The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 (21 page)

“Wynn,” the quint said tolerantly. “This is Lady Tiadaria, from Blackbeach, Master Indra sent her to find you.”

“Oh.” Wynn looked unsettled. “Uh, okay then. Thank you.”

Her escort shot her an apologetic glance and shook his head before retreating, leaving Tiadaria and Wynn standing there in silence. Tiadaria had expected Faxon’s apprentice to be as garrulous has Faxon himself was. As seemed to be the case a lot lately, she was wrong. They stood there awkwardly before she finally decided to take matters into her own hands.

“So you’re Faxon’s apprentice?”

The young man peered at her for a moment before nodding. “Yes, I help Master Indra with his research.” He pointed to the book on the table. “I really must get back to it. Fascinating stuff, really.”

“Oh?” Tia asked, cocking her head to read the text scrawled in the tome. “Three thousand types of fungus,” she read and raised an eyebrow. “Riveting reading, then?”

“Oh yes!” Wynn said at the most animated she had yet seen him. “Each of the specimens was categorized and defined by its unique characteristics, both magical and mundane.”

He turned back to the book and seemed to completely forget about her. Wynn sat with his chin in his palms, his head bowed over the weighty tome of mold. The only indication that he was even awake was the occasional turn of a page. Tiadaria stood by his elbow, completely at a loss. She cleared her throat, loudly, trying to recall his attention. He seemed to be lost in his own world. A world full of fungus, no doubt.

“Wynn?” she said tentatively. Slowly, Tia realized that tentative wasn’t going to get the job done. She reached over and flipped the book closed, the binding barely missing the tip of the young man’s nose.

“Careful!” he hissed, jumping to his feet. He caressed the book with a tender touch. “You could have damaged the binding, or torn a page!”

Tia had reached her breaking point. She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “I’m going to damage YOUR binding if you don’t pay attention to me,” she said savagely.

Wynn blinked, obviously unaccustomed to such forcefulness. He nodded, his hand still lingering on the book protectively.

“Faxon said that you’d be the person to ask about a relic we’re looking for,” Tiadaria said without a hint of flattery. “We need to know what the relic might be and where it is.”

“If Master Indra,” Wynn began, drawing out both the title and the surname. “Wanted to know about a relic, why didn’t he come here and ask about it himself?”

“Because, Apprentice Wynn, he sent me to start the research before he got here.” Tiadaria stabbed her thumb at her own chest and glared at Wynn. He was probably four inches taller than she was, and she felt sort of ridiculous trying to intimidate him. If only she had her scimitars...

The use of his title appeared to partially deflate Wynn and he slumped back in the chair at the study table. He gently moved the mold book to one side and peered at her expectantly. They stared at each other for a few moments before he heaved a long, drawn out sigh.

“I can’t help you find anything if you don’t tell me what you’re looking for!”

“Then ask,” Tiadaria snapped. “I can’t read minds!”

Wynn shook his head, as if he was dealing with some eminently unreasonable creature incapable of intelligent thought. “What relic are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Tiadaria stammered. “We know the Xarundi are looking for it, and that there are rumors of it being buried in snow and ice.”

“That’s all? If you don’t know what you’re looking for, how do you expect me to find it?”

Tiadaria lost the last of her patience. “Faxon said you were the person to ask!” Her shout echoed across the labyrinthine library. “If I knew what I was looking for, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”

She turned on her heel and stomped off.

“You really shouldn’t yell in the library,” he called after her.

* * *

Zarfensis and Xenir were exhausted when they finally reentered the Warrens. The urgency they felt to return to the familiar caverns was only partly spurred by their enthusiasm for their mission. Though they’d never put the feeling into words, they both wanted to be away from the Deep Oracle and its grasping mind. Xenir had been very quiet on their return to the Warrens.

They had nearly reached Zarfensis’s warren when one of the adolescents came bounding up to the weary travelers.

“Your Holiness! Warleader! The pack council is demanding your presence, they’ve found out about the raiding parties you dispatched!” The youngster’s fur stood out in agitation, his lips pulled back to bare his still under-developed fangs. “There are rumors of execution, Your Holiness.”

Xenir grasped the youth by the shoulders and turned him to look directly into his eyes. “Do you believe in us? Do you believe in the omens that have been foretold?”

“Of course, Warleader! There are many who stand behind you, but the pack council--”

“I will deal with the pack council,” Zarfensis growled with unconcealed savagery. “Cowering in our caves like vermin is beneath us. We are the Chosen! Go and tell the loyal that we have spoken to the Deep Oracle and returned. Gather them in the cathedral.”

“As you command, Your Holiness.” With a half-bow, the young Xarundi bounded back down the corridor the way he had come.

“The pack council?” Xenir asked.

“You know what must be done, brother. Do you doubt the omens? Or what information the Deep Oracle provided?”

“No, Your Holiness.”

“Then have faith. Our dominion is preordained. The Chosen will possess the relic and we will usher in a new age of domination over the vermin.”

A knot of loyalists appeared in the tunnel, passing the High Priest and the Warleader on their way to the cathedral. Zarfensis returned their respectful bows as they passed. They were almost uniformly youngsters, those too young to have fought at Dragonfell but now coming into adulthood. The elders were more stubborn.

“We must attend the council, Warleader.” Zarfensis noted with approval that Xenir’s claws were unsheathed. They set off down the corridor, the metal leg beating out a war drum’s staccato rhythm on the smooth stone.

The council chamber was packed with bodies. The pack council sat on their high stone thrones looking down on the chaos on the floor. As Zarfensis and Xenir entered, the throng moved back against the walls, opening an aisle for them to approach the council. They stopped behind the advocate’s table, though there was no advocate present. Zarfensis knew better than to think this was a real tribunal. It was punitive justice.

The Voice stood, and bowed toward the two members of the council on his right, then the two on the left.

“The council speaks with one voice,” he said, in accordance to the laws the Xarundi had followed for centuries. “You are called before the council to answer for your crimes against the Chosen.”

Zarfensis had to wonder at the hypocrisy of the foolishness playing out before them. The Voice used the traditional words, handed down over hundreds of years, and yet there was no Advocate present, no customary way for them to defend themselves. Not that he expected anything about this meeting to be customary, but he wondered who the council thought they were fooling.

“If our crimes are those of not sitting idly by while the council destroys the last vestiges of our pride, then I’ll gladly plead guilty and end this farce right now.” Zarfensis motioned to those assembled in the chamber. “Do you honestly expect them to believe this nonsense?”

A murmur ran through the crowd and the Voice lifted the gavel, a stone cylinder about six inches tall and three in diameter, slamming it into the platform in front of his seat. The loud crack it produced effectively silenced the assembly.

“Do you,” the Voice stabbed a long finger at Zarfensis, “deny that you sent raiding parties out without the approval, or even knowledge of the pack council?”

“I deny nothing,” the High Priest said with a snarl. “I refuse to recognize the authority of any council that would have the Chosen cower like vermin in their dens.”

This time it was less of a murmur and more of a roar that went through the chamber. Zarfensis looked sidelong at Xenir and saw him scanning the crowd. They were thinking the same thing. Perhaps there were more elder loyalists than they had given credit for. Once again the gavel silenced the uproar.

“You will be summarily executed for treason,” the Voice announced, dropping any pretense of a fair ruling. He pointed to Xenir. “Your accomplice, the Warleader--”

The Voice never had a chance to finish his sentence. Zarfensis had hunkered down into a crouch, exploding forward as the magically imbued leg drove him across the advocate’s table and into the Voice. They crashed into the throne, toppling it and plunging the room into panic. The High Priest wrenched the gavel from the Voice’s hand and slammed it into the elder’s head. There was a sickening, satisfying crunch and the Voice twitched once and was silenced.

Tossing the gavel aside, Zarfensis saw that Xenir had followed his lead and descended on the other council members. He tore at them with a ferocity that bordered on zealotry. Zarfensis reached into the deepest depths of the Quintessential Sphere and called forth a disease-ridden mist that descended over the panicked Chosen scurrying about below the council platform.

The older and infirm Xarundi succumbed almost immediately. Gasping for breath, their tongues lolled from open mouths, their clouded eyes protruding from the sockets as they fell. Those not immediately afflicted broke for the doorway, only to find a flood of young Xarundi descending upon them. Young fangs and claws could still do damage, and their sheer numbers guaranteed their swift victory. Zarfensis dispersed the mist as the striplings entered the chamber.

The entire coup was over within minutes of its start. No one on the council had survived the assault, and most of those who had attended the faux trial lay dead or dying on the floor of the chamber.

The Warleader scooped up the gore-matted gavel, brandishing it above his head as he leapt to the top of the Advocate’s table, somehow, miraculously, still standing among the detritus of battle.

“The council is dead! I swear my loyalty to a new Lord Regent, the High Priest!” Xenir dropped the gavel and went to a knee. The genuflection spread rapidly through the crowd, until all the Chosen had taken a knee before Zarfensis.

“My brothers and sisters!” Zarfensis spoke loudly, so his voice would carry into the tunnel beyond. “Let today usher in a time of dominance and superiority for the Chosen. Let us seek out and destroy our enemies where they live and never again cower in the Warrens as if they were a prison.”

The thunderous shout that rose from the assembly shook the walls of the chamber and echoed down the wide corridor. Zarfensis dropped from the platform and offered a hand to Xenir.

“Come, Lord Protector, there is much to put into motion.”

Tiadaria was laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling when someone knocked on her door. “Lady Tiadaria,” Harold called. “You have a gentleman caller.”

“Faxon,” she said to herself. “It’s about bloody time.”

Shifting off the bed, she strode to the door and threw it open. Wynn stood on the threshold. He had a large book tucked under one arm, almost hidden from view by the sleeve of his robe. He took a step backward at the sudden moment of the door and ran into Harold, who steadied the lad and disappeared down the hallway.

“Lady Tiadaria,” Wynn’s voice wavered and the tips of his ears were burning a bright enough red that they could have probably lit the deepest cavern on Solendrea. Tiadaria was perversely pleased by his discomfort. “I, um... I’m, er-- what I mean to say is that I’m not very good with people.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Tiadaria replied at her driest. She motioned him in and closed the door behind him.

Seeing the work table seemed to ground the young quintessentialist. He went to the table and deposited the book he was carrying on the surface with reverent hands. Tia found herself wondering if he treated every book he touched with such awe and care. If so, she could understand why Faxon entrusted his research to this particular apprentice.

Wynn began flipping through the book, his fingers lightly grazing each page as he flipped through them. When he spoke again, the shakiness had left his voice.

“You said yesterday that Master Indra is looking for a relic that the Xarundi also seek, buried in snow and ice. I remember seeing an entry in this journal about an expedition to the Frozen Frontier to find a source of rare and powerful magic.”

“Ah, here it is; Alveron and his men left Ethergate two fortnights ago. They go to the far north in search of a relic of limitless power. I asked Alveron where he learned of the relic, but he wouldn’t share the information with me. I thought it was important that we know the source of the rumor, so I took matters into my own hands. I took his quartermaster to the inn and got him good and drunk. The quartermaster says that they bought the information from a Dyrseer in Overwatch. He said the Dyrseer’s great-grandfather saw the relic buried in the ice and brought the tale back with him at the end of the war.”

Wynn glanced up at her. “It continues on into a lot of detail you probably don’t need or want. It does, however, seem to hint at there being some truth to the rumor you’re chasing.”

“What’s a Dyrseer?” Tiadaria asked.

The quint tapped the journal with his forefinger. “It seems to be a now-forgotten term for the creatures you refer to as the Xarundi.”

“So who was this Alveron?”

Wynn sniffed. “A quintessentialist of mediocre renown. If he had paid more attention to his studies and less time running around searching for relics, maybe he’d have survived his journey to the Northern Rim.”

“How do you know he didn’t survive?”

He tapped the journal again. “Theodrin was a direct descendant of Grigor Gatzbin and the historian of our order until his death in 219p.c. Theodrin mentions Alveron once or twice more in his journals, but he never mentions his return.”

“That’d be a neat trick after eight hundred years,” Tiadaria quipped. “If he wasn’t dead then, he is now.”

“A logical assumption,” Wynn said, nodding.

Tia stared at him. “I was joking, Wynn.”

There was a long silence, punctuated by the quintessentialist flipping the book closed and tucking it back under his arm.

“Joking, if you can call it that, aside, you now know that there may be a relic somewhere in the Northern Rim.” He turned to leave and Tia caught him by the sleeve.

“We need to know more, Wynn. We need to know where the relic is, or at least make a good guess so we can start looking. We have to beat the Xarundi to whatever this thing is, if it exists.”

“Why?”

Tiadaria gaped at him. Her lips moved wordlessly for a moment before she finally found her voice. When she did, her words came out in the barest whisper.

“Why? Why do we have to beat the Xarundi? Why do we have to ensure that they don’t unleash something terrible on Solendrea?”

“Yes. Why?”

Her initial shock abating, Tia found the full strength of her voice and used it. “Don’t you know anything about the Xarundi? Don’t you know that they almost wiped out the human race? Don’t you know that two years ago, they almost did it again? I was there. People died, Wynn.” Her voice broke and her fingers went instinctively to her collar. “People I cared about. People Faxon cared about. The Xarundi are savage monsters and we cannot allow them any advantage. None.”

The quintessentialist had the good form to look uncomfortable, though Tiadaria couldn’t tell if it was because her words were having any impact whatsoever, or if he was just twitchy because she was so emotional.

“I’m-- I’m sorry,” he said after a long pause. He placed the journal back on the table and sat down on her bed. “I was born here. In Ethergate, I mean. My parents were both quintessentialists, both researchers. Like me. I’ve never even been outside the city.”

Tia peered at him, wondering if this was his way of getting back at her for her joke earlier. She studied his face, drawn in solemn lines. Wynn probably wouldn’t know a good joke if it leapt out of the fire and danced on his toes.

“You’re serious?” Tia was aghast. Even as she asked the question, Tiadaria realized it wasn’t as ridiculous as it had first seemed. After all, she hadn’t been outside the clan lands before her father had sold her to the repugnant slaver who brought her into the Imperium. Even so, she had been to other clan villages. To never have been outside the city...

“Why would I leave?” Wynn’s sweeping gesture encompassed all of Ethergate. “Everything I could ever need is inside these walls. There’s never been an attack on Ethergate that made it beyond the gate. What kind of fool would make war against a city full of mages?”

She could appreciate the logic in that. Somehow, though, she didn’t think that the Xarundi would much care about how many mages there were. They’d breed as many bodies as they needed and throw them at the walls until they fell.

“The Xarundi might,” she said with a sigh.

The look he shot her was plainly disbelieving. “These creatures may be savage, but surely they don’t think they could take the city. That’s just not reasonable.”

Tia threw her hands in the air. “These aren’t reasonable creatures, Wynn! They believe they are the Chosen. They believe that they alone have the right to rule over every race on Solendrea and they’ll stop at nothing to ensure that they see that to its end.”

She took a knee next to him, so she could look up into his face. “Don’t you see? That’s why we need you, Wynn. That’s why we need to find out as much as we can about this relic. What it is. Where it might be. How to find it. Your skill could be invaluable. You could save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives.”

The mage rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. His eyes were troubled and Tiadaria felt sympathy for him for the first time. It wasn’t all that long ago that her entire world view had been challenged. She knew what a shock that was.

“I don’t know,” he finally said, meeting her gaze. “I can’t believe that these...things...would attack Ethergate.”

“Maybe they won’t,” Tiadaria agreed. “Maybe they’ll just kill as many men, women, and children in the Imperium as they can, then enslave the rest. Then Ethergate will be the last human settlement they haven’t destroyed or made slaves of. Do you really think they’ll leave you alone forever?”

“Alright!” His voice rose as the last of his resistance broke. “Alright. I’ll see what else I can find in the archives.” He shook his head slowly. “Maybe I can at least find you somewhere to start.”

Tia laid her hand on his knee and a familiar shock shot up her arm. Wynn jumped at the touch and she quickly pulled her hand away. “That’s all we ask for, Wynn, thank you.”

The quint got to his feet and once again retrieved his book. He bade her good day and told her that he’d come to her with anything that he might find during his investigation. As Tiadaria closed the door behind him, she wondered if he had realized what had passed between them, and if he had, how long it would be before the Order’s inquisitors descended on the inn to take her away.

“Damn it, Faxon,” she said quietly to herself. “I need you here now. Where are you?”

* * *

“Vermin in the Warrens! There are vermin in the Warrens!” The pup that came racing into the rectory was so young that Zarfensis suspected he wasn’t long off his mother’s teat. His eyes were wide with panic, their blue fire amplified by a lens of tears.

The High Priest put down his pen and went to the door. In the cathedral he could hear excited yips and shouts. Excited, not fearful, and not panicked like the youngster crouched down next to his desk. It wasn’t, then, the vermin descending on them en masse to finish what they’d begun at Dragonfell.

“Come, whelp.” He offered his hand to the cowering pup, who took it with only a moment’s hesitation. “The vermin are not to be feared. We teach the vermin to fear us. We are the Chosen.”

“Y-yes, Your Holiness.”

Zarfensis lead the pup from the rectory into the cathedral. He’d wasted no time in moving back into his traditional quarters after the coup and now the adolescents that he and Xenir had assigned to stand guard over the upper levels of the Warrens were streaming into the sanctuary in twos and threes. The High Priest was about to take them to task for leaving their posts when he saw Xenir.

“Your Holiness!” Xenir motioned toward the antechamber and Zarfensis nodded his understanding. He gently pushed the pup into the waiting arms of a nearby stripling. The adolescent stepped in front of the pup, his half-grown claws unsheathing as he took up a protective position.

Zarfensis bounded across the sanctuary, his metal leg ringing against the marble floor with each step. “Report, Warleader.”

“There are vermin in the upper tunnels, Your Holiness. The tunnel guards did exactly as they ought, took them by surprise from one of the blind tunnels and restrained them. They are holding their captives at the north entrance.”

“They’re not bringing them here?”

Xenir wrinkled his nose, his lips drawing back from his teeth. “No, I’ll not see the Warrens defiled by vermin.”

Zarfensis chuckled at the vehemence in the Warleader’s tone. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Very well, brother. Let us go greet our...guests.”

The Warleader snorted but said nothing. They loped easily up through the tunnels leading to the surface, passing knots of curious onlookers as they went. They passed a bitch, followed by a full litter of pups. Zarfensis held up a hand and the Warleader stopped. The High Priest turned to the bitch, who immediately bowed her head and went to her knees.

“Your Holiness?”

“Rise, dear sister. Why are these pups out of the nursery?”

“I heard there are vermin in the Warrens, High Priest.”

“Then why aren’t you protecting your charges in their place?”

“The pups must learn what the vermin look like, what they smell like, how they sound. Otherwise, how will they hunt them down as they grow?”

She tossed her head haughtily, refusing to drop her eyes from Zarfensis’s intense gaze.

“Well spoken, sister.” Zarfensis motioned for the Warleader to continue and called over his shoulder. “Just ensure their safety.”

“The day I can’t protect my pups from a few vermin, I’ll cut off my own tail.” She said as they rounded the corner.

Zarfensis shuddered. Losing a tail was the greatest shame a Chosen could be subjected to. The High Priest wondered if there were many other females with that same streak of aggressiveness.

“She has a warrior’s heart,” Xenir remarked. Zarfensis had often wondered if Xenir’s gift of foresight also offered him the occasional glimpse into another’s mind, but when the Warleader continued, the High Priest’s suspicion was allayed.

“Those pups are mine,” Xenir said without a trace of pride. “She’s not the only female with that kind of fire, either. I wonder if we might be well-suited by allowing them to become warriors.”

“One cultural upheaval at a time, Xenir. We’ve only just restored the Chosen to our rightful status, let’s not give the scant handful of elders who backed us a reason to overthrow us just yet.”

Xenir grunted and walked on. Before long, they reached the oval cavern that was used as the ready room for the northern entrance to the Warrens. Three dirty, pink vermin were on their knees, guarded by two pairs of Xarundi guards. Zarfensis was impressed with their restraint. None of the prisoners seemed to be mauled in any way.

“Only three?” Zarfensis remarked to Xenir. “Are these vermin suicidal?”

“You were at Dragonfell,” the largest of the humans said, nodding toward Zarfensis. “The quints gave you a right good beating.”

A meaty thud echoed across the cavern as the man’s head rocked back on his neck. The force of the High Priest’s backhand raised an ugly welt across the human’s cheekbone.

“Learn your place, vermin.” Zarfensis snarled.

The man hawked and spat blood onto the floor in front of him. “My place is where the most money is. We have information you may find interesting, for a price.”