Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (4 page)

“Ah, Your Magus, thank you for attending us.” Durth’s ubiquitous smile beamed at Sorial. Although his ruby red lips turned up, there was ice in his eyes. Sorial recognized that Durth was a different sort of king from Azarak: a serpent rather than a lion.

“I’m at your disposal, Your Majesty,” said Sorial with a curt bow that was anything but deferential.

If Durth believed himself slighted, he didn’t show it. “Our advance scout party has reported a single… entity… approaching from the direction of Vantok. It rides the currents of air and, to all appearances, may be one of the djinn we have heard about from the battle.”

“Can you check?” Myselene made the request of her wizard.

Sorial nodded then cast his mind into the earth below like a net. He gradually spread it wider and wider, searching for telltale signatures of fire. He found Justin’s with little trouble; he was still in Vantok. He sensed nothing else.

“If it’s coming, it isn’t in contact with the ground.”

“If it poses a threat to Basingham, can you stop it?” asked Durth.

“If there’s only one, I can, but there’s something I’ve got to get from my tent.” Sorial had been preparing for an encounter such as this since Alicia’s departure. Touching the djinn to expel its internal measure of earth would no longer mean exposing himself to its fiery exterior.

“Do what you must, then meet us outside the main gate. If this creature maintains its current course and isn’t just on a scouting mission, that’s where we’ll meet it.”

Regardless of its mission or how close it got to the city, Sorial intended to force an engagement, although he didn’t divulge that information to Basingham’s king. Eliminating one djinn now meant there would be one fewer to face in the future. It wasn’t much of a victory but, in the wake of the absolute devastation visited on Vantok’s army by the creatures, any advantage was welcome.

Using the mount that had conveyed him to the palace, Sorial returned to the refugee camp. After briefly checking to ensure Alicia hadn’t made contact, he returned to his tent. There, awaiting its inaugural use, was the wizard’s new left arm. Hinged at the elbow to allow a degree of mobility, it was designed to simulate an arm in only the most superficial of ways. But if Sorial touched a djinn with it, it would provide him with a magical conduit to its essence without forcing him to endure the agony and loss of tissue he had experienced in his duel with the efreet. To onlookers, the arm would appear to be a clumsy attempt to replace what had been lost, but Sorial knew better.

Experimentation with his leg had shown that his control over stone allowed him to manage the limb in ways he hadn’t expected. If he concentrated on it, he could cause it to perform in a manner replicating that of a real leg with the flexibility of flesh and muscle and the strength of stone. Unfortunately, when his mind wasn’t focused on the leg, it reverted to an unyielding rod of rock. The arm should perform similarly.

Not long after, Sorial was comfortably ensconced beneath the earth just outside Basingham’s main gates. From his vantage point, he could track the slow, inexorable approach of the djinn, gliding on air some ten feet above the ground. Even at this distance, his magical senses were alive. Knowing Justin’s signature, he now wondered how he could have mistaken the efreet for The Lord of Fire, but that experience had taught him an important lesson about assumptions and magical deception. Every night, he wondered whether he could have made a difference at the Battle of Vantok and whether Azarak might be alive today if he had not been duped into leaving.

A small contingent watched from atop the city’s walls: King Durth and Queen Myselene and their top advisors and generals. Durth’s “commission” to Sorial had been for him to attack only if the djinn displayed hostile or dangerous intentions. But the wizard didn’t take orders from the ruler of Basingham and Myselene hadn’t forbidden him from acting as he saw fit. Regardless of what the djinn’s inclinations might be, Sorial had no intention of allowing it to return to its master. As far as he was concerned, the sacking of Vantok counted as both “hostile” and “dangerous.”

As it drew closer, shadowed by an advance corps of Basingham’s cavalry whose presence it ignored, the djinn’s form and figure became clear.  Of the men on the wall, only Carannan had seen its like before. His expression remained steely, his mind replaying the devastation wrought by this monster and its fellows. Everyone else, Myselene included, displayed varying degrees of shock and disbelief. Gorton’s features were the most composed but even he appeared unnerved. Durth’s fear and horror were impossible to hide.

Sorial was relieved that, although the djinn resembled the efreet in many ways, it was smaller and less imposing. The creature had the shape and appearance of a gigantic, impossibly muscled man. Its rutilant flesh was wreathed in flames that burned orange with occasional bursts of hotter blue. Its eyes were pits of blackness, a match to the color of its short goatee. The dome of its head was capped not by hair but by a crown of spiky flames. It was a mirror to the image of the djinn pictured in storybooks.

It drifted toward the wall, adjusting its distance from the ground to come opposite the parapet, arms crossed beneath its breast. It showed no signs of immediate hostility although the blackness of its eyes made its expression impossible to read.

“I would speak to the one who names himself ruler of this habitation.” The words, uttered in a deep bass that caused the ground to reverberate, were without inflection. It was speaking as much into the minds of the onlookers as into their ears.

Durth took a half-step forward, looking like he would rather be anywhere else than standing eight feet from a djinn. “We are King Durth.”

“I am an emissary from His Majesty, King Justin of Vantok, The Lord of Fire. He sends terms for your surrender. If you accept these terms, he will arrive here with his army in three weeks’ time to peacefully occupy your city. If you reject these terms in whole or in part, he will arrive with his army in a span less than that to raze your walls and fortresses, slaughter your soldiers, and offer no quarter to your citizenry. All who survive the attack will be subject to the whims and will of The Lord of Fire as was the case in Vantok.”

“What are The Lord of Fire’s terms?” asked Durth.

“None are negotiable. You will comply with all as prescribed or you will be deemed in violation. The smallest infraction will bring down upon your city the full wrath of The Lord of Fire. You either surrender or you do not. Have you an understanding of this?”

“We have.”

“These are the terms of The Lord of Fire.  First, you must open your gates and disband your militia. All males between the age of six and sixty years must be assembled in their small clothes lining both sides of the road leading to the main gates. All females between the ages of fourteen and forty must assemble in their small clothes in the main square outside the palace. The men of the army of The Lord of Fire will choose from among their number fifty women to be pressed into service. Likewise, one in every three men will be conscripted into the army. The Lord of Fire will immediately and unequivocally be accepted as Basingham’s king and all rights to this post by the current rulership and his heirs will be revoked.  The following individuals will be turned over to King Justin for arrest: King Durth and his chancellor and immediate advisors; Prelate Ferguson of Vantok; Queen Myselene, pretender of Vantok; Chancellor Gorton of Vantok; and the wizards Sorial and Alicia. These are the terms of The Lord of Fire. To refuse them is to declare war - a war your puny city cannot win.”

“Those are… extraordinary terms,” said a clearly nonplused Durth. For Sorial’s part, there was no surprise. Considering what Justin’s army was capable of, the demands were reasonable. The king wouldn’t accept; Sorial knew he would never agree to anything that involved an implied death sentence. The men and women The Lord of Fire required to be arrested would all face execution. Ultimately, it was a moot point. Even if Durth had been willing to accede to every demand, Alicia was beyond his reach.

Sorial was curious to hear how Durth would refuse but prudence decreed that he not wait that long in case the djinn had orders to begin dismantling the city if the response wasn’t to Justin’s liking. So, taking the initiative, Sorial acted. As the tense drama played out above his head, Sorial silently emerged from the ground, an odd-looking mockery of a human figure with rods of rock attached to his left knee and shoulder. He bowed his head and closed his eyes to aid with his concentration, then attacked.

Using his ability to alter the force exerted by the earth on any object, Sorial localized the effect and caused the djinn to slip from the air and crash to the ground, its capability to levitate disrupted. Sorial’s control wasn’t pinpoint enough to avoid collateral impacts: the people watching from above were driven roughly to their knees, the weight of their bodies suddenly much greater; dust and fine debris cascaded from chinks in the walls; and Sorial had to compensate to keep his stone leg from snapping in two. During their duel, Ariel had recovered quickly from this form of assault but she had been expecting an attack. The djinn’s reactions weren’t as swift.

Two quick steps brought Sorial within lunging distance of the creature as it was righting itself. It hadn’t alighted gracefully, landing on its back. The heat this close was intense; Sorial could feel the flesh on his left side blistering. He wasted no time - if the djinn recognized the gravity of its situation, the struggle would get ugly. Brought to bear on a relatively unprotected wizard, the creature’s power could kill. Sorial extended his rock arm and made contact with its hide. There was no pain but the connection was immediate.

He recognized what he had seen in the efreet. Although primarily a creature of fire, the djinn was a child of all four elements. Its magic was foreign, derived not from the source that fueled Sorial’s, but he could still command the earth within it and, by forcing that element to evacuate the djinn, he could destroy it.

The concussion was so great that Sorial momentarily lost consciousness. When he awoke, he found himself lying next to the blasted corpse of The Lord of Fire’s emissary. The dead djinn looked as the efreet had: a twisted body pockmarked by charred welts with both arms and legs ripped from their sockets. The ground was scalded and he knew his own flesh hadn’t escaped the burning. Still, compared to last time, the pain was bearable - although on this occasion he would have to rely on herbal remedies to soothe the soreness.

He rose to his feet a little unsteadily. His stone leg was undamaged. His arm had been reduced to ash across nearly half its length - a small price to pay. All things considered, Sorial was pleased with the results. He had slain a djinn without suffering any irreparable damage, sending a message that victory wasn’t assured for The Lord of Fire.

Sorial assumed Justin had observed the conflict and, as a result, it was unlikely he would be given another opportunity to face a djinn one-on-one. Next time, they would come for him in force and he knew he couldn’t fend off more than one or two.  Perhaps three if Alicia was with him, but no more. And Justin still had ten of them plus a dragon.

Sorial looked up. More than a dozen faces gazed back, their expressions varying from awe and wonderment to terror. Myselene was smiling, her face beaming with pride. Carannan appeared grimly satisfied, as if Sorial’s action had been the first step in redressing the wrong done to his men. None of the officials of Basingham knew quite what to make of Sorial and whether this young man might be the means of their salvation.

Unfortunately, Sorial recognized he couldn’t be the difference between life and death for this city. Its fate was sealed. Nothing he did today had changed that. Justin would come with his army and crush Basingham as thoroughly as he had crushed Vantok. The only questions were how long and where Sorial would be on that day. The likely answers were “not long” and “not here.”

CHAPTER FOUR: ALICIA’S SACRIFICE

Two days after Sorial’s defeat of the emissary, Queen Myselene summoned him for a private audience. He had spent the period since the conflict tinkering with his new “limbs” and practicing earth-manipulation. He had also repeatedly visited Alicia’s mirror but the only thing he had seen in the shallow, reflective water was his own haggard face and mangled body. He hardly recognized himself.  Gone was the hale youth of less than a year ago, replaced by a scarred veteran of torture and battle who looked perhaps twice his age. He could understand how Justin, at only forty, could appear as decrepit as Ferguson. He had noticed the effects of magic on Alicia as well but, to his eyes, the changes only made her more beautiful. Maturity suited her.

The pain from his burns was diminishing. He could now lie on the ground without wincing. One of the camp healers had provided him with an ointment that cooled and soothed. He had taken to wearing long trousers and voluminous cloaks to hide his artificial arm and leg. They did a good job of making him appear almost normal but they chafed his raw skin. The ointment allowed him to endure wearing clothing, which meant he didn’t have to remain confined to his tent.

It was past dark when Myselene’s summons arrived. Sorial made his way through the camp, which was lighted by regularly-placed torches mounted high on stakes driven into the ground. Each was a possible means by which Justin could spy on the refugees but there wasn’t anything useful for him to gain by doing so. If he was peering at his enemies, it would most likely be at those cloistered behind Basingham’s walls. Sorial had warned them of the dangers of lanterns and torches but they hadn’t believed him.

Sorial was admitted to the queen’s spacious tent without hesitation. Myselene was the only one in there. The space was illuminated by several large glowstones, which cast everything in an eerie green light. It reminded Sorial of his time underground in The Forbidden Lands. For weeks, the only light to reach his eye had been emitted by glowstones and luminescent fungi. Nostalgia made the memory more pleasant than the experience had been at the time. Things had been simpler then. So much had happened in a short time.

Sorial had expected Myselene to be awaiting him hunched over her map-covered table or sitting in the oversized chair glibly referred to as her “throne.” That wasn’t the case. Instead, she was lying on the furs that comprised her bed with only a thin sheet covering her form. Underneath it, she appeared to be naked.

Lying there, with her long, dark hair unbound, she looked as intoxicating as Sorial had ever seen her. As much as he loved and desired Alicia, his body couldn’t avoid responding to the queen. There was no mistaking her intentions. It was a bold, open invitation of the sort that even someone with a limited experience with women would mistake.

“Come in,” she said softly. “Sit by my side. For what may happen here tonight, I can’t force or command you. But you need to understand a few things.” She patted the furs next to her. Sorial hesitated, concerned that such a close proximity would lead to actions he might later regret. Alicia was far away but she was his wife.

“Please,” implored Myselene. “It’s not what you think.” She paused, pursed her lips then continued.  “Well, actually it
is
what you think, but my motivations are driven more by necessity than preference. Alicia is my friend - or the closest thing I have to a friend - and I wouldn’t do anything to cause her pain if circumstances didn’t demand it.”

Sorial crossed the tent and sat gingerly near her, situating himself to accommodate his stone leg. He made sure there was a respectful distance between them. If he touched her skin flesh-to-flesh, he might be lost.

“I need to conceive a child,” began Myselene without preamble. “I know it’s generally believed I’m several weeks into a pregnancy expected to produce Azarak’s heir, but that’s a fiction I encouraged before the war to strengthen my claim on the throne in case something went wrong, which it obviously did. One of the reasons I’m so readily accepted is that most of the people in this camp believe I’m carrying Azarak’s child. In order to maintain that fiction, I have to become pregnant by someone else soon.”

“You don’t need me for this.” Any cock would do, so why him? It didn’t take much thought to divine the reason.

“No, I don’t,” agreed Myselene. “But you are the best candidate. This is a request, not a royal decree. You can refuse. Before you do, however, hear what I have to say.” A plea from the queen; Sorial couldn’t refuse her that.

“You think that if I’m the father of your baby, he or she will have the potential to become a wizard.” Memories of Ferguson’s manipulation of his own genealogy darkened Sorial’s features. The last thing he wanted was to perpetuate this for a second generation. An endless cycle - maybe that’s how it had always been with wizards.

“I won’t deny it makes you an attractive match but there are no guarantees. Based on what I’ve learned from Ferguson, my own bloodline is ‘highly unpromising,’ so any potential would be greatly diluted in a child you’d sire with me. But you have other qualities to recommend you, and I know you wouldn’t interfere with his or her upbringing. It might also be the only way you could have a child.”

“Alicia told you?”

Myselene nodded. “She and I are much alike in many ways. Aside from my maids, I have no female confidantes. She’s equally isolated. It was natural for us to form a bond, even considering the limited time we’ve spent together. I know she can’t have children. And, although she says you’ve accepted that as the price to spend your life with her, she believes some part of you desires a son or daughter. This is an imperfect solution, since you’d never be able to acknowledge the child, but it provides you with an opportunity you might have believed lost.

“I wish it was possible to have Azarak’s child. It’s not that we didn’t try but it seemed he couldn’t father children. He had the same problem with his first wife. A lot of sex but no babies. Even if he had lived, it would have been necessary to procure a ‘stand-in’ for him in the bedroom to ensure there was a crown prince or princess.”

“Becoming pregnant will make you a target,” observed Sorial.

“I’m already a target. I don’t have the luxury of waiting until the situation becomes more stable. The last time I lay with Azarak was two weeks ago. That means I have a very limited window in which to conceive and still be able to plausibly claim the child to be my late husband’s.”

“I bear no physical resemblance to Azarak.”

“True, but people rarely look too critically at that. Illegitimate sons and daughters being passed off as the true-blood offspring of rulers is nothing new. Saying the child is Azarak’s will trump any physical dissimilarities.”

“Doing this would require me to betray my wife. I won’t do that,” said Sorial.

“Is it a betrayal if she endorses the notion?”

Surprise robbed Sorial of a response.

“It was, in fact, her idea. Not that she was happy about it. I had it in mind to use Rexall. He and Azarak have ancestors from Earlford and, as a result, the same reddish hair. But Alicia argued - quite convincingly, I might add - that you were a better choice. It hurt her to make the suggestion but she knew I would claim only your seed, not your heart.”

Looking back, it made sense. It explained the sadness he had glimpsed in his wife’s eyes before her departure and the flashes of jealousy directed at Myselene. She had known what the queen intended while she was gone.

“She even told me what you like, what excites you. She wanted this done while she was away, which is one reason why she rushed her departure. She couldn’t bear to be around while we were sharing my furs. My promise to her is that it would never happen when she was with you and that it wouldn’t extend beyond what necessity demands. Once I can confirm a pregnancy, we won’t touch one another again.”

Sorial knew enough about history to recognize that the arrangement proposed by Myselene was far from unusual among nobles and royalty. But he had been raised as a simple stableboy and marriage meant something different for peasants. It signaled commitment and fidelity.
I hate duty
, Alicia had said. Now he understood what she had meant by those words.

“I’ve got to speak with her first. It’s not that I doubt you but this ain’t something I can do without being sure she knows…”

“She knows,” said Myselene. “I can wait another night or two but no longer. If she hasn’t made contact by then, you’ll have to decide on your own. In a way, it might be kinder to act without discussing it. She’ll derive no joy from its mention; she would like nothing more than to forget about it. And, although your conscience may give you qualms, I can assure you that the act itself won’t be unpleasant.” So saying, she rose to a sitting position, allowing the sheet to slip down and reveal her breasts.

Sorial was instantly hard. He felt betrayed by his body’s reaction.

“I release you tonight but don’t make me wait too long for an answer. If you refuse, I have to find a replacement.”

* * *

Sorial’s night didn’t pass easily. On a primal level, he very much wanted Myselene. The image of her bare breasts, larger than Alicia’s but smaller than Annie’s, were seared into his memory. Yet, even if Alicia had given her consent for a temporary liaison, it still felt
wrong
. He understood the importance of this from a dynastic standpoint. Azarak’s “line” must be said to continue even if it truly had ended. But how deep did his duty to the Queen of Vantok run?

He hadn’t been asleep for more than a few hours when he was awakened by Rexall. “Sor, the mirror’s active. Alicia wants to talk to you.”

Sorial grabbed a loose-fitting tunic and worked his way into it on the way. It was just past dawn; the new day’s sunlight was beginning to filter through clouds low in the eastern sky. It was going to be another hot day - normal for this time of the year but it nevertheless put Sorial in mind of the many seasons lived within the bubble of heat crafted by Justin and Ariel.

The inside of the tent housing Alicia’s mirror was illuminated by glowstones. The silvery water in the basin seemed not to reflect the light but to generate its own. Sorial gazed into the depths of the mirror and was greeted by a wavering, slightly distorted image of his smiling wife, looking alluring and untamed. Her unbound blond hair streamed back from her face, teased by what appeared to be a strong breeze. The background was too indistinct to resolve but it appeared to be rocky.

“Are you there already?” asked Sorial.

Her voice was slightly muffled. “Far from it. I stopped off on an island to get a little sleep and eat a snack. I also wanted to test the link and find out how things are going there.”

Sorial recapped his encounter with the djinn. “Justin ain’t gonna take the loss of one of his minions lightly. He’s probably going to come down hard on Basingham. It might’ve gone better for them in the long run if I hadn’t interfered.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” said Alicia. “One of Justin’s best tools is terror and he’s going to use it at every opportunity.”

“What about your journey? Any problems?”

“None except a little fatigue. It’s a long, long way across the ocean. I can’t sleep underwater so I have to find little patches of land for rest and they’re widely spaced. The fish guide me to them. Food is plentiful but sometimes I feel bad about eating my little friends. Oh, and I made the acquaintance of a very big sea monster - she’s a little like your rock wyrm - and she’s been keeping me company. She’s not that interesting of a companion, though. She talks even less than you, stableboy.”

“Any idea how much farther till you’re at the library?”

“My sea friends aren’t good at telling distance or time. As best I can tell, at least another week. I wish you could experience what it’s like down here - so wild and teeming with life, yet so peaceful. Near the surface, it’s bright and warm.  Down in the depths, it’s cool and dark with things that make their own light. I wish there was a way to show it to you.”

Her next words brought back the cold reality of the present situation. “Have you had
the
discussion
with her yet?” Her features had turned flat and emotionless.

“I told her I wouldn’t allow anything until you agreed.”

“You have my permission but I hope you’ll understand when I say I don’t want to talk about this. I recognize it has to be done but that doesn’t mean I have to like it nor do I want to think about it more than is necessary. Do me a favor, though: be kind and gentle to her. Remember that her husband is less than two weeks in the grave. By the time I get back, I want it to be finished. And I don’t want to hear any of the details. If a baby is born, I’ll know you’ve been successful.”

Resignation infused Alicia’s words and Sorial knew his path was set. This was more her sacrifice than his and he couldn’t nullify or belittle it by refusing. It was a matter of duty for them both, no less so than it was for the queen. In a dark, grim corner of his mind, Sorial couldn’t help but see himself as Maraman to Myselene’s Kara. At least this time Ferguson wasn’t playing puppet master.

“I miss you,” said Sorial. Simple words steeped in feeling. “I’m glad you’re getting a little peace on your journey. I can assure you there’s nothing of the kind here.”