“While Ismail assaults the enemy army, you will sweep through his forces like a scythe cutting wheat. You will ride, sacrificing whatever of your forces you must until you find your brother. When you have King Whelan before you, then you will plunge your sword through his heart and destroy him. You will bring me his sword.”
Chapter Fifteen
Markal followed Whelan on foot to the top of the grassy hill. It was one of several hills north of the Tothian Way opposite the castle where the king had made his headquarters. From the air, Markal had noticed something strangely uniform about the way the hills rose from the plains, but he hadn’t immediately recollected what it was about these hills that was special.
This particular hill was too far removed from the Tothian Way to serve a strategic value except as a lookout, and they had several of those already. Several companies of Balsalomian foot soldiers had encamped about the base, together with some Veyrian deserters recruited into the army, and when Whelan mentioned that the Veyrians claimed the hill was haunted, this had awakened something in Markal’s memory.
It was perhaps two miles on foot from the castle to the hill, and Whelan remained silent during their walk. The sun was dropping in the west, and already the insects were buzzing in the underbrush. Some of Markal’s worries evaporated as he passed through the camps. From the air, Whelan’s army had looked like chaos, a tumble of men and animals and supplies all pushing down the road to stop here like a stream blocked by a fallen log. But on the ground, he could see men drilling, a small army of fletchers and blacksmiths repairing and manufacturing the instruments of war, quartermasters gathering and cataloging great stores of food and supplies, captains and generals pouring over maps and receiving word from scouts who came racing in on horses, delivered dispatches, and then galloped off again on fresh mounts.
Whelan kept his face hidden behind his cloak to minimize interruptions until they reached the hill, but studied everything with a raptor’s gaze. When they climbed above the Balsalomians, he threw back his hood and looked down across the encampment, staring for a long moment toward the northeast.
“I don’t like the look of Lord Denys’s forces,” he said. “From this vantage, his flank looks weak. He’s guarding eighty wagons of wheat and beer—it’s a tempting target for raiders.” He glanced at Markal. “A dozen ravagers would stab through Denys like a spear to the heart.”
Before leaving the camp, Markal had shared the grim news about Captain Roderick and the growing strength of the ravagers that had claimed Whelan’s brother. Whelan’s face turned grim, and he shared his own news. He had been trying to destroy a band of ravagers over the past several days. On several occasions, he’d nearly trapped the undead knights before they finally reached the safety of Veyre. The dark wizard seemed unwilling to risk them in open combat, perhaps saving them as a reserve force for when Whelan reached the gates of the city itself.
“But you didn’t know their captain was your brother?” Markal had asked.
Whelan had bit down hard on his lip. “No,” he said through closed teeth.
“I am sorry.”
Whelan gave a curt nod.
Markal wondered if his old friend would have broken down and wept if he hadn’t been surrounded by Hoffan and a dozen other captains and adjutants. What’s more, the wizard now sensed that something else was troubling Whelan that had nothing to do with the ravagers. Markal glanced at the man’s sword, swinging from his side as they hiked, and guessed at the reason.
When the two men reached the top of the hill, the king looked at the ring of stones. His eyes widened, and some of his old curiosity shone through.
“I’ve heard nothing about this,” Whelan said. “How did you know this was here?”
“A good memory. You see a lot of different things over the course of four centuries.”
Of the standing stones, only three remained upright. The others had collapsed to the ground, some so long ago that they survived only as lumps beneath the grass. At one time, a great ring of stones had covered the hilltop, some three hundred feet across, but when Markal had seen it last, most of them had already fallen
Whelan eyed the tumbled ruin and let out a low whistle. “I’ve heard of standing stones, but never seen them.”
“Most of the rings were plundered for their stone hundreds of years ago. Here in the east, the Veyrians are too superstitious to come here, so some of them remain. And if you travel to the far north, you will see dozens of sites like this. Some remain more or less unchanged.”
“Who built them? King Toth?”
“This ring was already a thousand years old before the wars,” Markal told him. “As for who built them, nobody knows. Some think a great civilization of stone giants brought them here to honor their gods, but I doubt it. For one thing, I’ve never seen giants build anything that required cooperation. Only a thrackmole will bring giants together, and they only pick up stones long enough to bloody their opponents’ heads.”
The king ran a gloved hand along the smooth granite of the largest of the standing stones. Markal could still see the scored marks left by ancient chisels. An even larger stone lay at its feet, the surface poking above the grass. The wizard sat down on it and held out a hand.
“Hand me the sword.”
Whelan eyed him dubiously. “It’s dangerous. I don’t dare to draw it any longer.”
“Then unstrap the weapon and set it beside me. This is a thin place—it will serve my purpose.”
Whelan unstrapped the weapon and placed it on the stone. “A thin place?”
“There’s old magic here, faint but powerful. Listen, I can hear the clink of chisels, the voices whispering. Some ancient tongue—I don’t understand a word of it. But I hear it.”
Whelan cocked his head. After a moment, he shook it. “Only the wind and the insects.”
Markal eased Soultrup out of the sheath and stared at it without picking it up. It was a long, beautiful two-handed weapon of hammered steel, with a fine but unremarkable hilt and pommel. Nothing marked it by sight as unusual. An excellent weapon, yes, but it hardly seemed unique. Yet even without touching it, he could feel the magic radiating from the blade. There was something in it that whispered for him to draw it, a tugging at his hand. He was not a warrior and could resist this with ease, but what if it had been Darik sitting here? Surely he would have been irresistibly drawn to snatch it up.
“Who did you kill?” Markal asked.
“Nobody in particular, or at least nobody stronger than Pasha Malik.”
Malik was a ruthless general whose soul had been bound within the sword for hundreds of years. It was said he had started wars for no other reason than to gain captives for torture, deeds that were said to have inspired King Toth’s own cruelty. With Malik guiding it, Soultrup had been an evil weapon, gaining power and malice from the strongest, most wicked soul contained within. But as the blade cut a bloody path through the good and righteous, its character had gradually changed. And then it murdered Memnet the Great, the wisest and most powerful wizard in Aristonia, and its nature had flipped. Since then, it had been a force for good. Until now, perhaps.
“We fought three different battles as we pushed east,” Whelan continued. “I could already feel the sword pushing at me after the Battle of Arvada, but as we continued east, Soultrup turned slippery in my grasp. One moment it would feel six feet long, and I seemed ten feet tall and invincible, and the next it would turn aside at a dangerous point in the battle, as if it wanted me to be killed.”
“The souls are warring for control,” Markal said. “With every servant of the enemy you kill, Malik gains an ally in his fight against Memnet the Great.”
“When we tore down the gates of the castle where you found me, we came face-to-face with a dozen of Toth’s torturers. We were beset by scimitars swinging in the air held by severed arms. A fireball burned six Knights Temperate to death. The ground swallowed up a company of horsemen.”
“That is powerful wizardry,” Marka
l said. “I wouldn’t have thought the torturers could draw that much strength.”
“Later, we found eighty people chained in the dungeon, many of them dead, but others still alive and suffering in the torturers’ infernal devices. The torturers had been drawing on the pain of their victims.” Whelan’s jaw clenched. “We won the battle, but it was costly. During the final skirmish, I cut down the master torturer. When his soul was bound to Soultrup, that was when I no longer dared to draw the sword. I can still feel Memnet the Great, but there is no question anymore. He is losing.
“But I don’t dare put it away either,” Whelan continued. “If it falls into another’s hands . . . ” He shook his head. “Perhaps it should be destroyed.”
“No. It is our tool against the dark wizard, the key to banishing him from Mithyl forever.”
Whelan didn’t answer, but looked down the hill to the thousands of men stretching in the vales toward the Tothian Way.
“So that is when your army stalled?” Markal prodded.
“We were already grinding to a halt. I’d outmarched our supply lines, could no longer carry our wounded forward, and didn’t have enough strength to hold the Tothian Way if I continued. I received word from Balsalom that Kallia had raised another three thousand men, and that more could be expected from the Free Kingdoms by the end of the month. Since then I have been reinforcing and consolidating my hold before I begin the final push.”
“Hmm.” Markal considered. “Unfortunately, the enemy is also gaining strength. We flew above several enemy armies marching along your northern and western flanks.”
“So my scouts have reported,” Whelan said. “I had hoped the eastern khalifates would collapse or come over.They must see that the dark wizard promises only oppression and servitude. But most are still loyal to Toth.”
“The enemy is rebuilding his strength,” Markal offered. “If they revolt, and he wins, they will be tortured and then worked to death. And now we have Chantmer the Tall to face as well. If Narud doesn’t deal with him, we may find a second enemy at our underbelly, marching up the Spice Road.”
Whelan looked worried at this. His wife was in Balsalom, sending many of the men and nearly all of the supplies that were feeding his army, but this left her exposed to enemies crossing the desert from the sultanates.
“Pasha Ismail’s forces are the more immediate threat,” Whelan said. “He has giants and mammoths and as many as ten thousand fresh men. We have to turn him back. If he is allowed to reinforce Veyre, we’ll be driven back a hundred miles.” Again, he looked down across the plains below the hill, eyes ranging across his formations.
“You have an army to lead,” Markal said. He eyed Soultrup, still lying on the stone next to him. “Can you leave me with the sword?”
“Take the cursed thing—I’ll be glad to be done with it.”
Markal gave a sad smile. “No, my friend. I am afraid it is your burden to bear. And bear it you must.”
“Then I will be glad to be rid of it for an hour, if that is all you will give me.”
#
When Whelan had retreated down the hillside, Markal stared at Soultrup for some time before touching the weapon. It was almost dark, and he didn’t want to sit here all night when he could be resting in the castle, but he needed to work up his nerve. He’d never cared to meddle with the dead. Cragyn, from the order, had been obsessed with wights. That obsession had destroyed him; the dead King Toth had seized his body and made it his own.
When it was dark and the comet had spread its growing veil across the sky, Markal removed Memnet’s Orb from the inner pocket where he’d carried it since leaving Marrabat. He held the cool, smooth glass in his right hand. With his left, he picked up the sword by the hilt.
He had never heard the souls in the sword, but at times when he’d used his magic while standing next to Whelan, he had caught a glimpse of what looked like blue smoke curling around the blade. He had long wondered how he could communicate with the souls inside without seizing the weapon and making it his own. Here, in this thin place, he stood a better chance, but he needed something more. He hoped he had come up with a good answer.
The words of the spell came to his mind, the force drawn not from his hand but from the magic stored in the orb. The spell was the same one Aristonian wizards had used in the Tothian Wars to reveal wights in the enemy’s army.
Revelamun lemures terrae. In the old tongue: “Wights of the land, show yourselves.”
The sword cast a cool blue glow that mingled with the comet light overhead. Voices whispered in his mind, a jumble of languages and words that sounded like the surf casting itself along the shoreline. His vision blurred. One voice rose above the others.
“Markal,” the voice said. “You have come to my kingdom. Bow and worship me.”
It was cold and cruel, and with the voice came a blanket of fear. Hundreds of other voices—malignant and evil—joined in an insistent demand that he fall to his knees. It was all he could do not to wail in despair and cast the sword away.
Just when Markal couldn’t stand it any longer, the darkness lifted. A feeling of peace descended on his shoulders, and a bright light flared in the middle of his vision. He blinked at the light, and when he opened his eyes again, everything had changed.
He stood in the midst of a garden. Flowering bushes crowded the pebbled path on which he stood, bees circling their blossoms. The noon sun hung overhead, welcoming and warm.
The path stretched ahead of him, enveloping a pair of fountains, and then disappeared between two hedges. After a moment of hesitation, Markal followed the path. The last remnants of fear dissipated, and his spirits lifted higher than they had in weeks.
He thought at first that he stood in the Fair Land, or at least a reproduction, but Aristonia had a distinctive smell: honey and wood mixed with a dark earthy scent. This land, however beautiful, had a different smell altogether, not nearly so rich. But still green and very alive.
“So, what now?” he said aloud.
Was his body still sitting on the cool slab among the standing stones, as the night grew chill and his limbs turned rigid and stiff? Perhaps, but the warm breeze on his face was no dream, the scent of flowers in the garden as real as anything he’d ever felt.
With nothing else to do, he continued along the path, feeling drawn, beckoned by some force or being.
The garden grew more lush, the fountains more sublime as the path wandered up and over knolls, past ruined stone walls and towers covered with ivy. Chanting voices came to his ears, men and women speaking in the old tongue. Four hundred years peeled away, and Markal remembered standing in Memnet’s presence as a young man, remembered the endless lessons in writing, language, and history. But he remembered the voices more than anything. Memnet the Great taught his youngest apprentices through repetition, voices chanting the same lines over and over until they hardened into memory.
Markal came upon these training apprentices a few moments later. They sat in an open-air pavilion, ringed by ivy-covered columns, some twenty men and half a dozen women with crossed legs and closed eyes.
“A garden is more than harvest. It is sowing, weeding, watering. A garden is more than harvest . . . ”
A smile came to Markal’s lips. One of the earliest lessons, and also Memnet’s favorite saying. His old friend and teacher was nearby. Markal continued walking and soon came upon a second pavilion.
And there he saw a person who had not lived for four hundred years, not since a ravager had thrust Soultrup into his chest. The greatest and most powerful wizard ever to walk the surface of Mithyl. Markal’s own teacher and master.
Memnet the Great.
Chapter Sixteen
Chantmer glanced up as his servant admitted Faalam into the chambers, and he felt a glow of satisfaction to see the eunuch’s weakened appearance. Faalam shivered even though the coals smoking in the braziers heated the room warmer than the rest of the palace. A tremble played at his lips and hands, and his skin had turned a
s pale as an Eriscoban’s. The silver bite had worked its effect beautifully.
Chantmer sat on a bed of nails wearing only a loincloth. A man used needles to sketch a new tattoo onto his right shoulder, a quotation of the Martyr in the old script. Over the past week, tattoos had crept further and further over his body, until they encircled his upper arms, neck, and shoulders like coiling snakes. Soon, he would look no different than the other mages under Roghan’s command.
His strength was returning even as he mastered the art of binding his magic to the tattoos in his skin. And yet he hadn’t lost the ability to wither his hands for an immediate surge of power. He swore he would regain his position as the most powerful wizard in the land, capable of bending the proud wizards of the order to his will, as well as subdue these arrogant southern mages.
Chantmer eased himself from the nails and rose to his feet as Faalam approached.
Faalam bowed low. “I apologize for leaving your side, learned master.” A tremor passed through his voice. “I have not felt well.”
Chantmer took Faalam by the hands as if worried the man would stagger and fall. More of the silver bite worked from Chantmer’s skin into his enemy’s.
“You are ill? Perhaps you should return to your bed. You will overexert yourself.”
Faalam pulled away and sat on the pillows by the door. “Not ill. Poisoned.”
“Really?” Chantmer acted alarmed. “Is there an assassin in the palace?”
The eunuch stared back through narrowed eyes. “Never you worry, wizard. My strength returns already. A few more days, and I will return fully to health. Some may be disappointed to hear it.”
“Master?” the tattooist asked Chantmer. He was a slender man with delicate hands and a shaved head. One of the lesser mages. “Shall we continue?”
Chantmer looked to Faalam for the answer to this question.
“I must speak with you alone,” the eunuch said.
The poison had flushed any subtlety from Faalam’s system. Indeed, Chantmer wondered if his senses had not already begun to deteriorate. He’d never before shown interest in speaking with Chantmer about anything, merely following and watching.
The Warrior King (Book 4) Page 12
