Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  As he found his way into the more refined parts of Elandor, Rowan asked Panthora for forgiveness. By the time he reached the area where the girl had lifted his coin purse, he was so laden with sorrow and regret he scarcely noticed a drunken sailor staggering out of a tavern and into the sun, shielding his eyes from the burning light. The sailor almost collapsed into Rowan as the knight wandered through the street, but with a stumble to one side and a small spin on a lone leg, he staggered out of the way before falling face first into the muck on the side of the road. Had Rowan been in higher spirits, he might have laughed.

  The drunken intermission pulled his attention to an inn called the Broken Oar. It resided across the street, exactly opposite the tavern. The placard hanging over the door was painted in Telboros, with Elonum script underneath it. The picture on the sign was plain enough: a simple bed with a broken oar above it. Since he’d nowhere else to go for the rest of the day, and the ship wouldn’t be ready to sail again for weeks, he decided to use his meager personal funds and get a place to stay, at least while he decided on a plan of action.

  Rowan’s entrance into the inn’s hazy main room was acknowledged by a few wandering eyes from the modest crowd. It was hard to say who was the more shocked, the patrons of the inn or Rowan himself. Not many Nordicans made it as far south as Talatheal, and even fewer from the south chose to venture up to the Northlands.

  The common room was more ample than most taverns had, with a staircase leading up to the rooms for rent. The tavern itself wasn’t much different from those of his homeland, consisting of simple wooden chairs circled around reinforced tables and tall stools surrounding the bar. But as he approached the bar, the heavy aroma of perfume descended upon him, strangling his throat and making his eyes water. He barely managed to suppress a gag as he motioned for the scruffy Telborian innkeeper.

  “I need a room.”

  “Two gold pieces for one week,” the innkeeper grumbled, watching Rowan dig into his pack and pull out the required amount. The innkeeper tossed Rowan a key. “You can have the first one on the right.” He dismissively motioned at a general location at the top of the stairs once he’d pocketed the money. “You’ll have it for one week at the most. If you ain’t got any money after that or cause me any trouble, then you’re out on your ear.”

  He was taken aback by the innkeeper’s uncouth manner, but let it pass. Obviously, not everyone was going to be as hospitable as he would have liked. That didn’t stop him from needing a place to rest and getting a simple meal. As he turned for the stairs, the curtain of perfume grew stronger and a feminine arm encircled his waist, drawing him against a pair of slender hips. Rowan suddenly found himself looking down into the eyes of a raven-haired Telborian.

  The woman wore her hair braided with golden beads. A bronze brassiere was all that covered her chest while a skirt of some sort of gauzy material dangled to her knees and was slit up the sides to her waist, exposing her entire right leg. A red silken scarf draped across her otherwise bare shoulders. Her green eyes were penetrating, but seemingly clouded to some degree. Her intentions, however, were quite clear.

  “Those rooms can get very cold at night,” the woman said, twining a strand of hair around a finger. “Perhaps you need someone to help warm your bed.” She licked her red-stained lips.

  “I prefer the cold.”

  The woman put her hands on her hips, still smiling. “You don’t know what you’ll be missing, boy.”

  “I’ll survive.” Rowan turned and made his way again for the stairs. The innkeeper, who’d obviously been watching, laughed at the exchange. Rowan just kept walking. He heard a barstool scrape against the floor as the woman no doubt plopped herself beside the counter.

  “You’ll be back,” she shouted over the din of the room.

  Rowan climbed the stairs and released a relieved sigh when he found his room. He slammed the door behind him, leaning against it in relief at the solitude and privacy. He rested there for a few moments before taking interest in his surroundings. The accommodations were spacious compared to the size of his cabin on the Frost Giant.

  It had all of the necessities: a bed and chest with a lock and key for valuables. There was also a small window, which Rowan discovered was nailed shut—perhaps to prevent nonpaying customers from escaping. If that was indeed the intent it didn’t speak too well of the clientele, but it was better than sleeping on the streets or returning to the ship like a dog with his tail between his legs.

  Once he’d had a look around, he started putting his meager belongings away. This done, he opened his purse on the bed and fingered through his money, counting thirteen gold and ten silver coins. Hardly enough to buy supplies and hire a guide, let alone keep him fed and supplied for the weeks to come—but it was all he had and better than nothing. He sat on the bed, contemplating his coins in deep thought, until sleep snuck up on him and ensnared him in its net.

  Rowan found himself in the midst of a strange jungle. A fat sun hung low above him, adding to the already oppressive heat and greasy hue of daylight. Tall, thick trees and vein-like roots clustered around him. Insects buzzed about his head, nipping at his sweaty flesh. Swatting at his forearm, he realized he was wearing his dedication robes. He could feel rivulets of sweat running down his back and neck beneath the heavy garments as he hunted for a way out of the strange terrain.

  As he began to move, a faint whisper floated his way. At first it was weak, like the brushing of leaves by a gentle wind. But then it grew in volume.

  Come . . . come . . . come this way. The voice seemed to emanate from the jungle’s interior, but Rowan heard it clearest in his head.

  Come . . . come . . .

  Though he didn’t want to go deeper into the jungle, he found himself drawn to it—as if another had taken over his body, moving it like a puppet into the mysterious, humid vegetation.

  With the logic of dreams, he had the distinct impression of time passing while he journeyed on. Just how long it was he didn’t know. All he did know was the unrelenting voice ushering him onward. Several times during his trek he tried pulling himself away, but to no avail.

  Eventually, he reached a small clearing amid some giant leaning trees. He saw what appeared to be a large stone formation. It shone through the dense green growth like jagged bones. Half the size of the knights’ keep, it was fashioned of white marble and carved with a collection of strange symbols and designs that Rowan couldn’t quite place. It spoke of an older age—maybe even before the birth of mortalkind. How he knew this, he wasn’t quite sure. The knowledge simply increased his understanding, like air swells the lungs.

  As he drew nearer the structure, he heard another sound—this one emanating from the marble building itself. It was a bestial growl, and yet it also sounded like a warrior’s scream.

  His apprehension grew as the faint daylight filtering through the trees dimmed to darkness. It was now a starlit night.

  Stairs stretched from the green carpet of jungle, leading to an empty shell of a doorway—long since fallen to ruin and decay. The growling grew stronger as he crossed the threshold. The faint smell of musk marked the entrance as an opening to some type of animal lair.

  Suddenly, a force stronger than a hurricane blew him from the lair onto the stairs outside. Rowan gasped as flashes of pain flared across his chest. Too shocked to move, he found himself staring into the fierce black eyes of a giant gray panther. Its height at the shoulders was at least six feet; its width seemed twice that. Its muzzle was pulled to a drooling snarl filled with malice, and its claws dug firmly into his flesh.

  The weight of the creature was immense, like a huge boulder pressing on his chest. He could do little more than struggle for breath. The searing pain of another claw scraping across his chest increased the urgency of finding an escape. His options were limited, as the panther had both arms and legs pinned. As his thoughts raced, the panther’s jaws snapped, narrowly missing his face.

  Desperate, Rowan frantically searched the ground f
or anything that might prove useful. His hands were all he could move. Fishing around the hard surface of the marble slab, he grabbed a loose chunk. It wasn’t much, but without sword or fist the pointed rock would have to do.

  Turning the stone so the sharp tip faced upward, Rowan focused all his energy into what could possibly be his last action. Concentrating, he thrust the jagged rock at the panther’s underside. The sharp point bit into its soft stomach and dug deep into its flesh. The panther reared in shock, howling in pain and anger. It snarled one final time before turning into gray vapor that first trailed into the air before finally becoming nothingness.

  Rowan stared in amazement at the vanishing mist, then took a quick inventory of his person. He wasn’t hurt too badly: just a few red stripes across his chest that traced the tears in his robes. As he tried collecting himself, his hand found a foreign object. Through the torn fabric he saw a small paw attached to a leather strap hanging from his neck. The paw reminded him of a cat’s paw, but it was dried and shriveled, with a handful of what appeared to be red and black beads laced through the leather strap where it connected with the paw.

  Before he could give the object closer examination, he was yanked to his feet by the familiar unseen force and compelled deeper inside the ruin. As he was forced farther into the building, the animal scent grew fainter, replaced with a dusty, timeworn odor. As he entered, a torch on the wall to his right flared into life, lighting what seemed a rather old room. The torch light wasn’t enough to reveal everything, but from what he could discern, the square interior had lain empty for some time.

  Dust covered the marble floor in a thin, undisturbed blanket, and cracked walls struggled against decay to valiantly hold the ceiling and floor apart. Darkness beyond the torch’s reach swam around him, churning in the corners. He also had the sense that something was in that darkness, lurking just out of sight, watching him with a careful eye.

  “Choose your weapon.” A strong voice spoke out of the shadows.

  With those words, a handful of weapons emerged from the shadows on the wall. A broadsword, dagger, mace, and pike were laid out like a merchant’s wares, each in pristine condition. Again, under compulsion, Rowan approached the weapons, seeking out the voice’s owner as he did so, but finding no one.

  As he stood before the weapons, he studied each one closely before taking up the sword. Once in hand it reminded him of his own sword—something he put in the back of his mind as a humanoid shape emerged from the swaying darkness outside the torch’s reach. The rag-cloaked figure stepped forth like a man walking out of fog. As he advanced, stubborn black tentacles clung to him as long as they could, before snapping back into the shadows.

  Rowan tightened his grip as the figure drew nearer: a skeleton, draped in tattered, dirty rags. Small tongues of azure flame lapped at the insides of its dry, empty sockets. Certain this figure didn’t wish him any good, Rowan moved into action. But before he could take even two steps, the skeletal figure raised a warding hand, making Rowan’s head swim and mind drift.

  He woke to discover he’d fallen asleep on the bed not far from his small pile of coins. Rising, he observed the moonlight filtering through the murky window. A hand to his chest assured him he was free from any wounds and wasn’t wearing a necklace. He also wasn’t wearing his dedication robes, just the same clothes he’d been wearing all these weeks. As the waking world grew stronger, so too did the understanding there was still a very large task ahead of him and less time now to deal with it.

  He grabbed some of his coin and locked up the rest, then followed his Nordic logic to the lower level of the inn, hoping to find some good leads on a cheap guide or, failing that, at least a map to his destination. He’d scant experience with such tasks but didn’t see any other options.

  In the dining hall, he purchased a flagon of ale and a meat pie, and found a solitary seat in a quiet section of the room to plan his next move. Thankfully, while still filled with a good many patrons, it wasn’t rowdy, allowing him a measure of peace. And it was in that peace the young knight began pondering his strange dream. There were still people in his tribe—shamans chief among them—who held dreams often spoke of important truths to be heeded, or even provided insight into things to come. These were superstitions, of course, but ones that many of his tribe—and all the Nordic tribes for that matter—still held to in varying degrees. Even those who swore they were faithful Panians at times gave heed to the old ways.

  It could also have been nothing more than a dream. He’d had a few vivid yet ultimately meaningless ones throughout his life. Then again, the Sacred Scrolls told of Panthora speaking through dreams. The order might not have been open to the notion—claiming that the high father was now the truest voice of Panthora and the more spectacular things of the past had passed away—but Rowan didn’t want to push it aside either.

  It had been so real. The panther, the ruins, and that skeletal creature . . . Did it tie into what he might face in the days ahead? If so, what was Panthora trying to tell him? Or were the high father and the knighthood right? Was it nothing but overactive anxiety causing him to fret over his present predicament even while he slept? In the end, he wasn’t able to settle on any distinct explanation. Tired of shifting through the increasing number of questions, he focused on what he needed to do to get to Taka Lu Lama. That was the real focus. That was his mission. And no matter what else might have happened or would happen, he was going to fulfill it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Do what destiny tells you to do,

  no matter what you feel otherwise.

  Keep the temple, the word of divined truth,

  and yourself true until death.

  —The Sarellian Tenets

  Gray mists danced and twirled before Gilban as he slumbered, eventually parting and revealing a strange vision. It was night. There was a cool breeze and the sound of rollicking laughter, like one would hear at a brothel or lower-class tavern. Before he could make sense of what he was seeing, a massive panther bound into his line of sight. The panther was gray and larger than any cat he’d ever seen or heard of. It had to be as wide as a man was tall, and twice that in length.

  Gilban twitched in his sleep as the great cat leapt straight for him, only to fade into a cloud of vapor before it reached him. His heart raced and his breathing came in short rasps as he tried recovering his composure. As his heart rate slowed, the mists parted and out strode a Nordican. Though he’d never seen one in the flesh, Gilban had heard enough about them to recognize them at first sight. This Nordican was quite young—at the beginning of manhood if he had to guess—and dressed in leather armor covered in an interesting panther motif.

  As he emerged, the Nordican spoke. “Through me is the path to victory.”

  Even as Gilban tried studying the matter further, he felt the warm, soothing tendrils of the waking world dragging him away. A moment later, he shuddered awake with a name teetering on his lips.

  “Rowan.”

  A heartbeat later Gilban was inhaling the dry, musky odor of the cabin. As he registered the swaying motions and sounds of the waves, he became firmly anchored in the waking world. Rising from his cot, he considered the vision carefully. If he was interpreting it correctly, it seemed another with a similar goal would soon cross their path. Someone who might aid them in their mission. That could be only part of the meaning, however. He knew enough not to jump to unfounded conclusions with visions. He’d known many other amateur diviners of fate who’d fallen into that trap. Once someone overread—or worse, underread—a vision, then it was destined to become false or unfulfilled.

  Taking his staff from alongside the cot, Gilban made his way from the cabin with slow, steady steps. He was curious to know what had happened since they’d left Altorbia, as well as eager for Alara’s take on their fellow travelers since making their departure. Such things might afford further insight into the vision.

  The sun was still rising over the horizon as Alara once again found herself manning the rudd
er. She’d been stationed there for about half an hour now, ever since Vinder had given up the position in exchange for food and rest. She couldn’t blame him. It had been a long evening. But at least they’d finally entered the Yoan Ocean, which brought them ever closer to Talatheal.

  Once they’d gotten past the guards, they’d quickly boarded the boat. After the sails had been unfurled, Cadrissa had conjured a strong wind, sending the sloop speeding into the anonymity of night—vanishing before any pursuit could be organized. As the lights of Altorbia disappeared, exhaustion overtook them. The lapping waves on the boat’s hull lulled most of them into sleep. Even Alara had managed some rest—not as much as she would have preferred, but enough to keep her going until things had settled a bit. And with the coming dawn, that time seemed close at hand.

  She cast her gaze along the sloop, finding where the others had set themselves up on the deck. Partially masked by the bulge of the cabin, Vinder was at the bow, letting his meager breakfast settle. Cadrissa was on the starboard deck. She sat cross-legged, resting her back against the cabin, a small collection of books and scrolls laid about her. Alara hadn’t seen the mage go for more than a couple of hours without putting her nose into some book or scroll. She hoped all that studying was going to pay off once they reached the ruins.

  On the port side of the sloop stood Dugan. He’d removed his armor and tunic shortly after their taking to the waves, and was now stretching after what Alara hoped was a restful slumber. She knew he was in need of it; he’d endured a great deal these last few days. Even with the distance between them she could clearly see the sword strikes, claw marks, and other injuries he’d sustained over the years. A twinge of sadness overtook her. Dugan had suffered much . . . and by elven hands. Elyellium hands, yes—but still elven—and the sight of it pained her.