Winter Warriors (13 page)

Leaving the house, he mounted his horse and rode back to the new barracks. Once there he waited for the reports, read them carefully, then requested a meeting with his immediate superior, the Ventrian swordsman Antikas Karios.

He was kept waiting outside the Ventrian’s office for an hour, and when he was at last ushered inside, he saw Antikas walk in from the garden beyond, where he had been exercising. Stripped to the waist, he was sweating heavily. A servant brought him a towel. Antikas sat down behind the broad desk and drank a cup of water. Then he toweled his dark hair. The servant moved behind him with a brush and a jar of oil. Lightly he massaged the Ventrian’s scalp before brushing his hair back and tying it in a ponytail. With a flick of his hand Antikas dismissed the man, then turned his dark eyes on Dagorian.

“You wished to see me?”

“Yes, sir.” Swiftly he told the officer of the spate of murders and the concerns of the official Zani that an orchestrated campaign of killing might be under way.

“Zani is a good man,” said Antikas. “He has been a city official for fourteen years and has served with distinction. He has a fine mind. What is your opinion?”

“I have read the reports, sir. In each case the killers have been apprehended and confessed without torture. But I do share Zani’s concern in one respect.”

“And that is?”

“Twenty-seven mystics in sixteen days. And according to the reports, every one of them was living in fear.”

Antikas rose from his desk, crossed the room, and took a
fresh shirt from a drawer. Shaking the rose petals from it, he pulled it over his head. Then he returned to the desk. “You are a good swordsman,” he said. “Your moves are well executed.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Dagorian, confused by the change of subject.

“It is your footwork that lets you down.”

“So Nogusta told me, sir.”

“Yes,” Antikas said with a cold smile. “If he were twenty years younger, I would challenge him. He is exceptional.” Antikas sat down and took a second drink from the water cup. “I see from your dossier that you were training for the priesthood.”

“I was, sir. Until my father died.”

“Yes, a man must uphold family honor. Did your teaching incorporate mysticism?”

“Only briefly, sir. But no sorcery.”

“I think you will find that these crimes are based on rivalry among petty wizards. Even so, such actions cannot be tolerated. Find out which mystics are still alive. The true source of the murders will be one of those.”

“Yes, sir, I will try, but I cannot do this in a day.”

“Indeed so. You will remain here. I will send for you when we have crossed the Great River.”

“Yes, sir. Is this a punishment, sir?”

“No. Merely an order.” Antikas began to shuffle papers on his desk, but Dagorian stood his ground. “There was something else?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I was wondering if Lord Kalizkan could help us. His powers are great, and it would save time.”

“Lord Kalizkan is busy preparing spells to aid the king in his coming battle with the Cadians. But I will convey your request to him.” Dagorian saluted crisply and took one step back before spinning on his heel and marching to the door. The Ventrian’s voice halted him. “Trust me, Dagorian, you will never need to
ask
if I am punishing you. You will know.”

Dagorian and Zani rode to three addresses in the north of the city, each said to be the home of an astrologer or seer. All
were empty. Neighbors were unable to supply information. The fourth address was a house in a rich area called Nine Oaks. The houses there stood in several acres of landscaped gardens, with fountains and walkways meandering through cultivated woodland.

The two men rode their horses through the woods, coming at last to a tall house, the outer walls faced with blocks of green marble. No servant moved out to greet them as they made their way to the front of the building. Dagorian and Zani dismounted and tied the reins of their mounts to a hitching rail.

The main doors were locked and barred, the green wooden shutters of the windows closed tight. A one-eyed old man wearing a green patch and pushing a wheelbarrow came into sight, moving slowly across the garden. He stopped as he saw them. Dagorian approached him. “We are looking for the master of the house,” he said.

“Gone,” the old man told him.

“Gone where?”

“Just gone. Had all his valuables packed into three wagons and left.”

“When was this?”

“Four days ago. No … five now.”

Zani moved alongside the old man. “What is your name?”

“I am Chiric, the head gardener. The only gardener now, come to think of it.”

“Did your master seem troubled?” asked Dagorian.

“Aye, that would be one word to describe it. Troubled.”

“What other words might you use?” put in Zani.

The old man gave a crooked grin. “I might say terrified.”

“Of what?” queried Dagorian.

Chiric shrugged. “Don’t know and don’t care. Spring’s coming, and I’ve too much planting to do to worry about what frightens the likes of him. Can I go now?”

“In a moment,” the Ventrian told him. “Do you live in the house?”

“No. Got a small cabin back in the woods. Warm and snug. Suits me, anyway.”

“Has anything strange happened here recently?” asked Dagorian.

The old man gave a dry, rasping laugh. “Strange things happen here all the time. That’s the way with wizards. Colored lights, flashes of fire. Groups of them used to come around. They’d chant late into the night. Then he asks me why the hens have stopped laying. Asked me to join in one night. Said they were one short of some mystic number. No, thank you, said I.”

“What was it that terrified him?” persisted Dagorian. “Do I get paid for all this information?” asked Chiric. “If not, I’ve got better things to do than stand around jawing all day.”

Zani’s anger overflowed. “You could spend a few weeks in the watch dungeons,” he said, “for obstructing officers of the king. How does that sound?”

Dagorian stepped in swiftly, dipping his hand into his money pouch and producing a small silver coin. The old man pocketed it with incredible speed, then cast a surly glance at Zani. “Laborers get paid,” he said. “That’s why they labor. Anyway, you were asking about his fear. Well, I was away for a few days last month. My youngest got wed to a farmer from Captis. When I got back, some of the servants had gone. And the master had bought three big black wolfhounds, teeth like knives. Hated the bastards, I did. I asked Sagio about it—”

“Sagio?” put in Zani.

“My undergardener. Good lad. He quit, too—afterward! Anyways, he said that the master wouldn’t come out of the house. Claimed someone had put a death spell on him. He spent days and days in his library poring over scrolls and the like. And always the dogs were padding around the house. Then, last week, the dogs attacked him. Went mad by all accounts. He managed to lock himself in the library. When he came out, the dogs had torn each other to pieces. Blood everywhere. I had to clean it up. Well, me and Sagio had to clear it up. Still, horrible it was. But then, if you’re going to keep wild dogs, you’ve got to expect trouble, haven’t you? I
reckon it was the cold got to ’em. Marble houses, pah! Can’t keep them warm, can you? Room they were in was freezing.”

“And he left the city?”

“The same day. You should have seen him.” Chiric chuckled. “He was covered in charms and talismans. And he was chanting all the way to the coach and four. You could still hear him as it drove through the gates.”

Dagorian thanked the man and walked back to his horse. Zani came alongside. “What now, Drenai?”

“We break in,” said Dagorian, moving to one of the shutters on the ground floor and drawing his sword.

“Hey, what are you doing?” shouted the old man.

“We are officers of the king,” Zani told him. “You are welcome to observe our investigation. But if you seek to hinder us, I will keep my promise about that dungeon.”

“It was only a question,” grumbled Chiric, grasping the handles of his wheelbarrow. Clearing his throat, the old man spit on the path, then trundled the wheelbarrow off toward the woods.

Dagorian slid his saber between the shutters and lifted the bar beyond. It fell clear with a hollow thud. Opening the shutters, Dagorian sheathed his blade and climbed inside. The interior was gloomy, and he opened two other windows. Zani clambered into the building. “What are we looking for?” he asked.

Dagorian spread his hands. “I have no idea.” They were standing in a beautifully decorated sitting room with seven sofas and a splendid mosaic floor and painted walls. Passing through it, they entered a hall and searched the rooms beyond. The furniture throughout was expensive. The library was shelved from floor to ceiling, the shelves bent under the weight of books, scrolls, and parchments. The north wall was still bloodstained, as was the pale green carpet.

“I hope Chiric is a better gardener than a cleaner,” said Zani.

A door at the back of the library led to a study. This, too, had shelves on all four walls, most of them bearing glass jars filled with viscous liquids. In one floated a human hand, in another a small deformed fetus. Others contained organs.
There was a large cupboard set into the western wall. Dagorian opened it. More jars were stored there, this time filled with herbs. The Drenai officer scanned them, finally selecting one and carrying it to a narrow desk upon which was a human skull resculpted into a container for two inkwells. Dagorian placed the jar on the desk and broke the wax seal around the lid.

“What is it?” asked Zani.

“Lorassium
leaves. They have great healing powers, but
lorassium
is essentially a heavy narcotic used by mystics to aid their visions.”

“I have heard of it. It is very expensive.”

The young Drenai officer sat down and dipped his hand into the jar, pulling two leaves from it. They were a dark, lustrous green, and a heady scent filled the air. “What are you doing?” asked Zani.

For a moment Dagorian said nothing, then he looked up at the Ventrian. “There is a force working here that is outside the realm of normal human senses. We could stumble around the city for days and never find the answer. Perhaps it is time to use the eyes of the spirit.”

“Are you versed in these things?”

“Not entirely. But I know the procedure.”

Zani shook his head. “I know nothing of sorcery, nor do I wish to. But there have been a lot of deaths, Drenai. I think the risk is too great for one who only—as you openly admit—knows the ‘procedure.’ I think it might be wiser to take the problem to Lord Kalizkan. There is no greater wizard than he.”

“I have already set that in motion, Zani,” said the officer. “But arrogance compels me to try to solve this mystery myself.”

As he finished speaking, he rolled the two leaves and placed them in his mouth.

Bright colors flashed before his eyes, and a sharp pain lanced from his neck down his arms and into his fingers. Calming himself, Dagorian began to recite in his mind the mantra of Dardalion, the simplest of the three levels. He felt
as if he were floating inside his own body, twisting and turning. But there was no release, and he did not soar free as he had hoped. Slowly he opened his eyes. Zani’s blue tunic was shining now with ethereal lights and dancing colors. A bright aura flickered around the man. Dagorian realized that it was not the tunic that was shining but the man himself. Over his heart there was violet light, tinged with red, which deepened into maroon over his belly. This, then, was the aura mystics spoke of. How beautiful it was. He looked at Zani’s round face. Honesty, loyalty, and courage shone there, and he had a vision of the Ventrian sitting in a small room, three children playing at his feet. A young woman was close by, plump and raven-haired. She was smiling.

Transferring his gaze, he glanced at the walls. Ward spells had been placed over the windows and the doors, and these he could see now, glowing faintly red. Turning in the chair, he looked out of the east window, to the shadowed garden. He blinked. A face was staring in, a ghost-white face with large, dark, protruding eyes and a lipless mouth. The skin was scaled like a fish, the teeth sharp as needles. Other faces clustered around it, and a long skinny arm pushed into the room. The ward spell flared, and the arm was hastily withdrawn.

“There are demons at the window,” he said huskily, his words echoing inside his head.

“I see no demons,” said Zani, his voice trembling.

“Yet they are there.”

“It is getting cold in here,” said Zani. “Can you feel it?”

Dagorian did not answer. Rising from the desk, he walked to the inner door and looked out into the library and the stairs beyond. White forms were floating close to the ceiling; others were huddled together away from the sunlight lancing through the western windows.

Fear touched the officer. There were scores of them.

They flew at him, their talons lashing out. The pain was great, and he stumbled back. “What is it?” shouted Zani.

In panic Dagorian ran for the front door. The demons were covering him now, tearing at him. He screamed aloud, blundered into the door, then scrabbled for the handle. It was
locked. He fell to his knees, the pain indescribable. Zani grabbed his arm, hauling him to the western window. Bright light bathed him, and the demons withdrew. Zani helped him climb out into the garden. Dagorian stumbled out to the grass, then fell and rolled to his back under the shadows of the trees.

White, translucent forms dropped from the branches above, talons and teeth ripping at his face. Wildly he thrashed his arms at them, but his fingers passed through them.

A shining sword of fire swept out. The demons fell back. A voice whispered to him. “The Prayer of Light! Recite it, you fool, or you will die here.”

Pain and terror were blocking Dagorian’s memory. The voice spoke again. “Say it with me: Oh, Lord of Light, Source of All Life, be with me now in this hour of peril and darkness … Say it aloud!”

Dagorian began to recite the prayer. The demons withdrew but hovered close by, their dark malevolent eyes glaring at him.

Rising to his knees, Dagorian watched them. Slowly the power of the
lorassium
began to fade, and with it his spirit sight. The demons became more and more translucent, until at last they appeared to be no more than shapeless wisps of woodsmoke. Then they were gone.