EXILED Wizard of Tizare

by Matthew J. Costello

  eventhorizonpg.com

  PARALAN stumbled through the hallway. The flickering torches set his shadow dancing against smudgy walls.

  He pushed past mrem, soldiers, courtiers, guests, and servants ... their bellies filled with sweet wine and grain-cakes, all of them enjoying the beneficence of the victorious King Talwe!

  By the All-Mother, is this what we fought for? Paralan wondered. To turn the castle into a banquet hall for scoundrels of every stripe?

  He quickly turned a corner and stumbled right into a noisy couple vigorously rutting against the wall. The mrem tumbled drunkenly to the ground, while the she-mrem quickly eyed Paralan, licking her ups, apparently eager to replace her lover with someone with less wine in his gut.

  Paralan shook his head.

  “Go on playing with someone you’re safe with,” he grunted, looking down at the mrem, still erect, scurrying to his feet.

  More steps, twisting and turning this way and that. In times of battle the mazelike hallways of the great castle would let the king’s troops surprise an attacker. But if anything were to happen now, if any liskash were to now come from the East, why, they’d simply have to cut their way through the belching hangers-on. The soldiers ... where were they? And what state of preparedness were they in?

  They’re probably just as unprepared as I am, he thought grimly, balancing himself awkwardly as he reached some curving stone steps.

  It is Talwe who is to blame!

  Talwe has allowed all this to corrupt him, soften him, until it has affected all of Ar.

  Even before he became king, before he joined with his beloved Sruss to win the throne of Ar, Talwe was too much given to pleasure. There may be no braver fighter in the West. But he loved the sheer splendor of being king.

  Paralan reached the top of the staircase. The line of rooms beckoned with the boisterous noise of even more raucous partying, more bleary-eyed strangers enjoying Talwe’s hospitality.

  He walked steadily now, preparing himself for the grim business ahead. He gently smoothed his whiskers.

  Then Paralan was at the room, its oaken door shut tight, somber.

  Paralan knocked on the door.

  It opened a crack.

  A small face, with sparkling eyes, looked up at him. “Thank you ... for coming. I know that you must be very busy this night.”

  She was called Feila, a young and beautiful female. She had started out on the cleaning staff, just another servant. But with her striking markings, so golden that she glowed even in the dank hallways, and her eyes such a clear, sparkling blue, like the water of the River Tizare—well, she did not go unnoticed for long.

  Feila was beautiful, by the All-Mother, maybe the most beautiful she-mrem in all of Ar!

  She opened the door further, just enough for Paralan to ease his bulk into the small room. He looked around at the candlelit quarters, the narrow bed, the small cabinets, and high up, a single window—too high for her to look out at the courtyard.

  So this was how one of Talwe’s courtesans spent her time when she was not in the royal chambers!

  Paralan snorted his disapproval.

  “Sit here,” she said, pointing at the bed. “Would you like some sweet wine? It’s still quite cool....”

  He shook his head, again nervously fingering his whiskers. She gave off no aroma of love, no scent of desire. Instead, she radiated fear, a terrible, childlike fear.

  And yet, her beauty stirred him.

  She carne and sat next to him on the bed.

  “Are you sure you won’t have a cup of wine?”

  “I’ve had more than enough for one night, Feila. I was part of the ‘welcoming party’ for Talwe’s guest,” Paralan said with obvious disdain, “before I got your message. I came immediately.”

  Feila stood up, blocking the lone candle. She was a shadow, and Paralan’s face was covered in darkness.

  “It’s about Talwe, I—”

  Paralan raised a hand up.

  “There’s nothing I can do there, Feila. He has always been one to enjoy females, leaving them when he’s had his, er, fill.” Paralan winced at his own inept way of expressing the hard facts to Feila. With Sruss away supervising the reconstruction of Cragsclaw, Feila had, perhaps, allowed her hopes to rise. Maybe Sruss wouldn’t come back, she hoped. Maybe Talwe would keep Feila close by his side forever.

  But Paralan knew his king better than that.

  No one would ever take the place of Talwe’s beloved Sruss.

  Feila took a step closer to him, and rested a graceful hand on his broad shoulder.

  “Surely you, still have his ear ... he listens to you more than anyone m Ar....”

  “Perhaps. But it’s not often these days that he seeks my confidence.”

  In fact, Paralan thought, Talwe goes against my advice more often of late. Like tonight’s welcoming party, throwing open the doors of the castle to a stranger, with only an honor guard present for protection. Still, they had been through much together, and that had to count for something.

  “No,” the young she-mrem said quietly. “It’s not ... that.”

  Paralan raised his eyebrows. “Eh, then what is it?”

  “I’m pregnant. I’m going to have Talwe’s kit. He has not spoken to me since I told him.” Feila sat down. “I’m afraid of what he might do ... to me ... to his kit.”

  “By the All-Mother,” Paralan laughed. “A kit! Just what the young warrior needs. Something to use up all that energy he goes spending around the palace.”

  But he saw that Feila wasn’t laughing.

  “Paralan ... I’m scared. Talwe hasn’t said a word since I told him.”

  He stood up, none too steadily, he noted. “Don’t you worry, Feila. I will gladly intercede with Talwe. That overgrown kit should be glad of your news.” He leaned close to Feila, smelling the sweet aroma of her scented fur. “Now you’ve done more for Talwe, and Ar, than Sruss has been able to do. An heir,” he whispered into her ear. “An heir! Rest now. I will speak to him before the morrow.”

  Feila took his right hand in both of hers, still barely unable to encircle it, and she squeezed it hard.

  “Thank you. I knew I could count on your help.”

  “Yes ... now if you’ll just direct me to the way out I’ll try stumbling my way past all the rutting couples who litter the hallways.”

  She laughed, quickly skipping over to open the door. She turned the heavy doorknob and all the party sounds, scented with the smell of spilled ale and wine, came rushing in.

  “And remember—don’t worry.”

  And Paralan made his way to the Great Hall where his lord and friend, Talwe, entertained the ambassador from the Far Western Kingdom of Kazeir.

  •

  Here, at least, some semblance of order prevailed.

  Still the tables groaned under the heavy platters of arbunda, all sliced into every variety of steak known to the butchers of Ar. Servants walked from table to table with large silver goblets filled with the fruity wines native to neighboring valleys.

  Two different bands played, one at each side of the hall—so far apart that their cacophonous sounds, the rustic rhythms so favored by Talwe, could barely be heard by each other.

  The head table, larger than any Paralan had ever seen before, was raised under the new tapestry that Talwe commissioned when he became king.

  Paralan paused a moment and stared at the enormous woven mural.

  Cragsclaw!

  The battle that was legend in all of the Western kingdoms.

  There, in the center, was Talwe,
his sword raised high while a pile of dead liskash lay at his feet. And off to the right, there were lines of gleaming chariots, many more than actually attacked them on that fateful day. Archers were letting loose their arrows, while other liskash were attempting to climb the castle walls.

  To the left stood Mithmid, seemingly removed from all the action.

  That, Paralan thought, was indeed funny.

  Without Mithmid’s intervention—magically removing the liskash’s protection from the winter chill—the coldblooded monsters would have kept on coming, more and more of them until they would have swarmed over the castle walls.

  And there I am, Paralan thought, looking at himself on the tapestry, through the smoke of the scented urns and the dusty haze made by the storm of battle and so many mrem. He was there, right by Talwe’s side. “As it ever shall be,” the king-to-be had said.

  So, he had been true to his word. Paralan was Talwe’s most trusted friend. Yet time had worked hard, bitter changes. Many important decisions were routinely made without Talwe spending time walking with Paralan among the leafy fronds of the castle’s great fern garden. At other times, Paralan felt that Talwe would consult with him only out of some distant, half-remembered sense of obligation.

  More and more of late, Paralan was thinking perhaps it was his time to leave.

  Paralan walked through the maze of mrem, up to the dais. He looked at Talwe, who turned and nodded quickly, not interrupting the flow of conversation with his guest of honor.

  Paralan studied this guest—this ambassador—a moment, before taking his seat.

  There was something that was almost familiar about the mrem, something that had troubled Paralan from the moment he saw him. True, the markings were strange, with the use of heavy dyes favored by the Far Westerners. And the scalp fur was cut in the distinctive wedge shape. Worse, his whiskers were trimmed—a thought that sent a shiver through Paralan.

  Still, there was something more disturbing about this guest.

  Paralan sat down at his place. His goblet was quickly refilled and a fresh plate of meat put in front of him. But Paralan ignored the food and just watched Talwe in close discussion with this guest, Ambassador Wydnic. They were in close conversation, Talwe and this emissary.

  Just what kind of deals were they up to?

  Talwe laughed, a hearty, robust sound, and signaled to a servant to refill his goblet. Paralan caught his eye, got up, and walked over to him.

  Wydnic was eating daintily from his plate, long tapered fingers poking at the meat, extending a curved claw to pull out an especially rare tidbit.

  “Lord Paralan, come sit next to us. The ambassador here was telling—”

  Paralan leaned down close to Talwe, whispering to him. “Hold onto your balls when talking to the likes of him, my lord Talwe. One couldn’t even grab this one by the short hairs of his whiskers should he wish to make off with the palace silver.”

  Talwe laughed despite himself.

  “Paralan, be civil,” he whispered. “He’s explaining many good things his kind Western king can do for Ar. Why, do you know that—”

  “I’m sure, Talwe. But listen,” Paralan said, willing to speak directly to his old friend and fighting companion, “I have come from Feila. She has told me of—”

  Talwe’s expression completely clouded over. He chewed his mouthful of food as though it suddenly had become distasteful. “I won’t,” the king said in measured tones that chilled even Paralan, “talk of this now.”

  Paralan Sighed. “But Talwe, she’s—”

  “Not now!” the king ordered, his voice rising. A hush fell over the head table, then spread to the nearby tables, like a stone making waves, rippling. Heads turned, studying Talwe to see what could have made him break the mood. The shock of hearing him raise his voice to his lord Paralan doubled their confusion.

  “Yes,” Paralan said slowly, standing right next to the oversize image of himself on the tapestry.

  The ambassador looked over, smiled, then wiped his hands on the thick napkin on his lap. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure….” Wydnic said, extending a graceful hand.

  “Lord Paralan, my personal lieutenant,” Talwe said without enthusiasm, devoid of the special fondness that he usually displayed when introducing Paralan.

  I, too, have my limits, Paralan thought. He shook the ambassador’s hand.

  He looked the ambassador right in his dark eyes.

  And Paralan knew that there was something hidden, something false about this Far Western dandy. It was there, in the clear gleam of his eyes, and in his hands, manicured to perfection, but strong ... assured. .

  “Ambassador,” Paralan said, releasing the hand.

  Wydnic held his gaze.

  “I have been telling your king that such feasts as this in the West are rare. It can be so dry. Much of our food arrives from the Southern islands. We have learned dozens of ways to cook fish.”

  Paralan watched Wydnic, watched him, even as he talked, dissecting the slab of steak on his table, extracting the chewy lines of fat like a surgeon.

  Yet, Paralan thought, you have seen more steaks in your day than I have. If Talwe weren’t so full of sweet wine, he’d see it, too.

  He looked at his king. “Talwe, I just—”

  But Talwe turned and spoke to a servant standing just behind him.

  “Tell the dancers that my guest and I are ready.”

  Paralan shrugged and turned away. There would be time later to plead Feila’s case, to make Talwe see that his heir must be protected, recognized, honored. To protect the kingdom.

  Paralan took his seat just as the dancers arrived, taking over some hurriedly cleared space. The two opposing bands now struggled to work together, playing an ever-faster rhythm, cheered on by the wild clapping of the revelers. Faster and faster, the dancers, each dressed in a thin green gown, spun around like tops spinning out of control. Faster and faster …

  And he looked back at his king, who had one eye on the dancers, but was still in close conversation with Wydnic.

  There is danger here, Paralan wanted to tell him.

  But for now I must wait, watching the dancers spin out their stories of great kings and their great loves.

  THE AMBASSADOR let Talwe clasp his hand tightly.

  “We will talk more in the morning, Wydnic, of your kingdom, and Ar.”

  The ambassador smiled graciously. “I look forward to that, Talwe. I’m sure that this festive night bodes well for the good relations between Ar and Kazeir.” He watched Talwe stifle a yawn, and thought, It’s not fatigue that hurries you away, my randy king. No, the magician could clearly read the drunken flood of thoughts and feelings that gripped Talwe, and it wasn’t mere affairs of state that concerned him now.

  Wydnic smiled. “In the morning then.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” Talwe said.

  And then the ambassador closed the door, and fell against it, biting into his hand, suppressing the laughter. It was almost too easy, to be here inside the castle, at Talwe’s right hand.

  Too easy!

  There had been a moment, during the feast, when he thought he’d lose control. It took clear, almost perfect concentration to keep his mental shield strong and impenetrable. How else could he be there, beneath that enormous tapestry showing the moment of his greatest failure?

  Cragsclaw!

  He wanted to scream at them. I was there, too! I almost brought the Eastern Lords their greatest’ victory. And then I, Cwynid, would have ruled the Western lands along with them!

  But there had been incalculable factors. Talwe’s natural brilliance as a soldier, as a strategist. He had organized an incredible defense of what was an indefensible position. It was more than impressive.

  It was, quite simply, magical.

  At first Cwynid had suspected nothing more than s
ome ragged beast magic, nothing to stand up against his own powers. But he had gradually felt another power, strong, clear, direct ... and growing.

  Cwynid stepped away from the door. He walked over to the bed, pulling the sheets and rich coverlet back. While it must appear that he had slept soundly, he would not rest at all this night.

  He then went and placed a chair near a small dressing table. He sat down, closed his eyes, and began to concentrate....

  Yes, Talwe had had powerful help that day, a magic that had trapped the liskash without their magical warmth. They had slowed, some even collapsed in the dirt, cut down like sand rats by the flurry of arrows and the flashing swords.

  Cwynid had fought the spell but—from out of nowhere —it had been just too powerful.

  The Eastern Lords had not dealt kindly with him after that defeat. He had thought that they might even torture him; or skewer him alive and serve him at one of their ghastly feasts. But one of the elders, a veteran of many battles with the mrem, had come forward.

  He’s too valuable, the elder had argued. Let us keep him. There will come a time when we will need him.

  Yes, Cwynid had agreed. Listen to this wise liskash. I can be of great, great service to the Eastern Lords ... if only you’ll spare my life.

  And despite the loud protests of some of the survivors of Cragsclaw, Cwynid had found himself spared, spared for this....

  He placed his hands flat on the table.

  I must concentrate, he thought. To make sure that the contact is there. He began breathing deeply, the dark room vanishing before his eyes.

  And then he was there.

  Inside one of Talwe’s palatial rooms, lying next to Talwe. Talwe, of course, saw nothing but the supple beauty next to him, gently running her claws over his mottled fur, whispering words of encouragement to him, enjoying him in all his languorous drunkenness as he slowly became hard.

  And now Cwynid felt it! There! He was part of her now, smelling the delicately scented air, the still-fruity taste of the goblet of wine next to the bed.

  “Come,” he could hear her say, “come, my king, and rest yourself inside me.”