“Thank you, sir! That would be extremely kind!”
“Not at all, not at all! Still, it’s an account of the doings of three hundred years past. You are dealing with the present.”
“That’s true, sir, but the present was shaped by the past. If I can understand what happened back then, perhaps it will give me a better understanding of what I find now.”
“And what have you found now?”
“Very little, sir! It is terribly frustrating. It almost seems like the information I need has been deliberately concealed.”
Weilbelan pursued the last bit of his herring quiche around the plate and captured it. Once it had vanished, he paused and scratched at his beard. “I’m not so sure there has been a deliberate attempt to hide anything, Jarren. You haven’t gotten to the later chapters of my book, but the disaster at Soor was more than just the death of all the master wizards.”
“Sir?”
“I can’t claim to understand it all myself. I think you’d have to be a wizard to understand. But from the fragments I was able to find, it appears that the battle did not just kill the wizards, but it did something to magic itself. Something bad.”
“Bad, sir?” Jarren held his excitement in check. He had obviously come to the right place—assuming Weilbelan knew what he was talking about.
“Well, ‘unfortunate’ might be a better term. Not ‘bad’ as in evil or anything like that. I’ve got a few letters written by the lesser magicians who were still alive after Soor, and they write of unexpected dangers they were finding in casting even simple spells. Something seemed to be interfering with their powers. Not just blocking them, but making them dangerous to use.”
“Well, magic could be very dangerous if used by the untrained—or so I understand.”
“True. But these letters indicate that spells these men had easily used hundreds of times before were now too difficult to try. One even spoke of a friend who had been killed in the attempt.”
“That’s amazing, sir!” said Jarren. “Some of the stories I’ve found speak of the magic users all being killed by their own magic during that time. I never thought there was any truth to that before now.”
“Well, you can’t put too much trust in the old stories, but there may be some grain of truth in that one. In addition to those old letters, there are some accounts of strange calamities happening in cities of that period. Unexplained fires or lightning that burn whole blocks. Strange sicknesses that strike man and beast. It’s hard to make much of them; that was a superstitious time and few people could write, but I’ve found similar accounts from all through the east.”
“Perhaps there is something to it, then, sir. Maybe the remaining wizards could no longer control their magic. I wonder why?”
“You’d have to ask a wizard for that, I’m afraid,” said Weilbelan, chuckling.
“I’d like that very much, sir. Do you know any?”
Weilbelan choked on his tea and grabbed for a napkin. “Ach! Don’t do that!”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
The old scholar looked at Jarren from under his thick eyebrows and then stood up. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”
They left the refectory and strolled through the campus. A cool breeze was blowing off the ocean, and Jarren breathed in the salt air. It was so much more pleasant than the sea air back in Sirenza this time of year. Weilbelan was silent for quite a while—the first time he’d stopped talking since Jarren had met him. They paused by that wonderful fountain he had seen earlier.
“It’s magical, you know,” said Weilbelan, pointing at it.
“Really?” asked Jarren in surprise.
“Yes, one of the university’s prize possessions.”
“Do you suppose I might have a chance to examine the workings? Measure the water flow? It would be useful to add to my findings.”
“I’ll try to arrange it.” Jarren thanked him and then stared at the fountain for a while. At last he frowned and turned to Weilbelan.
“You know, sir, I’m rather surprised to see this. I’ve studied a great many magical devices since I started my studies. They were all small and simple—well, not simple, really, the actual function of this pump is more simple than some I’ve seen—but certainly small. They did not move a great deal of weight or produce much light or heat. This one is moving many hundreds of pounds of water each hour. The spell must be quite strong.”
“Yes, I’ve sometimes wondered about that myself,” said the old man, nodding his head and waggling his beard. “My studies have indicated that before Soor, there were many marvelous devices in the world. Fountains greater than this, devices to open gates and raise drawbridges, carriages that moved without horses. Swords and armor of great power. Where are they now?”
“Perhaps lost in the battle?”
“The weapons, perhaps, but I can see little point in dragging magical fountains halfway across the world. No, I believe that most of the great magical devices stopped working—or sometimes destroyed themselves—soon after Soor. Their demise is somehow tied to the end of the wizards themselves.”
“Then how did this one survive?”
“An excellent question, my young friend. The university purchased this only a few dozen years ago—I remember it being installed when I was a new professor here. I had always assumed it was some relic that had been dug up intact. But now I’m not so sure.”
“You think it was newly made? By whom?” Jarren asked excitedly.
“I don’t know. But there should be records of who it was purchased from. That might give us a clue.” Wielbelan paused and scratched his beard again. “Jarren, I don’t think the wizards all destroyed themselves after Soor. There are many stories of towns and cities driving out the magic users after too many of those ‘unexplained’ fires and lightning bolts occurred. Even village healers and soothsayers were persecuted. We had a rather nasty period of witch-burnings right here in Zamerdan.”
“Yes,” agreed Jarren, “and in those places where the churches were particularly powerful, there were organized campaigns to root them out and destroy them.”
“True. An ugly period that was. From what I hear, there are still a few places where they treat anyone with the talent like that. Still, they can’t possibly all have been killed.”
“So you think, perhaps, the remaining wizards fled somewhere?”
“It is a possibility. Before Soor, there were a number of wizard training schools here in the east…”
“I know, sir. There was one in Sirenza, but there’s not a trace left of it now.”
“Yes, and that will be the case with almost all of them that were in or near cities. But there were some that were more isolated. Maybe one or more of them have survived.”
“After all these years, sir?”
“Who knows? That fountain pump came from somewhere.”
“True. So where do we look?”
Wielbelan smiled and took Jarren by the arm. “Why, in the proper place to begin any inquiry: the archives!”
* * * * *
“So we will continue?” whispered the Ghost. “You convinced them to ride to the east?”
“I believe so,” said Atark. “Some of them are afraid, but the majority are willing. Some dispute Zarruk’s place as ka. I was forced to destroy one of the… troublemakers.”
“So much the better. Make them fear your powers.” The image of the Ghost’s head floated above the skull in the darkened tent. It was difficult for Atark to see clearly, but it seemed as though it smiled.
“Even my friends begin to fear my powers.”
“Friends are useful, but never let a friend’s fear guide your policy.” The Ghost was silent for a few moments. “But I can sense something new in you. A joy that has nothing to do with victory or revenge. It saps your anger. What is it?”
Atark hesitated. The Ghost knew so much already, he worried to let it know more. Still, this seemed harmless enough. “My daughter, who I thought was lost, has been returned to me. T
hat is the joy I feel.”
The Ghost was silent for a long time. “She has lived with the enemy? Served their men for all these years? And yet you let her live? Welcomed her back into…”
“Enough!” roared Atark. “The one I destroyed said those same words! I would not hesitate to destroy you if you persist! If you can look into my heart, then do so and tell me what I say is not true!”
The image of the Ghost wavered, turned red, and then vanished. All light in the tent was gone. Atark sat and stared at nothing for a long time. He had never quarreled with the Ghost before. Part of him was glad that he had stood up to it. Part was glad that the Ghost appeared to, indeed, have no real power. Part of him worried that the Ghost might never return. There was so much that he still needed to learn from it! He continued to sit there until the dawn’s light seeped under the tent flaps.
He rose slowly and went outside. He was still using this small tent when he needed to talk with the Ghost, but he had been given a larger tent that he and Thelena could share the rest of the time. He looked toward it now and felt a deep warmth inside him. His daughter was safe and asleep inside his tent! When he started his quest for revenge, he never dreamed he would find such a treasure. He had always loved Thelena so very much. She had been a wonderful child and was growing into a wonderful young woman when he lost her. He hated to think of what those years as a slave must have done to her. So far, she had not spoken of it, and he had not asked.
But it had changed her, and not just physically. She was quieter, although she had always been quiet. And she was stronger, too. Some women might have cowered in shame under the eyes of the other Kaifeng people, but she did not. She returned their stares boldly and went where she would without hesitation. And her dealings with the eastern slave woman who had lain at his feet the whole night of the victory; she had been strong but just then. He was proud of her. Still, he worried, too. She had been hurt badly for many years. He had no doubt that the wounds inside her were as deep and as painful as the ones he bore. And she was well past the usual age at which women married; how would she find a husband now? The knowledge of who she was and what had happened to her—and who her father was—would turn away most suitors. The only ones who might not turn away would be men seeking some advantage over him by marrying his daughter. It was a dilemma he was ill-equipped to deal with. Perhaps he should speak with his cousin about Thelena.
His feet had carried him near the pen where the captive men were kept. They were mostly asleep, but a few were moving and moaning. The wind blew some of the stench in his direction and he winced. He would have to ask Zarruk to order that proper care be given to them. He would need new sacrifices for his magic in the future, and he did not want them to die before he could use them. He was slightly appalled with himself for even thinking such a thing, but he ruthlessly pushed the thought away. He was doing it for the good of the People. The lives of these men were forfeit anyway, so why not put them to good use? Still, it troubled him. He had wanted to ask the Ghost if the power he stole from the dying men was their souls. And if so, what did his using it mean to them? Were they destroyed? Condemned to Limbo or some hell? It was a disturbing question. If the Ghost was not gone forever, then he would ask it the next time.
He turned away from the prisoners and continued his walk. It was still very early, and the victory celebrations had been going on for days, so there were few people up and about. He spotted one of the new slave women hauling a leather bucket of water up from the river. She quickly scurried away when she spotted him. That one seemed to be adapting and would probably survive. The Kaifeng always had far more women than men; the harshness of the plains and the fighting between tribes saw to that. Many men took more than one wife. The new slaves who adapted and submitted would soon be little different from the junior wives in many marriages. Those who resisted would have a harder time of it. Atark thought of Thelena’s new ‘servant’. He wasn’t sure about that one. Thelena clearly had some affection for the woman, and that made him uneasy.
The Easterners were the enemy, and they could never forget it. Anger swelled up in him at the memory of the Ghost’s words and what they implied. Did it think his resolve was faltering just because he had his daughter back? The memory of his murdered son and wife never left him. Not for a day, not for an hour. Perhaps Thelena’s return was a sign from the gods; a sign that they approved of his quest. The East Kingdoms would fall, and no Kaifeng’s daughter would ever be stolen again!
“I see you are up early, too, my friend.”
The voice made him jump and he turned to see Zarruk standing a few feet away. The ka looked very tired. “Hail, Ka-Noyen Zarruk,” said Atark, bowing and putting his fist to his chest.
“Oh stop that, Atark. I’m getting sick of it already. Why did I ever let you talk me into this?”
“Because you believe in our cause, just as I do. The road we must follow is clear—and you must lead the way.”
Zarruk sighed. “I suppose. But I must admit that I am worried. What if the other tribes don’t come? What if they are not convinced of your powers and refuse to dare the Berssians’ wrath? It could happen, my friend. For all the words and cheers of the other night, it could still happen, and what then?”
“We could still stay here…”
“Yes, we probably could. With the narrow pass to defend and your magic we could probably beat off every attack. The enemy would still have their swords and gun-spears, but against our arrows, they would have a very difficult time. But what then? In time, they would bring bows of their own. And as the seasons pass, our warriors will leave these rocky hills to return to the plains. Defending a mountain pass will bring us little loot. The men will tire and leave. Then what?”
“They will come, Zarruk. Have faith. The tribes will come. You only sent out the riders four days ago. It will be at least a week more before even the closest could come here—even if they rode the moment the messenger arrived. I would guess two weeks before we see the first new tribe. Have faith.”
“Two weeks. The Berssians could come against us sooner than that if they move quickly.”
“They will not. They have no clue of the danger they are in. It will take them weeks to even decide to send their army here. By then we will be ready to meet them.”
“So we wait.”
Atark nodded and he put out his hand to grip the arm of his ka. “Yes, we wait. Let us rest and enjoy our victory. And when the tribes come, we will sweep out of these mountains and nothing will stop us!”
Chapter Six
Mattin Krasner, one time lieutenant in the 18th Berssian Dragoons rode toward the town in the distance as quickly as his tired pony could go. Sergeant Chenik rode beside him on an equally tired mount.
“We shoulda stolen a few more horses, sir,” muttered Chenik. “Have fresh mounts just like the Kaifeng bastards.”
“Wouldn’t make any difference in how tired we are, Sergeant. Frankly, I hate being dead tired on a fresh horse. The damn things always seem to know it and give you all the trouble they can.”
“But it would get us there faster.”
“Water over the dam now. We’re here.”
“Wherever here is.”
“It’s Havverdor…I think. Rode through here on the way to the capital. Not much of a place, but there’s a royal post station and ought to be a magistrate. We can get word to Berssenburg from here.”
“Well, thank the gods for that. We’ve been too damn long getting here as it is. Those bastards could be anywhere by now—including just over the horizon behind us.”
“An ugly thought, Sergeant. If you get any more like that, please keep them to yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
They both shut up to save their breath for riding. The town was still a few miles away, and they had to get there as quickly as they could. Matt had no idea if anyone else had escaped the destruction of Fort Pollentia, but they were going to make sure that someone heard about it and soon. It had been over a week s
ince they saw the disaster at the fort. Nearly two weeks since the squadron had been slaughtered. Matt was more tired and more dirty and more depressed than he had ever been in his life.
But he was more determined, too.
The Kaifeng had destroyed his home, killed his friends, and probably—hopefully?—killed his sister. They had to be stopped. They had to be punished. Matt was determined to see that they were. He wasn’t sure how yet; he had no answer to those firefly things. But someone surely must. And when they had it, they would gather the army and go pay those bastards back!
He sighed in relief as they drew near to the town. He could see people in the streets. The only people he and Chenik had seen for the last week had been Kaifeng. Stealing the horses had been easier than he had expected. Almost all the Kaifeng had been celebrating—the scum!—and not keeping a close watch. They had grabbed the horses—they even got the saddles and tack—during the night, and by dawn they were many miles away. But they still weren’t safe. The Kaifeng had scouts out already, and they had nearly walked right into one batch of them. They had barely escaped. They were more careful after that. They had stayed off the roads and avoided villages. That had slowed them down, but it had allowed them to make it to safety.
They were passing by the outlying farms now, and people were staring at them from the fields. Their faces did not look terribly friendly. Matt could hardly blame them: he and Chenik didn’t look much like soldiers anymore. Their white coats had been far too conspicuous, so they had gotten rid of them. Their shirts and trousers were caked with mud from the crawl through the field to get the horses and then coated in a thick layer of dust. They still had their sabers, but not much else. He felt a little bit ashamed. The last representatives of a dead regiment ought to look better than this. The thought made him feel sad. No matter what might come after this, the Tapestry Dragoons were gone forever. There might someday be another 18th Dragoons in the Berssian king’s army, but it would be a new regiment, full of strangers.
Fires of Memory Page 13
