The snow was falling steadily now, muting sound and obscuring vision. There was little point hoping it would stop; Winter had arrived. Everything about Alicia felt numb: mind and body. She knew she should be nervous but she couldn’t summon the energy. Kara made her chew and swallow another of those foul-tasting dried leaves. When the others looked at her, they did so with concern. Even Rexall. Not for the first time, she considered how ironic it would be if she died and Sorial survived.
The weather and Alicia’s condition made the trek across the bridge a surreal experience. They adjusted their single-file order because Vagrum was concerned about a threat from behind, so Rexall was leading, followed by Alicia, then Kara, then Vagrum. The far side of the bridge was at the edge of their vision, even limited as it was by the snow, when chaos erupted.
At first, Alicia didn’t know what was happening. In her state, she was simply aware that the relative quiet of the mid-afternoon had been interrupted by loud noises. Craning her head to look over her shoulder, she saw Vagrum leaping from the back of his horse and drawing his sword in one motion. It was a vintage move for him and gave no indication that he was at anything less than full strength. Two men on horseback, dressed all in black, galloped toward him, looking as if it was their intention to run him down. Meanwhile, Rexall and Kara were shouting for Alicia to move, Kara nudging her horse from behind.
“To the other side of the bridge! I’ll hold them off as long as I can!” shouted Vagrum. “Save yourselves!”
Alicia watched in dumbfounded horror at the sight unfolding behind her, even as her mount bore her away from the conflict. The horses approached Vagrum in single file, slowing as they closed with him to avoid losing control in a collision. Using the iciness of the narrow road against them, the big man swung at the first horse then dived to one side, hitting the ground hard and nearly rolling off the edge. The horse and its rider, swerving suddenly to avoid the strike, skittered, stumbled, and slipped off the road. The animal let out a whinny of terror as it tumbled into the maw of the crevasse but the rider was silent. The second man, perhaps recognizing the uncertainty of engaging Vagrum on horseback given his companion’s fate, skidded his mount to stop, dismounted fluidly, and brandished his own weapon - a pistol. A disquieting memory flashed through Alicia’s mind: Sorial, lying near to death in bed, after having been set upon by “bandits” in the stable. Bandits garbed in black and using pistols.
Vagrum staggered to his feet, but the lingering weakness from the poison made his movements sluggish and uncertain. He was at least a step too slow and didn’t recognize the immediacy of his danger until it was too late.
The attacker leveled the gun directly at the big man’s head, and, at close range, pulled the trigger. The report was unusually loud, echoing off the mountain walls. Vagrum was dead before his body toppled with agonizing slowness over the edge and into the swirling snow and blackness below.
Alicia was too stunned by what she had seen to be able to gather her thoughts. She couldn’t credit what her eyes had registered. With Kara behind her and Rexall in front, her horse ran at close to a full gallop. The danger of plunging off the bridge was a less disastrous prospect than being overtaken by a pistol-wielding pursuer. The attacker, who was at last sight re-mounting, was swallowed by the snowstorm that erased the tableau from Alicia’s vision. He was out there and he would be coming for them next.
Alicia only realized she was crying when the tears muddied her vision. She reached up a hand to wipe them away to discover they had frozen on her face. Behind them, she heard what sounded like another gunshot, but she couldn’t be sure. Under the influence of the fever and Kara’s drug, she couldn’t rely on any of her senses. Staring into the whirl of whiteness did nothing but promote eye strain. Perhaps not being able to see the man in black was a good thing. If she could see him, he’d be able to bring his pistol to bear.
Their headlong, panicked flight took them to the end of the bridge and onto a more stable part of the trail. Rexall didn’t slow their pace and the slight downhill incline allowed the horses to go faster without exerting additional effort. Suddenly, out of the snow behind them came a thunder of hooves. The terror that constricted Alicia’s throat relaxed when she realized it was Vagrum’s riderless steed. But if the animal had caught them, how far behind was their pursuer? They couldn’t have lost him; there was no branching of the road. It was possible, of course, that he hadn’t been as lucky navigating the bridge as them, but Alicia didn’t want to depend on the vagaries of fate for her continued survival.
Two hours later, with darkness descending, Rexall called a temporary halt, recognizing that both animals and humans were exhausted. They could go no further, at least not without an opportunity to regroup. They moved off the road and into the best defensive position possible given the limitations of the terrain.
Alicia was barely conscious, a victim of fear, grief, and virulent sickness. She swooned when Rexall and Kara gently slid her from her horse’s back. She succumbed to the blackness before Kara, after hastily conferring with Rexall, mounted Vagrum’s large horse - the best-rested of the animals - and rode off into the darkness and snow, heading toward the exit of Widow’s Pass.
Crouched by Alicia’s side, wrapping her in furs and blankets to keep her warm, Rexall experienced a surge of irritation at the position his subterfuge had placed him in. When he had accepted this mission, he had never expected things to get this bad, or that they would have to continue without Vagrum’s strong, sure presence and reliable sword arm. Rexall was apt in a knife fight, but not against someone with a gun. From the beginning, the intention had been for Vagrum to defend Alicia. Rexall’s role had been to ensure they kept to the path.
“Dammit, Ferguson!” he muttered aloud. “You’d better be right about her!”
CHAPTER SIX: THE HERALD’S TALE
“Your Majesty.” Azarak glanced up to see Toranim standing by his side. The chancellor was holding a cylindrical bone case. Inside was a parchment scroll. More bad news, he assumed. These days, it was rare for written communication to contain anything else.
“What’s in it?” he asked.
“Your council has lost another member.”
“Which one this time?” Somehow, it wasn’t surprising. With this new defection following in the wake of the resignations of Dukes Bantok and Yarbin, Azarak was left with only five members to fill eight seats. Rats deserting a sinking ship? The king scolded himself for thinking that way. There were a lot of leaks to patch, but he was working as fast as he could.
“Overcommander Vikon. He is ‘most displeased’ with the verdict and sentence leveled against Lieutenant Horspath. He believes that ‘His Majesty has become more interested in pandering to the peasantry than dispensing justice’ and ‘while Horspath may have exceeded the boundaries of his commission, it should be remembered that the mitigating circumstances - the universal respect of his fellow officers and his impeccable record to this point - weren’t given due consideration.’”
Azarak sighed. He had been expecting some kind of blow-back from Vikon regarding Horspath. The two were close and Vikon had privately petitioned for clemency before the trial. Azarak had heeded the plea, which was why Horspath’s head was still attached to his neck. Nothing less than a pardon would have satisfied the lieutenant’s supporters and, had Azarak released an obviously guilty man with no punishment, he would have faced a riot. Now, the question wasn’t so much who would fill the council vacancy but whether Vikon could be left in his current position as commander of the full militia. Could Azarak invest that degree of authority in someone who openly questioned his judgment?
As if reading his mind, Toranim provided advice. “You must remove him, Your Majesty. Demote him or reassign him, but he can’t continue as the overcommander of your army.”
“I know. It’s unfortunate, since he’s easily the best qualified for the job. I wouldn’t be bothered in peacetime but with war looming, I need someone in charge who understands tactics and combat.”
“There are other capable, battle-tested men in your army.”
“Accept his resignation from the council but don’t move to replace him as overcommander. When we strip his commission from him, I want to have someone ready to step in immediately.”
“With only five members, the council is at minimum capacity. The charter specifies a quorum of five.”
“It’s an advisory body so I’m not overly concerned about how many seats are vacant.”
“An advisory body with great ceremonial importance. Rightly or wrongly, the people look to the council as a means by which kingly excesses can be curbed. Technically, you would be within your rights to disband the council, but it would be a grave political error that your adversaries would capitalize upon. Such an action, though technically of little meaning, could result in your ouster. We need to fill those vacancies as quickly as possible.”
“Very well. Let Vikon’s seat remain empty - we can put the new overcommander in it when he’s been named. For one of the other seats, I’d like to appoint a common man. The people will react well to having a direct voice on the council. I’ll leave the choice to you.”
“An excellent idea, Your Majesty. Someone popular as well as... suggestible.”
“As for the third... I want Myselene in that seat. She should have a place on the council and a voice in all discussions.”
That evening, after retiring to his chambers, the king raised several of the day’s subjects with his wife-to-be. She was reclining in bed, listening to his recitation and interrupting with pointed questions. At the age of 17, eight seasons past her Maturity, Myselene was said to be one of the most beautiful women to hail from Obis, the hard military city where her father reigned with an iron grip. She had the features and form to enflame men and inspire artists. Her rich charcoal hair hung unbound to the middle of her back. Her complexion, unlike Azarak’s, was pale, although its nearly pure ivory had gained some color during the half-year she had spent in Vantok. Her violet eyes, nestled under thin brows, sparkled with intelligence. When people met Myselene, they were arrested by her beauty. Those who got to know her, however, were astonished by her intellect.
“If the duke can’t extract information about his daughter from the prelate, Ferguson’s unlikely to be forthcoming with the Crown,” surmised Myselene. In a short time, she had developed an accurate portrait of Ferguson, even though she hadn’t yet met him. She was as impatient for news of Alicia as anyone; she was determined that the two of them become fast friends.
“Therein lies the problem. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to figure out the end-game to Ferguson’s schemes.”
“We need to reason this through. Try to think like Ferguson.”
“A monumentally difficult task. The man’s mind doesn’t work the same way as ours. He believes he was hand-picked by the gods to ease the transition, but he has yet to disseminate the truth. In fact, although he privately admits it, he has publicly denied it on several occasions. Instead of shepherding the world in to a reality without gods, he’s setting himself up as a proxy.”
“You may be giving him too much credit. He’s old and probably growing senile. I’ll accept that he was once a brilliant man. Even my father has spoken of him with respect, which is unusual when referring to a priest. But age reduces all men, even the great ones.”
“So what are his plans for Alicia?” Azarak decided to play along.
“We know from Farber that he has uncovered her location and is actively impeding your agents. The conclusion is obvious: he wants her free. He doesn’t want her stopped or brought back. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to assume he had a hand in her escape. It may be that one of her companions is his agent. Didn’t you say he has a long history with Sorial’s mother?”
It was a possibility Azarak hadn’t considered but should have. Now that Myselene had mentioned it, it was obvious. It fit all the facts: the improbable escape from the temple, the ability to elude all searches, the seeming invisibility of the group.
“But why?”
“The prelate wants Alicia to succeed in her goal. We need to figure out what that is. We’ve been asking the wrong question about her. Determine why she left and we’ll at least understand where she’s going.”
“She wants to be with Sorial. Intercept him so they can run off together. There’s not much secret to that. While Sorial was in the city, Ferguson’s number one priority was making sure that didn’t happen.”
Myselene nibbled on a fingernail as she descended deeper into thought. This was the kind of puzzle she loved attacking, the sort of matter she never would have been consulted about in her previous life. This was why she was here, making love to the king of Vantok rather than playing the role of the proper princess in Obis.
“Unless she and Sorial planned a rendezvous beforehand, she can’t have known where to intercept him. It would have been a blind shot with no hope of success.”
“He went south, into The Forbidden Lands. She was spotted heading north. That would indicate no meeting place was established.”
“So she’s heading to a place where she believes he’ll have to go. Why north?”
“Because there’s a portal at Ibitsal.” For Azarak, a picture was coming into focus - a picture that was equal parts audacious and terrible in its implications. “A portal that Ferguson could have manipulated Alicia into thinking was Sorial’s destination. And the prelate is deploying his forces to make sure she gets there. He doesn’t want anything, including my agents, interfering with her reaching there.”
“He wants her to use the portal.” The certainty in Myselene’s voice was accompanied by shock.
Azarak nodded. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Ferguson knows her genealogy. She’s probably descended from a line of powerful wizards, which would make sense for The Wizard’s Bride, since it would enhance the chance of magically endowed offspring. Alicia isn’t just Ferguson’s enticement to Sorial, she’s his contingency plan. And he’s decided to put her in play. That’s the real reason he sent Sorial south - because he intended to send Alicia north.”
“It’s still just supposition.”
Azarak was about to reply when there was a sudden rap at the door. He answered it to find Toranim there, this time looking out-of-breath and frazzled.
“Your Majesty, the innkeeper Warburm was just seen entering Vantok. He’s alone, but it’s confirmed to be him.”
* * *
Warburm had never imagined his return would provoke so much interest. In his mind, he had envisioned himself entering the city anonymously, going to The Wayfarer’s Comfort, fucking his wife, and spending a night in his own bed. The next morning, he would report first to Ferguson then to the king. Since it was obvious Sorial hadn’t preceded him, he didn’t see there would be any harm in a few hours’ delay, especially considering how long he had been gone. He needed the sex more than they needed the news. It wasn’t to be. He was spotted by agents of the Temple before reaching Vantok’s borders and was “escorted” to the structure upon his arrival, even though the hour was approaching midnight. So much for a quiet night.
The interview with Ferguson was surprisingly understated. The prelate seemed more relieved than delighted about how things had transpired in The Forbidden Lands. Warburm was nonplused by the man’s reaction. His lifetime’s goal had been achieved, he had been proven right, and Vantok looked likely to have a wizard defender, and all he could muster was a half-smile and a mild commendation: “You’ve done well, my son. All humanity thanks you.” Warburm had been expecting something more celebratory. He should have recognized that wasn’t in Ferguson’s nature.
If Warburm wasn’t a firm believer in the doctrine that the gods has passed from the universe, he would have attributed his ongoing survival to a miracle. Escaping The Forbidden Lands after being cast aside by Sorial had been one of the most difficult adventuring experiences in Warburm’s life. The giddiness of having succeeded lasted about a day and a night, and then he ha
d to confront the grim realities of his situation. He had almost no supplies and, to survive, he had to make a long trip alone through hostile territory.
He didn’t know whether Sorial had expected him to live, or even cared. On the one hand, he had been commissioned as the new wizard’s herald. On the other hand, he was being punished for his role in Annie’s death. If there was one thing Warburm regretted in all the years he had shepherded Sorial to his current position, it was his part in her killing. Ferguson had issued the command but Warburm had managed the incident, hiring the men who had attacked her on a lonely stretch of road. He had argued with the prelate, pleading that they find another way, but Ferguson had remained impervious to assaults of logic and emotion. In the end, Warburm had obeyed, and the incident haunted him to this day; he suspected Ferguson had forgotten about it long ago. When Sorial returned to Vantok, the prelate would be forced to remember. There will be a reckoning, Sorial had decreed. Warburm didn’t doubt he meant those words. As impervious as Ferguson might be to human law, he had no shield against the justice of a wizard. If Sorial wanted the prelate’s blood, not even the king would stand in his way. Warburm wondered if Ferguson realized how precarious his current situation was, or did he think the new wizard would shower him with thanksgiving? The wizard who had lost a hand, two toes, a father, and two good friends on his journey of transformation. Sorial had departed Vantok a relative innocent. He would return a scarred, angry vessel of elemental power.
The biggest difficulty Warburm had faced during his return journey wasn’t provisions. The Forbidden Lands offered plenty of clear streams, small game, and berries. Pheasants were abundant as were critters that looked a little like squirrels but tasted like stringy lamb. There had been enough to eat and drink to keep starvation and dehydration a distant concern. The weather had also been bearable - a little too hot during the days and a little too cool at nights, but an adventurer like Warburm had endured far worse. Of course, that had been twenty years ago, when his body more easily adapted to hostile climates.
The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) Page 7
