EXILED Wizard of Tizare

by Matthew J. Costello

  “Tell me about the guards Wydnic has with him. How many are there?”

  “Usually about eight mrem, heavily armored, real tough customers.”

  “Veterans of Cragsclaw?”

  Ondra shrugged. “I don’t know. They could be a special squad from some kingdom already friendly to the Eastern Lords. But the regular soldiers don’t waste time in following this Wydnic’s orders—”

  “Cwynid, Ondra, it’s Cwynid.”

  “Cwynid, then. He pretty much runs the city.”

  Ondra led Paralan to a large gate at the rear of the palace. Carts were being unloaded, and mrem were carrying in crates of patter fowl, all clucking noisily, and cartons of the small greenish eggs.

  “Here?” Paralan asked.

  Ondra nodded. “The guard is one of the veterans of Cragsclaw. He lets me enter or leave whenever I wish. Just keep your face covered. He might get nervous if he sees you.”

  Paralan followed Ondra through the stream of foodstuffs. He stood behind the young soldier as he bantered a moment with the guard.

  “Eh,” the guard said, pointing at Paralan. “And who is this?”

  “A friend,” Ondra said. “Told him I’d give him a grand tour. He’s only seen the reception hall.”

  Paralan saw the guard rub his chin. “I don’t know”

  Ondra clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, old friend. We’ll be in—and out—before this crew here is done with their delivery.”

  The guard stared at Paralan. “All right then, but be quick about it. You know Wydnic’s rule.”

  “Sure ... we’ll be right back. ...”

  And Ondra moved quickly inside. Paralan followed.

  There was no turning back now, he thought. The fate of

  Ar—perhaps the fate of the Western kingdoms—depended on the next few moments.

  “We’ll take this staircase,” Ondra said, his voice sounding tired and nervous. “It’s not as direct but there’s less chance that we’ll be seen.”

  Paralan gripped the handrail, the smooth metal cool to the touch. And he felt something then, as if he’d been here before, at this same place, walking up these very stairs, ready to kill someone.

  Or was it something to come, some image from the future?

  “Quickly!” Ondra hissed. “Get a move on, Paralan!”

  Paralan hurried to catch up, letting the feeling fade.

  Until the staircase emptied out into a large hall.

  “There,” Ondra said, pointing. “Talwe will be—”

  But Paralan put up his hand. “I know. He’s in his room. With Cwynid. With the soldiers. I know.”

  Now Paralan took the lead, walking quickly, then running up to the door. Two guards let their lances crisscross as they blocked the entrance.

  “Stop!” they ordered.

  Paralan nodded. Then he flung back his cape, letting it fall to the floor. And his blade was out. He swung up, catching the first guard in the throat, and then swung around to plunge his sword into the second guard. He kicked the bodies away, still quivering with the last spasms of life.

  “Now,” he said to Ondra.

  He reached out, grabbed the door handle. He turned it gently, and then kicked it in. He entered the room.

  Talwe was on his bed, lying between two females. A tray was in front of him, laden with crystals and powders. Talwe had a single claw embedded in one of the powders, bringing it up to his lips.

  The king turned ... and saw his friend.

  “Paralan,” he said, in a voice devoid of its strength and power.

  “Kill him,” Cwynid said to his personal guards, pointing to Paralan.

  Talwe rose up with a start. “No. Stop.”

  Cwynid raised a hand and the guards paused.

  Talwe struggled off the bed.

  And, as Paralan watched, he wondered, What has happened to you, oh my king? What has befuddled your mind, clouded your vision?

  Paralan turned to Cwynid. “This man is no ambassador, Talwe. He is—”

  Cwynid laughed. “Please, my king, let me cut this traitor down. They obviously planned to assassinate you,” Cwynid said.

  “No, Wydnic. Paralan was once my most trusted—”

  “Was?” Paralan said. “I leave, and you give away your kingdom to this beast—mage from the Eastern Lords. Have you seen your city, Talwe? Have you seen the fear—the soldiers marching?”

  Paralan saw Ondra circling to the right, just behind Cwynid.

  “And what of Sruss, and Arklier, and—”

  Talwe’s eyes seemed to cloud over, as if he were remembering something, images from the past. ...

  “Enough!” Cwynid said. Then, to his guards: “Remove him. He is disturbing the king.”

  The guards took a step.

  Paralan raised his sword to Cwynid.

  “Go ahead,” he yelled. “Send your guards at me. Or better yet, use your powerful magic. Show Talwe just how he has come to this.”

  Cwynid smiled. If he did anything magical, Paralan knew, he’d risk Talwe’s seeing it. The mage turned away.

  “We can deal with you later,” Cwynid said, sensing the trap, “when—”

  Paralan nodded to Ondra. Ondra pulled out his sword and flung it towards Cwynid. The mage turned and caught it.

  “This is how it will be settled,” Paralan said, taking a step forward.

  “Paralan!” Talwe yelled.

  But Paralan had already taken the first step in the ritual of the Dance of Death. Even Talwe would not interfere.

  Cwynid stood there.

  He’ll have to do it, Paralan thought. Come on, take the first step.

  Cwynid seemed frozen, staring right at him. Then he moved, ever so slightly.

  He made a signal to his left, and one of the guards drew his sworn.

  But then Ondra was there. Ondra took a swing at the guard, but the guard parried the blow, and then sent his blade into Ondra’s gullet. Ondra collapsed to the stone floor.

  Paralan took a step.

  He raised his sword.

  Cwynid raised his free hand, and then the sword.

  Stay undecided, bastard.

  By the All-Mother, stay undecided just long enough.

  Paralan broke the dance.

  With complete and unforgiveable suddenness, he plunged the sword into Cwynid’s chest.

  Talwe stood up. “Paralan!”

  Paralan let his sword fall to the ground. It clattered on the stone floor, and sent a spray of blood into the air.

  The guards grabbed him, pushing their swords roughly against his throat.

  “He was Cwynid, Talwe. He was taking your city, taking everything we fought for—”

  The guards looked at Talwe, waiting for a signal from Talwe to cut Paralan down.

  But Talwe just shook his head. “Cwynid is dead, Paralan. That battle is over.” Talwe gestured at Cwynid. “This was an ambassador, Paralan. And you have killed him.” Talwe came right up to Paralan’s face. “His king will ask for your death.”

  Talwe turned away, and walked over to the great windows that overlooked the palace gardens.

  “You cannot stay here, even be imprisoned here.” Talwe turned sharply.

  Already his eyes were clearer, Paralan saw.

  But Talwe can’t see that, Paralan thought. It’s as if I’m telling him some mad tale. Of spells, of a transformed wizard.

  “You are,” Talwe said slowly, “banished. Your name will be struck from all records of Ar, from all records of my kingship, from even the records of Cragsclaw. From this day forward, you will no longer exist. You will live where no mrem live, near the desert, away from your own kind. Should you not obey me, you, and any who live with you, will be cut down.”

  Talwe gestured at the guards.

 
They began dragging Paralan back out of the palace.

  Banished!

  But even as they dragged him away, Paralan knew... he felt ... that one day he’d return.

  Yes.

  For this, my king, is the place where I will die.

  ALONE!

  Was there anything worse?

  Well, thought Falon, there was the cold. The way the wind came tearing off the mountain, it cut right through his reddish-brown fur.

  Small gray clouds had gathered at the top of the mountain, making the dark rock look almost black.

  He pulled his lined cape closer, until it was close against the thin fur at his throat. The herd-beasts, just below him, milling about in a flat, open piece of ground, didn’t seem any happier. The lead uxan shifted back and forth, as though to stir too much would only make it colder.

  Falon knew the feeling. If he moved, his cape let in tiny pockets of air. But to stay still was to feel as frozen as one of the grayish-green clumps of rock that dotted the mountainside.

  How long had he been an outcast? He pulled thoughtfully at his whiskers. Once, it was important to him to keep track of the days as they crawled along. But time brought an inexorable message. It doesn’t matter, Falon. Not when you’re fated to spend your days apart from the clan. Except for the five or six times he brought the herd down to the village, he lived apart from his clan.

  His clan lived far from the warm cities to the south, in a sprawling village hidden in the northern hills and mountains. They were highlanders, a proud race.

  None, he thought glumly, more so than he.

  He stepped behind a narrow parra tree, a scrubby, wind beaten thing that offered the only shelter on the slope. He brought his hands out from under his cape, up to his mottled face.

  I was an outcast long before I arrived here, he thought with a smile. No other mrem of his clan had the distinctive splotchy markings. The other highlanders seemed joined together by their mottled calico fur. His markings were like twisted hemp, swirls of red and brown. When he was just a kit, he was teased about it. Often he would reward his young tormentors with a good swipe to the ears. But as he matured other, more interesting problems developed.

  The females were quite taken with his appearance. Despite the angry glances of his young fellow mrem, he encouraged the females ... some of whom needed no encouragement. Of course, that led to his current situation.

  It turned out that one tawny female had been claimed by one of the young leaders of the clan, a large, jowly fellow who, despite his nasty face, presented no real threat.

  But there are other things that count in a duel besides speed and accuracy. Falon knew it was important to avoid the first blow, to let their cautious circling of each other go on until sundown if it had to. And, if he had just a touch of the scorned beast-magic, he might have been able to tell that his older opponent would try to trick him into making the first blow.

  Which is exactly what he did.

  It looked like the chunky mrem was going to pounce right on top of him. Falon, startled and stunned by the maneuver, brought his short, curved sword up.

  His opponent’s lips curled back in a triumphal sneer. He stopped short and pulled back, letting—actually letting—the blade cut into his rich underbelly just so ... just enough to give Falon the disgrace of having made the first blow.

  His departure was swift. It didn’t help that the clan was in need of someone to tend the herd on the upper slopes of Mount Zaynir. And all of a sudden, the clansmrem had him banished from the community of his clan.

  They had been just in doing so. It was the law.

  Yet, on cold nights, staring at the stars, he held his anger close to him and nourished it ... his lone companion.

  Would he ever be allowed to reenter?

  That was for the clan elders to decide.

  But it wouldn’t be soon. His whole body shook as the wind just seemed to pick up strength. It wouldn’t be today. Gone forever were the oh-so-warm and inviting attentions of the many clan females. Just above him, among some large outcrops of grayish stone, there was a small cave that supplied the only warmth he’d be feeling for a long time.

  He looked out at the herd-beasts. Some munched unenthusiastically on the tough clumps of grass that dotted the slope. Others just pressed together, rubbing their scratchy hides to share what warmth they could.

  The lead buck stirred.

  Falon had become attuned to this great beast. The herd-beast looked dull and slow-moving. But the uxan’s eyes never rested. The herd-beast warned him of each change of the weather, and once it alerted him to a pair of poachers who attempted to make off with a young calf. The two thieves would both carry scars with them to their graves.

  The buck moved away from the herd, lifted its great head, and gave out a loud snort.

  Falon crouched down and, without thinking, his hand closed around his sword. The fit was sleek and comfortable, custom-designed for him before his days as an outcast.

  He had a small bow and arrows, but they were at the cave. And the buck’s bellowing signaled something approaching rapidly.

  The herd-mrem scanned the hillside, searching for some sign of movement or color amidst the dull shading of the cold season. The intruder was easy to spot.

  “No need for your magic, old fellow. Our visitor doesn’t seem to be overly concerned about who knows he’s coming.”

  Still, the big uxan bellowed, then stamped its three-pronged hooves, a command to the herd to move further up the slope. Crouching, Falon studied their guest as he trudged up the slope.

  This was no clansmrem, that was for sure. The very threads of his many capes caught the dull light and positively sparkled. Falon didn’t know if he’d ever seen such rich, sumptuous cloth. But that wasn’t what made him blink his golden eyes in confusion.

  The lavishly dressed mrem trudged closer and closer ... and Falon saw the fur. The rich swirl of color around the maw, the streaks that trailed down from his shoulder, under the capes.

  It looked just like him! After years of being a curiosity among the highlander clans, here was someone—someone wealthy—whose fur looked like Falon’s.

  The outcast stood up, keeping the sword discreetly at his side. He stepped out from behind the tree. The uxan’s bellowing grew even louder.

  “Quiet, Old One! Enough noise for the morning,” he yelled.

  The visitor smiled.

  “An effective alarm,” the richly dressed mrem called up the slope.

  The buck’s bellow changed into a low, disturbed moan. Falon took a few steps out towards the visitor.

  “I watch out for them ... and they watch out for me.”

  “I see, young Falon.” He looked down at Falon’s sword. “And I’m sure you do a fine job at it.”

  The intruder wore his own weapon, a large, heavy sword with a hilt that Falon knew must be the purest silver.

  The lead herd-beast slowly quieted.

  “And I’m glad to see that you are exactly where your clansmrem said you’d be,”

  Falon took another step towards the stranger. He was unable to keep from looking at the yellow-and-brown fur, the mrem’s bright yellow eyes that seemed to not miss a thing. A strange sadness came over Falon.

  He was so used to being alone ... it almost hurt to be with one of his own kind.

  “Then they surely told you that I am an outcast, my friend. I have lost my honor—if, indeed, I ever had it.”

  The stranger laughed, a full, hearty sound that filled the hills. The herd-beasts stirred. “And that, dear Falon, is why I am here in the first place....”

  •

  They sat in Falon’s small cave, huddled before a small fire that left smudgy blotches on the too-low ceiling.

  “Sorry I can’t offer you something a bit more comfortable.” Falon gestured at the bare walls and dirt floor.<
br />
  “No matter. It’s warm and the herbs you have cooking smell very good indeed.” The stranger looked up at him. “I’ve been on the road many days now.”

  The young mrem just couldn’t stop looking at the stranger. His people usually disdained the rich city-dwellers. Nor were highlanders above raiding the occasional caravan that made its way through their steep hills.

  But this stranger was the first City-dweller Falon had ever met, without trying to rob his uxan cart.

  “Why would you travel so far to see me?”

  Another smile, and Falon saw that his guest was enjoying all this curiosity.

  The stranger undid the clasp of one of his capes, and let the plush material slide to the floor. “My name is Plano, once chief counselor to the House of Rhow, of the city of Tizare. I served the old lord for ... well, too long, to be sure. After a successor was properly settled, I took my leave.”

  “You traveled from Tizare to see me?”

  Again, Plano laughed. “No, my friend. The herbs are ready, I believe?”

  “Sorry,” Falon said, scurrying to remove the bubbling herbal concoction from the fire. “I’m just a bit confused ... it’s been a long time since—”

  Plano held up one hand. “I understand. You have not spoken with anyone ... for a long time.”

  “A few times a year I can enter the village. But no one speaks. No one dares look.” He made a small grin. “I have lost my—”

  Plano’s golden eyes widened, the slit of the pupil flaring in the firelight. “You lost nothing! Do you understand? Nothing.”

  “But how can you say that? I struck first in the duel.”

  “I know that story, Falon. You were merely tricked by someone older and wiser. You were different ... a challenge. The highlanders are sometimes foolish mrem, Falon.”

  Falon poured the tea. Tiny swirls of steam rose from each cup. He handed a cup to Plano. “How do you know so much?”

  “It was my job to know. And even though I’m retired to my country estate, I have not forgotten how one goes about collecting information.”

  Falon took a deep, warming sip of his tea while he studied Plano. “So you learned who I was, and you sought me out. Now that you are here, maybe you will tell me why you went to such great efforts.”