The Wizard_s Fate e-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  “According to the maps I saw in Daltigoth, the fortress stands on a plateau on the southwest side of the peak,” Tol said, squinting into the distance. The mountains were highlighted by the setting sun, but he couldn’t make out any structures from so far away. “With luck, we’ll reach it tomorrow night.”

  In a shallow ravine, they crossed a trail showing signs of recent, heavy travel. The earth had been ground to powder by the hooves of many horses.

  Ten steps into the scattered pines on the east side of the ravine, an arrow whistled out of the trees and lodged in a tree by Tol’s face.

  Out came his saber. “Here we go!”

  Four axe-wielding riders burst through the underbrush and rode at them, shouting.

  “Keep close to me!” Tol said. Though he looked unhappy doing it, Early pulled his stubby sword and followed.

  Tol impaled the first man he came to, the point of his saber punching through the man’s heavy furs. His axe blade whisked by Tol’s ear, but the mercenary toppled from his horse, dead. Tol fended off an overhand chop from a second rider. Using his longer reach, he kept clear of the man’s axe and landed several cuts on his chest and shoulders. Number Six scored bloody gouges in the man’s leather vest.

  The clang of iron behind him showed Early was likewise engaged. Confident his back was secure, Tol plunged in.

  Axes were not good weapons to use from horseback, so Tol forced a third man back, whirled, and lopped the hands off the rider behind him. The fourth enemy had a strung bow over his head, but Early’s intervention kept him from loosing an arrow. As Early now traded cuts with the third rider, Tol took on the axe-wielding bowman.

  The blond-bearded mercenary tried to catch Tol’s saber with the hooks curling from each end of his broadhead axe. Realizing the danger, Tol drew back. The bowman immediately raised a ram’s horn to his lips.

  Tol drove straight at him. The ram’s horn was on a lanyard, so the mercenary let it fall from his fingers and took his axe in both hands to ward off Tol’s attack. Moving the axe in a tight loop, he caught Number Six with his upper hook. He swung the thick blade in a tight circle, grinning. Bent like this, an iron saber would quickly snap, leaving Tol at his mercy.

  However, the dwarf-forged blade wasn’t iron. The steel flexed further and further as the broad-shouldered nomad swung his axe in another tight circle. Tol exerted all his strength against the hilt, driving the long curved blade forward. It scraped over the axe handle and took the mercenary in the throat, just below his chin. His blue eyes widened in disbelief, and the axe fell from his fingers.

  Freed from the binding hook, Tol’s saber twanged like a plucked lyre string. The blade now had a slight but distinct bend in it.

  The last mercenary tried to flee when he saw his comrade fall. He broke off fighting Early and spurred for the ravine trail. Tol’s Ergothian war-horse easily overhauled the northerner’s stubbier animal. A single stroke laid open the man’s unprotected back. He slid off his horse and was dead when he hit the ground.

  Breathing hard, Tol turned his mount around and rode back to Early. The kender was sweating in his furs.

  “You did well,” Tol said. “My thanks.”

  Early was pale. “I’ve never seen such quick deaths!”

  “Had to be done. They would have killed us if we hadn’t fought to the finish.”

  Far away, a horn sounded. More horns answered on every side. As Early scattered the mercenaries’ horses, Tol took the ram’s horn from the dead man’s neck and blew a flat, booming note. It echoed across the valley to the slopes of the mountains.

  “Why’d you do that?” Early demanded.

  “They’ll know there’s trouble as soon as they find any of the horses. Hearing the horn might make them think some of their people are still alive. Maybe it’ll buy us some time.”

  He tossed the horn into the brush and they hurried on. The white bulwark of mist waited ahead.

  Twilight had come. The last rays of the setting sun clung to the wall of unnatural mist. This pallid glow washed the land in eerie, shadowless light. The strange illumination affected life in the valley below. Birds, normally at roost this time of day, circled overhead in confusion, unable to settle and rest. Nocturnal beasts came out to prowl although their daytime brethren still had not retired.

  Tol and Early found themselves riding under a huge flock of screeching starlings. The noise was unnerving, not only for its own sake, but because it kept them from hearing anything else-like the warning signs of approaching horsemen.

  When darkness finally claimed the valley and the birds and beasts settled into normal patterns, Tol and Early took shelter beneath a canopy of snow-covered cedars. Since morning, they’d been ascending the western slopes of the mountains, entering the frostier climate of the uplands. With their backs against a stout old tree, they ate cold rations and shared a gourd of cider.

  Talk was kept to a minimum. As soon as he’d eaten, Early rested his head back against the shaggy bark. His breathing slowed into a shallow, steady rhythm.

  Tol meant to resume their trek and reach the wall of mist by dawn, but he too felt the leaden weight of sleep. He struggled against it. Getting to one knee, he breathed deeply of the chill air. The cold was bracing and burned away his fatigue like a tonic. He stood.

  Stars winked in and out of the black branches overhead. To the northeast, Mandes’s veil of fog stood out starkly against the black night. The starlight showed imperfections in its surface, ripples and whorls where the wind at higher altitudes tried to tear the mist away.

  Maintaining such a Spell must take constant energy. When did Mandes rest? Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps that was why his soul wandered the night, tormenting others.

  Solin appeared above the trees. Its pearly sheen warmed the dead color of the cloud-wall, and washed the woods in soft light. Shadows appeared among the widely spaced cedars.

  The shadows moved.

  “Early,” Tol whispered sharply. The kender did not respond, not even when Tol kicked his foot. Blast it if he wasn’t a heavy sleeper.

  Brightness filled the woods behind Tol. He turned, shading his night-adapted eyes from the intense light.

  In a heartbeat, his surroundings were transformed. Cedar trees became stone columns, rusty brown needles became a lush woolen carpet. Tol knew this place. This was the audience hall of the imperial palace, in Daltigoth.

  A humming sound drew Tol’s attention to the ancient throne of Ackal Ergot. Ackal IV sat in the ornate gilded chair, his hair unkempt and tangled, his robes dirty. He held an odd-looking doll-not a child’s toy, sewn of soft cloth and stuffed with rags, but a stiff gray statuette.

  Tol tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. He could see and hear perfectly, but Ackal seemed not to realize he was there.

  The emperor continued to croon tunelessly to himself as he ran his fingers over the statuette’s face. His vacant eyes revealed the truth: Ackal IV wasn’t ill, he was mad. His mind was lost in some secret, distant vale.

  At the far end of the dimly lit room, one of the tall doors opened, and a man entered. With a swirl of his floor-sweeping cape, the man traversed the long hall briskly. When he entered the wash of light from a pair of flickering braziers, the features of Prince Nazramin were revealed.

  Instinctively, Tol’s hand went to his sword hilt, but the emperor’s brother strode past him, not seeing him at all.

  Beneath his long cape, Nazramin wore a black leather riding habit, as though he’d just arrived from his country estate. He paused at the foot of the throne. The jeweled pommel of a large dagger glittered in his belt. Ackal IV would never have tolerated a weapon in his presence, had he been in his right mind.

  “Brother?” Nazramin said.

  The emperor continued to sing softly to himself, scraping a thumbnail over the dull gray statuette.

  Nazramin took the statuette from him. Ackal whimpered slightly, reaching for it, but Nazramin pulled it away.

  “A passable likeness,” said t
he red-haired prince, smiling unpleasantly at the figure’s face. “Not a striking one, but still, it served its purpose.”

  Drawing closer, Tol realized the statuette bore the emperor’s face.

  “Not the best medium, either,” continued Nazramin, “but lead is traditional.”

  He dropped the statuette. It landed on its head with a fiat thud. Immediately, Ackal cringed and grasped his temples with both hands.

  Tol felt sick. Image magic! Ackal was the victim of the lowest, vilest form of sorcery. It was Nazramin all along, pulling Mandes’s strings.

  Nazramin paced slowly before the throne, still talking. Ackal’s clouded gaze tracked him with obvious difficulty.

  “It’s taken a long time, but I’ve finally gotten everything in place. I bided my time. I endured your regency, brother, but I do not intend to suffer your reign any longer than necessary.”

  The prince halted in front of the throne. “A coup would have been risky. Too many idiots in this city are loyal to that chair you sit on.” He drove a gauntleted fist into his palm. “Imbeciles! The throne of Ergoth is not a piece of furniture for any fool to occupy! Why should I risk myself to seize what rightfully belongs to me? I watched those idiot Pakins try to take the crown from our uncle and our father, and what did it get them? Pointless warfare and their heads on spikes decorating the city wall! There was no need to bloody myself. I could get what I wanted without such risk.”

  Without preamble, Nazramin brought his booted heel down hard on the statuette’s middle. Ackal screamed piteously, grasping his ribs and writhing on the throne. Tol took a step forward, furious at his inability to intervene or even to vent his anger in words.

  “Your wandering mind has been well recorded,” the prince went on more calmly. “I left the city so no one could connect me with your growing madness. In many way you cooperated splendidly. Banishing Mandes was timely-it removed any suspicion that magic was being used against you.”

  He picked up the statuette. “He made this for me, you know. Sixty-six days of continual spellcasting it required, and Mandes was so weakened that another ten days passed before he could attach the first clamp. It was well worth the trouble, don’t you think, brother?”

  The hair on Tol’s neck prickled as he listened to Nazramin’s recitation of the horrors he’d visited upon his own flesh and blood.

  “I summoned Enkian Tumult here with a false tale about an insurrection. I thought you would take fright and send the hordes to destroy him, creating an impression in the people’s mind of cruelty and ruthlessness, but instead”-Nazramin’s brows drew down in anger-“you sent that peasant to talk to him. You forced me to have Enkian killed, so my plot would not be exposed.”

  Ackal’s attention was wandering. He began to croon again. Nazramin closed the distance between them in two long strides and slapped him hard. Ackal’s head snapped back, and Tol could have sworn that, for a moment, awareness came to his eyes. It quickly faded.

  “Listen to me, fool!” Nazramin snarled. “I want you to know who brought about your downfall!”

  After a pause to collect himself, he continued. “You obliged me by sending Farmer Tol to settle accounts with Mandes. That was perfect. I’ve been freer to act with the peasant away, and Mandes knows too much. It would have been necessary to silence him eventually, so why not let Lord Pigsty do it? If by chance the wizard prevails, that will save me having the farmer’s throat cut in the future.”

  Nazramin moved to the table next to the throne. It held an ornate golden goblet, bearing the arms of Ackal Ergot. The prince lifted it and drank deeply of the cider it contained.

  While Nazramin quenched his thirst, Tol pondered the reality of what he was seeing. It could be an illusion, but he doubted it. Now that he stood on the sorcerer’s very doorstep, Mandes was pulling out all the stops, revealing to him the true instigator of the evil that had befallen him. Tol was the Emperor’s Champion, sworn to defend Ackal IV, and Mandes hoped to send him racing back to Daltigoth to save the emperor.

  Tol knew the first step in saving Ackal IV was putting a halt to Mandes’s depredations. Once the treacherous sorcerer was gone, Tol would settle accounts with Nazramin for once and all.

  The red-haired prince was talking again. He certainly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

  “-invited a few senior lords of the empire to see you. Reports of your aberrant behavior have been spreading. The situation has become so dire, your chamberlain summoned me from my estate.” Nazramin smiled, and Tol went cold. “I’ve come to protect you, dear brother, you and the empire.”

  Nazramin walked to the rear of the throne. He pressed one of the many ornamental studs on the chair’s back and a small section of wood swung open at the base. After inserting the gray statuette into the ingenious niche, Nazramin closed it up again.

  He left the room, only to return moments later with a somber delegation. Valaran was among them, as were Empress Thura and Ackal IV’s other wives, Chamberlain Valdid, Lord Rymont, and the heads of the magical orders, Oropash and Helbin. The rest were mainly local horde commanders and representatives of the city’s guilds. Nazramin was taking no chances. He wanted as broad an audience as he could get.

  Nazramin’s face was a study in grave concern. “I’ve talked with my brother at some length,” he said somberly.

  “How fares the emperor?” Rymont asked.

  “I fear his illness has taken his mind. See for yourselves.”

  The delegation moved forward cautiously. Ackal IV, belatedly becoming aware of them, lifted his head. Spittle ran down his chin, his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Gentle Thura gasped and rushed forward.

  “Amaltar!” she said, grasping his slack hand. “Amaltar, do you know me? Why did you send me away?”

  Smiling weakly, the emperor raised a gaunt hand to caress her face. His smile rapidly changed to a contorted grimace of pain. His nails dug into his consort’s soft cheek. Thura screamed.

  Lord Rymont and Prince Nazramin struggled to restrain the emperor. Thura reeled away, blood dripping down her chin. Oropash, deeply shocked, tried to comfort the weeping empress.

  “Ants!” Ackal cried, struggling against the two men. “Can’t you see? Her flesh is infested with ants!”

  Valaran said sharply to Helbin, “Do something!”

  “I’m not a healer,” he protested.

  “Where is the emperor’s physician?”

  In a stricken voice, Valdid reported that His Majesty had dismissed Klaraf two days earlier.

  Ackal continued to howl about ants. He raved they were crawling over him, in his clothing, going into his ears, nose, and eyes. He could feel their hot pincers tearing at his flesh.

  He struggled to his feet, seeming to throw off Nazramin’s hold on his left arm. In fact, the prince released his brother intentionally. Ackal clawed at his own face, scoring bloody lines across his cheek before Lord Rymont locked both arms behind his back. Ackal screamed and wept uncontrollably.

  Tol had seen men die in a hundred unpleasant ways, but he had never seen anything like the torment Prince Nazramin was inflicting on his own brother. He had to try and stop it.

  Instantly, the palace scene vanished. Once again, Tol was sitting with his back against the cedar tree. Early lay sleeping beside him. The two of them were no longer alone.

  Ringing them round were twelve mounted nomads, spears leveled.

  Mandes’s vision had distracted him from his watch, but there was no help for it now. He shook Early awake. The sight of the dozen intruders caused the kender to sigh.

  “Oh. And here I was dreaming of the hills of Balifor.”

  A warrior with a heavy northern accent ordered them to stand. Four nomads dismounted, stripping them of their weapons. Then, under the iron gaze of the mercenaries’ chief, Tol and Early were soundly beaten.

  When he thought they’d had enough, the leader ordered their hands bound. A length of rope attached their wrists to a ring on a mercenary’s saddle. The troop formed up and p
ut spurs to their mounts, forcing the captives to jog to keep up.

  Although they were in considerable pain, neither of them suffered any broken bones. Both had expected the beating to end only with their deaths, but obviously Mandes wanted them alive for his own reasons-and none of the reasons that came to Tol’s mind were pleasant.

  Still, they were alive. He still might be able to save Ackal IV. He knew where the lead image was hidden. Once its hold was broken, surely Helbin, Oropash, and the combined wisdom of the College of Wizards could repair the damage that had been done to the emperor’s mind.

  A tree root snagged his foot and he fell. Early instantly dug in his heels, but he couldn’t stop the moving horse and was yanked off his feet. The two of them were thus dragged over rough ground several hundred feet, the mercenaries laughing all the while, until the leader halted.

  Nose to nose with the kender in the dirt, Tol muttered, “Four legs may be faster, but two legs are nimbler. Follow my lead!”

  The chief cursed and ordered them to stand. Early got to his knees. Tol gestured with a jerk of his head toward the chief’s horse. Early’s left eye was swollen shut; his right widened as Tol mouthed the word Go!

  Before the chief could snatch at the leashes, Early scrambled forward. The nomad’s horse had short, thick legs, but there was ample room for a kender underneath. Since their hands had been bound together in front of them, Early had no problem getting his nimble fingers on the cinch of the chief’s saddle girth.

  The nomad calmed his unnerved horse and shouted for a man to haul Early out. The kender was dragged out by his ankles and kicked a few times.

  “I’m supposed to bring you in alive,” the chief growled, “but nobody said you had to have eyes when you get there! Any more trouble and I’ll have them out, both pair!”