Few suspected Markal’s knowledge because none knew his age. Even wizened old Narud was only a child when Syrmarria fell to Toth’s army. But Markal remembered the glory of that greatest of cities, and the slaughter that followed its destruction. Survivors had founded Balsalom, which had grown into its own power over the centuries, but Balsalom was nothing to Syrmarria and the rich lands of Aristonia.
Markal remembered those lands from before Toth turned Aristonia into the Desolation. Markal had studied with the Crimson Path before that order’s destruction, including Memnet the Great, who alone had defied Toth. Markal remembered when Toth built a tower to the sky to battle the Sky Brother.
Markal had seen Cragyn’s tower in his mind—the Dark Citadel, Chantmer the Tall named it—and he recognized the similarities. As for the dark wizard, Cragyn was a child by the reckoning of wizards, eighty or ninety years old, and would have no memory of King Toth or his tower. So why did he build this tower so much like Toth’s?
Because of Markal’s preoccupation with the Dark Citadel, he had overlooked the steel book he’d found in the Tombs of the Kings. He’d thumbed through the first few pages, seen diagrams of cloud castles and archaic siege engines, together with maps of long-vanished countries, then put the book away. The book would prove useful, he thought, perhaps containing a clue about the fate of the Lost Kingdoms, but it would have to wait.
Cragyn’s men didn’t follow Montcrag’s survivors into the mountains, perhaps afraid of griffins or wild stone giants, but more likely wishing to fortify Montcrag and forge west. Taking the castle had cost the dark wizard dearly: several hundred dead and wounded by Markal’s estimation. If each castle in the mountains cost the dark wizard as much, his army would be a shell by the time it reached Eriscoba.
To say nothing of the Teeth.
The Teeth were three towers built so long ago that nobody knew their true age. Markal thought that they predated the Tothian Wars by at least eight hundred years. Built of white granite, and protected by a tangle of magical spells, the towers were to the western passes what Montcrag was the east. But Toth had encircled the three towers with walls to form a powerful new castle to guard his new road thrusting through the mountains, and the castle could hold a much larger army than Montcrag.
A man named Lord Garydon held the Teeth. Garydon swore allegiance to King Daniel and kept the western passes free of bandits—for a fee, of course. But Markal didn’t trust Garydon’s shifting loyalties and couldn’t be certain the man would defend the Tothian Way against so powerful an army as Cragyn’s.
“Hurry up old man,” Hoffan shouted at him. “Moss is growing in your beard.” Surprisingly cheerful after the fall of his castle, the warlord stood at the rear of his men, who hiked a deer path along the spine of the crag rising to the mountains.
Markal followed Hoffan, joking with the men in the back, but kept one eye on the sky. He thought it unlikely for wasps to dare griffin country but wanted to be careful.
Ahead, Hoffan and Ethan struck an immediate friendship. Ethan was like his brother Whelan in many ways: strong, loyal, and murderously adept with the sword, but also fiercely independent. Those traits made the two men natural leaders of the Knights Temperate, who shared those traits. If King Daniel hoped to drive the dark wizard from the Free Kingdoms, he would have to command the loyalty of such men, and that meant forgiving Whelan.
Dark clouds gathered to the east, piling against the hills and slowly creeping up the mountains. A storm was coming. As of yet, however, the air in the mountains was clear and cool, with a hint of autumn. They stood at the cusp of two forests, the hardwood of lower elevations and the pine forests up ahead.
Markal noted a familiar sparrow chirping at every turn of the trail. The bird was following him, flying from its branch to soar to another tree or a rocky clearing as soon as he passed. Narud trusted birds more than humans, and Markal wondered if the bird was a messenger from the Order, but when he stopped to see if the sparrow had anything to say, it merely cocked its head and waited until he left, then darted ahead to repeat the process. Markal considered and then rejected the possibility that the bird was one of Cragyn’s spies and ignored the nosy little fellow.
The mood of Montcrag’s defenders improved as they climbed. There was something invigorating about the mountain air. Sofiana and Ethan shot a mountain goat and the men dressed it for dinner, starting a camp fire as soon as it grew too dark to travel.
A dream woke Markal during the night. In the dream, Darik hunched over the book from the tombs, while a blue light glowed from its steel pages. Markal floated over the boy’s shoulder. A face looked back from the steel page. Cragyn. Dreamily, Darik stood and walked toward the door, stepping into the night air.
Markal woke. He wondered what the dream meant. Jethro the Martyr, founder of the Order and the Brotherhood, had trained his followers to interpret dreams. “A dream is a window to the soul,” Jethro taught. Markal wasn’t sure if he agreed with the statement, some dreams were no more than random nonsense, but there were times when Jethro’s words rang true. This was one of them.
The interpretation came in a burst of insight so clear it stunned him that he missed it before. The Oracular Tomes. Was the book one of them? Didn’t scholars refer to leaves of hammered gold and brass? Why not steel?
References to these mystical books began in the cartouches carved in stone pillars and monuments that survived the war, throughout the khalifates and Eriscoba. References began some fourteen hundred years ago if Markal’s estimation was accurate. Oblique mentions and even direct quotes persisted into early forms of the old tongue. The Oracular Tomes, if they truly existed, imparted knowledge that gave power to create life and matter, to control death, to build mountains: in short, the very powers of the five brothers to create Mithyl itself.
As for their number, early references mentioned three tomes, later references five. By the time of most references, some three hundred years before the Tothian Wars, the tomes had long vanished. He only had one clue as to their fate, a fragment that had survived the burning of the libraries. It named the destruction of three tomes, naming them the Tome of Creation, the Heart Tome, and the Shadow Tome. The first of these was taken by the Sky Brother, its apparent author, the second destroyed by fire salamanders, and the third—the Shadow Tome—lost at sea.
But the last two tomes, including the Tome of Prophesy, had not been destroyed, according to the writer, merely lost. Yes, Markal had thought at the time, but lost for so long was as good as destroyed anyway. Now he wasn’t so sure. According to ancient writings, the Tome of Prophesy could show the future and control the weak minded or the young. It also changed words and pictures, sometimes appearing a meaningless jumble to the untrained eye. That might explain why he’d not thought the book special upon first glance.
A hooting owl startled Markal from his thoughts and he climbed to his feet. A horned owl from the sound of it. His ears picked out a bear snuffling on the hillside some two hundred yards above them.
Bits of the bear’s blurry thoughts grumbled into his mind. Peoples. I smell peoples. No good peoples, no good stings on their hands. And then a new thought crossed its mind. Peoples. Food. Good food, sweet and salty food. Peoples food.
The wizard turned his own thoughts at the bear before it caused mischief. No good food here, friend. Only stings. Nasty, sharp stings from peoples. Find berries down the mountain, black, sweet berries. No stings in berries.
Markal turned his attention down the mountain, but heard nothing there except a skunk licking the salt from a leather glove dropped by one of Hoffan’s men. Bats clicked overhead, searching for insects.
Hoffan’s men camped against a hillside beneath the protection of pine trees. Men snored, some stirring in the strange environment. Markal searched out Hoffan and Ethan and woke them.
“I’m leaving. Don’t ask where or why. I can’t tell you.”
Hoffan grumbled as he sat up in his bedding and yawned furiously. “Even a blind dog can sni
ff his own butt, I suppose.”
Markal blinked. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Hoffan yawned again, looking confused. “Damn it, wizard, I don’t know. It’s dark, and I’m still half asleep.”
Markal laughed and turned to Ethan who had wakened instantly, much as his brothers could. “I’ll meet you at the Citadel. If you reach it first, do what you can to soften the king’s heart.”
“What is all of this, wizard?” Hoffan asked. He yawned again, but the haze began to fall from his eyes. “You act decent enough most of the time, and then you skulk off in the middle of the night like any other wizard.”
Markal clapped the man on the shoulder. “Could be worse, highwayman. There’s a bear on the hill. I could have smeared honey on your face to make up for the times you’ve stripped me of every last shekel, dinarii, and guilder when I passed Montcrag. I daresay some wizards would have been hard pressed to pass on such an opportunity.”
“I’m not afraid of bears.” Hoffan snorted and lay back down. “Hell, I’m half bear myself. That fellow on the hillside might just be my cousin.”
Markal left the camp, slipping into the darkness. When he reached the ridge, he crouched to his knees, summoning the proper incantation. This time, vows of the Order, he thought. Don’t fail me.
There were three components of active magic, that is, the magic greater than the ability to speak to animals and such. The first element was knowledge, and Markal knew more of the chants and incantations than anyone. He knew when it would be better to use the spells developed by each of the old orders: the Crimson Path, or the Seven Crippled Wizard Knights, or other, more minor orders. There was a difference between the right spell and the almost right spell. This knowledge compensated for his other deficiencies.
The second component was life force. The Order of the Wounded Hand drew life from their own hands, which shriveled and blackened after use. Other orders had drawn life force from animals, or grew hugely fat before casting magic, fat they burned off in a riot of energy, leaving flaps of skin behind. An evil wizard, of course, used human life; it was said that King Toth burned alive a hundred thousand children to bind the Way. Cragyn often drew magic by impaling his victims on spikes.
The final component of magic proved to be Markal’s weakness. Because good orders of wizards didn’t have as much power as dark wizards—what was a withered hand to murder and torture?—they drew strength from their convictions. Wizards like Chantmer the Tall and Nathaliey Liltige believed so strongly in the precepts of Jethro the Martyr that it made them powerful indeed. Such passionate belief also blinded them, Markal believed, while a more practical man or woman might be ultimately more effective. Alas, at times like this, he wished he had more faith in the Martyr’s teachings.
He whispered in the old tongue, “A Manth Sever, nurjoro puissant urs anach aguil flok, me pasht veltra khah.” By the Wounded Hand, I draw the strength of the bear and the wings of an eagle to speed my journey.
Power flowed through his veins. He arched his back and groaned. At the last moment, a niggle of doubt crept into his mind and much of the power bled uselessly into the air. It had been this bleeding of power that had drawn wights in Balsalom. Markal’s hand burned with pain, then drew cold. It withered.
The wizard might have turned into a giant eagle, had his faith been greater, or even a bear, had he not been so weak. Still, his bones hardened, his heart surged and a shout came to his lips. He bounded up the hill. Raging with heat, he tore off his clothes and cast them behind him. Branches and rocks scraped at his body and tore at his feet, but he paid them no attention. Darkness didn’t bother him, for he felt the path beneath his feet.
Over the hills and mountains he ran. When cliffs blocked his path, he scrambled directly up their faces with his good hand and his toes. Startled deer bounded out of his way. He frightened a dozing rabbit, running it down and passing it on the trail. His skin burned with fire.
A griffin aerie loomed to his right. Even with his keen eyes, he might not have seen the old tower where it stood in a small clearing, if not for the cry of an owl in that direction. It occurred to him that he could travel even faster on the back of a griffin, and he veered toward the aerie.
The tower was like many in these hills. They predated the Tothian Way, when other roads snaked their way through treacherous valleys, avoiding giant country. The towers were short stone buildings, no more than a hundred feet high in most cases, to guard against bandits. But when Toth slew the giant king and drove the other giants north, then built the Tothian Way, the towers fell into disuse. During the wars, griffin riders adapted them into aeries.
Markal knew instantly that something was wrong. A jumble of clothing sat in front of the doors, which hung wide open. The contents of a broken chest lay scattered around the clearing. A fire still burned in the hearth. He listened but heard nothing, and crept forward to investigate.
The clothing was not clothing, or at least, not merely clothing. It was a young man lying face down on the ground. The wizard reached down a hand to his face, but the magic fever burned so strongly in him that he couldn’t tell whether or not the man was still warm. Markal smelled animal blood, and followed the scent to a dead griffin that dangled from the window of its aerie.
Inside, more destruction. Dragon wasps had come while the griffins slept, and while they’d killed at least one of the beasts, a dragon wasp lay dead in the room. A second wasp was alive but torn and dying fast. It let out a hiss when it saw Markal, but didn’t crawl its way to the doorway. Someone had ransacked the rooms below, then left. Cragyn, looking for Darik and the book.
A whisper caught his ears and he froze. He crept to the window and listened. Something or someone moved through the trees, silently hunting in the darkness. Dark magic flowed from the trees like blood from a wound, polluting the air around him and Markal fought the urge to flee. Instead, he crouched by the window, waiting. The magical force flowed past, searching, but not for him.
And Markal might have escaped detection had he not done something stupid. Instead of letting the enemy pass, he sent a tendril of thought, the barest query of magic.
The dark wizard, searching for the tome. Yes, it was him. Markal recognized his magic immediately.
He could hardly believe Cragyn had grown so powerful. Markal remembered when Cragyn had approached the Citadel as a boy seventy years ago. Young and earnest, much like Darik was now, his only follies were the kind that could be excused by youth. Cragyn was a studious boy, ahead in his reading and memorizing the ancient learnings with astonishing speed. If he had a fault, it was his overly keen interest in spells to bind wights. Such spells had brought the destruction of other wizards, but Cragyn swore he would be careful. Alas, years of proximity to wights took their toll and Chantmer had discovered him tinkering in the dark arts and cast him from the Order.
Afraid because the dark wizard had grown so powerful, Markal withdrew, but not in time. A rope of thought struck faster than a coiled snake. He staggered back from the window, clawing at Cragyn’s attack, but not before he was detected.
Markal turned toward the door in a panic, but the enemy burst into the bottom of the tower, speeding up the stairs. Markal returned to the window, eyeing the thirty foot drop to the ground. The door behind him opened.
Cragyn wore a dark cloak, and shadows wreathed his body so thick that they foiled Markal’s keen eyesight. He bared his teeth and smiled. “Markal. Whatever happened to your clothes?”
Markal jumped. He hung in the air for a long moment, flailing against the night air, the ground impossibly far below him. And then he hit, trying to roll. It knocked the wind from him. He regained his feet, magic still coursing through his veins. Cragyn landed beside him, light on his feet, hands grabbing for his shoulders. Markal leapt over the ground like a hunted deer, but the dark wizard stayed right behind, his power much stronger than Markal’s waning energy.
And then, impossibly, Cragyn stopped the chase. Markal raced ahead, leaving t
he man behind. He veered toward his goal—Flockheart’s aerie—and kept running.
An hour later, the magic faded, while he was still far from his goal. First he felt a burning in the lungs, then he began to stumble over the occasional tree root, and then his muscles trembled when he slowed to hurdle some obstacle. At last he collapsed to the ground with a gasp. The last of the magic fled. He couldn’t move, his muscles seizing up. If the dark wizard still hunted him, he would find Markal helpless. At last Markal struggled to his feet.
Why had Cragyn turned away? Markal could think of one possible reason, and it gave him hope. Perhaps as powerful as the dark wizard had become, he still bound his magic to a single site, some center of power.
King Toth had kept his magic in a box of souls, together with his strongest wights. Memnet the Great had kept his power in a glass sphere about the size of a fist. When the time came for him to pull from his reserves, Memnet would isolate himself, then draw what he needed.
Few wizards ever bound so much magic that they could store it, but the dark wizard might be one of them. He might have turned away, afraid that Markal’s flight was a ruse to draw him away from his power.
Yes, Markal thought. He might have stumbled onto Cragyn’s vulnerable spot.
Dawn crept over the mountains, and he still had three or four hours to go, barring another spell. But the way his heart thrashed about in his chest, using another spell might kill him. Now that he’d stopped burning with the magic fever, his naked body shivered in the cool night air. If only he was a greater wizard, he’d already be there. Markal continued by foot, gaining strength.
When he came upon Flockheart’s aerie, his heart pounded for a different reason. Two griffins lay dead in front of the tower, together with half a dozen dragon wasps. Cragyn had been here, too. One rider, face hidden, lay crushed beneath his mount. The battle had cost the dark wizard greatly, but he had won. The door to Flockheart’s tower hung from its hinges and debris lay strewn about in front of the building.
The Dark Citadel Page 22
