The Wizard from Tian (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 3)

by S. J. Ryan

  “You? Personally?”

  “Yes, me personally. I do not have at present the resources to eradicate the entirety of the rebellion from Britan, but I can certainly take care of this blot.” She waved her hand at the markers, indicating the Western Leaf. “Literally as soon as they breathe, they will all be dead men! Now send your courier, Emperor Valarion.”

  She was glaring, and had said 'emperor' as dismissively as he said 'corporal.'

  “Yes, My Lady.”

  He bowed his way out of the tent and took a deep inhale. Aware of the cordon of temple guards, he rejoined his bodyguards at the compound perimeter, then directed a runner to summon Bivera. The general joined him in the lamp-less interior of a supply tent, frowning at the barrels of rum and pickled meats.

  “Yes,” Valarion answered the raised eyebrows. “It has come to this. We are in exile from our own headquarters.”

  “Who is that woman?” Bivera asked. “I know she is not the Lady Inoldia despite her looks, but the temple guards kicked me out when she arrived.”

  “She says she is merely a 'consultant,' but as near as I can tell, she is the ruler of the Sisters.” Valarion went to the tent flap and peered outside. He returned and spoke in a whisper. “We mustn't meet long or they will notice, so listen carefully. I will not suffer this any longer. The Empire has been humiliated enough. To recall what you once said, we are not their dog. Our first enemy is not the Britanians but the Sisters, and we will fight.”

  “Finally!” Bivera lowered his volume: “I assume you have a plan.”

  “I want you to go to your most loyal colonel and have him accord you his best heavy crossbowmen. Their target will be the woman.”

  “How many bows?”

  Valarion debated. Too many, and they'd be shooting each other. He recalled what Maldus had said, and how Inoldia had refrained from answer. “Ten.”

  “Ten! For one woman!”

  “She is like Inoldia in her fighting abilities, I suspect. You've never seen Inoldia in action, have you?”

  “I actually have.” Bivera swallowed.

  “Caution in sharing our plans with the senior commanders. Betrayal would be seen as a step to emperorship. Although considering what emperorship has become, the traitor would regret it.”

  Valarion drafted the details of the ambush as they came to mind, reflecting that perhaps never in the history of the Empire had an assassination plot been conceived so extemporaneously. But Archimedes was right, they had to rely on absolute surprise.

  “I do not understand why we simply don't storm the tent with the Box inside,” Bivera said. “I have not seen the priestesses about, and the temple guard would not stand against even a cohort.”

  “Maldus, too, thought it would be easy to overcome the Box, and I have no idea how he ended – only that he is gone and the Box lives on – if one can call what it does 'living.' No, we must cut off their organization at the head – which I am certain is this woman. Once she is dispatched, there is even a chance the spirit inside the Box will subordinate itself to us.”

  “That would be something!”

  Valarion concluded: “Signal when everything is in place. I will then signal to attack by raising both hands. There must be no hesitation, not even a fraction of a second, or she will escape our trap and the Sisters will be upon us.”

  In the dim light, Bivera's smile gleamed like a crescent moon. “Finally, we reclaim the Empire!”

  Valarion clamped and squeezed the general's shoulders. “My friend, tonight we reclaim our world!”

  Bivera grinned and nodded. Valarion watched him depart and thought, You shall not die . . . he hoped that Bivera would not die either. In his military career he had met few men as competent as Bivera, and none as decent. Archimedes was wrong, there really was an honor and glory to serving in the legions. But how few upheld the ideals!

  I will change that, he resolved.

  But first he would have to go through the motions lest they suspect. He wrote orders for Letos/Faron to gather his forces at Ravencall, as Athena had dictated. He dispatched the spy network courier, and then there was nothing to do but pace at the perimeter of the headquarters compound.

  The night drew on, the moon arose, his flask emptied. He saw a figure standing at the edge of the circle of light generated by the lanterns posted around the headquarters tent. From the uniform he could tell that it was a Roman officer. From the bearing, he could tell that it was Bivera. Bivera gave him the signal and nodded toward a spot at the intersection between four supply tents. Then he backed into the darkness. Valarion likewise hid himself in the shadows and watched the headquarters tent.

  Finally, Athena emerged, conversing with officers of the temple guard. Valarion hopped into the light and strode toward her, as if casually. “Lady Athena, may I have a word with you in confidence?”

  “Make it quick,” she snapped. “The Western Leaf is moving into position and I must go.”

  The messenger hadn't returned but Valarion didn't trouble himself as to how she would know the movements of the Western Leaf. It was just one of those things the Sisters inexplicably knew. He trusted that their knowledge of events closer at hand were less precise.

  “I have received word of an assassination plot against you.”

  “Me? Why would anyone try to assassinate me?”

  Yes, why. Valarion glanced at the guards. “May we trust them with your confidence?”

  She shot a sideline glance. “Does it involve a conspiracy among them?”

  “The informant is waiting over there.” He gestured to the intersection. “You may speak to him personally, if you wish.”

  Athena tilted her head, then said to the guards, “Remain here.” To Valarion: “Lead on.”

  Valarion led, Athena at his side. At the intersection, he halted and pretended to look about. Then he realized that Athena was looking at him, with the serenest of expressions. At once, a part of him knew that she knew. But there was nothing to be done about that, the plot was in motion.

  Valarion raised both hands and bolted away.

  A shout, and ten men with crossbows emerged simultaneously from around the corners, between the tents, out of the tents. Their weapons were already elevated and they took only an instant to aim.

  In that instant, Athena reached into the flap of her coat and withdrew a black cylinder with handle, a contraption the size and rough shape of a boot. She squeezed the handle and the front of the cylinder barked tongues of fire. She swung her arm so that the flaming tongues twisted outward like spokes from the axle of a wheel.

  The crossbowmen had no time to shoot. Their bodies recoiled with the impact of the unseen projectiles and they fell dead as one, each man with a small round puncture in his chest armor precisely over his heart.

  The action took less than a second. It stopped with ringing silence. Athena blew away the wisp of smoke rising from the tip of the cylinder, then sheathed the weapon inside her coat.

  “Did you really think that – “

  Valarion's feet were already in motion. He darted into a crevice between tents, then sprinted into the night, unsure at first where he was heading.

  A sergeant blocked his path and shouted, “Here now, slow to a walk or I'll – ” And then the sergeant saw who it was and the man's face reflected the alarm that he saw on his emperor's face.

  Valarion commanded: “Assemble a – “

  In the center of the man's forehead, a black spot erupted blood. Facial expression frozen, the man's body crumpled as if turned to rags. Valarion whirled and stared at Athena. She was still among the supply tents; the weapon she held upraised had struck the man dead with an accuracy no archer had.

  Valarion contemplated surrender. But he remembered that the Box had avoided saying that she had killed Maldus. What torments had that thing inflicted, and what could it inflict at the command of that woman? Did he want to find out?

  Temple guards joined the woman. They paced with her at first, but then she started to s
print, still holding the gun outstretched. Valarion could see that capture was imminent. He ducked among the soldiers, cursing his height as he had done in battle when it stood him out as a target. He weaved among the field of campfires, galled by the paradox of being among thousands of soldiers yet unable to stop and call for help.

  I cannot fight her. I cannot be her prisoner. All is lost. And then ahead was the perimeter of the camp, and the path through the woods. He redoubled his speed.

  He burst into the clearing. It was empty of men and the lanterns were gone, but his eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he made out the bulge of the log where he'd sat with Archimedes. Then over there in the grass would be – yes, he saw gleaming in the moonlight the light wood of the staff. He picked it up and held it upright, and groped along the sides until he felt the studs. He placed a hand on the top, and felt the three round holes. Archimedes had offered to show him how to operate it, but it seemed simplicity itself. Aim the end with the holes and press a stud to fire.

  He held the staff and waited. The woman arrived shortly, breathing normally, as if she had strolled. Her weapon was in hand, hanging by her side. He stood still, calmly, his hand gripped about the staff, his finger resting on a stud. Unaware that he was armed, she walked straight toward him, smiling. He tilted the staff so that it pointed under her chin, at a distance of less than half a meter. He could not miss.

  “Well now,” she said. “Let's return to your tent and have a little talk. We can – ”

  He pressed the stud. Nothing happened. Except that the woman was looking at the top of the staff. She clamped her free hand around the staff and shook – hard. He lost his grip and fell backward onto the ground. She tossed the staff away. The temple guardsmen had arrived by then.

  “Take him,” she said.

  Valarion attempted to draw his sword, but several of the guard jumped him at once and he went down. After fruitless struggle, his limbs were bound and his mouth was gagged. As they wrapped blankets around him, his last look at the clearing was of the staff. He wondered if the weapon had been loaded. If not, then Archimedes had the last laugh. Curse your old bones! Shit! Shit!

  Minutes later, Valarion was unrolled onto the floor of the headquarters tent. Athena directed the temple guard to position his head beneath the Box. By their combined weight, Valarion was pinned in place. For a time, Athena ignored him, watching outside at the tent flap.

  “They're gathering,” she said. “We cannot delay.”

  From behind a chest she produced a green basket. It was small and had glowing lights, like the Box, and the material that it was made out of reminded Valarion of the prognosticator that he had once treasured. In other words, it was something otherworldly.

  Athena stood over him, arms akimbo. She shook her head slowly and sighed.

  “Emperor Valarion, you have given me a conundrum. I need you to tell your men that you are all right and that all is well. But can I trust you not to signal them otherwise? I fear not.”

  Overcome with instinctive panic, Valarion struggled against the guards. But more men held him down, and he knew he could not avoid his fate, whatever it was going to be.

  Athena set the green basket alongside his head. She undid the clasps and removed the lid. Valarion smelled mint.

  “He can't be exposed to air,” Athena said. “Be very careful when you scan.”

  “I will be careful, Mother,” the Box replied.

  “The least damage and I'll break you in pieces.”

  “I will be careful.”

  Out of the Box emerged tentacles like the ones Valarion had seen when it had examined the corpse of Inoldia. One tentacle extended toward the basket and dipped within. The other tentacle writhed toward Valarion's head. He struggled hysterically, until the tentacle rested on his face. It felt like his skin was pricked by a thousand probing needles. Valarion's scream was muffled by the gag. And then something took over his body, and the scream died in his throat.

  And then there was blackness. Valarion fought to stay conscious, and grasped onto the one secure thought, the words of the prophecy: You shall not die with your second at your side.

  He hadn't seen Bivera being killed, and if the general was still alive, that meant that he, Valarion, still had his second, and that meant he, Valarion, would yet live.

  You shall not die with your second at your side!

  Then a voice spoke. It was not in the tent, it was inside of him.

  It said simply, You don't understand what that means.

  Then what does it mean? Valarion demanded, again hysterical.

  It's an old slogan to promote dendritic archiving. It's rather hard to explain to someone from a technologically primitive society, so let me put it this way: You're my second body. No one is your second, but you are mine.

  Valarion stiffened, then went limp in a sea of numbness. He felt his will eroding away. His emotions drained with the dissolution of his sense of identity. It was not that he was dying. It was that he was being reborn – into a person that had already lived. Yes, he knew that was nonsensical, but –

  He could still remember his past life, but it was as if it were being clinically viewed from afar, by another person. He was detached from himself, for he no longer had a self, only a set of memories.

  And then – he was himself again. He was watching as the memories of another man filled his mind. The images were bizarre – of buildings as tall as mountains, of ships that sailed among stars. The thoughts were even stranger. But then his sense of identity shifted again – and the bizarre memories and thoughts were his memories, his thoughts, seeming more and more natural with every moment, while Rome was becoming a quaint and dreamlike fantasy.

  Mardu Valarion laughed. It went on for a few seconds, and then it was Eric Roth who stopped laughing.

  He opened his eyes and met the gaze of Athena.

  “Hello, Daughter,” Roth said, and smiled.

  “Hello, Father,” she said.

  She brushed the men away. Eric Roth sat up and surveyed his surroundings. He was in a lamp-lit tent, surrounded by men bearing swords. Tilting his head back, he saw the lights of a seeder probe, blinking. To one side rested a green basket.

  At the corner of his eye, he caught Athena giving him a stern look. Her expression turned to a smile when he raised his head and faced her.

  “What is this about?” he asked. “Where are we?”

  “We are on New Earth,” she replied. “Can you remember what happened? We were at your house in the woods. You called me. You asked me . . . well, I'd rather not describe. It is best if you remember on your own.”

  “I will try.”

  She waited. Roth tilted his head and pondered. Memories welled into consciousness.

  Yes, by edict of that short-sighted Solar Council, he'd been under virtual house arrest for a century. His lawyers were unable to dismiss the warrant and his social status as outcast had taken its toll. Afflicted by cabin fever, he'd finally called Athena to bring the required equipment to his home.

  She had been in tears at his request, but she always did what he told her to do. Upon the floor of his living room, she had unpacked the neurosurgery robot suitcase, made the preparations, hugged him and sobbed. He had patted her shoulder mechanically, spoken the expected soft words, closed the shield of the surgical helmet himself.

  There had been a limbo of soundless gray. And then brief, strange dreams, of . . . text messages? Roth tried to remember what had been said, but it was too faint.

  “I remember,” he said. “So . . . you say we are on New Earth? What . . . what year is this?”

  “By Standard Calendar, 2835.”

  He laughed. Centuries had gone by, and it seemed as if only that morning he'd been sitting at his kitchen window, sipping coffee and scowling across the yard at the drone bearing the court summons.

  “Father,” she said. “Your vision has come to pass. New Earth has been terraformed. Rome has arisen. You are ready to take your place as Emperor and build
the New Society.”

  “The New Society,” he said.

  “Unfortunately, there have been complications. One of them occurred just now. The man who was Emperor created a disruption, and now his men are gathering outside and threaten to attack and kill us. I did not trust him to make peace, but I know that you can. I was forced to transfer you into his body before the proper time. I hope you will forgive me, but for now, it is urgent that you speak to his men and reassure them.”

  Roth examined his new body. He seemed to be wearing a primitive uniform. A casing of polished metal over the chest, a skirt of leather strips, metal shin guards, handmade boots, an empty sword sheath at his belt. It seemed to be battle armor – yet for some reason he was wearing a purple shawl.

  He fingered the fabric, and out of seeming nowhere his mind was flooded with scenes of an ancient city. No, not ancient – it existed in the present. On this world, which was not Earth but . . . New Earth. All at once he knew it was true. Rome had been recreated, and he was in the body of its Emperor.

  It's all come to be – as I envisioned!

  “Father – do you understand?”

  He smiled. “Yes, Athena. I believe that I do. So you want me to speak to his men. What do I say?”

  “Just that there was a misunderstanding, and that you will explain fully later.”

  “That seems simple enough.”

  “Please wait. I will arrange for a meeting with the Emperor's senior officers.”

  He bowed. She slipped outside. He heard her voice in conversation.

  He studied his surroundings critically while she was gone. The men holding spears and wearing ornate uniforms of armor and feathers – they didn't look like his vision of Roman soldiers, what with being all flabby and stupid-looking around the eyes.

  Pandora Gamma on her pedestal looked worse for wear – scuffed and dented and stained from the centuries as she neared the end of her design life.

  And then on the floor next to the pedestal was the green basket. He remembered – Athena had brought that to his house, placed it on the floor next to the neurosurgery robodoc. That, then, was where his cerebrum had been stored. Or rather, the cerebrum that had once been his . . . .