by A. J. Ponder
“Is it?” King Reginald replied, picking at his nails, as if trying to project an air of casual interest, but only managing ennui, though his interest was clearly piqued by the death’s-eye moth fluttering on Arrant’s shoulder.
Arrant went through the motions. His claims a mere cloak to hide the dagger. “A woman sits on the Avondale throne. She sends everything awry.”
“That’s true. But I’ve never once heard it said that Sylvalla is weak. If she were so weak, Scotch Mist would not have fallen to her[89].”
Arrant looked up sharply. “Indeed, my Lord. You are wise and can foresee many things. I would never suggest that you should take on Avondale alone. You see, I’m a gods-fearing man. Are you not also a gods-fearing man, my Lord?”
“I follow only the Hunter, as do all my right-thinking subjects.”
“Ah, and Avondale is more, shall we say, pantheistic.” Arrant smiled, smoothing down the hair on his forehead. “I should say that is an opportunity you should not turn down, my Lord.”
“So Mr–”
“Sir Arrant-Emz of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“You come here talking to me of offers and opportunities, but tell me plain, Arrant of the North, do you plan to usurp a throne from its rightful owner?”
“Not at all, my Lord.” Arrant smiled, pretending the slur didn’t cut so close to the bone. “The Witch Queen Sylvalla is not the rightful owner of either of her thrones. She has deposed both the boy-king of Avondale, and Phetero, King of the Mists.”
The king coughed.
Fearing he was losing King Reginald, Arrant blurted. “I have the boy-king of Avondale, and I fully intend to return him to his ancestral throne. His sister is a pretender and a growing danger to you and all the legitimate rulers in the Seven Kingdoms. That’s why I speak of a union of like-minded rulers to stabilise the region. To this end, I’ve been authorised to make you an offer.”
“A tangible offer? Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I have many important matters of state today.”
At last, the demand for a bribe.
Arrant did his best not to grin, he didn’t want to project his enthusiasm. It was bad enough that Villyus was leering and rubbing his hands.
“You are indeed a wise ruler to so keep your people’s interests at heart, my Lord,” Villyus flattered.
“Indeed,” Arrant said. “A king’s time is precious. We will leave now—and I shall return. In the meantime, please accept this token.”
Bowing formally, Arrant produced a gold-encrusted, purple-felt bag from within his robe. “Inside is a little something to show our appreciation.” Arrant loosened the drawstring.
The man reached in, carefully cupping his hands around the treasure.
Arrant worked hard to keep his face neutral, as the dazzling colours in the butterfly’s bejewelled wings were reflected in the petty king’s eyes. “A mere trinket.” His hand waved in a careful display of carelessness.
The king inclined his head, his eyes barely registering anything except the gently-fluttering wings. “It is a most gracious gift, Sir Arrant. I’ll think on your offer.”
Arrant touched his death’s-eye moth jewel, and he could feel the king’s mind falling under Emz’rial’s control. Another soul was about to share Arrant’s burden and be driven by the being that possessed him.
Bowing one last time, Arrant and Villyus backed out of the king’s audience room confident that King Reginald of West Mist could no longer refuse their advances.
Now Emz’rial needed to capture the rest.
Rot
Nothing ever quite prepares us for the untimely decay of the things we hold precious
Sylvalla squeezed away the last of her emotions. She and Dirk had gone straight to her mother’s bedside, half expecting this to be some evil ruse, only to find the truth was worse—Tishke was really dying.
The wound in Tishke’s flank had soured her hip and leg. No matter what any of the doctors tried, the green death was eating away at her. Dirk took one sniff of the wound, shook his head, and walked away. Anything he tried now would be too little, too late.
Tishke, breath rattling, grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Don’t let them cut my leg off. I shouldn’t want to go to the Sky Plains without it.”
“No, Mother,” Sylvalla said, wiping the sweat from her mother’s brow, wondering why more had not been done earlier. “You were doing so well.”
“There is a price. I swore an oath, my life for Phetero’s, and the gods fulfilled their part. They take their price, the gods. Half-measures will not do.”
For an instant, Sylvalla thought her mother crazy, talking as if mere words could kill. But of course, they could. That’s why wizards were so dangerous.
With a soft sigh, Tishke closed her eyes. A moment later, she was as sharp and alert as she’d ever been. “Now that you’re here. It’s time…”
“I thought you were dying.” Sylvalla winced. She hadn’t meant to sound so cruel.
“I am, girl. But in the meantime, there are things to do. Can you see the damned, the spirits the wizard’s call A’rieal? More and more appear every day, flocking like stinging-flies to blood.”
“What are you talking about, Mother?”
“The door…the door to the underworld. You released the demons at that A’lganathrieal place. No one must know. But I’m frightened of what will happen when I’m gone. There are things. I’ve seen things. Lurking.”
“Demons? A’rieal? Are you a magician now?” Sylvalla asked, wondering how sane her mother was. My mother isn’t a witch. She cannot have seen such things. Pain must be making her crazy.
“I thought a girl of mine would see the magic all around her. But you’re not mine, are you?” Tishke smiled and patted Sylvalla’s hand. “Never mind, I will find someone else to do that task for me. You have a kingdom to run and you cannot do it in foreign parts. Nor can you find the heir to the King of Avondale in Scotch Mist. Stay here a while longer.”
“Scotch Mist is as likely a place as any for the boy to be.”
“Yes, young Tomas is as likely to be in Scotch Mist as anywhere—but not Tomas, the King of Avondale, you understand?”
Sylvalla nodded slowly. These words of her mother’s made sense—much as she did not want them to.
“Please find him.” Tishke closed her eyes for a long time.
As Sylvalla rose, her mother’s rheumy eyes flicked open. “One more thing. My spies tell me of a King of the Mists. A man seeking power from all the other kingdoms. At least, those who return do. They whisper that not only is he strong, but he hates you, possibly for no other reason than you are a woman. Or because you have two kingdoms. Whatever the reason, he’s banding together the rest of the Seven Kingdoms to destroy us all.”
“Mother,” Sylvalla chastised. “I see you’ve not lost your sense of drama.”
“Sylvalla, please listen. You must see Cook and do something about it. Go on. Don’t fuss over me when you can save a thousand other lives. Take that Torri with you. I would never have chosen a lady-in-waiting like that, but perhaps, after all, she is not such a bad choice.” Tishke turned away, putting a cup to her lips. By the earthy smell and white chalky texture, it was milk of the poppy. “Go on, then, Cook is waiting. You need to talk to her about her spies. And I need to sleep.”
“Cook? Torri? Spies?”
“Foolish child.” Tishke’s voice was low and muffled by pillows. Her words slurring as the medication took effect. “Didn’t I tell you?” And then, even more distant. “So very foolish that you should bring all this upon yourself. Upon all of us.”
Sylvalla blinked. “I…” But her mother was sleeping. And even as she shook her head in frustration, it dawned on Sylvalla what a clever choice Cook was as a spy.[90]
Unholy Reunion
Fergus
NAME: Fergus of the Thurgle tribe Wullemsai
CLASS: Fighter.
FAMILIAR: None.
SPECIALTY: Rescuing maidens. Unfortunately for
Fergus, the maidens he encounters don’t usually wish to be rescued. At least not by him.
RÉSUMÉ:A deadly fighter. Will rescue any maiden for a small fee. A true hero. Verbal and social skills—none.
PASSED:Killing, Fighting, Hand-to-hand Combat, Maiming and Torture with first class honours, and Rescuing Maidens.
Fergus had sworn never to return to the lands of humans, but the moment he arrived home, he’d been cast out. He’d received no hell hounds, and no warrior status—just a lecture about entering A’lganathrieal, the city of the damned. Every two-headed animal was blamed on him, every slice of rancid cheese. They demanded he redeem himself, or remain outcast until the end of his days. How that redemption was supposed to work was vastly unclear—the only thing that was clear was that he couldn’t stay.
He set out, angry with his fellow thurgles, but mostly with himself and the greed that had taken him into that cursed place. Tired of trekking over the countryside and rescuing people who didn’t want rescuing, he decided to find a serious long-term opportunity. One with plenty of beer and poppy seed cakes. When he heard that his old companion, Arrant, was travelling the countryside, offering exquisite jewels to kings, Fergus jumped at the opportunity. Jewels meant money. And money meant poppy seed cakes and beer. Also, perhaps a little gold. In his experience, if you brought enough gold home, people would forgive anything.
§
“Who is it?” Arrant drawled, barely looking up from his work.
“Sir, it’s—”
Fergus didn’t wait to be introduced. He crashed into the office that served as Arrant’s war room, knocking over a lamp and catching it before it could slop more than a few drops of oil.
Fergus bowed. “Master, I am yours to command.”
Arrant smiled. It was something he did when he was confused, or scheming. “That’s right,” he said. “I never let you go. You’re still beholden[91], aren’t you?”
“Ah…” Fergus decided not to contradict Arrant.
“Good,” Arrant said. “You’re obviously far better than the incompetents who serve me now. And I think you will enjoy this. You and I—well, mostly me—we’re going to take over the world, break a few skulls and get revenge on, well, anybody you want. Everybody. It’s going to be fun.”
Fergus looked into Arrant’s eyes. “Yes, Master.”
“Actually, I do have one little problem,” Arrant said. “It would help my cause if I had the heir of Avondale.”
What did Arrant mean by the air of Avondale? Surely, the air in Avondale smelled as bad, if not worse, than the air here? “Air?” Fergus said, trying not to look utterly confused.
“Yes, an heir would make it easier to raise the collective banner of the Seven Kingdoms against Avondale. If we uphold his claim, we look like heroes.”
Still no wiser, Fergus stared at Arrant, waiting for his orders.
“Find me a boy of two summers, blond, and pudgy. Bring him to me.”
“Aren’t human children kept with their parents?”
Arrant shrugged. “Strangle any parents. We don’t need them.”
Secrets of Life and Death
Sometimes the dead do talk
Determined to do my duty as scribe and historian, I watched Dothie swing his legs under the long table in the cafeteria. The tales I’d heard about the wizard were many and varied, but few were good.
A dozen wizards sitting nearby excused themselves with an abruptness that bordered on rude, leaving Dothie not quite alone at one end of the table. He was certainly not as alone as Mr Goodfellow senior, who stood by the door and glared at everybody. Eventually, he stormed off to his rooms, and the conversation really began.
Naturally, as a young historian, there was nothing I enjoyed more than history, and Dothie was absolutely fascinated with every aspect of Bairnsley University’s past, as well as some of the texts it held from the earliest founders of the university.
As I’d recently published my first universally acclaimed text, A Brief History of the Origin of Magic, everybody looked to me for answers. But, not wanting to give all the secrets of the university away to a potentially dangerous wizard, I soon fell silent.
Dothie turned from the conversation, and petted the lizard-creature that rode on his shoulder. The lizard flicked its tongue and hissed. Somehow, this movement seemed more sinister than it had earlier in the day. More angry.
Soon Dothie was excusing himself, asking if someone would take him back to the court, for he’d left something behind. I explained, once again, that the chamber was the heart of the university, with the foundation stone at its heart, and that it was never opened for trivialities.
“A shame.” Dothie shook his head. “I feel I’ve been cooped up for so long. If only I could get outside. Walk the paths.”
I wanted to ask Dothie how he could possibly know about the Bairnsley paths, but that would have confirmed their existence, so I bit my tongue. It was possible, after all, that he was speaking prosaically about the carefully-tended gravel paths that lay outside the window, and not of, what was at the time, the greatest of all Bairnsley secrets. But, of course, I could not have given away the secret if I’d tried. Dothie already knew far more about the paths than anyone could have guessed. He’d been tipped off by the powerful long-dead Xem’rial.
That night Dothie was up to all hours, telling stories of outlandish adventures and portraying himself to be a hero. You’d think wizards would know better, but they were hanging on his every word like tavern gossips.
I slipped off to bed, almost tripping over a university cat[92] that was hissing and spitting at Dothie from the safety of the corridor.
The Gift
When you let darkness light your way
Sunlight will blind you
Jonathan Goodfellow
NAME:Jonathan Goodfellow.
CLASS:Middle.
SPECIALTY:Making Grannies Cure All.
RÉSUMÉ: Once a trader, always a trader. Too old to be a dashingly romantic hero and too young to be a real wizard, Jonathan is stuck in the no-man’s land of the thirties. He does not find it a comfort that he’ll grow out of it.
PASSED: Jonathan hasn’t managed to pass any major exams yet. That includes the entry test for Bairnsley U. He no longer even has the excuse that this is his first year, but then Mopilliar Dweezle took fifty years to pass the test, whereupon his heart gave out, as did the hearts of two of his instructors.
The rumours of a new prophetess reached Jonathan as he fled the university. There’d been little time, but he’d managed to cram a few possessions into his backpack before setting out. Days later, he found the prophetess in a tiny farming village below Scotch Mist surrounded by a flock of wizards on a quiet country lane under the mountains.
Her voice was strong and her words horribly familiar…
“…Words lie
They are the darkest shadows of all.”
A Sylvalla prophecy. Plain as day. How could he forget?
He rushed toward her and yelled, “Why that prophecy? Why now?”
That prophecy had been decoded, the terror it contained prevented, the plaque destroyed. Sylvalla had turned back the beast in the mountain. So he asked, “Why?” again.
If these prophecies are true, then so are Dalberth’s.
The wizards looked at him disparagingly. “Aren’t you supposed to be under confinement at the university?”
“Ah…what?” Jonathan blinked. Potsie had been right—he should be in hiding. “You must be confusing me with someone else.”
“You think they’re going to try a novice?” a tall wizard scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
A friend? Or a pompous jackass? It hardly mattered, Jonathan was grateful either way. He wouldn’t have come if he didn’t think it was vital, and he definitely didn’t want to leave now. Having been afflicted by prophecy himself, he needed to reach out and help the prophet, take away a part of her burden, in the same way that he’d reached out and helped Maretta. But he also wanted to kno
w as much as possible. What important prophecies is the Maiden sharing with this child?
The girl’s head turned to the side, as if listening, and once more she spake[93], all the while gripping something in her fist so tightly her knuckles showed white.
“Prophecy,
Cursed Prophecy,
An unclear glimpse into an uncertain world.
Shun them all you please
And disavow and remain ignorant until the end.
Until things once prophesied come true
While terror stalks in the wake of words,
The ships of power that sail the world.
If it haunts thee
This prophecy
Perhaps it is merely an Omen of things to come.”
Despite the glares of the wizards surrounding her, Jonathan kept walking toward the girl.
“Listen to me, I can save you. Look into my eyes.” Jonathan reached toward her, open-handed to show he was no threat.
The girl lurched away, arms and legs flailing as she screeched.
“Ruler’s robes in the dust
Crown upon the ground.”
She gripped her amulet tighter as the words tumbled from her mouth.
“Heed the death of a country…”
Jonathan’s stomach lurched. The words were the same words Tishke had spoken on the day Sylvalla had been turned into a fruit fly. Did it mean something? Had it not been fulfilled?
No. These prophecies were harmful. They were…wrong. Jonathan couldn’t stand idly by and watch them destroy this child. He reached out to grasp her hands, intending to pull her away from the terrible grip of the Maiden and the evil spirits that possessed her.
Maey’s eyes flew wide open and stared into his. For a tantalising instant, he felt he’d made a connection. Then she fainted, her hand opening to reveal a crushed amulet—the white and blue fragments caught in the bloody pulp of her palm.
