Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  We shall prove ourselves worthy of Gondad’s mantle.

  —Marlin Janink, first king of Elandor

  Reigned 2968 BV–2774 BV

  Cadrissa traveled the swarming streets of Elandor at a rushed pace. She truly wished she had more time for exploring. The city seemed full of wonderful ways one could spend a day. But by the time she found what she was searching for, worked out the arrangements, and finished augmenting her supplies, she’d be due at the Mangy Griffin.

  She’d left her chest back on the boat, hidden under the simple cot in the cabin. Gilban had said it’d be safe there until nightfall. And because she didn’t really enjoy the idea of lugging the chest along with her backpack all over the city—potentially drawing unwanted attention—and perhaps because she trusted Gilban’s insights, she’d left it on the boat. She could get it later after everything was settled at the inn.

  While there were great sights and things to enjoy in passing, she was searching for something hidden from common sight. From her schooling, she’d learned of shops hidden in the cities across Talatheal and elsewhere that served mages, just like there were shops which helped workers in other trades. Given magic’s reception could be questionable in places, such shops were often off the beaten path and hidden from plain sight, better protecting both shopkeep and patrons. But if one knew what signs to look for, they could be found easily enough.

  And one of the first things she’d learned at the Haven Academy was the sign of the Tarsu, an ancient order dedicated to the advancement and protection of magic. She’d learned it was a universal marker of sorts pertaining to all things magical. It was commonly used in cities for guiding mages to safer locales where one could purchase wares, secure certain services, or connect with other mages. While she had made use of some shops in Haven for supplies, that had been the extent of her interaction with other mages or their supporters outside the academy. Today would be a new experience; the prospect had been stirring butterflies in her stomach since they’d left the boat.

  Soon enough she found what she sought: a series of sixteen-pointed stars over which were laid a slightly smaller eight-pointed star. The faint carvings were subtle in their placement and nature, scratched onto odd bricks here and there, but she still found them. With a growing sense of confidence, she followed these markings like a bee going from flower to flower until a sharp turn suddenly introduced her to the mouth of a squalid alleyway.

  A stale and pungent breeze stung her nostrils, reminding her of unwashed feet, urine, vomit, and decay. As she ventured into this rundown part of the city, she noted the population had dwindled from a swarming mass to sparse smatterings of vagrants and lower-class citizens. It was just the sort of place criminals inhabited. And given the looks she received from passersby, her clean golden robes were going to make sure she stood out.

  “Just keep going.” She ignored the increasing flutter in her stomach and forced herself down the alleyway. “You’re almost there.” The formerly solid cobblestone gave way to a worn path where tired stones crumbled amid patches of hard-packed earth and seeping puddles. As she continued her cautious advance, she was watchful for the next and hopefully last marker.

  She brushed back her hair with a nervous hand, watching another seemingly drunken man pass by with a leering grin. She pretended she didn’t feel as sick as she did with his lingering gaze traveling up and down her frame, and breathed a sigh of relief with his passing. Proceeding with measured steps, she made a wide pass around another drunken Telborian, this one seated against a wall mumbling to himself and staring at the spot of earth between his raised knees.

  A little farther, nestled between a set of weathered wooden doors, another man lay face down on the ground. She hoped he’d just had too much to drink; the alternative was far from uplifting. As she neared, she watched a small, dirty pup trot over to the man, lift his leg, and mark his territory. This done, the dog hurried toward Cadrissa, gave a few curious sniffs along the cuff of her robes and toes of her boots, then moved on.

  Beyond that, the rest of the alley was empty, and her confidence swelled as she made another search of the area. Slowly, she studied the walls and the few doors she could see for any markings. While she didn’t think this the best of locations for a shop, it was better than what she might have found a few centuries before. Magic and mages in general had made some great strides since then, for which she was thankful. Even a mage with the most basic of training would have been something of a wonder back then.

  Suddenly, she noticed a small marking carved into the gray wood of a door to her left. It wasn’t easy to see at first—it probably wasn’t supposed to be—but as she neared, she spotted the same mark etched into the lower right section of the door. Looking around one last time, she put her hand to the wrought iron handle and gave it a tug.

  Immediately, there was a noticeable change of atmosphere. The smell of decay and urine was replaced with the sweet and soothing aromas of balms, flowers, spices, and rare plants. There were no windows in the shop, yet the interior was as bright as day. Light radiated from a globe in the center of the establishment, resting on top of a bronze holder sculpted like two large hands holding aloft a miniature sun.

  “May I help you?” a young male voice asked from behind a wooden counter off to the side of the room. He was dressed in a long, flowing gray hooded robe. Though she couldn’t see too clearly under the hood, she thought she discerned his eyes looking her over from head to foot. This wasn’t like the leering stare of the man in the alley, but rather an assessment of any risk she might pose.

  “I’m looking for a place to store some spell books and other tomes.” Cadrissa stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

  “Then I think you’ve come to the right place,” said the other. “How long do you need them stored?”

  She paused, mentally counting the days. “I’m guessing a month, maybe two.” While she had a rough idea of how long things might take, she knew enough to plan ahead and always round on the fat side when making such estimations. She didn’t want to have her tomes and scrolls getting taken out of storage and left to who knows what before she returned. It had taken her a great deal of time and money to amass them, and she wasn’t about to lose them with any foolish planning.

  The other nodded. “And how much material would this be?”

  “Enough to fill a small chest,” she replied, again making sure her previous calculations were correct. She’d be taking some additional material in her pack, but the bulk of it would remain behind.

  “And you’re the only person who will be dealing with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” said the man, pulling back his hood and revealing his handsome features. Cadrissa momentarily found herself lost in his pale green eyes before he brought her back to the matter at hand. “Let’s talk terms and payment.”

  Three days after Rowan had made landfall in Elandor, he was no better off than when he’d first arrived. He hadn’t had any more dreams, but still pondered what he’d experienced. He ruminated over the memories, hoping and praying for further guidance and answers. Because outside of some divine intervention, the rest of his efforts were not only tiring but getting him nowhere. Finding a bench, he rested his tired feet and searched the square he’d wandered into, observing the press of people coming and going as evening grew. Having walked just about the entire breadth of the city, he was convinced he was on a fruitless quest.

  Nordic instinct told him the best deals were made in taverns and inns, and so this was where he’d first scoured for answers. He started in the Broken Oar, and then moved from tavern to tavern, inn to inn. No matter how many people he asked, none of those with whom he spoke seemed a suitable guide for Taka Lu Lama. He didn’t have money to waste on another week’s stay, putting him under pressure to get something resembling progress. The elves and dwarves who occasionally passed were of particular interest to him. He was somewhat familiar with dwarves; they lived in the mountains and hills of Valkor
ia. From what he’d heard from others and in his training, they could be trustworthy people, but seldom sought out or worked with others outside their race. It was the elves, however, who were more of an enigma.

  Rowan’s eyes found an older dwarf leaning against a nearby wall, smoking a pipe. His white, chest-long beard was braided into twin coils, and his almost black eyes scanned the crowds. He’d seen barely a handful since he’d arrived. That wasn’t too surprising, since the dwarves he knew about back on Valkoria had been known to keep to themselves. He supposed the same was the case elsewhere. This one possessed a definitely seasoned look about him. The normal charcoal-gray skin of his race was deeper than he’d seen among others that day. He assumed it to be from constant sun exposure. Rowan guessed he was middle-aged, though he wasn’t very skilled in telling the ages of other races, and longer-lived races—he was finding—were more challenging to judge than most.

  As he continued his observation, it dawned on him that all this time he’d been searching diligently for a human guide. He hadn’t even thought of asking for aid from any other race. He found it odd that he hadn’t allowed himself to consider hiring anyone but a human. The more he dug into the matter, the clearer it became that this was one of the parameters he’d unconsciously set for himself. Why? He couldn’t find the answer. He’d never had this outlook before. Then again, he’d never been surrounded by so many different races in such abundance before, either.

  But even as he started off the bench to talk with the dwarf, an internal voice tried persuading him to leave the dwarf alone and look for a trustworthy human instead. Rowan caught himself before his mind wandered too deep into those waters. The dwarf wasn’t his enemy. He hadn’t acted against him in any way. So why were his feelings turning him against dwarves? He knew from his training and upbringing he should never be judgmental of someone he’d no knowledge of personally, and yet his mind insisted on pitting him against nonhumans with a will of its own.

  A ruckus erupting from a nearby side street yanked him from his thoughts. He wasn’t alone; a few others had stopped to take note of what was going on. Curious, he made his way toward the area, where he found a dwarf, two elves, and two humans under attack by a band of brigands. They’d encircled their prey, cutlasses drawn, ready to slice into anything. As he watched, a fire took hold of his brain.

  Though he knew the brigands were facing off against more than just humans, all but the two Telborians vanished from his sight. The man was obviously a warrior, given how he fought, but he was outnumbered. The female appeared frail and unable to defend herself effectively. These were two humans who needed his help. And here was a Knight of Valkoria to lend them aid. He raised his sword and charged the gathering, a war cry on his lips.

  CHAPTER 17

  And the fists are all a-flailing and so too is the blood,

  while a broken stairway’s railing now’s fallen in the mud,

  And the coins and cups are a-hailing, a-hailing all below.

  But yet stay we and drink—by the gods, what a show.

  —Old drinking song

  The Mangy Griffin was a large tavern and inn with a wide selection of clientele, most of them lower-class citizens who gathered there for the more affordable fare. It also had a reputation as being a port of landing for many nautical knaves. And as evening came, the common room was inhabited by a good many of them—the atmosphere suffering for it. Some of these men lustfully eyed Alara while she stood at the bar. She felt their eyes move over her body like greasy palms. While she’d kept to her previous attire, sans the cloak, she would have thought their eyes would have delighted in the barmaids instead, their cleavage-hefting tops and tight skirts being more enticing.

  She was beginning to think Gilban maliciously enjoyed sending her and the others into such colorful places. He leaned against the counter beside her. His face was haggard from their travels, but his countenance was fierce and determined. She knew it would take a lot to push him into exhaustion, but she also knew he was nearing its borders. They all were. It would be good to get a nice rest before they headed out in the morning.

  She and Gilban had settled into the tavern after taking the long way to it. This allowed them a brief walk around the city, wandering the busy areas of commerce and the bustling docks. When the sky started darkening, they headed for the inn. But the others didn’t arrive as quickly as she thought they should, stretching their wait into something that had begun to try her patience and stoke fresh fears.

  “How much longer are we going to wait?” She searched the room, catching glimpses of some of the men sucking in their ale guts as she did so. One obese mongrel with an inch of sea grit in his hair ran his tongue across his cracked lips. Alara gagged and turned away.

  “Patience,” Gilban replied.

  Still feeling the press of less-than-pleasant stares, Alara rose. “I think I’ll get some air. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Save your concern. I—” Suddenly, Gilban’s head twitched, his eyes tightening while his face scrunched into a maze of wrinkles.

  “What is it?”

  “Perhaps I will go with you after all,” he said, in a lower tone than before.

  She didn’t like the sudden change. “Is everything okay?”

  “I believe so.” He started to rise.

  “Here, take my arm, it’ll be faster.”

  “That it will,” Gilban muttered to himself.

  “Do you see them yet?” Gilban asked Alara as they exited the inn and merged with the cool night air. They walked to the main thoroughfare from the inn’s side street. There they found a bench on which to rest while Alara kept an eye out for the others. It was well into evening, the stars and moon highlighting everything in soft, silvery light.

  “No, but they’d better get here soon.” She watched over the thin trickle of people passing before them with mild interest. “We have a lot to discuss tonight.”

  “They’ll come back. Have faith. I thought you were a better judge of character than that.”

  “I used to be fairly good, but these are different people from different races and lands. It’s one thing to judge a Patrious from a different region of Rexatoius and another trying to understand the mind of a human or dwarf from as far east as the world permits.”

  “Are the stars out yet?” Gilban leaned against the backrest, his peaceful manner unfaltering.

  “Yes.” Alara kept her gaze on the street.

  “Then they’ll be here soon.” He grew more comfortable. “You’ll have to learn patience and faith to weather the times ahead.”

  “What do you see now?”

  “Nothing. These are things we all must learn if we wish to succeed in life. If you wish to lead—ah, I hear someone now.” He turned his gaze toward the sound of the approaching foot traffic.

  Alara joined him, ready to reprimand the tardy mercenaries, only to find some of the leering patrons from earlier making their way past Gilban and herself. They were a mix of Telborians and Celetors—about seven in all. They were also clearly drunk with cutlasses and daggers within reach on their belts. Not the best of combinations.

  “Not them,” she said, continuing to watch the men. Though they were a fair enough distance from each other to leave each to his own concern, Alara couldn’t help but notice them crossing paths with an attractive, slightly frightened-looking Telborian woman.

  “They’ll be here.” She was only half paying attention to Gilban. She was fixated on the gang of men. They’d stepped into the woman’s path, who searched with visible panic for a way around them.

  “They better be.” Alara watched the men start joking among themselves as they continued hindering the woman’s progress, making it a game. When she tried for a quick dash through a narrow opening they allowed between them, one of the men yanked her back by her long brown hair.

  Alara leapt to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  Gilban’s brow wrinkled. “Is everything all right?”

  “It will be.” She s
trode toward the men, hand resting on the pommel of her sword.

  “Don’t be too long,” Gilban called after her. “They should be here any moment now.”

  Alara only half heard Gilban’s reply as she closed the distance between her and the laughing pack of drunkards. The woman between them resembled a snagged fish desperately trying to free itself from its captor’s snare.

  “Casting lots sounds fair enough, I suppose,” she overhead the most cruel-looking and plumpest of the men say before another hit him in the shoulder, alerting him to Alara’s arrival. Almost instantly, a nearby Celetor’s hand clenched the woman’s wrist. Her panicked, pleading eyes found Alara’s—uncertain of what was going to happen next.

  “Well, well,” said one of the Telborians, pawing Alara with his wandering eyes. “Looks like we got two for the night. Must be using some pretty good bait.” The others laughed.

  “Let her go.” Alara made sure she kept light on her feet. Now closer, she counted nine total. It was far from an ideal ratio, and in hindsight rather foolish for her to have jumped right into things as she had, but she couldn’t change that now. She needed to be smart, careful.

  “You should really mind your own business.” The Celetor holding the woman gave her a hard tug, bringing her solidly against his person. “Unless you want to make us your business.”

  “And what if I do?” The men began spreading out, leaving the woman and her captor behind them. Among their number was a larger Telborian with a thick black mustache. He stepped forward like the lead wolf in the pack, staring Alara down.

  “Then you’d be in for a bit of a rough night.” Alara did her best to ignore his lusty gaze, keeping focused on the other woman and her captor’s free hand as he groped wildly at his prey.

  “I don’t know, Jake,” said one of the others behind him. “She looks pretty pale. She might be sick—have one of them diseases or something.”