Lioness of Kell

by Paul E. Horsman

  Basil saw the understanding dawn on the councilors’ faces. And with it the shame, as they realized how they had been duped. He moved slightly, as his left foot tired.

  ‘Kelwarg’s clan, the M’Arrangh, had always been split in their loyalty. A small part had fled with the other clans to Malgarth. The remainder allied with the Unwaari. Yet the division wasn’t absolute, and both sides remained in contact.’

  Behind Queen Hilda, the old tigress stirred, grasping her spear. Basil glanced at her. ‘Remember the M’Arrangh were deceived as well,’ he said. The woman growled.

  ‘Now Kelwarg ruled the Warlockry Council in name, and through him, Volaut in effect. The Black Warlock had his enemies, though. Argyr, the last Spellstor, opposed him and there were others. When finally Malgarth’s high king got fed up with Kelwarg’s meddling, the Council had to depose him. While the warlocks deliberated over Kelwarg’s fate, Volaut spirited him out of the country, to the tower of Bitter’ights in Vanhaar. Here, Kelwarg died, or was disposed of, and Volaut took his identity. Of course, not being a Kell, he couldn’t show his face, so he only communicated through magic.

  ‘As Kelwarg, he proceeded to exterminate the Old Kells left behind, the ones who were loyal to the Black Warlock and his M’Arrangh clan. He murdered all wisewomen. He stimulated the madness of the shamans. He abolished all clans but the M’Arrangh and made its people irrelevant. How many Old Kells would there be left, these days?’

  ‘A few thousand,’ Eghol said curtly. ‘We avoid them mostly, as they are useless, so I haven’t any exact numbers.’

  ‘Father-murderer, clan-murderer, Volaut has been effective in both, I’d say.’ Basil stared straight at the former councilor. ‘The big question remains. He did all these remarkable things, but why?’

  ‘Because it amused me,’ Volaut said conversationally. He smiled at Basil, a genuine smile that sent shivers down the Spellwarden’s back. ‘I always wanted to know how people react to misfortune. How I can make them react. It’s a game, you see.’

  ‘Of course,’ Basil said politely. ‘I should have thought of that. Stealing those masks was a game?’

  ‘My father thought himself a cut above the other singers. He felt–underappreciated. It wasn’t difficult to suggest a plan to make him Unwaar’s greatest hero. Once the idea of stealing the masks had taken hold in his mind, he thought of the plan all by himself. He was so pleased with it.’

  ‘Yet in the end, you deliberately held back from saving him.’

  Volaut spread his hands. ‘Left alone, what would he do? Would he use the masks to coerce Aera’s help? Alas, he sailed on, defeated, till he disappeared before the Vanhaar coast. Then I spat on him.’

  ‘So he failed you,’ Basil said. ‘And then there was war.’

  ‘The war. I was afraid it was too big to arrange in only a few days. But it proved so easy. All it needed was a few words in the right ears, and howling, they jumped into the abyss.’ He laughed. ‘It taught me a great deal about people. They are easily misled.’ He bent forward. ‘Take Volaut. For Volaut was real, once; an orphan on his way to Casterglade. He died on the journey, thinking me a friend. Foolish, for why should I befriend anyone? I became him, the poor student so eager to learn the portal arts. I did learn, too, and when the war came to my hiding place, I followed that witless fool Argyr, with a set of hand portals in my pocket. He and those with him were all strangers to me, so it was perfectly safe and I quickly became the warlock Volaut.’

  ‘And there, Kelwarg became your tool.’

  ‘Kelwarg, the posturing, vain idiot. He was a crude shaman, never a warlock, and all the finer details attributed to him were mine. Yes, I thought up all those foolish rules, and the Council swallowed everything I had Kelwarg suggest. They were scared of the echo of their own footsteps, the poor dolts.’

  ‘You were the one who stole my brother Saul?’

  Volaut’s hearty laugh filled the hall. ‘Saul! I made him. It was childishly easy to have that healer stimulate another seed. A pity you didn’t answer the Council’s summons, Spellwarden. I had planned to put him into your place, dear boy. It would have made a great jest, don’t you think?’

  ‘Saul wasn’t precisely your friend,’ Basil said.

  ‘By then he would have been prepared,’ Volaut said. ‘He would have been as faithful as Kelwarg was.’

  Basil smiled politely. ‘You didn’t know there were really three of us?’

  Volaut’s face darkened. ‘Three! Who? That black-haired one isn’t a made-face then?’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘No matter; the Council would have taken care of that.’

  Basil pursed his lips. ‘I see.’

  ‘You do?’ Again, the councilor smiled. ‘Everything you accused me of is true. I applaud your investigative powers, young Spellwarden. But do you really see?’ He raised his hands, and an enormous explosion threw the four singers through the hall.

  ‘Fools!’ Volaut cried. ‘You thought your puny powers would hold me?’ A second explosion sent everyone tumbling, except for Basil. ‘Now you see!’

  Basil straightened. ‘It’s hardly original, traitor. But then, you never knew me, only the boy you thought I was. I am the Spellwarden, heir to the House of Spellstor. Behold!’ He cast a wave of pure light at Volaut, to have it splatter harmlessly against the false warlock’s shield.

  ‘Pah! A trick.’ Lightning rained down from the rafters and cascaded off Basil.

  ‘Child’s game, buffoon,’ Basil grimly said. He pointed to the floor under Volaut’s feet and a great fissure opened, belching fire and toxic gases.

  ‘Cute!’ Volaut rose into the air on a cloud and a giant storm attacked Basil with bitter rain and gusts of biting wind.

  Amid the turmoil, the Spellwarden’s laugh brought an angry color to Volaut’s cheeks. ‘That’s all, father-murderer?’ Basil whistled piercingly, and a green wyrm flew in, attacking Volaut with flapping wings and shard-like talons.

  Volaut cursed as the weight of the reptile forced him back. He shouted a single word, and his own wyrm appeared, shiningly golden and twice as big. The two reptiles battled, roaring and belching steam, claws ripping bellies and backsides, spattering blood all over the hall. Basil saw his beast wasn’t going to win. He clenched his teeth, and with a mighty effort, had a second wyrm join the first. Together, they ripped into the golden beast, tearing away scales and flesh. The bigger wyrm fought, but with one enemy clawing at its belly and a second going for the jugular, its position was hopeless. Bleeding and leaking bits of flesh, it winked out. Basil’s two wyrms trumpeted in triumph, and then they, too, vanished.

  Volaut cried out in anger. A shiny rod in his hand flashed, and he was gone. Basil by sheer force of will hooked himself at Volaut’s vanishing presence and followed.

  He re-emerged outside, in time to catch Volaut summoning a carpet. Basil felt a massive anger trying to overwhelm him and as he had done that day of the wyrm attack near the Tower Aware, fused his rage with his magical energy.

  Volaut raised his arms and shot a wave of blackness at Basil, before going straight up to disappear in the clouds.

  Damn, thought Basil. You won’t escape me now. ‘Fly!’ he said to his staff. A thin bush appeared at its end and the staff purred. Basil swung a leg across the handle and jumped into the air. Heat up, clouds!

  He felt an enormous surge of energy and for a moment, he sagged, unable to breathe. After a second, the air returned to his lungs and overhead, the sky cleared as the clouds changed into vapor. There was Volaut, looking around wildly at where his cover had gone.

  Basil threw a wave of fire at the carpet, and immediately it burned like a moth in a flame, leaving Volaut standing in his shield on thin air.

  The councilor screamed piercingly. He tottered, waving his arms, and fell. Yet halfway, his speed slowed, and he landed on his knees in the castle square.

  Basil followed him down. He felt tired, powerless, as if the trick with the clouds had taken his reserves and his anger was all that sustained him.
He had one chance left. The wand he carried was too difficult to craft for a shaman, even one like Kelwarg. It must’ve been made by Volaut, powered by Volaut’s energy. In desperation, Basil pointed the silver branch at the crouching councilor. ‘Take him!’ he croaked. ‘All o’ him.’

  For a moment, nothing happened. Volaut’s eyes burned again, and he rose to his full height. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the wand hummed. Instead of words, a faint glow emerged from between Volaut’s open lips, then from his nose and ears, and past his eyeballs. A shimmering mist flowed out of him to the wand, as if its silver leaves leached their maker’s life energies from him. The traitor screamed; a horrible sound that went on and on around the square. Amid cries of horror from the onlookers, Volaut’s once beautiful face crumpled. The councilor tried to run, but couldn’t. Then he sank to his knees. ‘Stop it! Plea ...’ He fell down and shrunk, until only skin and bones remained.

  The beam of light flickered and went out.

  Basil glanced at the brightly shining wand. ‘It’s done.’ He turned to the crowds. ‘I won.’

  Then, as the last of his anger drained away, he froze into immobility.

  CHAPTER 39 - FINAL DOINGS

  Jurgis was with him first, followed closely by his father and Saul.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Jurgis said. He had gripped Basil’s arm, and felt his rigidity.

  ‘Mage shock,’ Argyr said curtly, laying his hands on Basil’s back. ‘Saul, you too. Give him your energy, quickly.’

  Hesitantly, one of the older warlocks came forward. ‘Let me help,’ he begged.

  ‘Say yes,’ Jurgis said. ‘No councilor will dare harm him now.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Argyr said. ‘Join us.’

  Within minutes, many hands covered Basil’s body, and the air around him sparkled with discharges. Slowly, inch by inch, his body relaxed. His eyelids fluttered and a tiny breath escaped his lips. ‘What happened?’ he whispered.

  ‘You won,’ Jurgis said. ‘By emptying yourself inside out. Damned careless, brother.’ The tears streamed down his face as he said that.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Argyr said, pulling back his hands. He looked around. ‘Yarwan?’ He saw Yarwan looking gray and scared, and gripped his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, son; he is in no danger. What he did asked too much energy. He dissipated a whole cloud! I have no idea how he managed, but it was massively tiring. Together, we gave him enough to keep him going. Now he needs plenty of sleep. That’s your job. Bring him to bed; I’m sure you will take good care of him.’

  Yarwan nodded shakily. ‘Come on, love, bedtime,’ he said, as he took Basil in his arms and carried him away.

  ‘Jurgis and Saul, come with me. I will speak to the people.’

  Jurgis looked at his father, straight-backed and clear of eye as if a load had fallen from his shoulders, and followed him inside.

  In the hall, everyone was back in the place they had been before the fight.

  Argyr looked around. ‘The singers?’

  ‘Only Eghol survived,’ Saul said. ‘The other three landed on their damned heads. Eghol is awaiting permission to speak, sir.’

  ‘Let him be brought,’ Argyr said.

  The sunsinger came forward, walking with difficulty. Blood dripped from a scalp wound and his face worked with every step.

  ‘Spellstor,’ he said, making a curious gesture with his right hand.

  ‘I am, for a while,’ Argyr said. ‘No recognitions of kinship between the two of us, singer. I was there when Spellstor fell and your people are an abomination to me.’

  Eghol bowed his head. ‘I understand. We were–wrong; Vystyn betrayed us with every breath he took. The war was a mistake; a bitter mistake. It nearly destroyed you, but us as well. Aera abandoned us. Vanhaari are not a religious people, not in the way we are. You can’t imagine what it is to be forsaken. Utterly and hopelessly alone. The moment we realized the Faces were gone, Aera left us. We went mad. The need to smash, to kill, anything not to feel the void where our souls had been, it drove us on like beasts. For nothing. The Faces were gone, the void unfilled, our nation in shambles, our brothers murdered. Thousands committed suicide, those first months, and many more followed. The rest of us kept going. Without purpose. We tried to keep our people together, to get some sort of normalcy back, and outwardly we succeeded more or less. Many sank back into lethargy, others went–bad. Especially singers. They were closest to Aera and the emptiness hit them the hardest. The High Singer kept us going, we thought. Instead he manipulated us as he did your Council, with soft words and falsehoods. Only now he is dead, my eyes begin to see. I offer no excuses, I ask no forgiveness; what I said is our side of the story. I will surrender; I will recall my people, restore your possessions, and pay whatever indemnity you see fit to impose on us. If only you will return the Faces, so that we can live again.’

  ‘That decision is not mine to make,’ Argyr said harshly. ‘My son Basil shall tell you. Wait for his words.’ Argyr looked around at the gathering. The rulers, the soldiers, the warlocks and the locals. ‘I am the Spellstor, as was my father Jurgis before me, and a long line of ancestors before him. My son and heir, the Spellwarden Basil, battled and defeated the one I knew as a political opponent. I never realized how much more he was. A manifold traitor, a war criminal, a deranged twister of souls. Volaut of Bleaksproke, who really was Vystyn the Unwaari betrayer. I should have seen, but I didn’t. My son Basil saw, and acted; I didn’t.

  ‘Basil will need sleep. At least a week, to regain his strength. I will stay here until then. When my son is back on his feet, I will return to Malgarth. I am too old, with too little faith left, to stay here. Basil will be Spellstor and rule Vanhaar. My son Saul will be Warden of Spellstor and my son Jurgis Warden of Winsproke. That will be all. I suggest we retire now and wait till the Spellstor is back.’ He gave a curt bow and stepped down.

  ‘That’s done,’ he said, satisfied. ‘When all is over, I can go home and battle it out with the high king. I’m fed up with his silliness, and if he demurs, I’ll turn him into a frog. That idea should make him amenable to my demands.’

  ‘Bravo,’ the Overcaptain said. ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘So am I,’ Queen Hilda said. ‘Where is Maud?’

  ‘She is with Basil, ma’am,’ Jurgis said. ‘Do you want her?’

  ‘Tell her I’d like a word with her. When the situation permits.’

  ‘The queen wants me?’ Maud said, suddenly anxious.

  ‘We’ll go and see her,’ Jurgis said. ‘Saul, you stay with Basil.’

  ‘She wouldn’t order me to return home with her, would she?’

  Jurgis grabbed Maud’s arm. ‘You can always tell her no. Perhaps she will make you Queen of Old Kell.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ Maud said. ‘There never was one, before the war.’

  They found the queen pacing her room in the castle, with the veteran tigress standing at the window, watching her. Hilda looked up when they entered, and frowned.

  ‘There you are. Lioness, I haven’t had much chance to speak with you these days. First, I want to tell you that you have been the most heedless, willful and headstrong lioness I have had. Ignoring orders left and right, disregarding customs, frolicking with foreigners; it’s too much. I cannot have you as a lioness, girl. It’s plainly impossible.’

  Maud felt the ground open beneath her feet. Dismissed?

  ‘Ma’am,’ Jurgis began, but the queen’s hand made a chopping motion. ‘Not this time, Master Jurgis. You will let me finish. Maud, my dear, you have far, far exceeded my expectations. When I sent you away with Hala, I knew how much her illness had progressed and that there was a good chance my battle sister would die, leaving you to finish the prince-warlock’s task alone. It would have been a fitting test for a promising lioness. What followed was utterly unexpected. So were you.

  ‘I’m not taking you back home, girl. It would be a waste to have you kicking your heels in Brannoe. Instead, I have a new task fo
r you. I want you to collect as many of the Old Kells as you can find; earn their trust and start building them into a new clan in Kell. I will send you troops, workers and a few of the youngest wisewomen. The rest I will leave to you. Together, you and that young jackanapes of yours can do this. I will return to Tar Kell today. I’m no longer young and, like Argyr of Winsproke, not of a mind to spend my last days in the old land. Whatever you do here, it will be your decision, Clanfirst. Am I clear?’

  Maud swallowed. Clanfirst? ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she said. She thought of Brannoe, the dusty, rain-starved fields, the barracks, all she had called home. ‘It’s a mighty task you give me.’

  The queen smiled and embraced her. ‘You will manage, girl.’ Then she wrapped her arms around Jurgis. ‘And that goes for you as well, Master Jurgis.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘By the gods, you even smell male.’ She straightened. ‘That will be all. Go, and be kind enough to send me a report, once in a while.’

  Maud straightened. Clanfirst! It’s not being queen, but close. I’ll be my own woman. A new excitement filled her. ‘I will; thank you, ma’am.’ She grabbed Jurgis’ hand and together, they went outside, into the sun.

  Basil had slept through a week full of feverish action. The townspeople had gathered the many Unwaari dead and Eghol had been both surprised and unexpectedly grateful when they asked him to give them a proper burial ceremony. There weren’t any losses on the side of the defenders. A few tigresses had sustained burns or minor wounds, but that was all. Even the young leopardess Wargall and Wemawee had rescued from the wrecked dhow was getting better by the day.

  Now, six days after his duel with Volaut, Basil stood on the quay with his two brothers and Maud, watching the fleet sail back to Malgarth.