by Sean Hinn
J’arn sighed again, this time in resignation. “Yer not gonna like the company, Boot.”
Boot grabbed his sack and headed out of the tavern, calling over his shoulder. “I ain’t worried about the company J’arn, so long as you don’t bring that lyin’ jackwit Garlan! See ya at the gates!”
Again, J’arn sighed, and waved the waitress over. “I’ll be needin’ one more, Kari.”
XV: MOR
Sartean chose to walk back to Kehrlia rather than travel magically, deciding that he would benefit from observing the comings and goings of common men along the way. It had been some time since he had been out of doors and among the subjects of Mor, for he found the stench of the city distasteful. Little offended the wizard more than the foul odor of the masses. Perhaps that unpleasantness will soon be rectified, he thought to himself, his visage of disgust brightening to a smile. Well, one way or another.
The distance to Kerhlia was a bit over a half hour’s walk from the Palace of Men where the king resided, a truly ironic name, for while the men and women of Mor had built it, none would wish to have business there. A visit to the Palace these days by a common citizen was unfailingly made in chains and concluded in the stocks at best, in the digestive track of carrion birds at worst.
Sartean considered this, as he made his way across the Palace moat, through the gates and onto Kings Way, the mile-long circular thoroughfare surrounding the palace. On the inner side of the street, spaced no more than a pike’s length apart, stood soldiers in rusted and battered armor, standing at loose attention. In times past the position of Palace Defender was a temporary and ornamental one, and meant as an honor to the soldiers who were assigned to the division. They would serve at full parade attention for two hours per day, and would be allowed leave at the end of their daily service to do as they pleased. The assignment was considered a reward for excellence, or bravery, or sacrifice of some sort, and would last for a cycle, after which they would return to their battalion or, as often happened, be promoted into a more senior position. Many of the men serving as Defender would have been recovering from injuries in battle, and their service in the division gave them an opportunity to regain their strength before returning to full service.
The men assigned to the Defenders, however, had often been of a character that disallowed them from enjoying the idleness between shifts, and unless they were convalescing from injury, typically would return to their usual duties upon completion of their daily stint as sentry. The Defenders had been a source of pride for the Army of Mor and its people, uniformed entirely in bleached white with a shining steel breastplate indicative of their excellence, bearing symbols of either the Order of Blood, for wounded soldiers, or perhaps The Blade of Mor, reserved for warriors who had shown great valor and courage. If a man fell in battle, a surrogate would serve in his stead on the Way, nearest the main gates to the Palace, and would be free to tell any who would listen the tale of how the fallen warrior met his courageous end. One would visit the carts, shops, and markets that lined the opposite side of Kings Way and be reminded that their way of life was made possible by the blood and honor of gallant men. Boys would walk the Way and admire the brave soldiers, formulating tales of how they would one day earn their place among their ranks. Young eligible women would shop one side of the street for provisions, and the other for a husband.
Today, the uniforms of the Defenders could only be described as “once-white”, and rather than remaining at parade attention for two hours per day, Palace Defenders would be made to serve for a full half-day, receiving relief only once per shift in order to feed and relieve themselves. Upon taking the throne, one of King Halsen’s first orders of business was to dissolve the original tradition of the Defenders, and replace it with one of his own design. A shift on the Way was no longer to be considered a reward, but instead became a punishment for some infraction or another, for to Halsen’s mind, why waste good soldiers in idleness? The result was inevitable; instead of being a source of dignity for the people of Mor, the rank of Defenders became populated with the worst sort of soldier, no longer keen to cleanliness, presentation, and pride, but rather to sloppiness and poor discipline. Eventually, due to their proximity to the centers of trade, a disorganized system of harassment, extortion, and abuse developed, eventually establishing itself into a hierarchy of organized crime. The corruption spread throughout the regular army, and Halsen turned a blind eye to it all, only intervening when the corruption negatively intersected with his personal ambitions.
It was those ambitions that Sartean weighed carefully as he made his way through the markets, not completely oblivious to the terror he left in his wake as he drifted through Mor. The Listening stone will tell me much tonight, I suspect, thought Sartean, aware that his passage on foot through the streets would inspire rumors and nightmares in abundance. The more pressing matter at hand, however, was Halsen. His meeting with Halsen had been considerably more successful than he had imagined, and he had parted ways with the fool in possession of a mandate to reshape the kingdom as he saw fit. Of course, the king did not quite use those terms, but he may as well have. The power in Mor was, as in any great city, concentrated within the treasury, and by extension, wielded by the treasurers. For so long as they controlled the distribution of wealth, they controlled all. The status of the kingdom’s finances today, however, was atrocious, as the king had spent a lifetime enriching himself at the expense of his subjects, and as a result, the system of finance was on the verge of collapse. This left the treasury managers in a state of disarray, as they were soon discovering that their ability to wield power was dwindling in proportion to the coffers of the kingdom.
Sartean foresaw the inevitable societal decay decades ago, in part through his own considerable intelligence and reasoning skills, and in part through his (also considerable) powers of divination. The wizard had spent the better part of twenty years preparing for this day, and found the solution much by accident, while disciplining an apprentice nine years prior.
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Mila Felsin was a stunning young woman, intelligent beyond measure, gifted with an inherent understanding of all things magical, and as ambitious as any apprentice Sartean had ever tutored. Her only real flaw was her insatiably competitive nature, and to Sartean’s mind, this was no flaw at all. Mila was part of a class of a dozen apprentices who had been serving and studying at Kehrlia for over three years, and less than half of them would graduate in the coming spring. There had been one hundred to begin training three winters prior, but the process to earn the title of Incantor was, by design, brutally competitive. In reality, any of the applicants who had successfully made their way into the initial class of one hundred would have made talented wizards or sorceresses, but there was more to serving Sartean than mere talent – and to become an Incantor was, above all else, to dedicate oneself to a lifetime of service to Sartean D’avers. Five of the initial hundred would succeed in obtaining their title, no more, and perhaps less.
Mila’s skills and talents related to sorcery were equaled only by her exceptional beauty, and she had no qualms about using both to advance her position and standing. The young apprentice was blessed with nearly flawless physical features. The first thing one noticed about Mila was her eyes, intolerably green, wide and bright, resting beneath a perpetually curious brow, and above high cheekbones that were at once soft and severe. Her face was purely symmetrical, aside from the slight smirk she always seemed to display with her full, delicately painted lips. Naturally silky and thick hair, the color of richly brewed tea, carefully maintained to hang on the swell of her ample bosom, accentuated her alluring figure. Long, slender arms ended in delicate hands, one usually perched on the shelf of flesh between her slim waistline and her just-wide-enough hips, the other playfully teasing her hair, or the locket she wore, drawing even more attention to her endowments. Her legs, thin but muscular, while not disproportionate to her body as a whole, managed to seem impossibly long, an illusion created by the cut of the dr
esses she wore, slit to dangerous heights along one side, one luxurious leg always managing to slide out from beneath her silken gowns. This was the view of Mila Felsin from the front, and whenever the class was expected to walk any distance at all, there would inevitably be a fight for the right to walk behind her.
The first three years of training at Kehrlia consisted of what one would expect. Rigorous academic instruction in the first year was followed by a gradual introduction to practical concepts in the second, by which time more than half of the initial class had already been winnowed out. Those who possessed the discipline and talent to survive the second year would be immersed in magic in their third year, expected to complete all tasks and duties purely through the use and application of sorcery. An observed transgression as simple as reaching for a pen, when one could instead have used an enchantment to move it, could be sufficient for expulsion. The objective of a third year apprentice was to develop magical instincts, and to overcome fully the limitations of the flesh. That was not to imply that the flesh no longer had any use, as Mila had demonstrated in her acquisition of political standing among her peers. As in most competitive ventures, becoming an Incantor was as much about politics as talent and effort, for to make the wrong enemies or show vulnerability was to assure one’s failure. While many who began as apprentices to Kehrlia did so with idealistic ambitions, the altruistic among them quickly fell victim to the machinations of the ambitious and unethical. This was by Sartean’s design, for he had no illusions about his own moral nature, and would not suffer an idealist to gain power within his ranks.
Mila succeeded in all, and enjoyed her position at the very top of her class at the end of her third year. Unlike her classmates, however, in her ascent among her peers, Mila Felsin did not attempt to endear herself to Sartean. Those who did quickly learned that their efforts were wasted, and some of the clumsier attempts at ingratiation resulted in immediate expulsion, yet all had tried. All, that is, except Mila. This was a curiosity to Sartean. Like any man, Sartean did not completely lack a certain lust for the seductive apprentice, and more than once he had fantasized about exactly how she would one day attempt to secure his support. Being possessed of inhuman internal discipline, however, and even greater ambition, the wizard was not put out by her neglect, but rather assumed it to be a masterful display of power by the young woman. For, after all, most men of influence are quick to discard their sexual conquests, and perhaps Mila Felsin felt that to keep herself distant from Sartean would enhance her mystery and allure, assuring herself a continued place in Kehrlia while the fantasy of her continued to burn unquenched.
It never once dawned on Sartean that perhaps she simply failed to favor him; a woman such as she could not resist a man with his power, and it would only be a matter of time until he would possess her. If he so chose.
The studies that made up the fourth year of apprenticeship at Kehrlia were impossible to master. Truly, and by design, impossible. Complex and monumental tasks, beyond the power of any one individual to accomplish on schedule, were the norm. On the morning of the first day of the first session of the fourth year, Sartean himself instructed the prospective Incantors to assemble at the steps of Kerhlia.
Their assignment was simple. Apprentices were required to team up with another student. Each team was given the task of travelling to two different points on the compass surrounding Mor and to retrieve various objects of power that had been carefully hidden. None of the students yet possessed the secrets of teleportation, and it was, in all likelihood, impossible for any usual means of travel to allow them to retrieve both objects in the allotted time. Each objective, however, was assigned to a single member of the team, meaning that they must work together to obtain both, though one of them would surely fail. Failure, as always, resulted in expulsion. Splitting up was not an option; the incantation required to free the targeted object from its hiding place required two wizards to execute. The teams would have two days to return with their objects, and whomever was not present at the entrance to Kehrlia by dawn of the third day would be expelled. The only rule was that they could not enlist outside help; horses would be allowed, assistance from others would not.
The unspoken purpose of the exercise was to determine which individuals among the teams would possess the power of will and persuasion to ensure that they were the member of their team to obtain their trinket. Some would try to obtain both in time, but in the history of Kehrlia, no team had succeeded. They were given the remainder of the day to form their teams and strategies, and would be expected to leave together at daybreak the next day.
The commencement of the contest began as a race for the stronger and wiser apprentices to recruit the weakest, attempting to ensure that they would be able to convince the weaker apprentice to go after their token last. Sartean had barely turned to withdraw into the keep when the infighting and pleading began. Noticeably absent from the fray, however, was Mila, who had quietly left the gathering and followed Sartean into the keep.
Sartean waited at the steps leading to the second level for Mila to catch up, suspecting that this would be the day that she decided to exercise her sexual allure to secure herself some assistance. Instead, however, she entered the keep, nodded politely to the wizard, and made her way to the laboratories in the chambers beyond. Sartean returned her nod and watched her slip away, perplexed.
Later, after evening had fallen and the wizard walked his private balcony, he saw the young woman leaving the keep and walking towards the apprentice’s sleeping quarters, seeming to be in no hurry whatsoever. Curious, he thought to himself.
Dawn arrived the next day, and the students waited in mounted pairs at the entrance to the keep for Sartean to make his appearance. He made them wait fully one hour, knowing that his delay would increase their desperation, and reduce the amount of time they had available to make their journeys. As he departed the keep and walked into the sunlight, he saw that not all pairs were mounted - waiting at the front of the class stood Mila and the second most promising student in their year, Kynneth Ansel, a well-built and intelligent young apprentice whom Sartean had expected to graduate with ease.
Interesting, Sartean thought. He distributed sealed envelopes to each pair, within which contained the locations of their objectives, with instructions to not open them until he gave the word. Once all the envelopes were distributed, he announced that the race had begun. The six pairs tore open their instructions, and dashed off towards the gates. Mila and Kynneth did not immediately depart. Instead, Mila reached into her pack, and pulled out two small vials of brown liquid. They each quaffed them down, nodded to one another, and raced off on foot at a speed that allowed them to overtake their mounted opponents in seconds.
So, that is her plan, thought Sartean. A shame, they will never survive the journey.
The common name for the potion the pair had just appeared to drink was Speedsap, a powerful drug that could instill the imbiber with strength, speed, and endurance, a potion that had once been used primarily in battle when facing the direst of circumstances. In addition to being highly addictive, it was also quite unstable, and would affect its users differently. Some would tolerate it well, for a time at least, until their hearts exploded. Others would fall dead at the first taste. Others would become crazed, disoriented, and violent. The preparation of the potion was as much the cause of the variety in effects as was the metabolism of the user. The ingredients for the cocktail were a mixture of rare plants and roots, boiled, steamed, pressed and juiced, and not only was it difficult to obtain the ingredients, but it was nearly impossible to make one batch match the potency of the last.
The creation and use of the potion had long been outlawed, though this did not matter to Sartean. He did not specify in the rules that illegal substances would be forbidden in the exercise, so they were not. What he did find interesting, however, was that not only had Mila taken the risk of using such a powerful and dangerous drug, but that she had somehow convinced the second best student in her
class to abandon the traditional strategy of the contest and follow her lead. Perhaps she has somehow perfected the potion, he surmised. No, not that. Many a wizard, himself included, have attempted the pursuit. It was not possible.
The day wore on, and the next, and dawn was near on the third day when Sartean arose. He called for tea and breakfast, and demanded they be readied for him on his balcony, so that he might watch the students make their weary way to the keep as daylight approached. He did not often participate directly in the supervision of his apprentice’s errands; he had dedicated instructors for most of the necessary training. This task, however, he enjoyed taking a personal interest in, for much can be learned about a person under such conditions.
He made his way to the balcony and could see the black night sky giving way to lighter violet over the peaks of the Maw. He looked to the southern and eastern gates, and as yet saw no sign of his students. He considered contests past, and the ways in which various apprentices had attempted to succeed at their tasks. One pair had given a crude counterfeit of Speedsap to their horses, only to be thrown and trampled before they made it to the gates. Another had attempted a complex incantation to manipulate the fabric of time, resulting in their permanent disappearance at the steps of the keep. His most vivid memory was of one of his first classes, when a pair had attempted to enchant a sparrow to enormous size, hoping to ride it to their destinations. The bird grew, certainly, and pecked half of the class to death before Sartean intervened. Only one student graduated that year, and with only half of a face.
“No, the contest is won much more simply,” Sartean said to himself. Horses, minor enchantments, and treachery. The primary challenge was this: few wizards are great equestrians, and almost none are capable of riding at speed while leading a spare mount. The secondary challenge is where the treachery comes in: what happens along the trail when it becomes clear to one apprentice that hope is lost, and that he or she will not obtain their trinket? More than one pair of wizards had fought to the death at that point, neither to achieve their goal.
