Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  Drunken elven and human sailors filled the establishment, laughing at bawdy jokes or trying to grab the serving women who maneuvered in and around benches and stools with the ease of practiced dancers. A few patrons glanced at the newcomers, assumed they were two hunters, and simply continued on with their business. In short order, a new round of obnoxious singing began from the distant corners of the room. In time, more vocal drunks joined in, swinging their ale-filled mugs in an off-key salute to these maritime ballads, spilling their ale in amber cascades as they sang.

  “Follow me,” she told Dugan, who shadowed her as they made their way to the opposite side of the room and a small counter. It was a fine spot to watch the set of stairs leading to the guest rooms on the second story. Upon taking their seat, a tall and well-muscled Telborian appeared behind the mahogany countertop. He’d the rugged looks of a local tough, but these were softened by his aging face, gray hair, and laugh lines.

  “What you having?” he asked in Elonum.

  “Ale and mutton,” Dugan replied in the same language.

  The innkeeper turned to Alara. “How about you?”

  “Wine, and some bread,” she replied coolly.

  The innkeeper left the duo for a kitchen through a door a few feet away. As he did, the odors of flaming grease and soured milk wafted into the dining area.

  “I don’t see anyone yet,” Alara informed Dugan, “but I think we’re a bit early.” She kept her voice low as she spoke in Telboros.

  “Who’re we looking for?” Dugan whispered.

  “You’ll know him when you see him. Actually”—Alara’s eye caught the movement of a familiar shape—“there he is now.”

  An elf, dressed in coarse brown robes tied with a simple hemp rope, made his way slowly down the stairs. He wore black high-necked sandals and carried an oak staff in his left hand, thumping in succession from stair to stair as he made his descent. A silver necklace of ornate design hung around his neck. His eyes were white—devoid of sight—but there was a look of calm wisdom in his features. Like Alara, he was a Patrician elf, although signs of aging showed across his face. The biggest difference was his clean-shaven head.

  “You mean he’s your leader? That blind old elf?”

  Alara glared at Dugan through her hood like a cobra ready to strike. “That blind old elf told me where to find you and your name—before it was being blabbed around by all the hunters.”

  “So he’s a wizard?”

  “He’s a priest of Saredhel. We can trust him.”

  “Saredhel?”

  “She’s a goddess who enlightens chosen servants with visions and other prophetic gifts. Gilban was one who received a special vision—but I’ll let him tell you of it when he reaches us.”

  “If he reaches us. And he probably won’t without being lifted of coin and balance along the way.”

  “Then you don’t know the power of Saredhel, Dugan,” a rather low and aged voice, speaking the same strangely accented Telboros as Alara, calmly replied near Dugan’s ear.

  Dugan spun and faced the wizened elf, nearly knocking his hood off in the process. “How did you get here so quickly?” he whispered, forgetting to use Elonum and reverting to Telboros.

  “I walked,” he said before turning to Alara with a blind stare. “He’s wounded, is he not?”

  “It happened before we reached the boat.”

  “How’d you know that?” Dugan studied Gilban’s sightless face. “You haven’t even touched me.”

  Gilban simply smiled and accepted a stool beside Alara. After adjusting it, he sat down, then placed his staff at his side, letting it rest against the counter.

  “Why aren’t you cloaked like she is?” Dugan motioned to Alara. This time he remembered to use Elonum.

  “Altorbia has no care about my presence,” said Gilban in Telboros. “If I were a buxom young maiden rather than a wrinkled, blind priest, things might be different. I pose no danger, and most would just as soon ignore me. It is therefore unnecessary for me to be cloaked. I have nothing from which to hide.” The blind priest shared a small smile, adding, “Saredhel sees to the rest.”

  Dugan grew silent.

  “I trust you found him as I instructed?” Gilban asked Alara.

  “Yes, he was just where you said he’d be.”

  “Good.” Gilban’s pure-white eyes seemed to almost look right into Alara’s own. It was something that used to unsettle her, but she’d gotten used to a blind priest who behaved at times as if he still had sight. “Where are the others?”

  She scanned the tavern once more. “I haven’t seen them yet. They may have encountered some trouble.”

  Gilban closed his eyes. “No, they’re fine, though the dwarf seems to be moving rather sluggishly at the moment.” They proceeded to talk in hushed tones, stopping only briefly when the innkeeper brought Alara and Dugan their meals. Alara filled Gilban in on everything that had happened since last they parted ways, making sure she didn’t leave anything out when it came to Dugan.

  As Dugan ate, he studied the priest. There was something odd about him. He matched the general traits of the elves, at least as far as he knew, but Gilban was different. He was older, similar to a human male of sixty, maybe seventy—though he knew that wasn’t the case. He was probably far older than most humans could live to even in their ripe old age. But his age wasn’t the most unusual thing about him.

  He was taken by an otherworldly essence which made the elf seem very wise and observant of all around him. And this even though he lacked sight. Additionally, Dugan found himself drawn to the priest’s necklace. Crafted of silver, it was inlaid with a clear crystal resting at its center, reflecting the light. The crystal was surrounded by a coronet of mother-of-pearl from which radiated a multitude of gold lines. This left an impression of the center of the crystal swimming in a sea of milk and gold.

  The longer he stared at the pendant, the more he was convinced it looked like an eye. The crystal was the pupil, the mother-of-pearl the whites, and the gold lines the iris. Truly, it was a wondrous, if strange, symbol. What it could mean, however, was beyond him. Seeing he wasn’t going to get any more answers just yet, given their rapid babbling he couldn’t decipher even if he tried, he decided to focus on his food.

  He sipped his ale as he scanned the tavern, instinctively looking for signs of trouble, especially hunter trouble. He’d never known a lifestyle like that around him. All he could see was decadence and debauchery. Up until now, his world had been a stone cell where he was chained to the wall, his bed cold dirt and straw-covered stone. His food had been nourishing gruel served lukewarm. He was in a new world now and determined to make the best of it as long as he could. Should he find his way off this island, he was looking forward to delving more into what this new world could offer a free man.

  His mind was ripe with such thoughts as he devoured his meal. Even though it made him sick with its richness, he continued gorging. His greasy hands grabbed the common goblet and drained what was left of its contents into his stuffed stomach. He’d never known the feeling of satisfaction until he awoke from his trance-like gluttony and found his plate empty and goblet bone dry. He had to admit it was an addicting and pleasant sensation. He was licking his greasy fingers when he noticed Alara watching.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Eating. This is the best food I’ve ever had.”

  “It could be your last. Did you ever think to use the fork or knife?”

  For the first time he noticed the unused utensils beside his empty plate. “No.”

  “Well,” Alara said as she looked around the room, “elves and other civilized folk use them, so you’d better hope nobody saw you eating.”

  The tavern quieted as a cloaked figure fluttered through the open door. He was of a taller, thinner build than most of the sailors in the establishment, and at first glance it was hard to tell if the new arrival was friend or foe. The matter was quickly resolved, though, when the smell of pine sap, nutmeg, sage, an
d leather made itself known.

  “Who is it?” Gilban asked.

  “Hunter,” Dugan whispered in Telboros.

  Gilban rose from his seat. “We have to get out of here before we’re seen.”

  “Too late!” Alara whispered. “Try not to talk,” she told Dugan. “Let us handle this.”

  The gladiator wiped his hands on his cloak before pulling it shut. He sat motionless, resisting with every ounce of will the instinct to attack the advancing threat.

  “Hello, friend!” The hunter addressed Dugan in Elonum as he approached. “Might I join you for a bit?” He indicated the open seat on Dugan’s left.

  Dugan gave an anemic nod.

  “It’s nice to have somebody to talk to who enjoys the same profession.” The hunter took a seat. “I don’t often see too many hunters this far out these days. Least not with all the news of the ruckus in Colloni. Now there’s a catch if there ever was one, eh?”

  Dugan pretended he was searching for something inside his cloak. In reality, he’d turned to Alara, signaling frantically at her with his eyes about the growing danger. Alara indicated with her own to remain calm. He also noticed Gilban had vanished and gave Alara a questioning look. She shook her head slightly, warning him to concentrate solely on the hunter.

  Seeing there wasn’t much he could do at the moment, Dugan returned to his hunter “friend.” He wondered what Gilban was up to. He never did like priests much, nor the gods they served. He just hoped he could last with the hunter long enough to think of a way to escape.

  “I haven’t claimed one bounty this year,” the hunter continued. “The way I figure it, one has to cross my path soon enough. And when it does, I’ll be living well for the rest of the year. How about you, friend—gain any coin yet?”

  “No,” Dugan said in a rough voice hidden by the Elyelmic tongue.

  “That’s just the way things go, I guess. The gods just hand out blessings differently to different people. I figure with so many out in Colloni looking for that escaped gladiator, the practical thing is to stay behind and pick up the slack they dropped. Course, if I happen to run into him, I wouldn’t turn him down either.” The hunter laughed. “Though he wouldn’t stand much chance against you, I’d wager.”

  The hunter’s eyes narrowed as they loosely searched Dugan’s body before relaxing their gaze. “What’s your secret to getting so large? If I was as sturdy as you, no slave would stand a chance!” The hunter reached over and grabbed the upper portion of Dugan’s left arm. Dugan wasn’t able to move fast enough, and the hunter’s hands quickly encircled it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dugan saw Alara cringe.

  “Tripton’s bow!” the hunter exclaimed, squeezing Dugan’s bicep. “It’s like iron!” Unfortunately, when the hunter had grabbed Dugan’s arm, the front of his cloak shifted, exposing part of his bare chest. At first, the hunter didn’t notice the gap, continuing to admire Dugan’s strength. But after a few seconds, his eyes found Dugan’s exposed skin and the branding mark that must have shone like a beacon on his shoulder.

  A smile traced its way around the hunter’s lips. “You’re mine, sla—”

  Dugan’s fist rammed into the hunter’s mouth. The blow shattered some of the elf’s teeth and sent a shower of misty blood into the air. In spite of this, the hunter desperately struggled to hold on to Dugan’s arm as he tried drawing his sword.

  It was then that Alara struck, jabbing a dagger into the hunter’s neck with lightning speed. An eruption of crimson spurts and spasms followed. The hunter struggled for a final moment, trying frantically to remove the deadly weapon from his jugular, but to no avail. A handful of heartbeats later he slumped to the floor, his life leaking away with each spasm.

  “Come on!” Alara shouted over the tavern’s growing commotion.

  Dugan didn’t linger. He took one big stride past Alara and then burst into a sprint from the inn, feeling like a hunted beast once more. Cries of outrage and disorder erupted from the door as they hurried onto the street. Filtered throughout the chaos were shouts for the guards.

  The streets were a blur as they ran through the night. “Go to the right!” Alara ordered. Dugan obeyed without hesitation, even though the strenuous action of running made his wound leak and burn. He ignored the tiny streams of warm blood trickling down his waist, continuing forward with all his might.

  The sliver of a moon was the only source of light in the alleyways they now traveled. The moonlight barely illuminated the path ahead, but he thought he spotted movement in the gloom of the alley on their right. He stopped suddenly, causing Alara to barrel straight into him.

  Dugan drew his swords.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Someone’s in that alley.” He shook his head to clear his blurring vision.

  “Are you sure?” Alara’s breathing was shallow as she spoke. “I can’t see anything! We don’t have time for you to start fighting air again.”

  “Someone’s there.” He continued pushing off the fuzziness of his peripheral vision.

  “Just keep going. The guards will be upon us if we wait any longer.”

  Dugan remained motionless. “Who’s there?” he shouted in Telboros.

  The only sound filling his ears was the footfalls of the advancing guard.

  “Come on! The guards are almost on top of us!” Just as Alara took hold of Dugan’s arm, the figure in the alleyway moved into the moonlight. The slender form leaned on the staff in its left hand and wore a brown robe tied with a hemp rope belt.

  “It’s Gilban!” Dugan hissed. “How’d you get all the way out here?”

  “I walked.”

  “He set us up to be captured by that hunter! Now he wants to finish the job!”

  “That’s nonsense. I already told you—” Alara’s features were suddenly awash with fresh concern. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I—” Dugan staggered. He felt his mind going black and his legs growing numb.

  “Gods above, you’re bleeding to death!” Alara hurriedly tried propping him upright.

  “It’s nothing.” Even without looking he could feel himself bleeding a good amount now. Not as bad as before in Argis but enough to do him harm the longer it continued.

  “We have to get off the street.” She tried helping him get to the alleyway.

  “I . . . won’t trust . . . that devil.”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Alara persisted in assisting him to stagger forward. Behind them, the boots of the local guard grew ever nearer.

  “I don’t . . . need help . . .”

  He collapsed with a thud.

  “Bring him, Alara, and hurry!” Gilban spoke from the darkness. “There isn’t much time.”

  She struggled with dragging Dugan’s dead weight by his ankles, managing to only move him a foot before stopping to catch her breath. She was still sore from moving him the other night on Colloni, but approaching torches forced her to find new strength. In short order she’d lugged him into the alleyway before hunching over on her knees with a heavy sigh.

  Gilban’s empty stare fell upon Dugan’s bloodied torso as Alara dared a quick look the way she’d come. She didn’t want to leave anything behind for the guards to discover. Confident she hadn’t, she returned to Dugan. The wound had grown deeper with their run from the tavern and was bleeding profusely through his bandages. Shouts in Elonum and heavy footfalls brought her into a squat beside Dugan. She held her breath and watched a group of torch-carrying elven guards run past the alleyway.

  “Remove the bandage,” Gilban said after they’d passed. Without questioning, she unwrapped the wet dressings, exposing the hideous gash. “Place my hands on the center of the wound.”

  Gingerly, she gripped Gilban’s hands, helped him get down into a kneeling position, then gently placed them on top of the red mess. Muttering, Gilban caressed the wound as Dugan grunted his displeasure. Gilban began speaking in Pacolees, the tongue of the Patrious, to a goddess few knew.

  �
�Saredhel, Mother of Prophets, Seer of All, I ask from you a favor. I ask that you wrestle the life of this man from the gates of Mortis. You can see the end of all things and know the tasks this man is yet to perform.

  “Save him from this fate, for you alone know his true fate and how he shall tie his life in with those who have been called for this holy task. Please, Spawn of Dreams, hear me and grant my request.” Gilban’s hand began to glow with faint lavender light as the wound beneath it slowly closed—folding together like wax and melting back into healthy flesh until it was completely restored. Not even a scar or blemish remained.

  Dugan’s eyes fluttered, then opened.

  Gilban smiled calmly as he completed his prayer. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 11

  It’s often thin threads that connect one to another,

  but if you weave them together you’ll have a strong rope.

  —Old Tralodroen proverb

  Dugan couldn’t help noticing Alara and Gilban’s faces peering down at him. He remembered falling and could feel the rough stone beneath him. Then he saw the dimming lavender light around the seer’s hands.

  “What did you do?”

  “Kept you on Tralodren a while longer, apparently,” said Gilban. “It seems your destiny is yet to be fulfilled.”

  Dugan sat up and rubbed at his side where his wound had been; his flesh was now completely healed. There wasn’t even a hint of discomfort, let alone pain. Even the other wounds from the fight in Argis were gone—and the previous wounds in his shoulder from the arena.

  “How—”

  “There are higher levels of existence than this material life, and higher matters of importance than the daily routines in it,” said Gilban. “We all have a part to play—and an important one at that.”