The Wizard_s Fate e-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Stand off, invader! This is the sacred realm of His Majesty Pakin III!” Draymon intoned.

  “Your ruler is lost and must yield,” Amaltar recited the ritual reply. “Death awaits any who resist!”

  “Then fight, hated foreigner! The house of Ackal Ergot shall not fall!”

  So saying, Draymon slipped inside the gate. Amaltar strode forward and struck the gate three times with his ceremonial sword. Each blow was punctuated by beats on the drums. On the third strike, a squad of palace guards hauled the gate open wide. Draymon and his men went to their knees. The mob in the plaza calmed.

  “Spare us, O conqueror!” the commander exclaimed. “We did but serve our great lord!”

  “Where is the noble Pakin III?”

  “Yonder, on his bier.” Draymon pointed behind him. Through the forest of banners, the catafalque’s white curtains stirred in the breeze flowing through the open gate.

  “I will pay homage to your defeated lord.”

  Accompanied only by Tol and the golden case he bore, Amaltar entered the grounds of the place in which he’d grown up, no longer a prince, but as master. Pale and sweating inside the armor of his powerful ancestor, Amaltar did not resemble a conqueror but a worn and sickly man. More than once Tol had to pause as his imperial master faltered slightly, staggering under the weight of Ackal Ergot’s armor and the burden of his empire.

  Oropash, Helbin, and the senior wizards stood waiting by the catafalque. Catching sight of Tol, Oropash paled and Helbin scowled. With Mistress Yoralyn gone, they were the only wizards who knew Tol possessed the nullstone, fatal to all their art. The two wizards mastered their emotions and lowered their eyes out of respect for their new emperor.

  Amaltar and Tol climbed the steps to the veiled shrine. Within, Pakin III lay on a black basalt plinth. His loyal wizards had transformed him entirely to stone, even to his burial robes and single golden earring. Alive, he had been a sardonic, cynical man, brutally honest and strictly fair. Transmuted to alabaster, the old emperor looked wise enough to counsel the gods.

  Amaltar laid his sword across his father’s chest. Instead of the ritual words, he said quietly, “Good-bye, Father. No man worked harder or understood me less.”

  He knelt and a long silence ensued. Tol stood unmoving. He did not want to desecrate Amaltar’s silent prayers with any noise, no matter how slight.

  At last, Amaltar rose and recovered his sword. “Come, Tolandruth.”

  The banners had been cleared away, and the entire coronation procession had taken over the square. The monumental plaza could have easily accommodated even their number, but they were not alone. All the warlords of the empire had joined them, as had the wizards of the college and the servants, lackeys, cooks, and other lesser folk of the palace. The plaza was full of expectant faces and hushed voices. In the multitude Tol located Valaran, Nazramin, and Egrin. Far across the square, Mandes stood on the palace steps, surrounded by scribes and palace guards. The sorcerer was dressed in his best for the coronation, a blue-gray robe and spotless white gloves.

  Tol descended two steps, turned to face Amaltar, and presented the heavy golden box. Amaltar unlocked it with his ring and raised the lid, letting it rest against Tol’s chest.

  The ancient blade, bent into a circle, held within its tempered length the power and glory of an entire empire-the future of millions, contained in three spans of iron.

  Amaltar lifted the iron crown from its resting place and seated it on his head. He turned to face the assembled throng.

  In a loud voice slightly gruff with strain, he declared, “I am Ackal IV, Emperor of Ergoth! Who will bow down to me and serve me all my days?”

  Noisily, with the clinking of armor and swish of silks, five thousand knelt as one.

  “Hail, Ackal IV!” Tol shouted.

  The crowd replied with a roar, “Hail Ackal IV! Long live the Emperor! Long Live Ackal IV!”

  Chapter 14

  Dinner and a Duel

  By night the sky over Daltigoth was ablaze with light. The tremendous orange glow blotted out the gentle light of the stars. To an onlooker leagues away, the city might seem to be burning from end to end, but Daltigoth blazed only with revelry. From the Inner City to the scruffiest dive on the canal, everyone was honoring the memory of their past emperor or paying homage to the new one by feasting, drinking, and dancing.

  So large was the throng of the elite-warlords, wizards, courtiers, and foreign dignitaries-the banquet in the Inner City was being held outdoors in the plaza. No hall in the palace was large enough to hold all the guests.

  An army of trestle tables had been set up between the palace and the garden surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery. Torches stood at the ends of the tables, and masses of servants labored to keep the emperor’s favored guests well supplied with food and drink. An entire herd of imperial cattle had been slaughtered for the feast, along with no fewer than ten thousand fowl.

  The palace kitchens were not sufficient for the great quantity of food to be prepared, so firepits were built in the alley between the palace’s north facade and the Inner City wall. There an army of cooks labored. Stripped to loincloths against the searing heat, they roasted whole steers, turned spits containing a hundred chickens, and stirred cauldrons of simmering vegetables. Wine tuns as tall as ogres were hauled up from the cellars and tapped on the palace steps, and hogsheads of beer were put at the end of each row of tables.

  At the imperial table, Ackal IV dined with his wives, children, and royal siblings. Tol was favored with a seat at the table facing the imperial table. Miya and Kiya had joined him, as had Egrin and the other members of the morning’s honor guard.

  The night air was cooler now, as summer waned into autumn, but the heavy coronation finery worn by the diners, the great quantities of wine and beer they consumed, and the leaping flames of the torches combined to overheat the scene.

  The gathering was earnestly merry, with a few notable exceptions. Chief among the melancholy was the new emperor himself.

  Ackal IV sat in his oversized chair, listlessly taking in the fantastic scene. Gray-faced and sweating, his earlier vigor had faded under the great weight of his new position. As regent, Amaltar had ruled the empire for twelve years, but no matter how much power he’d held, it had always been wielded in his father’s name. Now he was emperor in truth. There was no one above him, no other name to invoke to settle disputes. Everything rested on his own shoulders. The Ergoth Empire was a prodigious burden. Another man might have reveled in the glory, in the unbridled power that was now his to command. Ackal IV looked miserable.

  The emperor’s apparent gloom infected Tol’s mood, or perhaps it was the quantity of beer he had drunk. Between toasts offered by the Dom-shu sisters on his left and salutes offered by the warlords on his right, Tol was imbibing much more than usual.

  Valaran was seated only steps away from him, yet she might as well have been perched on the red moon. Cool and regal amid the raucous celebration, she seemed totally unruffled by the loud talk and the oppressive heat of torches, braziers, and open hearths. Tol itched to stalk across the narrow gap separating them and take her for his own, as he had Tarsis or the Blood Fleet.

  A stinging blow on his back snapped Tol out of his glum preoccupation. Hojan had come up behind him and given his commander a comradely whack.

  “My lord!” Hojan said, weaving a little on his feet. “We’re having a friendly dispute. Give us the benefit of your wisdom!”

  Tol grimaced. “If I can.”

  “Which is more important to a commander: training or instinct? Bessian, Manacus, and Urbath say training is more important. Illando and I say instinct.”

  “And Varnacoth?”

  Hojan waved a dismissive hand. “He’s too drunk!”

  Tol leaned forward and looked down the table. “What does Lord Egrin say?”

  Disdaining to wait for an overworked servant, the marshal had gotten up to fetch himself a trencher of bread. “The most vital characteris
tic of a successful commander is luck,” Egrin tossed over his shoulder.

  “I agree,” Tol said.

  Hojan’s ally Illando said, “But, my lord, luck is so random. How can a conscientious leader count on it?”

  “He can’t, but a wise commander fosters his own luck. You must be able to seize upon any sudden change in fortune or any weakness in the enemy.”

  “Was your training of no consequence then, Lord Tolandruth?” asked the squat, muscular Bessian.

  “No, he was just lucky,” Kiya said. The men laughed, and she raised her voice, expanding on her claim. “Lord Tolandruth is the most fortunate man I’ve ever known. If he’d stayed a farmer, he’d have the best crops in the Eastern Hundred. If he’d become a cobbler, he’d have sold more shoes than anyone in Ergoth. Because he took up the sword, he became a famous general.”

  “That’s too simple,” Hojan protested. He steadied himself by planting a heavy hand on Miya’s shoulder. Fastidiously, she lifted it off. He wobbled a moment then firmed his knees again.

  “Truth is simple,” said Kiya. “That’s what makes it hard to take.”

  Egrin carried his bread back to his seat on Tol’s right. “What do you say, my lord?” the marshal asked.

  “Kiya’s right. I’ve been very lucky.” Tol popped a hunk of rare beef in his mouth. “I was lucky to learn a great deal from Lord Egrin and all the warriors at Juramona, who were also my teachers. Some, like Marshal Odovar, taught by bad example, but I tried to learn from them all and to put what they taught me to the test in battle.”

  He warmed to the topic. “Some common wisdom was invaluable. Some was arrant nonsense. For example, when deploying foot soldiers against cavalry, I-”

  A commotion among the guests interrupted Tol. All heads turned in the direction of the disturbance to see Mandes, whom had been absent from the festivities up till now. He was advancing along the lane between the tables. Richly clad in deep blue velvet, he gazed straight ahead, ignoring the merry chaos around him. When he reached the imperial table, he bowed to Ackal IV.

  Tol’s fingers closed into fists. By the emperor’s order, no knives or forks were allowed at the banquet (the meat was carved into bite-sized pieces by the cooks before it was served). The order was meant to protect him, but now it spared Mandes, who otherwise would have found Tol’s dinner implements buried in his heart.

  “Your Majesty sent for me?” the sorcerer said smoothly.

  “I am weary, and my heart is heavy,” Ackal IV said, sighing.

  “Your Majesty has had a trying day.” Mandes held out a gloved hand. A many-pointed star of flawless crystal appeared on his palm. “The stars of heaven descend this night to pay you homage, sire.”

  Mandes set the ornament on the table before the emperor. It was pretty, but hardly remarkable amidst the splendor of jewels and ornate decor. Smiling slightly at Ackal’s lukewarm response, Mandes clapped his kid-covered hands. With each clap, the small star enlarged, growing to bushel-basket size. Empress Thura, seated next to her husband, gasped and applauded.

  Mandes levitated the spiky ornament from the imperial table down to the pavement. He clapped his hands once more, and the glass star expanded again. The crowd around the imperial table exclaimed at the performance.

  From their place far down the high table, Oropash and Helbin did not bother to hide their disapproval. Magic was high art to them, not meant for sideshow entertainment.

  In addition to all his other violations of the wizards’ code, Mandes now was cheapening their craft merely to amuse the emperor and his guests.

  The Mist-Maker spread his arms wide and mouthed silent words of power. The transparent star rose slowly into the air. With a tilt of his head, Mandes set it turning on one point. Catching the torchlight, the spinning star flashed and scintillated, throwing rainbows of light over the admiring crowd.

  More than a little tipsy, Tol leaped to his feet. Miya clutched his arm, trying to stop him. Kiya broke her sister’s grip and cut off Miya’s protests.

  Oblivious to the danger that threatened him, Mandes was embellishing his act. He put the tip of one finger to the bottommost point of the whirling star, as if balancing it there. Many in the crowd laughed. Ackal IV smiled.

  All laughter died when Tol approached. The grim expression on his face spoke volumes, and someone in the crowd yelled, “Take him, Tolandruth!”

  “Liar! Betrayer! Murderer!” Tol declared.

  Suddenly, the star exploded. With a sound like discordant music, brilliant shards rained over the nearby tables. Mandes threw an arm over his face. Tol did not do so fast enough, and a shard cut his right cheek.

  A hush fell over the plaza and all eyes went to the emperor. Far from being displeased, Ackal IV looked more alert and interested than he had all evening.

  Mandes was livid. “How dare you interfere with the emperor’s diversion,” he said, drawing back from Tol. “You might have injured him, breaking the crystal orb!”

  Tol wiped the line of blood from his cheek. He saw a dark object lying on the ground amid the broken slivers of glass. Mindful of the sharp shards, he bent down and picked it up. It was a lump of lead, formed into a plum-sized ball.

  “Lord Tolandruth did not interfere,” called out a strong, clear voice. “I did!”

  Striding down the lane between the tables came a dark-eyed young man with curly black hair. He was dressed like a foundryman in leather apron, gauntlets, and leggings. To his surprise Tol recognized Elicarno, engineer and builder of machines. He was trailed by eight young men similarly attired.

  Elicarno carried a strange and complicated device. It had a heavy wooden stock, shaped for grasping at one end. At the other end, two pivoting arms stuck out nearly at right angles to the stock, their free ends connected by a thick cord, like a bowstring.

  “Master Mechanician, what’s the meaning of this?” Despite the disruption, there was no anger in the emperor’s challenge. Plainly, he did not find Elicarno’s sudden arrival unwelcome.

  Elicarno halted a few steps away and bowed with a wide sweep of his free arm.

  “Your Majesty, my apprentices and I come to wish you a long and happy reign. I bring you this hand catapult, the latest project from my workshop.” He set the device on the imperial table.

  “So it was you who shattered Mandes’s star?” Ackal IV asked.

  Elicarno admitted it. He’d broken the glass star with a single lead missile loosed from his hand catapult. Mandes puffed out his chest, ready to bask in the emperor’s outrage.

  “Remarkable,” was Ackal IV’s comment.

  Mandes deflated visibly as the emperor fingered the tightly twisted skein of cords that powered the throwing arms. When the bowstring was drawn back, the skein was compressed further, imparting power to the arm.

  “What is its range?”

  “Aimed range is a hundred paces, Majesty, but it can loft projectiles up to two hundred paces.”

  Tol asked, “Can it throw darts or arrows?”

  “With some adjustments, yes.”

  At Elicarno’s nod, Tol picked up the hand catapult. It was weighty but well balanced. The engineer explained he should tuck the butt end against his right shoulder and aim by holding the stock level with his eyes.

  From his place below the emperor’s wives, Prince Nazramin remarked loudly, “Ingenious. Just the thing for knocking pigeons off the battlements. No more soiled statues!” Some in the crowd greeted this remark with titters.

  Elicarno’s black brows knotted, and Tol could see the retort forming on his lips. Nazramin was not the sort to take sharp words from a commoner, so Tol forestalled any reply by quickly asking how the device worked. He grasped both sides of the cord, and pressing the butt into his hip, he tried to draw the bowstring back. However, the skeins were very strong, and he succeeded in pulling the bowstring only halfway toward the catch-hook set in the middle of the stock.

  “Allow me, my lord.”

  Elicarno looped the string over an iron hook attached t
o his broad leather belt. Bending forward, until the stirrup on the front of the catapult was resting on the floor, he put his foot in the stirrup. By straightening his back, he pulled the bowstring across the catch, where it held.

  Mandes, furious at having lost the emperor’s notice, could remain silent no longer.

  “How long are we to listen to this tradesman?” he protested. “Your Majesty, by rights he should not even be here-”

  “I will listen as long as I like,” came the mild reply.

  Mandes’s gaze flickered toward Nazramin, hoping to find an ally, but the prince was busy downing a large goblet of wine.

  Fixing a bland smile on his face, the sorcerer smoothed his blue velvet robe. “As Your Majesty pleases, always,” he said. “We all know what interesting toys Master Elicarno makes.”

  “Toys?” the engineer exclaimed. “I’ll show you a toy!”

  He took the lead ball from Tol and loaded it into the catapult. Holding the device high, he turned swiftly, searching for a target. A bronze statue of Ackal Dermount II on the palace promenade caught his eye, and he squeezed the release bar under the catapult’s stock. The bowstring hummed, and the small gray ball flashed away. A heartbeat later, the projectile hit the bronze torso with a metallic plunk. The statue rocked from the impact.

  “That lead ball just penetrated bronze plate a finger’s width thick,” Elicarno announced. “The target was over sixty paces away. At forty paces, I can pierce iron armor. With the improved version of my hand catapult, projectiles will go through an iron cuirass at two hundred paces!”

  “Sacrilege!” Mandes said, pointing dramatically to the ruined statue. “You desecrated an image of the emperor’s ancestor!”

  “It was a terrible likeness anyway,” Ackal IV said.

  During the polite laughter that greeted his sally, the emperor began to cough. He couldn’t stop. Thura rubbed his back, her round face creasing with worry.

  When he finally regained his breath and lifted his head, blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. Those nearby gasped, the murmurs of concern rippling outward through the ranks of notables. Thura wiped the blood away with a linen napkin.