“So you’re really in charge?” Darik asked between mouthfuls.
“Ah, you know how we barbarians are,” Hoffan said, belching happily after draining his ale. “Nobody’s really in charge.”
Whelan explained. “Leaders, kingdoms, armies, it’s all rather fluid in the Free Kingdoms. Mostly men come and go as they please, joining whomever they see fit. It’s not like the far east, where khalifates mark their people with tattoos like so many cattle, to tell one city’s man from another.”
They didn’t do that in Balsalom, but Darik knew the custom. It kept people from simply moving to another khalifate when the whim struck, devastating one city’s population and swelling another’s to unmanageable levels.
“But someone has to be leading the defense,” Darik protested. “It looks like the Grand Bazaar out there, so many people jostling about their own business.”
Hoffan gave a broad smile. “The king sent me, believe it or not. And after all the times I squeezed his merchants for money. No doubt Markal whispered in his ear, not content to leave me alone for two minutes. But yes, half the damn army doesn’t know it yet.” He sighed. “Alas, that’s all the time I have to waste. Go find a place to sleep. Anywhere in Sleptstock will do. If there are still people at home, kick them out. I have ten thousand silver marks to buy supplies and keep the natives happy.” He grinned in sudden recognition. “A few weeks ago, I’d have taken the money and run for the hills. Now I’m the king’s own moneylender. Now go! Get! That meddler will be here soon enough to keep you company.”
They found a farm house a quarter mile down the river, partially occupied by four men from North Stonebrook, who slept in the front room with their horses. The three companions bedded their horses in a small barn next to the river, then settled themselves in the farmhouse loft. The other men saw nothing strange about letting their own horses sleep in the house, but eyed Whelan’s falcon with concern.
Stomach full from the meal with Hoffan, Darik lay down on a hay bed in the loft, and as he closed his eyes knew that he would fall asleep immediately. He was right.
By the time he woke, the enemy had taken east Sleptstock and pushed their way to the bridge.
#
On the morning before the Order of the Wounded Hand left the Citadel to join Hoffan’s army, Markal was meditating in the covered passageway on the side of the close when the king rode past on his charger and made his way to the bailey between the towers. Daniel wore a polished breast plate and held a shield painted with Sanctuary Tower. A helmet sat on his head.
Surprised, Markal rose and followed the king into the bailey. Daniel rode at the head of forty or fifty men. Most wore the colors of Meadow Down, but a few wore other colors. None of the men but the king wore helmets, but tied them to saddles.
“Ride hard,” the king said to one of his captains. “I need to reach Sleptstock before the battle starts.”
“King Daniel,” Markal said, stepping up to the horse. “May I speak privately with you?”
Daniel turned to look at him through his visor. “I haven’t time, Markal,” he said. “We’ll speak at Sleptstock.”
“Please, my king. I must speak with you now.”
The king sighed and trotted his charger away from the others, pressing against the gates, ready to go. Daniel looked back over his shoulder with a deliberate gesture of impatience. Too deliberate, Markal thought.
“Remove your helmet,” Markal said quietly.
“What? I haven’t time for this. Whatever you have to say, just say it, wizard.”
“Your helmet,” Markal insisted.
Daniel lifted the helmet from his head and Markal saw why the king had insisted on wearing it for a fifteen mile ride, even though they faced little risk of attack before Sleptstock. His face was white and sweat ran down his forehead. A tremor plagued his chin.
“Daniel,” Markal said, horrified, forgetting the proper way to speak to his king. He reached up a hand to help Daniel down from the horse, but the king pulled away.
“No,” Daniel said, coughing. “I’m riding with my men. I’ll be at this battle.”
“You’re too weak. You won’t even make it to Sleptstock.”
“Then strengthen me,” Daniel urged. “Give me magic enough to ride to Sleptstock and give a speech of such power that it will inspire our men in battle. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Yes, I could,” Markal admitted. “But such a spell comes with a cost. It may very well kill you.”
“And what of it?” Daniel demanded. “Have I no right to die beside my men? Others will give their lives today. Why should I be different?”
“You may have that opportunity, but not today. If Sleptstock falls, we’ll need you at the Citadel. The battle for the Citadel will be the greatest in four hundred years.”
Markal didn’t believe his own words. He pinned too much hope on Sleptstock. If they lost the bridge, they’d lose the Citadel too. But he refused to send Daniel to his death.
Markal said, “Please, my king. Build your strength.”
Daniel’s shoulders sagged. “And if I don’t agree you will hound me all the way to Sleptstock, won’t you? Very well, Markal. I will fight the coward’s battle tonight.” Bitterness laced his voice.
He turned his horse toward the men at the gates to give them the news. A minute later, Daniel returned to Markal’s side while the guards at the gate towers opened the portcullis.
The wizard followed Daniel back to the stables, where the king turned the beast over to one of the few stable hands left in the Citadel. Markal relieved the king of his armor and helped him back to his bed chambers. Once inside, any remaining strength fled from Daniel’s limbs. He staggered to his bed. Markal fixed him tea and herbs which he insisted the king drink.
Daniel drank it, coughed weakly, and lay back on his pillows. “You’re going to Sleptstock?”
“Soon, my king,” Markal said. “But one small matter first.”
He left the king in his chambers and went to find Chantmer the Tall, steeling himself for another confrontation. He found the man in the library. Chantmer read an account of the Tothian Wars from a tome written shortly after the destruction of Syrmarria. He must have given up on the Tome of Prophesy already, which meant that Narud and Nathaliey’s spells had worked.
Chantmer looked up when Markal approached, shutting his book. “I thought the king sent you to Sleptstock.” He played with the lapis lazuli beads in his beard.
“I leave in a few minutes. I came to ask you to return the book.”
Chantmer laughed. “So you think you can read it?”
“Perhaps not,” Markal admitted. “But Darik can.”
“Your apprentice? He’s just a boy, and not a particularly intelligent boy, either.”
“I’ve seen him read it,” Markal said. “And I have reason to believe the book has chosen him to reveal its secrets.”
“Ah, of course.” Chantmer returned his book to the shelf, eyes scanning through the other tomes and sliding one halfway out to inspect it closer. “Always so mysterious, Markal Talebearer. You hoard arcane knowledge to compensate for your feeble magic. I wouldn’t mind if your knowledge ever proved useful. But it is clear from what you have missed that you aren’t fit to be in the Order.”
Markal ignored these insults, more interested in whatever information Chantmer thought he’d discovered. “And what is this information that I’ve missed?” He eyed the tall wizard somewhat uncharitably, thinking he looked right now like a rooster about to gobble up a bug.
“What do you know of Memnet the Great?” Chantmer asked.
“Memnet?” Markal permitted himself a slight smile. “I studied under the man in my youth. A great wizard. Perhaps the greatest wizard. Have you met him?”
Chantmer was taken aback. “What? He died in the Tothian Wars. Four hundred years ago!”
Markal nodded. “Yes, I know. I was there when a Ravager plunged the last of the three great swords into his chest, binding his soul.�
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“You never told me you were that old.”
“You never asked,” Markal replied, aware also that revealing his age made it even more pathetic that he was as weak as he was. He pulled a book at random from the shelf and sat down at the table as if to read it. Taking up Chantmer’s reading glass, he thumbed idly through the pages.
Chantmer looked less sure of himself. He looked out the window at the men sparring in the close. A few Knights Temperate had gathered from the east and south, but Ethan hadn’t yet returned from the Wylde with the bulk of them.
Markal worried that his sarcastic dismissal had dried up any information. He said, “But I was only a young man at the time, and not particularly observant. What have you learned about Memnet?”
Chantmer turned from the window. “The Tothian Wars came down to a struggle between King Toth and Memnet the Great. And Memnet won. I believe it possible for a powerful wizard to defeat the dark wizard.”
So that was it. Chantmer fancied himself Memnet’s heir, powerful enough to stand alone against the dark wizard. Markal had met them both, and had no doubt that Memnet was the superior wizard. But then again, Cragyn was not King Toth.
“You oversimplify the war,” Markal said. “Memnet was the greatest wizard of his order, but there were others who stood by his side.”
Chantmer’s eyes blazed. He clenched his fists. “As the Order of the Wounded Hand will stand by mine. This time, the enemy will not escape, but will be bound into my power.” Light blazed from his fists.
Markal rose to his feet, alarmed. “What are you talking about? This time? When we cast the dark wizard from the Order, he was nothing but an acolyte. There was no escaping.”
“Cragyn? You think this is about Cragyn?”
“Don’t speak that name here,” Markal warned. Magic tingled through his fingers and half a dozen incantations rose unbidden to his mind.
Chantmer sneered. “You fool. You know nothing, do you? Cragyn is nothing. Nothing but a fool who thought he could bind the wight of Toth and surrendered his own will in return. Yes, Markal Talebearer, that is right. King Toth has returned to Mithyl to finish what he started and bring about his own rebirth.”
Alarm spread through Markal. “What evidence do you have? I demand to know what knowledge you have that would lead you to make such a claim.”
“I’ve known for years that Cragyn tried to bind the souls of the dead to his power, that he searched for dark spirits whose power kept the Harvester from gathering them. Toth, Malik the Cruel, King Egan. Indeed, I suspected that he had come under partial control of an evil spirit about the time he turned King Richard’s thoughts to violence.”
Chantmer continued, “Had Cragyn been stronger, he might have controlled such a spirit. But ultimately the spirit took complete control of his body. When I saw the Dark Citadel rising in Veyre, it confirmed my fears.”
Markal opened his mouth to refute Chantmer, unwilling to believe that Toth could be alive and in possession of a body after so many years, but much made sudden sense. The Dark Citadel, the Cloud Kingdoms’ interest in the wars, even the dark wizard’s impregnation of Kallia, all of it with roots in the Tothian Wars. Markal felt a sudden fear: Whelan, Darik, and Sofiana had gone to search out Cragyn last night without any knowledge of his true identity. To find the source of the dark wizard’s power and destroy it.
“If you knew this,” Markal said, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Like you told me about the Tome of Prophesy?” Chantmer asked.
That was true, Markal admitted. And he’d also kept secret Whelan’s plan to kill the dark wizard. Perhaps if they had both shared their knowledge, they wouldn’t have this problem.
He nodded. “Perhaps you are right. From now on, I tell you everything I know, and you tell me everything.”
“Very well,” Chantmer agreed. He gave Markal a knowing smile. “First, let me tell you that your friends survived their silly attempt to kill the enemy.”
#
Kallia helped build Saldibar’s tower of silence. Constructed of lashed poles, the tower rose to fifty feet outside the Gates of the Dead. The viziers came, together with guild representatives and Saldibar’s favorite slaves. He had no family, having devoted his life to serving three generations of Balsalom’s leaders, but there was grief among the gathered, and a recognition among all that they had lost a strong leader and a good man. But no words were spoken, no wails or laments. Only the wind punctuated the silence.
Kallia helped carry poles to the men building the tower. Crows and vultures gathered. After they picked the body clean, the bones would bleach in the sun for six weeks before the tower was burned.
The palace guards threw Mol Khah’s body into the Nye as it oozed from the far side of the city, filled with Balsalom’s waste. Some thought that they should send it to Cragyn as a gift, but the wizard was unlikely to be bothered by such a gesture.
Kallia met with Pasha Boroah, Pasha Jeromon, and Guildmaster Fenerath in her tower rooms that afternoon, the throne room destroyed by fire. Incense burned in braziers throughout the room, reminding her of Saldibar’s departed soul. Boroah lit a hookah and they sat cross-legged on the floor smoking in turn. Following the advice of her physics, Kallia passed on the pipe. The three men each took pulls before Kallia felt ready to broach the subject for which they’d gathered.
She turned to the guildmaster and said, “Fenerath, I name you the new grand vizier of Balsalom.” She presented Saldibar’s opal pendant.
Fenerath took the amulet. He’d changed since the revolt, stripping himself of jewelry and rich clothing, save for a single ruby sewn to the front of his turban, and took a more moderate approach with the guild leaders. She didn’t know what had caused the change, but she welcomed it.
Fenerath hesitated before putting the amulet around his neck. At last he sighed and gave it back to her. “I’ve dreamed of such a day, but now is not the right time. Instead of doing this now, khalifa—may you live forever—wait a few months until you have time to consider the issue.”
Kallia shook her head. “I’ve considered it enough. I leave Balsalom tomorrow.”
Alarm spread through Jeromon and Fenerath. Pasha Jeromon said, “You’re leaving? Who will be our queen?” Jeromon was a young man who’d been master of the guardsmen guild until yesterday when she’d promoted him to pasha for leadership in battle.
“I am still your khalifa,” she reassured them, drinking from her tea while Boroah took another pull from the hookah. The spiced smoke filled the air and soothed her nerves. For a moment, she almost disregarded the physics’ advice and joined them.
She continued. “But tomorrow Boroah and I march west with the army. I’ve had enough waiting for the enemy to murder my people as he sees fit.”
Jeromon and Fenerath looked at Boroah. The old soldier nodded slightly and said in a quiet voice, “Yes, that is right.” She had consulted with him that morning as they built Saldibar’s tower of silence and he’d agreed that her plan might work.
“We’d hoped the Citadel would send an army, and I believe they would have, had they the chance. Now we have the chance to help them and defeat our enemy at the same time.”
“But if you fail, Balsalom will be helpless when the dark wizard returns,” Jeromon protested.
But Fenerath shook his head while he smoked the hookah. “Balsalom will be helpless either way. Our best wager is to throw in our lot with the barbarians.”
“That’s what I thought,” Boroah agreed. “Take a gamble. Throw the bones and hope they land in lines. We take only the best-trained foot soldiers, archers, and cavalry, some six thousand men by my reckoning.”
“Less than half the force of our army when the dark wizard first marched against us,” Kallia said. “And that leaves Jeromon and Fenerath only the old, the poorly trained, and the injured to defend the city.”
Pasha Jeromon rubbed the thin beard on his chin, as if considering the challenge. “But what is poorly trained and injured
today may become a formidable force by spring, should we survive that long. But six thousand! The enemy boasts ten times that number.”
“With an enemy at his front,” Kallia reminded him. “We are reinforcements only, a flanking maneuver that will turn the enemy’s attention and hearten our allies. And, perhaps Lord Garydon sends horse and foot from the Teeth, bolstering our numbers.”
Boroah’s men had reported several days of heavy fighting at the Teeth, and Garydon’s banners still flew over the castle. Had the dark wizard simply failed or had he come to an agreement with the wily lord of the western passes? They wouldn’t know until they demanded the man’s aid.
Jeromon said, “More troubling still, we can’t protect our supply chains through the mountains. Even with minimal garrisons, the enemy can ride from his castles and cut our supply lines at will.” He frowned. “And Garydon, too, should his loyalties turn to the enemy.”
“We bring whatever supplies we can carry,” Boroah answered, “and wait for victory to deliver fresh supplies in Eriscoba.”
Kallia held out Saldibar’s pendant again for Fenerath. “Will you take it, my friend, and lead Balsalom in my stead? You will be khalif should I be killed. I have no heir.” The last part wasn’t entirely true, she thought, remembering the child that grew within her.
It was a risky offer. Plots had been set in motion, assassins hired, for less. But Kallia was willing to risk everything for the trust and loyalty of her people. She considered the risk a small price.
Still sitting cross-legged, Fenerath bowed until his turban brushed the floor. He took the amulet. “Khalifa—may you live forever—I will do my best to lead with your grace and wisdom, though I may never have your beauty.”
She gave him a mock grimace. “Your tongue is as smooth as your shiny bald head, my vizier. But since you keep your skull covered with turbans, I suppose you must let slip the tongue on occasion.”
The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) Page 13
