Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  “My Lord P-Prince,” the mortal said, stammering, and dropped to his knees. “I have ridden two days to reach you, to warn you … that our plans have been exposed. Prince Edris and Lord Danvek … have been taken by the Faith. Almgren and Riamel have joined forces, and even now they march this way to confront you … and your army.”

  “How did the enemy ferret them out?” Luthekar demanded. “An apostate informer? Or did one of you fools misstep and give the game away?”

  “No! No, none … it was t-the Inquisition, Lord Prince. And a Northmarcher, the one who had been captured—”

  The crimson light in Luthekar’s eyes flared. “What Northmarcher?”

  “Th-the Arluthian, my lord,” Hildric said weakly.

  Luthekar reached him in two strides, grabbed the throat of his jacket, and plucked him off the ground with one hand. The Droken prince held the human a few inches away from his bloody glare. Hildric gasped and shut his eyes.

  “Look at me, you rodent!” Luthekar shouted, his voice rising to a roar.

  Hildric’s eyes snapped open. All he saw were red flames, and he quivered with a chill that reached down into his very soul.

  “What was the name of this Northmarcher, Hildric?”

  Hildric’s eyes darted frantically from side to side. “It w-was, uh, Morticai … that was it … Morticai … my lord.”

  “Impossible,” Luthekar uttered. He dropped Hildric, who sprawled back on the canvas floor. “Even if he still lived, he would be nothing more than a crippled imbecile.”

  “M-my lord,” Hildric said, “the Inquisitor said that a miracle had been performed. I myself attended the ceremony in our temple, and I saw his eyes burned out … but when he stood before us at Mid-Keep, he had his eyes. They are a different color now, a strange, purple hue, but he has them. Nor did he seem to lack his sanity. Except for the unholy color of his eyes, he did not look or act as though he had ever been in our hands or faced the Ritual.”

  Closing his eyes, Luthekar bowed his head. He forced back the anger that gripped him. It would do him no good to kill Hildric. What had happened had not been his fault. He had been faithful, and he’d been correct in his decision to ride to Luthekar with this news. Obviously, something had gone wrong at the temple. And what had happened to Ellenwood?

  Taking a deep breath, he reopened his eyes. The red flames had faded. He looked down upon the human, who lay in a heap on the tent floor before him.

  “Get up, Lord Hildric,” Luthekar said calmly.

  Trembling, Hildric rose slowly to his feet.

  “Tell me everything,” Luthekar said.

  * * *

  Luthekar sat, much later, amid the wreckage of his tent. He sighed. He hadn’t actually destroyed anything, but he’d made quite a mess. He looked around ruefully and thought, Well … it was worth it.

  He rose and walked to the one area he had been careful not to touch—his altar. He sat before it, cross-legged, and after a moment’s pause looked up at the pure gold likeness of the corryn body Droka had worn when he’d met Luthekar’s mother. “Why, Father?” he whispered. “Why have you let me come all this way, and do all these things, if it is only to be met with defeat?”

  As a smoky haze began to fill the spacious tent, Luthekar bowed his head in respect. He’d known that his father would answer. Some questions demanded answers, even when asked by a child.

  When Luthekar raised his head, he no longer sat in his tent. The bleak landscape that surrounded him was a deep, mottled red. It was cold, but Luthekar did not complain. Before him, sitting like himself, was his father, the Almighty Droka. He wore the corryn form that Luthekar had always associated with him.

  “It was necessary,” Droka replied simply.

  “Why?” Luthekar asked.

  “Before now,” his father replied, “the Levani were less involved. They protected their pitiful followers, but would not face me directly. Cowards that they are, they have never faced me directly.”

  Luthekar said, “But all of the books say that you fought the Levani before, when the world was young.”

  Droka shook his head. “No—not in honest battle, and not all of them. It was Aluntas, the master of the Levani, whom I faced, and it was he who shamelessly tricked me and banished me to this place.” He gestured to the barren landscape that surrounded them. “I have waited, all this time,” he continued, “for the Levani to face me in a battle that I may fight on my terms, on ground of my own choosing. Only then, once they are defeated, may I take my rightful place, which is with you, in your world.”

  “But how—”

  “The Levani Glawres has challenged me,” Droka replied once again to the unasked question. “Had it not been for Glawres’s intervention, you would not now be facing defeat. By choosing this Morticai, a mortal, as his champion, he has intervened in a way that offers me an opportunity to chose my battleground.”

  “Then … you may come to my assistance now?” Luthekar asked.

  “No,” Droka replied, shaking his head. “I cannot yet directly participate in your struggle. As Glawres has done, I must work, for now, through my faithful followers. It will take time for me to prepare the way before I may bring my full might to bear in the service of your cause, our cause.”

  Luthekar sighed. “Then, I must turn back.” He blinked in surprise when he realized that his father had just let him finish making a statement.

  “Yes, you must. You are wise to recognize that truth, and I know it is a painful truth—but such must you do.”

  “Mortern,” Luthekar moaned. His human counterpart would taunt him endlessly for this defeat.

  “Mortern shall not mock you,” Droka replied. “I will visit him this very night as well. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Luthekar. You have followed every instruction. You will not be blamed for the weaknesses of those beneath you.”

  There was one last question Luthekar wished to ask.

  Droka nodded in response to the thought. “Yes, this is in the Books of Prophesy. But you could not have known when Glawres would choose his agent or who it would be. And no, I could not have warned you.” Droka’s eyes flared red. “It was hidden, even from me. Long have I sought the warrior follower of Glawres who would rise to fulfill the prophecies, but the verses did not foretell that my enemy would choose an orphan child of the gutters and the slums, a worthless thief. Instead, I had looked for him in the palaces of the world, among those worthy of such a station.”

  The fires in Droka’s eyes flamed even brighter. “Tricked, once again—but tricked for the last time! You, my son, will put an end to that, and to this champion of the shadows and the sewers Glawres has chosen. Go, now, and prepare the way for our next meeting.”

  Luthekar bowed his head. Never had he heard Droka come so close to admitting that he’d made a mistake, and he found that … alarming. When he looked up again, the form of his father, as well as the shadows of the landscape behind him, was already beginning to fade. As though they were receding through a great number of veils that were slowly being replaced by others, the image faded to become once again the wreck of his cluttered tent.

  * * *

  It was nearly dawn. Prince Luthekar sat with his feet propped upon the small table, tapping the dry quill tip against the edge of the board that held his papers. Soon, General Wilfram would arrive at his tent, and they would finalize the plans they had discussed after his father had left him.

  Damn the Northmarch! That thought had haunted him many times throughout the long night. There was no way around it. His father, as always, was correct—he had to retreat. And yet, Luthekar knew that he would need to cut his army’s numbers before he did so. His men didn’t have enough supplies to make it back to the first cache site. Mortern had scoffed at him for taking the time to stock supplies behind them. “Preparing for defeat?” Mortern had taunted him.

  But his father had ag
reed with the plan. “I would not wish you to face defeat, but neither would I be so confident against the treacherous Levani,” Droka had said.

  His guard entered the tent. “General Wilfram, my lord.”

  Luthekar nodded. “We are ready?” he asked as the general sat down in the chair opposite him.

  “Yes, my lord,” he replied. “I have chosen the thousand infantrymen. They travel to the foothills even as we speak.”

  “Good. You provided them with extra crossbow quarrels?”

  “Yes, my lord, as many as they could carry.”

  Luthekar nodded. “That should give us a thousand fewer mouths to feed, and it will enable us to reach that cache site.”

  “I think it is quite fitting,” Wilfram observed. “The Northmarch destroyed our supplies, forcing us to lighten our force. It is only just that they suffer for that mistake.”

  “Agreed,” Luthekar said coolly.

  “Do you truly think the Northmarch will turn toward the mountains when they see us approaching?”

  “Yes,” Luthekar replied. “They have few wagons—they must not have known about our force when they came this way. They will go to the mountains because only there can they find enough game to augment their supplies.”

  “It is a shame we must lose a thousand men to them,” Wilfram lamented.

  Luthekar shrugged. “If our plan works, it will more than offset the damage the Northmarch has served us.”

  * * *

  Lord Seabrook scanned the horizon for the first sign of the approaching army. His primary fear was ambush. Without it, Luthekar’s huge infantry force could not hope to catch the Northmarch’s three thousand cavalry. Commander Jarviel reined in beside him on his huge, dappled steed.

  “My lord, we are ready,” he announced.

  “And Commander McFerrin?”

  “Also ready.”

  “Good. It is none too soon, it would appear,” Seabrook said, pointing to the brownish haze that was forming on the horizon—dust from the huge Droken army.

  “Surely,” Jarviel observed, “they do not think they can catch us so easily.”

  “I would agree with you, but they are forcing our hand. We cannot retreat further north because we are far too low on supplies. For the same reason, we cannot go east. The plain is too arid. We have no choice but to go west, toward the mountains, where game abounds and there are streams to water our horses, but I fear that this is what their commander wishes us to do.”

  “But we can easily reach the mountains before him,” Jarviel replied.

  “So it would seem,” Seabrook agreed. “Perhaps he simply wishes to ensure that we do not attack them again. No matter. Give the order. We move west.”

  * * *

  Morticai’s breath burned in his lungs as he ran through the streets. He turned down a side alley—old man Williams never locked his back gate.

  Sure enough, it was open. He slammed the gate behind him, dropping the latch into place. Now, up and over the fence to drop into the alley on the other side. As he hit the ground, he heard the gate smash in on the other side of the fence. He had to get away …

  He turned left, then right, onto Shipwright. A wagon lumbered past, slowing even more to turn onto a side street. Morticai hopped onto the back of it as it made the turn. That should do it.

  No—a glance behind him showed someone mounted on a black charger, galloping recklessly down the crowded side street. Morticai looked about desperately for an avenue of escape. He leapt toward the mouth of an alley as the wagon passed by. His breath was knocked from him as he slammed into the side wall of the alley. He ignored the pain in his side and scrambled to his feet to sprint down the alley.

  He made a turn and … suddenly, the old cobbled streets disappeared. He ran through an open field, and he could see trees in the distance. With fear clutching at his chest, he looked behind him. A group of horsemen, wearing black Droken robes, had gathered on the far side of the field. In the forefront of the group stood the black charger. The armored knight on its back carried a lance, point lowered toward him. He could see that its tip glowed red-hot.

  He ran. He could hear the sounds of the hoof beats behind him. There were the trees, not far; he should be able to make it. Then, abruptly, he was running among the trees. He dove beneath a bush, and, after a few moments his breathing quieted, and the fire in his chest cooled. He had done it! He had gotten away!

  He lay back with a sigh of relief. Thank Glawres! Suddenly, a human’s face appeared above him. No! Not a human—a corryn. The face began to change until it became Luthekar’s. And then it changed even more, until it was the hideous design that had been ornamented on Luthekar’s mask. He tried to move, but found that he could not. The brush had wrapped around his wrists and held him tight. Luthekar’s mask smiled as the lance’s glowing point came toward him.

  He woke up screaming.

  * * *

  Morticai fidgeted with the lacing on the pack, finally pulling it loose and starting over.

  “That’s the third time you’ve pulled that lace out, Dyluth,” Nelerek said. “What’s wrong with it?”

  They sat with their backs against a tree, just outside their tent. The Watchaven camp, now two days north of Mid-Keep, lay in a sprawl about them. They’d not had tents when they’d come from Watchaven, but King Almgren had insisted their party be provided with tents and the additional gear they’d needed.

  “Oh, I don’t know why they use such poor quality leather in these things,” Morticai muttered, once again starting to lace the thong through the pack. “I can’t get it to lie flat, and if it doesn’t lie flat it won’t make a tight seam, and if it rains my gear will get wet.”

  “Oh,” Nelerek replied. The Arluthian went into their tent and returned a moment later with a long piece of leather lacing. He dropped it into Morticai’s lap.

  “Where’d this come from?” Morticai said, looking up at him.

  “Supplies for my hawk. I brought it in case I needed an extra jesse, but I don’t think I will.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Shouldn’t Evadrel be back by now?” Nelerek asked, glancing northward.

  Morticai followed his gaze. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

  “Do you think something’s happened?”

  “I don’t think so—at least, I hope not. I’m not certain he should have gone out scouting so soon after riding here with news of the army, but,” he shrugged, “Evadrel’s always been careful.”

  “So, if you’re not worryin’ about Evadrel, what’s the matter?”

  Morticai stared at the half-laced pack. “Just tired,” he said. “Tired, and worried about the Northmarch. That’s an awfully big army up there.”

  “I noticed you didn’t sleep much last night,” Nelerek remarked.

  “Yeah,” Morticai admitted softly. “Sorry I woke you up.”

  “Me?” Nelerek shook his head, “I was already awake when you decided to wake the rest of the camp. You never went back to sleep, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Look! There’s Evadrel.” Nelerek waved.

  Morticai straightened. “News?” he asked the approaching scout.

  Evadrel smiled. “Well, we’re within a day’s march of them.”

  “The Northmarch?” Morticai asked.

  “No—the Droken,” he replied, shaking his head and sitting down.

  Morticai sighed.

  “I’m certain we’ll meet with them soon, Morticai,” Evadrel said. “They would have had to flee when the Droken turned around. It will take time for them to circle back to us.”

  “What of the Droken?” Nelerek asked. “Are we going to catch them?”

  Evadrel shook his head again. “I doubt it. They are a large force, but we move no faster than they do. We will not be able to catch them unless they turn and face us, which doe
s not appear to be their plan.”

  “That’s just fine, if you ask me,” Nelerek said. “I’m no soldier, and I’d prefer not to become one.”

  “Evadrel,” Morticai said, “should we head out on our own?”

  Evadrel looked at him, blankly. “You mean, go out to meet with the Northmarch? Just us, alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dyluth,” Nelerek said, “we can’t do that!”

  “Why not?” Morticai asked.

  “Why not?” Nelerek echoed. “Because it’s dangerous out there!” He gestured northward.

  Evadrel smiled. “I’m afraid I agree with him, Morticai. The Droken have too many scouts of their own. We may not catch the main Droken army, but we have crossed swords with their patrols. I think it would be very difficult to get pass them. Do not worry, friend,” he said, “we shall join with the Northmarch soon enough.”

  * * *

  Lord Jendall strode into the command tent.

  “They simply have too great a lead,” King Riamel said to King Almgren. “We cannot catch them, and even if we did, they outnumber us. We could defeat them if we could bring them to battle, but winning such a battle would cost us more than we could bear.”

  “I know, I know,” King Almgren replied. “I hate just letting them go! I want to know where in the name of the Dark One they came from!”

  “Indeed,” Jendall said, “it appears that only the Dark One holds that information.”

  Almgren snorted. “I suppose that means we still have not had any luck capturing one of their scouts?”

  “I am afraid you are correct, Sire,” Jendall answered. “We have come close on several occasions, but each time the scout killed himself ere he could be captured.”