"Nope," I shook my head. "Might be just as dangerous, though."
XVIII
Near the center of Selvaria's Old Towne, a small building made of white marble stood a silent vigil. It made a strange contrast with the dark stone and wood of the architecture that surrounded it. The door itself hewn from a solid block of the same marble, a heavy bar lay across the entrance, preventing anyone from entering.
A font chapel.
The power of the raw manna, when not shaped by will, would kill anyone touched by its light. In places of great tragedy or great power, a manna font would push itself up from the ground, an array of brilliant azure crystals that destroyed the life of anyone who wandered too close.
Anyone, that is, except for an Arbiter.
Long ago, all of the manna fonts in the ancient civilized areas had been contained by the Arbiters. There were usually three or four in a city, each one ensconced within a tomb of perfectly-smooth, pearl-white stone.
With a word and a moment's concentration of power, I lifted the heavy wooden bar from its place and dropped it to the ground.
For a long moment, I stared at the white marble door of the font chapel. Behind it stood the one thing that everyone in this world feared, a fountain of life force so powerful that it would actually suck the soul from a human body, transforming them into a fel beast. I had never dared even get this close to one, for fear that the light might seep through a crack in the marble and kill me before I could even have a second thought.
At that moment, though, I felt no fear. Only a strange sense of contentment.
I drew a deep breath, stepped forward, and pushed open the door.
<<<|>>>
Lesson IV
SORCERER'S WAR
I
“Master Arbiter?” the boy’s voice was tentative, shattering my carefully constructed silence like a rock through a stained-glass window. I closed my eyes as my experiment evaporated on the table before me, puffed out by the breath of wind that stole in through the opened tent flap.
“Yes, Arek?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“General Vassoch wishes to see you in the war room, sir,” the page said, bowing low. I watched him out of the corner of my eyes, firmed my jaw, and nodded curtly. Daylight was sneaking past him; was it really morning already?
“Thank you, Arek,” I said. “Tell me, boy, what time is it?”
“An hour past dawn, Master Arbiter,” he answered.
Arangoth’s breath, I thought. I really had been working all night. One of the strange side-effects of my new condition seemed to be an utter lack of need for sleep; a few hours of concentration here or there kept me going like a full-night’s rest.
“Have you roused Master Mendoz from his slumber yet?” I asked.
“No, not yet.” The boy chewed his lower lip apprehensively, perhaps expecting a reprimand.
A smirk slunk across my face. “Good. Don’t. I’ll handle it.”
“Very good, Master Arbiter. Is there anything else?”
“Not for the moment, lad. Run along then, and tell the general I’ll be along in a moment,” I said, and the page disappeared, leaving the tent flapping open behind him. The quick glances I was able to catch of the world outside revealed yet another gray, fog-choked morning.
At least it didn’t seem to be raining... yet.
I dragged my boots on over my stocking feet, wincing at the cold and wet inside. It seemed like it had been months since I’d seen dry weather, but at least there was no snow this far out on the western peninsula. When feeling eventually returned to my toes, I picked up the black scabbard—which held a thin steel blade, enchanted to glow like the crystal sword of an Arbiter—and strapped it around my chest. Feeling at last as though I hadn’t forgotten anything, I pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out into the misty morning in the hills of Lannth.
The sounds of the general’s camp were strangely subdued. Normally I’d have emerged from my tent into the din of hammers crashing against anvils, soldiers yelling drill instructions, the clash of steel on steel as they trained in their simple-yet-effective methods of killing. Today, there was a tension in the air thick enough to be cut with a knife. Something was different, and unless my mind was failing me—which it most certainly was not—I’d have wagered my meager life savings that it had something to do with the general’s summons.
Three years I’d been on the road with Mendoz—the lazy, languid and lamentable monster hunter—since we’d fled the city of Selvaria. Though my role in the death of the city’s second-highest ranking oligarch had been incidental, I’d not been keen to witness the bloodshed which was certain to follow such a drastic change in the city’s balance of power. We’d mostly stayed one step ahead of the news that followed us out of that place, but occasionally we would catch wind of the war which had broken out in the streets. The tales had been just as bloody as I’d imagined, though they were likely to be exaggerated as we traveled farther away.
As it turned out, the sudden change that I’d undergone by saving my own life had reaped a very different kind of reward. Mendoz, despite his braggartry, had often struggled to find work as a monster hunter. Destroying fel beasts was an Arbiter’s job, despite the dearth of them, and few believed that a man—no matter how impressive the blade he carried—could do it well enough. My newfound luminescent irises had lent a sort of legitimacy to his enterprise, and as we fled Selvaria, our combined prowess began to take on a sort of legendary quality—the wandering Arbiter and his pet mercenary.
Though I’d often loathed the company of others, Mendoz had turned out to be an amenable traveling companion. He liked wine, women and wealth, and was almost always so thoroughly drunk that—once I’d learned to tune out his snoring—I could even work on my magical experiments while he slept.
I reached the palatial tent which had been established for the Arbiter’s companion and swept the flap aside. “Rise and shine, pisspot,” I said grandly, letting the meager light from the overcast sky illuminate the interior.
It looked as though he’d had a fine night—enough to turn my stomach. He was draped with no fewer than three mostly-nude camp followers, all of whom slept soundly in various states of disarray. It was only through the most fortuitous of blessings that I was spared the sight of the ugly monster hunter’s flaccid flagpole, which was hidden within the flaxen hair of the girl asleep in his lap.
When we’d first set out on the road together, I might have gagged at such a sight. Fortunately, three years of traveling with the glutton had inured me to such visual punishment as this. The way Mendoz went through women, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he’d left a dozen bastard by-blows along our traveling route, a sort of scent trail of inheritance marking our passage. I never understood the way they flocked to him—even besides the scars, his visage was homely at best, and downright hideous at worst—but it seemed that there were some women who were simply drawn to a man with a big sword.
“Come on, you useless lazy prick,” I said, loudly enough to ring his hangover like a church bell. “The General wants to see us.”
That was enough to stir him; he shifted and opened one eye, gave me a languid half-grin marred by the pounding headache he must have been suffering from, and said, “If it’s the prick you’re after, Moncrief, you’ll have to wait in line.”
“Insufferable git,” I muttered, then raised my voice back to a head-ringing half-shout. “Get your gods-damned clothes on and let’s go, Mendoz.”
“What, and take me away from all this?” he asked, spreading his hands expansively.
“You’re welcome to get drunk and whore around again tonight,” I snapped. “For now, we’ve got business.”
“Fine, fine,” he said with a yawn. “But turn your back, O Master Arbiter—I have my modesty, you know.”
“Yes, yes, as much as you have virginity,” I answered, rolling my eyes and waving my hand dismissively. “I’m not about to wait around for you. Just meet me at the General’s
tent when you’re good and ready.”
He gave me that infuriating grin again. “Oh, that might be a while.”
“Mendoz,” I said sharply, making sure that my inflection got through the liquor-induced haze that surrounded him. “The General wants to see us, and it’s quiet this morning.”
At last, I saw the recognition I’d been hoping for light in his eyes. He knew as well as I did after nearly a year on this campaign what a quiet camp meant. The soldiers were preparing for a march.
“Aye, just so, that,” he said, his jaw firming. “I’ll be along.”
“Good,” I said, and turned away.
As I strode in the opposite direction, heading across the dew-slick grass toward the expansive tent that General Vassoch used as a war room, I heard the sound of a surprised squeal from Mendoz’ tent as he dumped the girl from his lap onto the ground. At least, that’s what I surmised. The hint of action was usually enough to transform Mendoz from the lazy man-whore that he was into the deadly-dangerous monster hunter that I much preferred—and if I was right, there would be blood that day.
II
The first time I’d taken the name of Arbiter upon myself had been a mistake. On that fateful night, in a tiny village residing halfway between nowhere and elsewhere, I’d co-opted the reputation of the ancient Order of warriors to save my own skin. When I’d plunged the stolen heartblade between my ribs, it had likewise been to pluck my life from the hungry jaws of death.
Now, once again, I’d assumed the mantle of Arbiter. It was as much under false pretenses as it had been in Warsil, and yet, after three years, I hardly felt like myself any longer. Edar Moncrief, sorcerer and scholar, had been all but subsumed by the legend of the Wayward Crystal Warrior and his scarred companion. There is an old saying, dating back to the ancient Tellarian Empire, which translates roughly as “Pretend, and become.” So it was with me. In the absence of disaster—indeed, in the face of significant success—my pretense had slowly become a reality.
In all the ways I understood the term, I was an Arbiter.
Which was why, upon entering the land known as Kalais, I’d been drawn to the rumors of the Lannthan King’s daemon guard. Rumors flew hard and fast about the old monarch’s descent into madness, and his subsequent deal-making with the darkest of dark powers. By then, tales of our passage had preceded us, and we were approached more than once by messengers of the Kalais throne, requesting our help—my help—in destroying the daemonic menace that lurked on their border.
I knew well that Arbiters did not involve themselves in the disputes between kingdoms, but this was no petty squabble over borders or trade deficits. Mendoz would have been happy enough to simply keep wandering and plying the trade we’d become so good at, but by then, I saw a purpose in the direction we’d wandered. Though it was true that deep in my heart I knew that I was no Arbiter, my sorcery had served me well against the fel beasts that Mendoz had been hired to slay, and the thought of facing down a true daemon was no longer something to be feared, but rather seemed like a test of my abilities.
Beneath the Arbiter’s mask, the sorcerer within me lurked, waiting for a chance to prove himself. If I could slay a daemon... well, that would damn well make me the strongest sorcerer to walk these lands in a century, maybe longer. Then I would no longer need the mantle of the Arbiter. I could be myself again: Edar Moncrief, sorcerer and scholar, monster hunter, daemon slayer.
Sure, my eyes might still glow, but who would care?
The real Arbiters, the back of my mind fluttered, but by then I’d reached the front of the General’s war tent, and as I threw the tent's flap open, that thought was swallowed up by my own burgeoning obsession.
III
When I stepped into the tent, seven pairs of eyes simultaneously looked up and fixed on me. I instantly recognized the five company captains, each of whom had previously wished to pay their respects to the Arbiter who’d joined their righteous cause. Another belonged to the General’s dogsbody.
My confidence had been steadily building over the past several months, but having so many eyes lock on me at once made me stop dead in my tracks. I coughed to cover up a nervous laugh. "Wow," I said, before I could stop myself. "I haven't had this many people staring at me since I ran naked through that castle courtyard."
Instant regret panged through me as the words flew from my lips, but the last—and most important—set of eyes hardly seemed to notice. They belonged to Duchess General Martine se Vassoch, the personal envoy of the King of Kalais. Her sharp aquamarine gaze locked on mine, and her lips tightened in a thin smile. “Ah, Master Arbiter. Glad you could join us.”
I had to fight to keep a return smile off my face. The Duchess General was, bar none, the most highly efficient strategic mind I had ever encountered. She played the abstract war simulation known as shepak with a grace and aplomb that resulted in wins more than half the time against me, which was far more than I could say for most of my opponents.
There was no doubt in my mind that, had she been interested, she would have grasped the elemental forces of sorcery with ease. Martine se Vassoch was nothing if not a warrior, however, with the ringlets of her near-black hair pulled back tightly against her head in a way that made her face look pale and drawn. She was slender-shouldered, broad-hipped and sculpted from rock-solid muscle. The golden-hilted sword of her office hung lightly on her hip against the green-and-gold tabard she wore over her armor, marking her as a soldier of Kalais.
Oh, if we’d met under other circumstances...
With no small effort, I smothered the thought, instead extending my gloved hand out to her. “Duchess General.”
We clasped hands for a moment, and then she released my grip and turned back to the strategy board which was laid out on a table in the center of the tent. Slowly, the other eyes in the room shifted from me back down to the board.
“Our scouts last sighted the enemy here,” she said, pointing to a place on the board marked Sanfar. “They are withdrawing toward Sevenstone; it seems they intend only to defend their capital.”
“Has there been any sign of the daemon guard?” Captain Fisk, in charge of the archery company, asked.
“Not yet,” the Duchess General shook her head. “They’ve been covering themselves well. If they intend to make a stand at Sevenstone, we’ll find the daemons guarding the king himself, and no one less. They’ve left a company of spears and another of archers waiting in Sanfar. They’d be nothing against Kalais cavalry in the field, but they have the walls.”
Something in her tone told me that Martine had a card hiding up her sleeve, and given the way the tension in the room increased slightly, her captains had noted the same thing. “Your Grace?” Captain Tremir prompted.
“The more time we give Sevenstone to consolidate, the more we’ll lose when we assault it,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “We can take Sanfar, but at what cost?”
“Our supply lines are strong where we stand now, Your Grace,” her young dogsbody and cousin, Duke Droan, said. “But if we march around Sanfar, we’ll be cut off from our supplies, and left with only what the men can carry.”
“It also opens us to the possibility of a rear attack as we approach Sevenstone,” Captain Fisk grunted.
She nodded, taking it all in. Her eyes were scanning the board, upon which was a map representing the western peninsula and the barest edge of Kalais; all the lands of Lannth were laid out there in something approximating a scale map. Green markers lay on the cities of Bordrin, Selias and Aesiak, in a straight western line for Sevenstone. Only Sanfar stood between them and the ultimate goal, but the cities to the north and south remained untouched.
I saw the problem immediately. If the Lannthan King were truly drawing everything he had back to protect himself from the onslaught, every man and minute counted. There was no time for a prolonged siege of Sanfar, and if they were well-stocked with arrows and provisions, it could take months to starve them out. The few ladders and siege towers that
Kalais had managed to provide her would barely be enough for the final conflict; any more lost in a pointless siege could spell the difference between victory and defeat.
“We must reach Sevenstone before Baron Honwall and his troops from the north are able to fortify the walls,” the Duchess General said at last.
“Aye, with the Builder on the scene, we’ll never breach the gates,” Captain Jormak, in command of the Kalais longswordsmen, agreed.
“Master Arbiter,” Martine said, turning to me. At this point, I heard a rustle in the tent behind me, and the jingle of what could only be Mendoz’ armor. He’d gotten himself together in record time, I thought. Her eyes flicked up past me for a moment, and then her gaze locked on mine. “You have helped us greatly with your mastery of the ways of manna. When we at last attack Sevenstone, surely you will be the first to engage the daemons. Tell me, do you believe we can spare the manpower it will take to seize Sanfar?”
I stared at the board for a moment longer, and then shook my head. “No, I don’t think we can. We’ll have to take the risk and march straight for Sevenstone.”
She smiled grimly at me, even as her captains looked taken aback. “Then it’s decided. We march around Sanfar. With the Arbiter on our side, the peasant spears and archers will crouch inside their walls—they won’t dare attack us, and if they do, we’ll be watching. It will shorten our supplies, but we must reach Sevenstone before Baron Honwall. It’s our only chance at victory.”
“But, Your Grace—” Captain Fisk began, but silenced as Martine turned an icy glare on him.
“Yes, Captain?”
He held her gaze for a moment, and then looked away, placing a fist over his heart. “As you command, Your Grace.”
I stroked my stubbled chin thoughtfully, looking at the board, trying to discern what the Duchess General had in mind.
The Elements of Sorcery Page 15
