when a cluster of casks of burning
oil were lofted from a catapult at night and they shattered on the ground close
together. He thought it was the first volley in a renewed battle, but nothing
more happened. Dagremon and Embril just looked at each other—perhaps they were
negotiating a truce?—and the little woman edged back toward Giorge. He
continued to watch them for some time, but nothing interesting seemed to be
happening. Then Ortis strode up next to him.
“Hobart,” he said. “You should come into the tunnel before
you succumb to The Tween Effect.”
Hobart shook his head and lifted the damp, sooty cloth up to
cover his nose and mouth. “It isn’t over yet,” he said.
Ortis looked at the fire to the west and said, “It is for
Angus.”
Hobart turned to him and said, “Maybe not. Remember what
Taro said? Angus was surrounded by fire, but he was still alive.”
“For how long?” Ortis asked. Then he turned back and added,
“You should get some rest. There isn’t anything we can do from here, and if we
are to meet up with the patrol tomorrow, we will need to leave early.”
Hobart nodded. “Not yet,” he said.
Ortis looked up, turned away, and headed into the tunnel.
Hobart waited until Embril turned away from Dagremon and
walked back toward the patrol before he finally went into the tunnel. Even
inside its protective walls, he felt like someone—Embril, perhaps?—was watching
him, and he wasn’t sure if it was just The Tween Effect….
6
Taro snorted himself awake and blinked into the twilight of
false dawn. It was tinged orange and black by the fire raging across the
plateau and the smoke billowing up from it. He stretched and smacked his lips.
“I don’t like this, Master Taro,” Abner said. His voice was
strained and he squirmed around on the mule cart’s seat. “We’re vulnerable up
here on this road. Anyone can see us.”
Taro felt just as vulnerable, but he wasn’t worried about
it. “Let them see us,” he said.
“Who?” Abner said in alarm as he stood up and looked behind
them. “Where are they?”
Taro shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”
“How can you say that, Master Taro?” Abner demanded. “We
don’t even have a sword to protect us!”
Taro shrugged again. “What do we have that’s worth taking?”
he countered in a pleasant tone. His senses were sharp—at least as sharp as his
bad vision and poor hearing could be—and he liked the feeling. It was almost
the same as when he had first smelled the incense that brought him his visions.
He didn’t even mind that people were watching them, since he knew—with a
certainty that overrode his uneasiness—that they had nothing to worry about.
Abner glared at him—he
glared
at him—and said, “Some
would kill without seeking such gain.”
Taro laughed. “Abner,” he said, “you have nothing to fear
here.”
Abner’s glare lingered for a long moment, and then softened
somewhat. “How do you know that, Master Taro?” he demanded.
He looked sidelong at Abner before answering. The young man
was clutching the reins so tightly that he thought they might be squeezed in
two. He needed reassurance, and Taro could give it to him. “You know I have had
a vision about Angus that I have told no one.” After Abner nodded, he said, “He
is not the one in the vision. I am.”
“You are?” Abner repeated in alarm. Then a spark of hope
returned to his voice as he asked, “What happens in it, Master Taro?”
“It is not for you,” he said. “But rest assured, Abner, we
will not be assailed on this road, for I am in the vision. If I were dead, I
would not be.”
Abner’s fists unclenched and he shook his fingers. His relief
lasted only a few seconds, however, and then he turned back to Taro and asked
with a trembling voice, “Am I in your vision, too, Master Taro?”
Master Taro squinted at him and thought about lying, but he
decided not to do it. Somehow, he was certain that Abner would know it was a
lie. “No,” he admitted.
Abner’s knuckles tightened on the reins again, and his eyes
darted over the landscape around them.
Taro sighed. They had only just made it around the mountain;
what would Abner be like when they finally reached the tunnel with all the
masked men in it? That was where he was in his vision, and he was certain it
was close by.
7
King Tyr woke slowly. He felt refreshed and well-rested, as
if the kingdom was calm and there were no problems demanding his attention. He
stretched, yawned, and sat up. He sniffed and thought,
I need a bath
,
and then crawled out of the expansive bed. Then he made his way to his private
bathing chamber—and frowned. Phillip hadn’t prepared his bath yet, and the sun
gleaming through his window suggested it was near midday. That was
unforgiveable. Phillip should not have let him sleep so long when he had so
much to do.
“Phillip!” he called out in his most commanding tone. He was
proud of that tone; it projected well and carried an air of authority with it
that usually brought his subjects running. But his manservant didn’t appear. He
frowned and returned to his bedroom. He had had a strange dream. He was showing
the Grand Master the Gem of Transformation, and—
He walked reluctantly over to the door of his study and
opened it. It hadn’t been a dream. His study was a mess—a
disorderly
mess. “Argyle,” he muttered, stepping through the door. Half of the ceiling had
collapsed. His table was smashed. The books he had set on it were in tatters.
There were blood stains splattered on the wall and floor. He stepped carefully
through it, occasionally nudging a bit of debris aside with his bare foot
because he thought it looked better a few inches to the left or right. But
mostly he restrained himself and fought to contain the nausea threatening to
add to the disorder in the room.
Where is the box?
he wondered after
finishing a cursory inspection of the debris.
“Phillip!” he called again, even louder than before. If
someone had taken it, Phillip would know who it was, wouldn’t he?
There was a soft knock on the study door leading to his
private meeting chamber, and he turned toward it. It couldn’t be Phillip; his
presence was always expected, so he wouldn’t have knocked. He glanced down at
his nakedness and backtracked into his bedroom to get a robe. It wasn’t his
most comfortable one—that had been ripped apart when he had become Argyle, and
its ragged tatters were in his study. Still, the one he picked up fit him
nearly as well, even though it was a bit tight around the shoulders, and he
wrapped himself up and left his bedroom through the door that led to his
private meeting chamber. There was a tiny waif of a young girl standing at the
door to his study, and he frowned at her.
Who is this?
“Yes?” he asked.
She hastily turned toward him and crouched—then quickly
recovered by turning the crouch into a sloppy curtsey that had no form at all.
“Sire,” she said. “I was told you wished to see me.”
King Tyr didn’t recognize her at all. She was little more
than a child, and if it weren’t for the little bumps on her chest and the long,
straight blonde hair, she could easily be mistaken for a boy. “You are?” he
asked.
“Billie, Sire,” she said. “They call me Little Billie.”
Ah,
King Tyr thought. “Yes,” he said. “I do wish to
speak with you, but it will have to wait. I have not yet had my morning bath.”
It was a reasonable excuse—his fastidiousness was well-known—and he didn’t want
to tell her the truth. Not yet, at least; he needed to know what had happened to
Argyle and the Gem—and to Phillip.
“Yes, Sire,” she said, turning crisply and scooting like a
kitten toward the door that his more unsavory guests used when it required
discretion.
“A moment,” he said before she could reach it. She stopped,
turned, and looked at him. Her eyes were a remarkable shade of blue, like topaz
mixed with flecks of darker and lighter shades. He frowned. Didn’t Phillip tell
her she was not supposed to look upon him that way? “Who showed you the way
in?”
She licked her lips and turned slightly, as if she wanted to
run through the door instead of telling him who it was. “Rascal, Sire,” she
said.
King Tyr raised his eyebrows. “Is he still there?” he asked.
If Rascal was spilling secrets, it could prove to be devastating.
“No, Sire,” she answered.
King Tyr frowned. Phillip should have met her at the
entryway. Why hadn’t he? “You did not see Phillip?”
“No, Sire,” she answered.
“I see,” he muttered.
Where is he?
King Tyr wondered
again. It was becoming more than just an inconvenience; it was becoming a
puzzle, and puzzles tended to become problems. He had too many problems
already, and he didn’t wish to have any more of them. But what to do with
Little Billie? He had intended to send her to Argyle to find out what was
happening, but then decided to send Iscara instead. Rascal was supposed to have
gone, too, but he hadn’t returned to give his report and had scampered away
like a rat instead of introducing Little Billie to him. He would not have done
so if he had talked to Argyle; he would have come for his payment.
What has
Rascal told you?
he wondered. But he didn’t have time to pursue the
question at the moment. He needed to deal with more urgent matters, like his
bath. “Return here shortly after dark. I will speak to you then.”
Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared, and then she
mewled, “Yes, Sire.” She wobbled from one foot to the other, as if she didn’t
know whether or not she should leave.
“You may go,” he said, dismissing her with a grandiose wave.
She gratefully scampered away, and once she was gone, King
Tyr walked to the main door and opened it. The corridor outside was quiet—
too
quiet. There should have been someone scrubbing a floor somewhere, someone
talking, the clang of a guardsman’s footsteps, the opening of a door….
He frowned and tightened the sash of his robe. Then he
strode out into the hall, determined to find Phillip and find out what was
going on. He strode down one corridor after another, and finally found himself
at Grayle’s chamber. He rapped on her door, but no one answered. He tried the
handle, but the door was locked. He knocked more loudly and called out,
“Grayle?” No answer. He frowned. It was another puzzle, one that threatened to
become a serious problem.
Where is everyone?
he wondered. He turned abruptly and
walked briskly toward the great hall. If anyone was in the castle, they would
be there—or in the kitchens. As he approached, he heard voices. He sighed,
relieved that he had finally found someone to ask what was going on. He hurried
forward, checked the sash of his robe again, rolled his shoulders in a
pointless effort to make the robe more comfortable, and strode through the
doors.
It looked as if half the castle guard were gathered in the
hall, and at the center, sitting in his throne, was Grayle.
One of the guards turned and snapped to attention. “Sire!”
he called. A ripple of responses funneled outward from him as the men turned
toward him. Some stood at attention, but most did not. Grayle smiled down at
him from his thrown, his crown sitting lopsidedly on her strawberry blonde
curls.
“Uncle,” she said. “I am glad you have recovered. We are in
need of your counsel.”
King Tyr scowled at her and demanded, “What is the meaning
of this, Grayle?”
“Why Uncle,” she said, leaning forward on his throne. Her eyes
gleamed as she said, “They have seen the truth! You cannot hide from it now.
Why not show them your true self? That hideous beast that has haunted our
kingdom for centuries? Come now, we all know you are Argyle—and
everyone
knows what he has done!” She stepped down from the throne and approached him.
“They know what you have done to me, Uncle. How you imprisoned me in my rooms
for these past three years and how you had that poor servant girl killed to
cover it up.” She smiled and her eyes sparkled. “But I will not seek vengeance
upon you for it.” She winked at him. “Your crown is enough.” She whirled around
and skipped back to the throne and sat down.
King Tyr looked at her and demanded, “What have you done?”
She fiddled with her fingernail and said, “Nothing that you
wouldn’t have done,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps a bit less, actually. You
would have had me killed if our roles were reversed. But there is no need for
that, is there? The people will never follow you again.” She paused and said,
“We can discuss this in private later. For now, I need your help.”
King Tyr strode forward and was almost to the throne before
two of his men stepped in front of him and slapped their swords across their
chests. “Sire,” one of them said. “We serve the queen, now.”
King Tyr scowled at them, but he knew better than to say
anything. He recognized the man who had spoken. It was one of the old veterans
who had been assigned to stand guard over Grayle’s chamber while they had
waited for Symptata’s response. How had she corrupted him so quickly? Then he
realized she hadn’t needed to. He was also one of the men who had come to his
study to defend the king and found Argyle waiting for them. He had seen him
when he told Captain Blanchard that—
“Where is Captain Blanchard?” he asked in his iciest tone.
The old veteran glared at him and his hand tightened on the
hilt of his sword. The tip quivered as he said, “You killed him,” then he added
with a sneer, “
Sire
.”
“We should have let you bleed to death,” someone muttered
from off to the side.
The old veteran nodded. “We would have,” he said, “but we
learned the truth too late.”
“Enough!” Grayle chirped. “Let him through. If he tries to
harm me again, you have my leave to bleed him as you wish.”
The old veteran smiled and stepped to the side, graciously
bowing at Grayle before gesturing for him to pass.
“Come with me, Uncle,” she said, reaching up to clasp his
elbow. “We should talk privately.”
Talk!
He glared at her, but he didn’t say anything
until after they had entered the room where he planned battle strategies. She
let go of his arm, navigated around the room, then returned to shut the heavy
door.
“I’m sorry, Uncle,” she said as she turned around. “I had to
act quickly to save you from them. They would have killed you—and Argyle—if
Captain Blanchard hadn’t stopped them, and when he died.” She shook her head.
“They barred the healer from tending to you until the Grand Master imposed his
will over them. It was all that he—and I—could do to keep you alive. If I
hadn’t taken up the throne, the guard would have revolted.”
King Tyr said nothing. He could imagine things happening
just as she said, but there was a flaw in her argument: Phillip knew the truth.
“Where is Phillip?” he asked.
She frowned. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “When he heard
that you had lost your throne, he left the castle. I have not tried to find
him.”
You killed him,
he thought with certainty.
There
is another who knows the truth, and I shall find her. Iscara was there—
Iscara did not return from her encounter with Symptata.
“Uncle,” she said. “I do not understand the placement of our
armies. Why are you moving the men from The Borderlands to Neem?” She studied
his reaction. “It makes no sense.”
She cannot rule,
he thought as he stared defiantly
back at her.
She has cunning but no strategic sense. Ruling the kingdom must
be done openly—to a point—and what she has learned from Argyle is subterfuge
and guile. That will not save her from the menace that is approaching, and that
will be her downfall.
He smiled, slowly, without humor. “Grayle,” he said.
“I am moving them there in preparation for an attack on the fishmen. They are
at the Lake of Scales.” If Captain Blanchard had told anyone of his plans—as he
surely must have done—then she would know this already or would soon have it
confirmed. Let her believe it, just as Captain Blanchard had. Only, she would
carry out the attack, and that would leave Tyrag vulnerable—vulnerable enough
for him to recapture the favor of his people
despite
Argyle. He would
have to work subtly, maneuver the situation to his ends, and then find a
tolerable resolution for Grayle’s catastrophic blunder. It would take time….
“There is much I do not know,” Grayle admitted. “I must rely
upon you to help me, Uncle. I will be the face on the throne, but you must be
the machinery that runs the kingdom.” She paused, smiled, and asked in her
sweetest, most childlike tone, “Unless you would prefer to become Argyle
again?”