The thread of seeking brightened with every step, but he pushed through a thickening cloud that poured down from above. A voice whispered in his head for him to stop, so compelling that he almost retreated and forgot his purpose. Markal recognized the spells even as they battered his will. Spells of sending, of warding, of forbidding, as many as eight or ten all wound together in a ball of protection about the wizard. If Markal actually reached the chamber, he would be powerless to approach Chantmer with the intention of doing harm.
Markal could scarcely comprehend the will, the conviction required to gather such force. It was wizards like Toth and Chantmer, and Memnet the Great who wielded true power, their power driven by conviction that reached toward madness. For Toth, it was the conviction that he was the one true king of Mithyl, equal to the Brothers who had created it, conviction that sustained him beyond the grave. For Chantmer—well, Markal had thought him devoted to the Order and the teachings of the Martyr, but now he wasn’t so sure.
The door to the Thorne Chamber lay wide open, instead of closed as he’d thought it would be. Markal pushed through the last spell and stepped into the chamber. Chantmer sat on the dais in the middle of the room, back turned, while swirling red light surrounded the man’s head. He hunched over something.
“So,” Markal said in a loud voice. “Chantmer the Tall has taken the Martyr’s seat again. I shouldn’t be surprised, since he has lifted himself above the Order.”
Chantmer lifted a hand—an unblackened hand, Markal noted with surprise. “Spare me your scolding, Talebearer. I have no time for such trifles.” His voice was strained.
Markal approached the dais cautiously. He stepped around until he faced the wizard, who looked up with a tired face that still managed a sneer of contempt. Chantmer’s right hand was also whole. Where did he get his power, then?
He held the steel tome on his lap: words danced across the page and pictures flickered in and out of focus. A picture appeared of the Tothian Way and Hoffan’s army retreating toward the Citadel. Chantmer watched for a moment, but as soon as he turned his attention back to Markal, the picture dissolved into a swirl of colors.
“The Tome of Prophesy,” Markal said. “You can read it?”
Chantmer laughed, but it was forced. “Ah yes, your little spell. I will admit, it confused me for a time, but Narud and Nathaliey haven’t the skill to hide themselves.” He shrugged. “And once I swept them aside, the tome revealed truths and hidden knowledge that you can only guess at.”
Chantmer lifted his hand to the thread of light—the seeking—that connected the two wizards’ chests together. He snapped his fingers and the thread dissolved. The shade disappeared from Markal’s eyes. The magic to discern and break the spell appeared to cost Chantmer nothing.
Markal fought down his worry to complete the task for which he had come. “Why did you betray us at Sleptstock, Chantmer.”
Chantmer feigned ignorance. “Betray you?”
Sudden anger sparked in Markal, hot enough to burn him alive. “Yes! You betrayed us. Our gurgolet might have fought Toth’s wyrm to a standstill, if you hadn’t interfered. We’d have held the bridge.”
Chantmer appeared to find this genuinely funny. Laughing, he shut the book and put it to his side, then rose to his feet. “Your gurgolet? Yours? None of you had the power to raise that monster without my strength.”
Markal clenched his teeth. “That is precisely my point. If you had been there, and not on a self-appointed mission, we’d have won the battle.”
Chantmer’s eyes narrowed. “Your gurgolet meant nothing to that battle. That beast hasn’t the strength to defeat Toth. No, nothing you tried at Sleptstock would have held the enemy.”
“And you purposefully scattered the Brotherhood on a fool quest, knowing all along that it was Tainara’s wight killing the king.”
Chantmer shrugged. “An unfortunate coincidence. A mistake.”
Markal clenched his teeth. “Mistake or not, the Knights Temperate are gone, just when we need them the most. And what of this? You swore by the Wounded Hand that you would tell me everything, and I find you working to your own purposes again.”
“What is there to tell that you don’t already know?” Chantmer said with another shrug of dismissal. He walked to the window, where the torchlight reflected off his face. “Only that I needed the gurgolet for my own use. When I felt Toth trying to take control, I simply let him do so.”
Markal could answer some of his earlier questions. He’d already guessed that Chantmer fancied himself successor to Memnet the Great, the wizard who destroyed Toth. But why the gurgolet? Why fight directly against the armies of the Citadel? He knew now, as well as the source of Chantmer’s magic.
“You killed those men,” Markal said softly. “You helped build the gurgolet so you could draw the life force of men it destroyed. But why let Toth turn it against your own army?”
“For a man of such wisdom, you are a fool, Markal. Toth has bound the life forces of his own men. He needs a constant stream of death to keep his soul from being gathered until he can bind it permanently to a human body. I had no choice. I had to use our men.”
It disgusted Markal to see Chantmer reduced to such levels. “You will be cast from the Order for doing such a thing. I swear it.”
“You do what you must. Now go, I have work to do.” He returned to his seat and picked up the book. The strain returned to his face. This close to Toth, he no doubt fought the dark wizard to control the tome every time he opened it.
“The book is not yours,” Markal said, refusing to move. “At the least, it belongs to the Order, but the book was in my care before you took it under false pretenses. And before you bent it to your will, it spoke to the boy.”
He hadn’t thought this would work, and indeed, Chantmer gave this demand no consideration or argument. Eyes blazing, he lifted his hand, whispering a spell under his breath. “Go!”
The command drove Markal from the room. He staggered backwards to the hallway, physically shoved. His head rang with the clamor of a thousand bells and he couldn’t focus his eyes. Chantmer turned back to his book, even as Markal staggered down the stairs.
When he reached the close on the north side of the Golden Tower, he stopped and breathed deeply for several minutes. His head cleared slowly, as did the nausea. He looked up and saw Chantmer’s face in the window, before it disappeared.
They didn’t have strength enough to fight Chantmer. Neither could they afford to turn their attentions from Toth’s army. Perhaps Chantmer really had the potency to challenge Toth, and could draw the dark wizard’s attentions while they fought. But supposing Chantmer defeated Toth. What then? The man was drunk with power.
By the time Markal turned toward Eastgate to wait for the other wizards, the vanguard of Hoffan’s retreating force arrived. It started as a trickle that grew to a flood of wounded and battle-weary men as the night progressed. The army was much diminished from the proud force that had marched to Sleptstock a few days earlier. Bolstered by the Eriscobans already gathered in the city, however, they would prove a formidable army to overcome. But would it be enough to turn aside the dark wizard?
Chapter Eleven
Darik and the griffins flew to the Citadel early in the morning. Averial’s death still weighed heavily on his mind, but a cold rage had replaced Daria’s sorrow. The look of stony determination in her eyes reminded him of her father. Griffin riders obeyed her command as readily as they obeyed Flockheart.
They arrived to discover that the enemy already gathered against Eastgate, and Cragyn’s Hammer was a mile distant and closing fast, dragged on a specially made cart by teams of oxen. Dragon wasps followed them to the city, killing two more griffins before they reached safety.
The griffins appropriated a tower of the Citadel complex, too far back to be of strategic importance, but easily defended from aerial assault by a core of archers given them by King Daniel. Other stragglers joined the aerie throughout the day, survivors from Slepts
tock, and boosted their numbers to ninety. Thirty griffins and riders were dead or missing.
Toth’s army swelled all day. Like a vast swarm of locusts, they descended upon the fields, destroying everything outside the city walls. War drums pounded and trumpets blared, drowning the memory chimes ringing in the city. Cloud castles gathered overhead, as if eager to see their two rivals destroy each other.
Toth served notice that he had no intention of occupying the city, but planned to destroy it completely. Veyrian troops burned farmhouses and other outlying buildings to the ground, while others impaled those Eriscobans who’d ignored last night’s warnings to get inside the city walls. The Veyrians set their trebuchets in place to hurl flaming pitch and large stones into the bailey. It was only a precursor to what awaited them when Toth finished assembling his bombard; Cragyn’s Hammer positioned itself directly in front of the Golden Tower stretching above Eastgate. Dozens of Veyrians worked with winches and muscle to bring it into position.
Until the battle began in earnest, Flockheart didn’t dare further losses, so they watched the enemy from their tower. It was then that Darik made his discovery.
All that day and throughout the night, the dragon flew over the city beyond bow shot, belching fire onto buildings, while the mud creature, a gurgolet, someone called it, soared over the courtyard, spewing hot mud. Arrows prickled its underbelly by the dozen, but the creature absorbed them into its flesh. The monster killed dozens with blasts of hot mud.
But as it lifted above the towers to make another pass, it inadvertently drew close to the dragon and the two flinched away from each other. Darik thought at first that they didn’t care for each other, but later, when the gurgolet flew outside the griffin tower, he noted a curious fact. The facing side of the monster was significantly drier and more shrunken than before, with bones and wooden posts plainly visible. It might have replenished itself after Sleptstock, but whenever it spat mud, it lost liquid and soil that held it together. As it grew drier, the dragon’s fire posed a greater risk.
So far, the weather was dry, with the only clouds belonging to the cloud castles. It would likely grow drier through the night. But the gurgolet might return to the river to renew itself if it grew too dry. Indeed, he thought it likely the monster would do so when night came.
Darik told Flockheart what he thought and the bare bones of a plan, then ran to find Markal. He pushed his way through the men in the courtyard, but when he reached the Golden Tower, guards wouldn’t let him in.
“He’s with the king, and won’t be disturbed. Go back to your company boy, before your captain comes looking for you.”
Darik took a deep breath before he spoke, not wanting to sound shrill. It was something, at least, that they thought him part of the fighting force. He guessed the sword and battle grime made him belong.
“Please,” he said. “Go find Markal and tell him Darik is here. I promise he will let me up.”
The guard looked skeptical, but after a glance at his companions, turned up the stairs. He appeared a few minutes later, looking surprised. “They both know you. Even the king said to send you up.” He bowed. “I’m sorry, master Darik.”
“Please don’t,” Darik urged. “I understand.”
He found King Daniel and Markal high in the Golden Tower, where they could best see the battle. Three more guards stood at the door, but they stepped aside when he approached. Markal and the king stood in front of the window, watching the enemy. The king still looked tired, but much better than last time Darik had seen him. He remembered seeing the king’s soul inside Toth’s box in the Estmor swamps. What a terrible thing to have the dark wizard’s fingers around your soul.
Markal wrinkled his nose, for a moment the same old man Darik had known. “Whew! You need a bath, my boy. A hot Balsalomian bath in perfumed water, hopefully attended by beautiful serving girls.”
Darik laughed at the image, so far removed was it from his present situation. “Do I smell that bad?”
“Like you’ve slept in a sack of dead crows.”
King Daniel said, “What’s the urgency, my friend? Have you heard news of Whelan and the Brotherhood?”
Darik shook his head. “No, but I know how to kill the gurgolet.”
Markal hesitated, making Darik wonder. Did the wizards think they could retake control of the monster? And then Markal explained what he had learned last night about how Chantmer the Tall had corrupted the gurgolet to his own purposes. Toth controlled the gurgolet, but Chantmer channeled the life force of those it killed to his own magic. He’d barricaded himself into a magical fortress at the top of the Citadel.
The news didn’t surprise Darik. He hadn’t known Chantmer long and knew nothing about his previous devotion to the Order, King Daniel, and the Martyr’s crooked path. All Darik knew was the memory of broken glass in his mouth.
“If we destroy the gurgolet, we will weaken Chantmer,” Markal said. “But we do nothing to stop the dark wizard, I’m afraid. Tell us your plan.”
Darik explained, while Markal and the king listened quietly and added the occasional modification. But they both thought it would work, and relieve pressure on the Citadel for a few more hours.
The floor rocked below them and they staggered against the walls. When they recovered, they looked out the window. Cragyn’s Hammer stood askew from its cart, smoke pouring from the mouth. A great cheer went up from the Veyrians who blackened the plains for miles.
Markal leaned out the window, then pulled back a moment later. “No damage yet,” he said, voice relieved. “The magic binding in the stones held. But we won’t stand much pounding.”
The Golden Tower served as the city wall on its outer edge; to undermine and destroy the tower would open a vast breach in the walls. But Darik didn’t think it the weakest point in their defense.
“Why is he shooting at the tower, and not the gates?” Darik asked.
“The defensive gates of the Citadel are the greatest in Mithyl,” King Daniel explained. “If they break through Eastgate, they still face four sets of barbicans, and hundreds of murder holes and arrow loops overhead. We pin them inside with the barbicans and kill them at our leisure. We might destroy his entire army before he breaks through.”
Darik nodded at the explanation. The Tothian Way traveled beneath overhanging walls and towers for a hundred feet past Eastgate. But he hadn’t guessed the strength of the system.
The king turned to Markal and asked, “How long until the Knights Temperate arrive?”’
Markal shook his head. “Too long. Two, maybe three days. The bombard will open a breach before then. But we have no other help.”
A figure stepped from the enemy. Walking boldly along the road leading up to the gates, he passed men and cavalry taking position beyond the walls and stepped away from any protection. The man wore a gray robe that completely hid his face, but his hands and feet were bare. As he approached the walls, a hail of arrows raced to meet him, but they lost momentum and fell harmlessly to the ground.
He opened his mouth to speak, but his words drowned under the shouts and cries of men on the walls and towers. Shouts went through the ranks to be quiet so they could hear what he said. When he spoke again, it was directly at the Golden Tower itself.
“I am willing to end this foolish war,” he said, in a voice that wasn’t particularly loud, but reached their ears nonetheless. “Some of you will survive if you surrender the city at once. If not, I will turn Eriscoba into another Desolation.”
King Daniel hesitated for a moment, then shouted down, “I will need a few days to consider your offer. We must draw a covenant between our kingdoms to assure that we maintain certain rights.”
Darik didn’t believe this for a moment. Daniel was stalling, hoping to gather more defenders, to hold out for Whelan and the Knights Temperate. The dark wizard didn’t believe him either.
“This is no parlay. There will be no bargaining. Either you accept my offer or I destroy this city and everyone who lives here.
Which will it be, King?”
Both armies looked up to the Golden Tower, waiting for Daniel’s reply. Even the dragon and the gurgolet flew high above the city, waiting for the answer to Toth’s question before resuming their attack.
“Don’t answer him,” Markal whispered. “The Order has prepared a little surprise for our friend.”
Even as he spoke, a bolt of lightening sprang from the Golden Tower and split the air with thunder. It lashed the wizard like a whip, throwing him to the ground. Toth lay on the ground, smoke rising from his body. Another cheer sounded the air, but this time from the Citadel.
Their joy was short lived. A second man stepped from the Veyrians, wearing the simple armor of a footman. He ignored the hail of arrows and he walked forward until he stood next to the other man, body still smoking. Darik saw Hoffan crouched below the battlement, waving for his men to stop wasting arrows.
This new man cupped his hands together. A ball of light grew between his palms, then burst outward in a cone of light. It raced toward the Citadel, striking the Golden Tower at the spot from which the wizards had attacked. Cries of pain reached their ears.
By now, everyone in the Free Kingdoms knew their true enemy was King Toth, and not Cragyn, but it still came as a shock to see the man shrug off death to simply possess another body. By the Brothers! How could they stop this man?
The dark wizard walked back to his army. As he did, a great cry sounded. “Toth! All hail King Toth!”
This disturbed Darik as much as anything. All through his life he’d heard tales of King Toth, whose lust for power had destroyed Mithyl, ruined civilization for ten generations from one end of the Tothian Way to the other. The same tales were told in Veyre, and the rest of the khalifates on the eastern plains. Why then, did these men follow him on a second path of destruction, knowing it would end in misery? Surely not just for pillage.
Markal’s face paled. “Nathaliey was over there. If not casting the spell herself then leading the others. Maybe Narud too. I have to go.”
The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) Page 17
