Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3)

by Berardinelli, James

  Sorial glanced at his queen. Although standing with her back ramrod straight to appear regal to those who saw her from a distance, up close she looked worn and weary. Carefully applied makeup had hidden much of the bruising on her face but nothing could completely conceal the evidence of her mistreatment in Basingham’s dungeons. Last night, in the small hours after they had “done their duty,” Myselene had broken down and cried - long, silent, powerful sobs. It was easy to forget how much she had lost so recently. Circumstances hadn’t allowed her to grieve for Azarak properly and perhaps only Sorial recognized how profoundly she missed him. By the time the dawn’s first light shone on the camp, however, the sense of determination that had driven Myselene since her flight from Vantok was once again at the fore. She was committed to this path - to retaking Vantok from Justin’s forces and restoring the survivors to their homes.

  “Fourteen-hundred miles with this lot,” said Gorton with a sigh. “If we’re lucky, we might make twenty miles a day, and less while we’re in the Pass. That’s about ten weeks until we reach Obis. It’ll be getting cold by then with Winter approaching but we should still beat Justin by a half-season. He’ll need at least six weeks to consolidate control over Basingham and drive his army cross the continent to Earlford. By the time he takes Syre, we’ll be at our destination.”

  They had discussed the most pressing concerns ad nauseam. Provisions and cold weather clothing could be requisitioned from villages in the South but would become a scarcity in the North. Myselene hated forcing her guards to become bandits but there was little choice. When stores weren’t offered, they would be taken by force. Once she had claimed Obis’ throne, she could send caravans loaded with supplies to the refugees but that might not be for a while. There was also Ferguson’s “secret base” of Sussaman just beyond the mountains. The vice chancellor had provided assurances that some measure of relief would come from there. Aiden, a resident of the village who had accompanied Rexall to Vantok, was sent on ahead to make preparations.

  “I wish we weren’t so spread out,” said Myselene, reiterating a concern she had voiced numerous times before.

  “So does Carannan, but he’s deployed his men in the best manner possible to provide protection, policing, and aid, and he’ll have riders patrolling the entire column. I’m more concerned about disease and famine than raids. I’d offer a prayer to the gods for the weather to hold if it would do any good. Ferguson assures me it’s folly but the habits of a lifetime die hard.”

  “Watch your back with him,” said Sorial. “He seems cowed but there ain’t no defeat in that old body. He’s too valuable to kill and he knows it but, by all rights, he should have already decorated a gibbet. He’s committed treason several times over in addition to other unpardonable crimes.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” said Gorton, whose initial distrust of the former prelate had grown over time. “He keeps his own counsel and I always get the feeling he knows things he doesn’t reveal. But then you’d understand that better than most having been his prize victim.”

  Myselene steered the subject elsewhere. “Gorton, I’ll send riders to find you as soon as I’ve secured Obis. If my plan fails, keep the refugees away from there. You know what will happen to them if they arrive at the gates without a friend in command. If someone else secures the throne, you’re free to do as you see fit. That goes for every man, woman, and child. Justin will still need to be opposed.” They all knew that Myselene’s gamble was a win-or-die proposition. If she played for the throne and lost, she would be executed. She was far too dangerous a claimant to let live.

  “Don’t fail,” said Gorton. “Then we won’t have to worry about unpleasant alternatives. I have faith in you, Your Majesty. I always have. When you were a little girl, I wondered what it might be like for you to succeed your father instead of Grushik. Truth be told, I think the king did as well. Now I pray I’ll get a chance to learn. I always believed you had it in you to be a great leader and I may have underestimated your full potential.”

  They parted with a long, lingering embrace borne of mutual affection and respect. Watching them, Sorial understood that, for Myselene, Gorton represented the father Rangarak had never been. For the older man, a notorious womanizer, there was a little more to it than paternal warmth. Myselene was a beautiful woman and he knew it. With a flash of insight, Sorial recognized that, if both the queen and her chancellor survived what was to come, they would one day be lovers. But that was a very big if.

  For Sorial and his queen, the remaining good-byes were few. They exchanged brief farewells with Rexall and Warburm, but Carannan had already departed, at least temporarily riding at the front of the column. No thought was given to a leave-taking of Ferguson, who was still sequestered in his tent.

  Donning a priest’s robe that was a twin to Sorial’s, Myselene embraced anonymity. The two were able to wander away from the disbanding camp without attracting notice. On the upslope of a hill several thousand feet to the north, they paused to look back. It was perhaps a last view of Basingham in “friendly” hands. The gates remained firmly shut. It was unclear who was in charge and Myselene had made no attempt to open negotiations with the city in the wake of her escape and Sorial’s return. From here, the city appeared serene but, behind the walls, it was easy to imagine order breaking down with no clear leadership in place. With Uthgarb dead and Durth fled, it was anyone’s guess who had claimed the throne and how long they would hold it.

  “Their leaders ain’t served them well,” said Sorial. There was a hint of anger in his voice, the outrage of a peasant betrayed by his liege. “No one in that palace thinks of the people in the streets, but they’re the ones who’ll bear the burden when Justin arrives. Men will be pressed into his army and women will be forced to… service… the soldiers.”

  “You had the good fortune to grow up in a city with kings who cared about their subjects. Azarak was the best of them, perhaps the most honorable ruler across the continent. Durth is representative of the typical king - a man who’s more concerned about his own comforts and position than the suffering of the weakest of his subjects. He seeks prosperity for his city because his reputation is reflective of Basingham’s wealth. In adversity, it’s the duty of a peasant to suffer to protect the nobles and the nobles to suffer to protect the royals. One of the reasons Azarak faced rebellion is because he broke with custom and suggested that the upper classes should sacrifice to help the lower classes.”

  “Perhaps a new order will rise out of the ashes of this war.”

  “There’s little doubt the old ways are dying, and your kind will play a big part in how things evolve. The secular power of a king is as nothing compared to magic. Without gods to curb wizards… it won’t be many generations before the rulers of the cities will be bending knee to the Lords of Fire, Water, Earth, and Air.”

  The inevitability of that unsettled Sorial; he hadn’t considered the long-term consequences of the return of magic. But there were more immediate concerns. “If we can survive Justin.”

  Myselene offered a thin smile. “There is that, of course.”

  They turned away from Basingham, leaving the city to its inevitable fate. The path ahead beckoned and, much like when he had made the journey to Havenham, Sorial felt he was about to set foot into a maelstrom.

  * * *

  At this stage, what constituted failure? That question was foremost in Carannan’s mind as he rode his horse at the head of a long, meandering column of weary men and women. Some were afoot and others rode in wagons that looked ready to collapse. This was all that remained of the city where he had spent most of his adult life, where he had brought up a beautiful daughter and cultivated a life. He tried not to think too hard about what he had lost; the resulting anger would do no one any good. Long before he had become a leader, he had learned the importance of clear-headedness.

  Eventually, this would culminate in another battle and he would do what duty required: fight, much as he had at Vantok. This time
, however, he wouldn’t be fooled into believing that equal troop numbers meant an even chance. Having witnessed firsthand the disaster at Vantok, he found it difficult to believe that even the legendary army of Obis would be able to withstand Justin. The wild card might be Sorial but, while The Lord of Earth was certainly someone to be reckoned with, every confrontation left him more battered and bruised. Could Sorial and Alicia face down a half-score djinn, a dragon, Justin, and Ariel? That was asking a lot from two untried wizards.

  Carannan expected to die in the cold North. If fate was kind to him, he would sell his life dearly, bringing many enemies to the grave alongside him. But he might as easily be felled by an arrow or a revolver ball before engaging the enemy. Such were the vagaries of battle. He supposed the option to desert remained open but responsibility was too ingrained in his bones for him to run and he had no desire to live in a world remade by The Lord of Fire.

  “Getting this lot through Widow’s Pass is going to be a nightmare,” remarked Gorton, who had recently joined Carannan at the fore. Warburm, Rexall, and Ferguson were bringing up the rear. In between, the hundreds of hale members of Vantok’s militia were dispersed at regular intervals to keep the peace and provide protection should it be needed. “The damn column’s nearly two miles long and we’re moving at a snail’s pace. Before we left, I figured maybe twenty miles a day. At this rate, we’ll be lucky to cover half that.”

  “It’s a damn long trip,” acknowledged Carannan. “I can’t help but wonder if a better course of action might have been to hole up in some out-of-the-way place in the South.”

  “It’s not as if we didn’t present Her Majesty with the option. She feels that once she’s in control of Obis, the safest place for her people… all her people… will be behind those walls.”

  “How safe will that really be, though? Do you think Obis can stop Justin?”

  “Not without help from Sorial and Alicia and a helluva lot of luck. Those walls will stand up to almost any conventional attack but not djinn-hurled fireballs and buffeting by a dragon. And as good as the troops are, they’ll be facing a force the likes of which they’ve never imagined. I think Obis will put up a stronger defense than Vantok and Justin’s pets won’t be a surprise this time around, but I doubt that will change the result. Still, it’s our only hope and we have to take it or prepare to be The Lord of Fire’s subjects.”

  “Sorial thinks this is about more than conquest. He thinks it’s a pretext for something darker.”

  “When it comes to magical matters, I bow to his expertise because I’ve got none. Until a few seasons ago, I thought wizards were creatures of legend. But I’ve seen and heard enough since coming to Vantok to have my preconceptions realigned. That’s another challenge Myselene will face in Obis. As if taking the throne wasn’t a daunting enough task, she’ll have to convince the army that they’re about to face creatures out of story books. Hopefully, she’ll get some help from the soldiers who made the trip to Vantok and saw some unusual things while they were there. It may be that Sorial will have to provide another demonstration.”

  “Does Myselene have what it takes to seize the throne?”

  “Successions in Obis can be messy even when there’s a clear line. Myselene has a strong claim, perhaps the best, but that doesn’t mean anything. The boldest, strongest candidate will sit on the throne when the struggle is over, and he often gets there by wading through the blood of his enemies. This will be a test Myselene never expected to face.”

  “Can a woman emerge on top?”

  “It’s true that Obis is a patriarchal society but there have been queens before. It’s a matter of resolve and Myselene has plenty of that.”

  “And if she fails?”

  “Then, Overcommander, two new bodies will decorate the central square’s gibbets and whatever slim chance we have of defeating Justin will vanish into the ether.”

  * * *

  It was hard to accept that the face of the man staring up at him with an expression of naked fear belonged to his brother - the same brother who, as a young man, had taunted and bullied Justin. He had never felt much along the lines of filial affection for Duke Roblek of Cathman Estates, but there were times when blood ties could be useful. After all, it was better to turn over control of the city to someone with whom he could claim a kinship.

  Figuring out what to do with Basingham now that he had it was more difficult than going through the actual process of getting it. The so-called “battle” had resulted in exactly one death on his side - some idiot who, in the act of looting, fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. The casualty list on the other side was significantly higher. One out of every ten able-bodied men had been put to the sword and a like number of women pressed into duty servicing men in Justin’s army. Some of them had died at the hands of the more uncouth members of his fighting force. But this was war and the penalties for losing were harsh.

  It hadn’t been necessary to call on the djinn or the dragon. The gates had swung wide to admit Justin’s army and he had been greeted by Basingham’s commanders laying down their swords. They were all dead now, of course, incinerated in a show of mercy by The Lord of Fire. Like the execution of the five hundred, it had been an object lesson. The majority of the remaining four-thousand plus would join Justin’s troops and march with him against Earlford. Their good behavior was doubly assured. Not only were desertion and insubordination harshly punished, but Justin held their families as ransom. The repercussions for an infraction would be visited not only on the man committing it but on his wife, children, brothers, sisters, and parents. Justin didn’t care if the new “recruits” believed in his cause; his only concern was that they fight for him. His army now numbered eleven thousand. Bigger than it had been at Vantok, but not yet sufficient to contend at Obis. That would change after Earlford and Syre.

  Of course, neither Sorial nor Alicia was here, despite Uthgarb’s assurances to the contrary. Justin hadn’t expected them to be. Also missing was Myselene; he knew from Ferguson that she was with Sorial on a direct route to Obis. He was passingly disappointed that circumstances had disallowed an orderly transition from the previous regime, but at least King Durth was no longer in a position to challenge Justin’s preeminence. The unfortunate Uthgarb hadn’t survived long enough to fail at fulfilling his pledge. The body, which had been run through by some sort of gruesome blade, was in a state of rapid decay by the time Justin viewed it.

  “Brother,” said Justin, his smile rapacious. “So good of you to attend me.” Not that the holder of his late father’s title had been given a choice. Justin was The Lord of Fire and the city’s conqueror. That made Basingham’s citizens his pawns. Now to decide how best to use them…

  “Your Majesty… it’s been a long time. We all thought you were dead.”

  Your Majesty. Interesting for him to use that title. A shrewd man.

  “I very nearly was but, even in their passing, the gods had different plans for me. I trust you had a nice mourning ceremony. Praise from Father. Tears from Mother. That sort of thing.”

  “Uh… Truth be told, Brother, I can’t remember.”

  Well, at least he was being honest. Justin found that strangely refreshing. About the only one to have offered honesty recently was Sorial.

  “Do you know why I called you here?”

  Roblek swallowed then shook his head in the negative.

  Always keep them guessing. His father had once mentioned it to be the first rule of diplomacy. Of course, his father and mother were no more. Unlike Prelate Ferguson, they hadn’t been granted the gift of extreme longevity.

  “It’s come to my attention that King Durth elected to abdicate his position as ruler of Basingham. Then, on an excursion up the coast, he broke his neck when thrown from a horse. Terrible tragedy, but those things happen when old men ride at unsafe speeds.” No need to mention that a djinn had spooked the horse, causing the fatal incident. “Although it’s true that the throne belongs to me by right of conquest,
I find the one in Vantok to be more comfortable. Thicker padding and such things have meaning for a prematurely aged body like mine. In addition, my campaign to unite the cities is not yet complete and likely won’t be for several more seasons. In my absence, I need someone to control this city as my viceroy. Ambassador Uthgarb applied for the position but he appears to have met with an unfortunate accident. So I thought perhaps you, Brother, might be interested. After all, Father once remarked that you had a head for ruling.” The exact quote had been: My shit-for-brains eldest son has no sense and an inflated opinion of himself - two qualities often found in this city’s ruling class.

  Roblek licked his lips twice, trying to figure out whether he had just been offered the opportunity of a lifetime or whether, by accepting, he would be walking into a trap.

  Justin decided to allay his fears, if only a little. Much as he enjoyed toying with a brother who had caused him only grief as a child, the fact was that he needed an interim ruler here and the blood-tie would strengthen his grip on Basingham in absentia. Depending on what happened in the North and in the Otherverse, he might never return. Or there might not be a Basingham to return to. Despite what he had asserted to Ferguson, there was a real possibility that his entering the Otherverse might trigger a cataclysm. It was of no import to him - his death was a near-term certainty - but it mattered very much to the prelate.

  “I haven’t forgotten the contention between us as children, Roblek, and I can’t say it’s left me kindly disposed toward you. You were mean and spiteful and picked at me as if I was a scab to be bloodied and scratched away. But time has changed us both and I need someone reliable to act as custodian of Basingham. Who better than the highest ranking member of my family?”