The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 03 - The Pegasus's Lament

by Martin Hengst

  The heavy thud of the door drew his attention back to the building, and he saw that the soldiers had retreated there, sealing off the entrance. Trying to get through that door would be futile. By the time they worked their claws through the wood, the wicked spears would have been thrust through the window bars and into their flesh. They'd have to find another way into the building.

  “Pursue the mage, Warleader.”

  To Xenir's surprise, it wasn't one of the warriors who had given the impudent order. It was the tiny grizzled cleric who leaned heavily on his staff. The cleric had doggedly followed them on the trek through the swamp, though his infirmity and age prevented him from keeping the grueling pace the youngsters set. He had often fallen behind, sometimes disappearing entirely from view, during their trek here. Still, he had somehow managed to catch up with them again.

  “Quickly, Warleader.” The cleric motioned beyond, to the bend in the trail where it turned and disappeared from view. “I have a plan, but we must be swift.”

  “Very well, cleric,” Xenir said, deciding to humor the old-timer. “What would you have us do?”

  The cleric gave orders in a series of low, short growls. Bandit and another of the young Chosen were sent to intercept the quintessentialist on the path. They were told to take him by surprise, to keep him quiet, and most importantly, bring him back alive. The cleric had stressed that last point so strenuously that Xenir had to assure him that the younger Xarundi would obey his orders as they would have obeyed the Warleader's. The pair of hunters slipped off into the darkness and the rest of the party waited.

  Xenir began to worry as the silvery disk of the moon climbed ever higher in its arc across the night sky. Though he had stressed the need for stealth, he doubted that even the younger Chosen would need so much time to bring down a single human, even if that human were a quintessentialist. He made up his mind to move to a different vantage point if they didn't return before dawn, just to ensure that the mage didn't discover them if he managed to defeat Bandit and come looking for others.

  As it happened, Xenir's worry was unfounded. Shortly after he had decided to move the war party to a different location, there was a rustle in the underbrush. The sound and movement was no more than a rabbit would make, but the Chosen warriors appeared in the thicket, the mage, bound and unconscious, carried between them. They cut his bonds and laid the quintessentialist on the ground before the cleric, calling a rather obnoxious amount of attention to the fact that no tear or even a single drop of blood marred the purity of the billowing robes.

  “Stand him up,” the cleric commanded.

  The warriors shot a look at the Warleader, who nodded. If the cleric had a plan that would get them into the prison, he was a step ahead of the rest of the group. Xenir was a good enough leader to know when listening to subordinates was the best course of action. Besides, he was curious as to how all this was going to play out. The cleric was old, nearly ancient, but it was obvious that he was still in full command of his intellect.

  Once the mage was upright, the cleric laid his staff on the ground and began circling the clearing, tracing arcane symbols onto trees with a single outstretched claw. The sigils pulsed with a flickering, blue-green light. They seemed to grow brighter and livelier as the cleric made each subsequent symbol. As the cleric made the sixth and final sign, the marked trees bowed inward, blocking out the light of the moon and plunging the Xarundi into velvety darkness.

  Thick vines snaked down out of the trees and across the ground, twining themselves around the quintessentialist's wrists and ankles. Bandit and the other warrior stepped away, as their support was no longer required. A low moan escaped from between the man's lips. Though it was pitch black in the clearing, Xenir could see the man's face plainly. The myriad shades of grey that made up the Xarundi's night vision produced vivid detail even when there was no natural light.

  The man's eyelids fluttered. Whatever the cleric was planning, he needed to complete it quickly. If he didn't they'd have a panicky quintessentialist in their midst and that would do none of them any good. The cleric seemed to grasp that reality, however, as he continued to intone the words of command to whatever ritual he had in mind. Stepping up behind the mage, he extruded a sharp fore claw and pressed it into the skin at the base of the mage’s skull. The flesh dimpled and a small bead of blood welled up around the puncture.

  A moment later, the claw slammed forward with a speed that belied the cleric's age. The mage gave a single spasmodic leap and then sagged limply against the restraints. The body seemed to lift off the ground as the cleric withdrew his claw, bringing with it a sinewy blue-white mist. The cleric pulled the strand out of the body, separating the last of it with a little tug that made the empty body give a little jump. With a drop of his jaw that equated to a Xarundi's smile, the cleric displayed the shifting mist to the Warleader.

  “What is it?” The Warleader reached out to touch the mist, but the cleric shook his head in warning.

  “You don't want to touch this, Warleader. It's the vermin's soul. Don't sully yourself.”

  Xenir was both impressed and sickened. That the cleric could so nonchalantly hold the very essence of a vermin turned his stomach. The cleric spread his hands apart, spreading the mist thin between them. He spoke a single word and the blue-white light left the strands. As the light vanished, the soul disintegrated.

  “How frail they are,” the cleric said, still grinning. “Frail even in spirit.”

  Before the Warleader could respond, the cleric stepped up to the mage's body and grasped the neck, his thumbs holding the wound his claw had made open by the edges. Another guttural command and there was a flash of green light that dazzled all the Chosen. They threw their hands up in front of their eyes at the brilliance of the flash. As the Warleader drew breath to scold the cleric for giving away their position, he saw that the vines were gone. The trees had returned to their natural state and both the body of the mage and the cleric lay crumpled next to each other.

  Xenir rushed to the cleric's side, but he was still. His eyes were open and dull. The blue fire that danced in the eyes of every Chosen had gone out. The cleric had failed. The rest of the warriors gathered around, looking down on their fallen comrade with a mixture of pity and disgust. The Warleader passed his heavy hand over the cleric's eyes, closing them for the final time. He rocked back on his haunches, trying to decide what to do next.

  When the body of the human stirred, Xenir was so startled that he retreated to the loose circle of warriors ranged around him. As they prepared to spring, Xenir got a strange feeling in the back of his head and held up a hand, stopping them in their tracks. The quintessentialist turned to face them. His eyes blazed blue for a moment, and then faded to the dull, lifeless color typical of all human eyes. Xenir was aghast.

  “Cleric?”

  “Warleader.”

  The voice that came from the quintessentialist's body was plainly human, but there was something underneath that the Xarundi's hearing could just barely detect. It was definitely the cleric's essence in the human's body. The Warleader felt sick.

  “I don't understand,” Xenir said slowly. “Why?”

  “The vermin will gladly open their doors to one of their own, Warleader. What better disguise than their own skin?”

  “But you...”

  “I am old, Warleader. My time has come and gone. Once my task is complete, you will release me. Give me a warrior's death. An honorable death. Regardless of this fragile, disgusting form.”

  “You are a hero and a patriot, cleric. I will grant your death by my own hand.”

  The cleric bowed his human head. “My thanks, Warleader.”

  Xenir turned to the others.

  “Witness the sacrifice of one of our brothers, who offers his life in trade for another of our own.”

  The warriors accorded the old cleric with a ragged howl, the sound echoing through the trees. After a moment it died away and the woods were silent.

  “Watch clos
ely, my brothers. Our time is at hand,” the cleric said, flipping the cowl of the robes over his head.

  The sun was just beginning to lighten the eastern sky as the mock quintessentialist made his way down the hill and across the rolling valley. The warriors followed, keeping to the shadows of trees and gentle rises, staying out of sight of the prison door. The cleric approached the door, knocking loudly. A moment later, the peep door popped open and someone looked out from inside the prison.

  “Master!” A surprised voice said from the other side of the door. “Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, of course,” the cleric replied earnestly. “I merely forgot to leave something with you when I departed. May I enter?”

  “Certainly! A moment please.”

  The peep door closed and the prison door swung inward on silent hinges. The cleric-mage stepped into the doorway, blocking sight from inside the prison. Xenir motioned to the warriors and they rushed forward. As he reached the door, his claws flashed out, parting the cleric's head from the borrowed body. The Chosen spilled through the open doorway, falling on the startled soldiers in a swarm. The plate armor offered little protection as sharp claws found the seams and pulled them apart, limb from limb.

  In less than two minutes, the three soldiers that stood watch over the prison were dead and the floor of the watch room was slick with blood. Xenir crouched over the watch commander and plucked the ring of keys from his belt. As a unit, the Chosen moved toward the door at the back of the watch room. Finding the appropriate key, the Warleader opened the door and they descended into darkness.

  A long stone corridor was lined with cells on either side. A few flickering lamps cast feeble circles of light on the corridor floor. Most of the cells were empty. Xenir checked each one, looking for the hulk of the High Priest. His despair grew with each cell they checked. Perhaps the dragon was wrong. Perhaps Zarfensis really had perished and his incarceration here was just a sick ruse by the vermin.

  As they reached the last cell on the left hand side of the corridor, all Xenir's doubts evaporated. Crouched on the stone floor was the emaciated frame of the High Priest. Only the slight rise and fall of Zarfensis's breathing gave the Warleader any indication that he was still alive. Xenir was horrified that the High Priest, once a hulking brute, had been reduced to the creature he saw before him. Even so, it could be no other. The twisted brass and blackened rubber of the artificial leg could belong to no one else.

  “Your Holiness?” He asked quietly. “Can you hear me?”

  Zarfensis uncurled from his crouch, getting to unsteady feet with slow, steady deliberation. One side of his face was a ruin of naked skin and puckered scars that had robbed him of an eye. The skin hung from his bones like laundry on a line and the flame in his eye had died to the flicker of a single candle, holding its own against the growing black. With shuffling, grating steps, Zarfensis made his way to the door of the cell, standing well back from the bars. He stared at Xenir, his ash grey tongue flicking out to lick his muzzle. At length, he seemed to gather enough strength to speak.

  “My brother,” Zarfensis rasped. “Is that really you? Has my freedom finally come?”

  Xenir found the key to the cell door and wrenched it open, crossing the threshold and crushing the High Priest in an uncharacteristic embrace. Xenir felt him tremble and knew that they had arrived not a moment too soon. Any longer and he might have succumbed to the harsh treatment the vermin had subjected him to.

  “You are free, my brother. It is time to go home.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  “How dare they?” Tiadaria brandished the letter at Wynn, as if he was somehow responsible for its contents. “They have no right! How can they just make demands of us and expect them to be followed?”

  “He is the King, Tiadaria.” Wynn held up a hand to forestall her outburst. “I'm not saying that it's right. I'm just saying that being the King gives him the legal authority.”

  “I don't care. When do I get to choose, Wynn? My father, the Captain, Faxon, and now this. When do I get to make my own decisions about who I want to be and what I want to do? It isn't fair!”

  Wynn rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. The tension there made his head ache. She stood, glaring at him, her arms folded across her chest. He knew that posture well. It was Tia at her most stubborn, her most obstinate. He wasn't going to get anything useful out of her until she got over her initial indignation and was able to think rationally again.

  “Well?”

  He didn't care for her demanding tone, but really, he knew that it wasn't directed at him. Not exactly. He just happened to be unfortunate enough to be in the way. He turned his good eye toward her, gazing back into the full force of her fury.

  “Do you want an actual answer? Or are you just looking for a vent for your frustration?”

  A pained look flickered over her features so quickly that he'd have missed it if he hadn't been watching closely. Her lips whitened as she considered his question and he waited patiently for her response. He knew it could go either way. Either she'd ask him for his council or she'd want him to listen while she railed against the injustice of it all. He didn't mind either way, he just wanted to know what to expect. They had lived together long enough for Wynn to be used to her mercurial moods and he had adapted to them early on.

  Tia took a deep breath and blew it out in a gusty sigh. She made a show of unfolding the letter that she had crushed in her fist and smoothing it out as best she could. She offered it to Wynn and he took it from her, scanning the brief missive.

  The Imperium courier had caught them on their way out of the cottage and handed the letter to Tiadaria before Wynn could intervene. He had wanted to get her up into the old training field so he could ask her something important. Now he wondered if he had any hope of getting her up there today at all.

  Now that he read the letter, he understood why she was upset. She had every right to be. The King had demanded her return to Dragonfell for assignment of duties, without so much as a “by your leave” or a please, or thank you. It was unlike Greymalkin to issue such demands. The letter in itself was troubling. He couldn't really blame her for her reaction. He finished reading and folded the paper, slipping it into one of the pockets that lined the inside of his robes.

  “You're not going to like--”

  “Then why say it,” she snapped. “If you already know I'm not going to like it?”

  Turning on his heel, he set off down the path toward the training field. The end of the path rose to the crest of a gentle hill. It was a place that they often came together, to talk, or just to sit and watch the stars together on clear nights. He stopped at the top of the rise, looking out into the conifers that ringed the small clearing.

  Tiadaria came up behind him and stood there for some time. Finally, she stepped into his line of sight and looked at him. Wynn pressed his lips together and stared at her, saying nothing. Her blazing eyes met his, then flicked to his eye patch as they often did when she was nervous or upset. She seemed to crumple in on herself all of a sudden.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “I know.” Wynn knew her anger was as quick and furious as a summer rain shower, but ultimately just as harmless. “All I said was that he had the right, not that I thought it was proper, or that agreed with him.”

  “So you agree with me?”

  “I do, but it doesn't really matter what I think. You're a citizen of the Imperium, but you still have a choice. Maybe if you talk to the King...”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Because the King is so flexible?”

  “Okay.” Wynn shrugged. “Maybe not, but he can't just conscript you.”

  “Actually, I think he can. I think that's part of the deal with being King.”

  “There's always Ethergate, or Overwatch.”

  The surprised look Tiadaria shot him was almost comical. Her mouth dropped open and she tried to form words, failing miserably at it.

  “Leave the Imperium?” Tia said it slowly, as
if she were measuring the full weight of her words. “Could we?”

  “Why not? I lived in Ethergate most of my life before you dragged me back here. Need I point out that you haven't even been a citizen of the Imperium for that long, all things considered.”

  Tia stuck her tongue out at him. That was a good sign, Wynn thought. It meant her sense of the ridiculous was returning. With it would come her ability to see more than just her rage.

  “I actually had a reason for wanting to come up here,” Wynn said, with some exasperation. “Do you think maybe we could move on to that? Or would you like to go on a bit more about the King and his demands?”

  “No, I think I'm done. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “It wasn't so much talk as it was action,” Wynn replied.

  “Well?” Tia made a show of crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her foot.

  Getting down on one knee was something of a chore in quintessentialist's robes, but Wynn thought he managed it with a fair amount of aplomb. Tia cast a suspicious eye on him as he reached inside and withdrew a small parcel.

  Wynn presented a small black velvet pad. A plain gold and silver ring rested on the pad. He had agonized over the design for her bonding band, finally settling on something simple, almost utilitarian. He had indulged in a bit of whimsy, asking the artisan to craft a ring of two intertwining bands. The result was both simple and elegant. Perfect for Tiadaria.

  “Wynn,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “What are you doing?”

  “I'm attempting to propose,” he said with mock exasperation. “If you'd stop interrupting me long enough to let me finish it.