by M. S. Verish
“Ya think a storm is gonna stop an elf?”
“No.” The voice belonged to Asmat, not Arshod.
“Brother, I did not know you were awake,” Arshod said.
Asmat stood—perhaps a little wobbly from the wine. “That creature will not save us. It is a freak—an anomaly that had been used for a convincing performance. The Prophet’s pet has no power.”
Arshod frowned and held out his hands. “Why would Rashir bother with it, then?”
“All for show,” Asmat said.
“That’s not what I hear.” Rourke folded his arms, ready to defend. “The stories say it can change its size. It can stomp mountains flat, burn trees with its wings of flame. It can shape lightning and make the ground shake—”
Asmat interrupted him with hard laughter. “You best stick to your sword if you believe all you hear. Who do you think created those stories but the Prophet himself?” He gestured for them to rise. “Come and see your great demon.”
Arshod and Rourke followed him to the covered wagon, where the cage sat covered at the back of the bed. Asmat tore the blanket away, revealing the shrouded, huddled creature inside. “Tremble in fear, if you will, Enforcer. The mighty White Demon is here, trapped in an iron prison.” Asmat picked up a stick and rattled it against the wooden spokes of the cage.
“You make too much noise,” Arshod said, glancing back at the sleeping encampment.
“But this is the Great Demon,” Asmat said. “Heralded by Shadow, with eyes that burn like blue flame.” He thrust the stick inside to jab at the creature, which shrank away to the corner. It could not, however, escape the reach of the stick.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Rourke said, trying to sound grave.
Asmat stuffed the stick into his hand. “If you were me? Have your jab. Learn the truth about this sorry beast.”
“Rashir would not be pleased,” Arshod said. “Asmat, you are drunk. Go back to sleep and regain your senses.”
“What I suspect,” Asmat said, ignoring his companion, “is that our Enforcer is a coward. He hides behind his own epic tales. Lies are given so freely; few can back their boasts. Are you a liar or a genuine warrior?”
Arshod moved between Asmat and Rourke. “He need prove nothing to you. I fought him, and I can speak for his skill.”
“Your own skills are not so impressive,” Asmat sneered. He glared at Rourke. “I invite you to take this moment and learn the truth. Regardless of what Arshod boasts, the choice is yours.”
Rourke looked at the stick in his hand, then at the demon. He bit his lip. Just poke it. Then he’ll be happy. A quick poke. That’s it. He pushed the stick through the bars and lightly poked at the huddled form.
“As I thought,” Asmat said. Then he grabbed Rourke’s arm and thrust it forward like a foil, stabbing hard at the creature, which merely endured the torture.
Rourke jerked his arm away. “Don’t ever touch me again,” he growled.
“Or what?” Asmat asked. “You’ll poke me with your sword?” He laughed until a slight shadow joined them. He silenced immediately, and all expression left his face.
Rashir uttered one word—a foreign word as sharp as flint—and Asmat slunk away. “Cover the creature, Arshod,” he said and turned to Rourke. “I apologize for Asmat’s behavior. You will find he will have his own apology for you in the morning. There will be no further misconduct on behalf of my party. Good night, Enforcer.”
Rourke was speechless as Rashir disappeared. He looked at Arshod, who had grown sullen. “Do not wait for me; it is best you find some rest,” the Jornoan said.
Rourke nodded, his feet slow to move. He watched Arshod pull at the blanket and found that beneath the shroud, two luminous eyes stared back at him. Even as he turned away, he could feel them follow him into the darkness.
23
The Wizard
“Back off,” Nesif warned, angling his massive frame between the crowd and the Priagent. Several of the other brothers created a living wall, surrounding Rashir, Argamus, and Hale, with Rourke trailing at the rear. Even with the protective measure, the angry people crowded against them, slinging insults, rotten fruit, and even stones.
“Dear me, I cannot imagine what has stirred their ire,” Argamus said.
“Can’t you?” Hale limped his way behind him. “Foreigners.”
“It was my impression that the Freelands were more tolerant of merchants and travelers,” Rashir said, just as surprised by the vehemence of the mob.
“That would depend,” Hale gritted, trying to quicken his pace, “upon your appearance.”
“Ah, indeed,” Argamus muttered, recalling what he and Kariayla had experienced earlier in their travels. He glanced at Rashir. “Do you not fear for the safety of the company you sent to the stable?”
“Asmat, Hesun, and Jamil are quite capable of self-defense,” the Priagent said. “I am more concerned that we not encounter a similar atmosphere once we reach the inn.” The group forced their way to a grand building with a freshly painted sign. “The Minstrel’s Quarter” was as quiet as a winter’s night once they had found their way inside.
The innkeeper greeted them, two burly men looming upon either side of him. “I apologize for the commotion,” he said, eyeing the group. When Rashir stepped forward, purse in hand, he relaxed but a little. “The trouble should be gone in a day or two.”
“Need we fear for our safety?” Rashir asked. “I would sooner keep to the road if there is no haven for us here.”
The innkeeper was quick to shake his head. “No, sir. You were right to stop. The Vigil has come through before, but mostly they are a nuisance.”
“Who are they?” Rashir asked.
“Common folk who have settled here. They’re afraid of losing their land to merchants and foreigners.” He held up his hands. “I mean no offense to you; we welcome your business here. But with the Vigil in town, we have many vacancies. You will have your choice of rooms for the night.”
“There are eleven in our party, though three will remain at the stable. I will take no chances of robbery.”
The innkeeper nodded, taking the purse Rashir slid across the desk. “I will have you shown to your rooms, and then I invite you to dinner. The hall will be yours tonight.”
*
The resident lutenist filled the nearly empty hall with soft and pleasant melodies, and Argamus found he was the most comfortable he had been in weeks. He had cleaned his second plate, though he was uncertain how many refills had graced his cup. The wine was good—perhaps not as good as William’s—but it went down smooth and flavorful. Aside from Hale and his stale regard, good spirits were in abundance. Argamus noticed that even Rourke had made a close friend with the brother named Arshod. He had to admit that the Jornoans were not unpleasant company. In fact, he and Rashir had chatted long from the wagon seat—grazing topics from politics to folklore. He had come to appreciate that he had much in common with the ruler from Lornabaez. Both of them were exiles, both enjoyed an intelligent controversial discussion, and both had little tolerance for ignorance and senseless prejudice.
Now that they were more than halfway to their destination, Arcturus had started to wonder if William had not been chasing phantoms with this mission. If William was mistaken, and Rashir’s true intent was to stopper some enchanted water, what harm was there in that? But then how would he, Hale, and Rourke come to explain themselves once the goal had been reached? It was a question that revisited Argamus often, and he hoped a suitable answer would arise when the time was right. More and more, he felt like the scoundrel, deceiving one he might dare to acknowledge as a friend or at least a fair acquaintance. It was not a feeling he could stomach for much longer.
“Do you believe the protestors have a right to act as they do?”
Argamus blinked and set down his cup when he realized Rashir had directed the question toward him, not Hale.
“It is one matter to defend one’s own property; it is another to threaten tho
se who commit no transgression,” the wizard said. “Senseless violence is intolerable.”
Rashir tapped his chin. “Who, then, will stand as justice? Who keeps order in a lawless land?”
Argamus thought a moment. “I do not know if I can answer that.”
“Ah!” Rashir pointed a finger at him. “That is because there is no authority here. There is no guidance by the hand of any moral and steadfast leader.”
“Mayors are appointed to Freeland cities,” Hale said. He sipped his water. “Each territory has Enforcers of some kind.”
“Are they not hired men of arms?” Rashir asked. “Without offense to our comrade Rourke, Enforcers seem no better than common mercenaries.”
Hale shrugged, indifferent.
“So you have hired men with little loyalty aside from what feeds their pockets,” Rashir said. “You have appointed officials who manipulate the loose structure of government to suit their own needs. Is it any wonder such chaos ensues in this place?”
“Will you bring order when the Guild grants you your request? How do you bend people who have known no previous restriction?” Hale dusted some unseen debris from his coat. “I am certain you must have considered this.”
“Certainly there are ways to gain support of the people,” Rashir said. “Some methods are better than others.”
Argamus started to pack his pipe. “Allow me to ask you: have you considered the lives you will change with this elixir of yours? What will it mean when anyone can purchase eternal life?”
“It is why our arrangement must be executed carefully,” Rashir said. “If the Guild does not appropriately market the elixir, there could be dangerous consequences.” He glanced at the tall man across from him. “I imagine Lord Hale must know this. I may be a merchant, but I do believe that power must be carefully placed in the hands of those who know how to manage it.”
Hale’s expression did not break. “The Guild has managed its affairs successfully for some time. I imagine the Priagent must know this.”
Rashir smiled. “We would not be here now, would we, if we did not recognize this opportunity.” He moved aside so the attendant could take his empty plate. “Argamus, explain to me again the wonders of your cantalere.”
Argamus took the pipe from his lips and took hold of the staff propped against his chair.
“You had said it was carved by the Ilangiel themselves,” Rashir reminded. “We are but days away from its origin. Will it not react somehow to the presence of the forest?” He wiggled his fingers and smiled. “Glow or spark or hum, perhaps?”
Argamus did not lift his eyes from the staff, knowing Hale’s regard was fast upon him. “The simple truth is, I do not know. When I first discovered Whitestar, it was a long way from its home.”
“How, then, did you manage to trace its origin?”
At last Argamus lifted his head. “I may have mentioned my expertise is in documenting magical antiquities. Old though they are, there are few records that had made mention of the staff. It was carried down through a particular bloodline, the secrets of its power hidden in obscure sources.”
“But you uncovered them.” Rashir leaned closer. “What can it do?”
Argamus took a long drink. “Well,” he said lightly, “it can do what one might expect it can do. It has certain healing properties, but it can also oppose Shadow.”
“Yes, oppose Shadow,” Rashir repeated. “Should it be of no objection to you, we should test its abilities.”
“I beg your pardon?” The wizard blinked, his free hand closing protectively around the staff.
“We have a creature of Shadow. I would be curious to see the demon’s reaction to the cantalere.”
Argamus stared at him. “It is with the utmost caution and reserve that I employ Whitestar’s power. There is a reason I have not shared the key to its use.”
“You fear it,” Rashir said, nodding.
“I understand the responsibility in wielding such a force,” Argamus amended.
“Of course. Hence we return to our previous conversation about the inherent qualities of a true leader.” Rashir held out his hand. “May I look at the staff, Argamus?”
There was no valid reason not to hand it over, but Argamus could feel his fingers lock, even as he pressed Whitestar into the Priagent’s palm. He watched Rashir study it, fighting the urge to keep his own hand out and waiting for the cantalere’s return.
“An instrument of Light,” Rashir marveled, running his fingertips along the surface. “It must be very, very old.” He gave it back to the wizard. “It is fortunate you alone can wield it. I see that you take the role of guardian very seriously.”
“I must,” Argamus said, “for it was nearly…” He caught himself just as he caught Hale’s lips parting.
Rashir waited for him to continue.
“It nearly came into the hands of a colleague of mine. A wizard with a crow’s eye for cantalere of potency.”
“What would he have done with the staff?” Rashir asked.
“I do not know,” Argamus answered softly. “It was more the fevered look upon his face—the realization that should he take hold of it, I would never be able to pry it from his hands. As it was, he took control of himself and honored me as its keeper.”
Rashir patted his shoulder. “Let us hope you need not employ it. We certainly have other defensive measures at our disposal.”
“I would hope we need not employ those either,” Hale said. He did not try to stifle his yawn. “If you will excuse me, I should like to retire for the evening.”
“Good night, Lord Hale,” Rashir said and watched the man limp away with Rourke at his side.
Argamus stood, finding the wine had leadened his feet. “I believe I will join them. I have much been anticipating a restful slumber upon a real bed with pillows and blankets. Thank you for that generous gift.”
“It is my pleasure,” Rashir said, bowing his head. “We will not be far behind you. I am grateful to have so knowledgeable a wizard in our party. I feel we will be able to face Veloria’s border with a bit more confidence.”
Argamus smiled and took his leave, wishing he was the expert he claimed to be.
*
“What is your opinion, James?”
“Ya mean, ‘Rourke.’” The brute grinned from where he lay in his bed, glancing at the wizard across the room.
“We are alone for now,” Argamus said, “and since our fearless leader is on his nightly walk, I feel at liberty to discuss our situation openly.”
“So…whaddaya wanna know?” Rourke asked, scratching his head.
“Rashir and his company. You have obviously made a friend amongst them. Do you believe they are hiding a deadly stone, with intentions of some manner of domination?”
“Um….”
“Do you believe they are ‘bad guys,’” Argamus re-phrased.
“I guess I don’t know. They don’t seem bad, but Hawkwing thinks they are. He don’t make friends with no one, but he’s in charge, and he knows what he’s doin.’”
Argamus sighed. “Then you have faith in his leadership.”
“Yeah,” Rourke said. “Don’t you? I know you guys ain’t really friends, but we still work together, right? He’s risking his life too.”
“What did he tell you when your friends took you away to spar?”
“When we what?”
“Your sword fight, James.”
“Well, I went to talk to him to get some pointers. ‘Cuz he knows how to fight, and he helped get me outta that fight at the bar. So he said ‘balance’ and… oh, somethin’ else, and then he told me a story about Talon, and I went off to fight.”
Argamus pulled at his beard. “The incident at the bar has weighed upon my mind. He knew where we were, despite the fact we were hidden in a secluded room in some lower level of the tavern.”
“Yeah, ‘cuz he used to fight there years ago. Oh.” Rourke bit his lip.
“Your pardon?”
“Nuthin’. H
e just said he knew the place.”
Argamus’s eyes narrowed. “I did not mistake what you had said initially. The painting you had seen….”
Rourke turned on his side to stare at the wizard. “Talon. Yeah, he told me a story. It was him. But it’s his business, Arcturus. He didn’t want nobody to know. Said he wasn’t proud of that time. I know what he means. You can’t ever lettim know I told you.”
“Why do I find myself more and more disconcerted as I learn about our infamous guide?” Argamus asked himself.
“You gotta promise not to tell him,” Rourke insisted.
“Yes, yes. Though I cannot understand why you are not troubled by all his lies.”
“You ain’t listenin’, Arcturus. We all do bad things sometimes. Hawkwing’s not a bad guy.”
“How do you know?” Argamus asked pointedly. “We know almost nothing of his past.”
“I just know,” Rourke said. He flipped back to face the ceiling. “I don’t know why you don’t like him. He’s only ever been nice.”
“As have our hosts,” Argamus said. “If ‘being nice’ warrants our utmost trust, then I admit that I would sooner trust the Priagent and his brothers.”
Rourke frowned. “I dunno,” he murmured.
“You are a young man,” Argamus said. “Once you gain years behind you, you will speak from experience too. All I ask is that you keep attentive to all that happens. You must tell me if anyone does anything suspicious.”
“That’s what Hawkwing said to do.”
“Until I can learn more, that includes Hawk—our leader,” Argamus said.
Rourke made a face and closed his eyes.
“Are we in agreement, James?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he muttered.
“Good. Try to rest. Soon we will rejoin Kariayla and Ruby.”
Rourke’s expression softened. “Yeah. That’ll be good.”
*
“By Lorth, wake up, Arcturus!”
Rourke’s forceful shoves rocked him, rousing Argamus from his deep slumber. “My apologies if I was snoring again,” he mumbled groggily.
“You gotta get up now!” the brute cried. “There’s smoke everywhere!”
