The Wizard_s Fate e-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  He left a substantial amount of gold in Egrin’s care, courtesy of Mandes’s treasury, with instructions to bestow it on the sorcerer’s victims. With Egrin’s stoic but heartfelt farewell in his ears, Tol rode off at midday.

  The snow was gray mush in the streets. As Tetchy made his way through the town’s bustling lanes, Tol saw again the faces of his youth: Lord Odovar, whose life he’d saved to begin his adventures; wise Felryn, who even in death had helped him defeat Mandes; Narren, killed years ago in the battle against XimXim; Fellen the engineer, Frez, Darpo, Tarthan, and the rest of his handpicked band of foot soldiers who had perished in the long war with Tarsis.

  Just before passing through Juramona’s wall, Tol’s route took him by a tavern. The door swung open, and the piping of a flute came to his ears. The sound reminded him of Crake, the clever flutist and quick-witted archer. He had once been Tol’s closest friend and later his bitterest foe. He, too, was dead.

  Yes, Juramona teemed with ghosts.

  Tol rode south, choosing an oblique course to the capital, one that would take him by his family’s old farmplace in the hills southwest. He hadn’t been there in six years, but he found the site readily enough.

  It looked much as it had six years earlier, except that knee-deep snow now covered most of the ruined house and derelict pig pens. The walls of the root cellar where Tol’s mother had stored vegetables against difficult winters had collapsed, leaving a shallow depression overlaid by snow.

  He sat silently, looking over the barren scene. Snow flecked his beard and dappled Tetchy’s sleek black hide.

  A solitary figure caught his eye. Draped in many layers of fur, the fellow walked slowly up the path from the old onion field. Tol rode slowly toward him. He recognized the trappings of a fur hunter-a coil of rawhide snares, wicker basket carried on the back, the knobby club for dispatching trapped prey. The trapper crunched along atop the snow, his feet supported by woven willow snowshoes. Tol’s father had worn such snowshoes. He hadn’t seen their like in twenty years.

  He greeted the trapper. The fellow halted, regarding the mounted warrior uncertainly.

  “Greetings, m’lord.”

  For a moment Tol thought the stranger recognized him, then with a flash of memory, realized the peasant likely would address any mounted stranger that way.

  “How fares the fur trade?”

  “Well enough, m’lord, well enough.” The trapper gestured to the lead-gray sky, adding, “Snow’s good for business.”

  The fresh snow would make tracking the trapper’s prey-rabbit, stoat, and fox-much easier.

  “Are you a local man?” Tol asked.

  “Lived here all my life, m’lord.”

  “Did you know the family who lived on that farm, over yonder?”

  “That I did. Bakal and Ita, yes.”

  Tol’s heart beat faster. “What became of them?”

  The trapper rubbed his bearded chin with a mittened hand. “Lemme see, it’s been a while. Bakal, he took sick some winters back. Ita took him to the city to find a healer. Never come back.”

  To his family and this trapper, “city” would likely mean Juramona. Was it possible his parents lived in the town he’d just left? He shook his head at the idea. Bakal would never have abandoned his holding, not as long as he drew breath.

  The trapper was edging away, thinking the conversation at an end, but Tol asked, “What about the children? They had three, two girls and a boy.”

  “Long wed and moved on. Don’t know about Nira, but I think the older girl, Zalay, lives over by Gooseneck Creek with her family.”

  “And the son?”

  “Oh, left a long time ago. Went into the army, I think.”

  Tol was surprised. Had the local folk forgotten him, or did they not identify Bakal’s son Tol with the famous Lord Tolandruth?

  He let the trapper go on his way. Snow flew from the man’s shoes as he hurried by, looking back now and then to make certain he wasn’t being followed. Tol wasn’t offended. The fellow must have had encounters with warriors before. No peasant craved the company of armed, mounted men.

  Continuing south, Tol encountered hunters and herdsmen, peddlers, itinerant healers, and vagabonds of every stripe. Their ranks were thin, it being the winter season, but the life of the Eastern Hundred endured regardless.

  A day out from Caergoth he began to meet a steady stream of travelers making for the city. They were not tradesmen, but refugees. They moved in small caravans of four to eight ox-drawn wagons. More than a few wagons were being drawn by people, the oxen having died on the trek. By the cut of their clothes and the accents he heard, Tol figured them for easterners, from outside the empire. There were a lot of them, and as he drew closer to Caergoth, their numbers grew. By the time he reached the walls of the city, the snowy fields were black with a mob of miserable foreigners, all seeking the protection of the imperial governor.

  The gates were closed, and Tol had to shout for admittance. A fur-clad guard answered him insolently until Tol delivered a few choice words.

  “My lord!” the guard stammered. “Forgive me! I’ll admit you at once!”

  The refugees huddled in the snow nearest the gate stirred when they heard the postern creak open. A squad of soldiers rushed out with spears leveled and held the people off.

  Spotting an officer among them, Tol asked, “What goes on here, Captain? Who are these people?”

  “Outlanders from the east, my lord. Folk from Thel, the plains of Duran, farthest Karth.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “They’re coming to every town and outpost on the eastern edge of the empire, my lord. They speak of invaders driving them off their land.”

  When Tol entered, the captain’s men backed in after him, keeping wary eyes on the refugees. Several thousand souls clustered under the walls of Caergoth. Wagons had been turned into shanties, and crude hide tents covered both sides of the road.

  “Why do you deny them entrance?” he asked, indignant.

  “Governor’s orders, my lord. He fears disorder.” The closing of the postern boomed a counterpoint to the captain’s words.

  Tol fumed at the injustice of it but wasted no more time with the captain. He touched heels to Tetchy’s sides and they entered Caergoth at a brisk trot.

  Although smaller than the capital, Caergoth considered itself a more sophisticated, cultured city. There were several schools within its walls, including the famed Silvanesti Academy, as well as the library of the Temple of Gilean, reputed to be the largest depository of books in the empire. It was also a clean city; twice a day in winter, laborers were paid to clear snow and refuse from the main streets.

  Tol rode directly to the governor’s palace and demanded an audience. In doing so, he bypassed a long line of favor-seekers waiting to see the governor. Much grumbling followed in his wake, but none dared gainsay the mighty warlord Tolandruth, especially considering his grim expression.

  He expected to see Micantar, an old crony of the late emperor, Pakin III. Micantar had been governor of Caergoth since Tol was a lad. However, the tall, carved chair was occupied now by a much younger man unknown to Tol.

  He saluted and gave his name. The governor looked up from the document he was reading.

  “You broke the line,” he said sternly. “Go back and wait your turn.”

  “I am Tolandruth of Juramona!”

  A nod. “So you said. And I am Wornoth, governor of the province of Caer and the Great Green. Now that we’ve waved our titles at each other, try to behave in civilized fashion, won’t you?”

  Tol turned back the edge of his fur-lined cape and rested a hand on his saber hilt. The motion brought guards running.

  Wornoth rested his chin on his hand. “You warlords are all the same. The slightest opposition, and you resort to violence.”

  “I haven’t resorted to anything-yet.”

  “Very well. You’ve disrupted the orderly pageant of life here. What is it you want?” Wornoth asked, finally
setting aside his scroll.

  Tol answered as calmly as he was able. Shouting would get him nowhere with this bloodless functionary. “There are several thousand people outside your walls, dying of hunger and cold. What are you doing about it?”

  Wornoth’s straight brown hair was parted in the center. He brushed the long locks away from his shoulders and sat back, crossing his legs under his blue robe.

  “The garrison is not sufficient to drive off so many,” he said, shrugging.

  “I wasn’t suggesting you attack them!” Tol snapped. “Let them in the city. Feed them!”

  “Impossible.” Wornoth picked up his scroll again.

  The casual dismissal was too much for Tol’s tenuous self-control. He drew his sword and stalked forward. Several of the guards backed away a step, but a few stood firm.

  “Governor Wornoth, I order you to assist those people!”

  The governor opened his mouth to speak, but Tol’s expression and the flashing point of his saber gave him pause.

  Carefully, he asked, “Where am I supposed to find food for so many mouths?”

  “The imperial storehouse.”

  The governor was genuinely shocked. “That belongs to the emperor!”

  Tol sheathed his saber. “I am the Emperor’s Champion. I’m certain he will approve of my request.”

  Wornoth lifted his brows at that, but gave the order. His wounded shoulder aching, Tol found a chair by a wall and sat, as the wheels were set into motion for distribution of the food.

  When the last of the lackeys scurried away to carry out the governor’s commands, Wornoth came to where Tol rested.

  “I had no idea the emperor had a champion or required one,” he said, looking down at Tol.

  “Ackal IV is not a man of arms.”

  The suggestion of a smile twitched Wornoth’s thin lips. “My sincerest regrets, my lord. You seem to be one emperor behind. His Majesty Ackal IV went to the gods five days ago. Prince Nazramin has claimed the throne.”

  Tol stood so quickly Wornoth backed away. “That’s impossible! Ackal IV has a son, a legitimate heir-”

  “Prince Hatonar ceded his right to the throne in favor of his uncle.” The governor smiled. “Only Prince Nazramin has the strength and courage to lead the empire. It is not a task for the pampered son of our late, regrettably mad emperor.”

  Tol growled an oath and seized Wornoth by the front of his gown. The governor was a slight man, shorter even than Tol himself, and Tol easily hoisted him up on his toes.

  “The empire has been delivered into the hands of a fiend!” he hissed. “I can’t believe the Great Horde or the Imperial Council would accept Nazramin on the throne!”

  “But they have, and without dissent! Unhand me, my lord. Please!”

  Tol released him, thoughts racing ahead to Daltigoth. He had to go there quickly-to try to save the situation, or at the very least, to collect Valaran and the Dom-shu sisters. Anyone close to Tol was certain to feel Nazramin’s wrath.

  He took hold of Wornoth’s arm, squeezing it painfully. “Listen to me,” he said in a very low voice. “You will continue to feed and house as many of the refugees as you can. Is that clear? If I hear of you mistreating them or neglecting their needs, I’ll come back and kill you myself. Nod if you understand me.”

  White-faced, Wornoth nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “I will help the refugees with every resource at my command!”

  Tol let him go. The governor drew back, massaging his abused arm.

  Moving swiftly, Tol went to the governor’s stable, to claim a fresh horse. There he spotted the same captain of the guard who’d admitted him to the city.

  “Captain, these poor folk outside-what’s driven them so far from home?”

  “I’ve spoken to many of them, my lord, and their tales are as one. They say invaders have landed on the northeast coast and pushed inland, displacing everyone in their path.”

  “What sort of invaders?”

  The soldier frowned. “That isn’t clear. Some say black-skinned seafarers. Others blame the Silvanesti, though why elves would land by sea when they could march up from the south and do the same thing…” He shook his head. “A few claim the invaders are not men, but arkudenala.”

  The archaic word meant “sons of the dragon.”

  Tol scowled. “What in Corij’s name do they mean by that?”

  The captain didn’t know. He asked if Tol wished to question the refugees, but Tol had no time. Instead he asked the captain to swear that if the governor stopped feeding and clothing the refugees, he would send word immediately to Tol in Daltigoth.

  Flattered by the great Lord Tolandruth’s trust, the guardsman readily agreed.

  Tol departed for the capital with no fixed plan in mind. He knew only that Nazramin had to be confronted. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

  Streams of haggard people, shuffling in tight lines into the city, looked up as a war-horse passed by. One of the Ergothian soldiers helping to keep order said, “There goes Lord Tolandruth. He took the governor by the throat and forced him let you vagabonds into the city!”

  Some of the refugees raised a ragged cheer, but Tol was so focused on his thoughts he did not hear them.

  It would be the last cheer he would receive for many a day.

  No admiring mob greeted Tol when he reached Daltigoth. The winter day was done, and the eerie blue twilight that comes to snow-covered land had fallen. Tol approached the Dragon Gate. This late, only the postern was open. Unlike most such gates, this postern was large enough to pass a coach-and-four. A crackling bonfire blazed outside the gate. Three soldiers huddled by it, trying to keep away the chill.

  They didn’t hear Tol until he was nearly on them. Deep snow muffled his horse’s hooves, and the snap of burning wood blotted out the creak of harness. The fall of snow had stopped, and Luin played hide-and-seek behind the clouds; the land was alternately dark and washed in the moon’s pale, scarlet light.

  One of the soldiers reluctantly left the fire and asked his name. Tol replied, “Narren, Bakal’s son. From the Fourth Company of the Red Hawk Horde.”

  The Red Hawks were quartered in the city. Between the uncertain light and his bulky fur hood, he counted on the guards not recognizing him.

  The soldier didn’t think very hard about it, only waved him along.

  Tol looked up at the lofty walls. “How fares the city?”

  “Quiet as a cemetery.” The soldier hunched his shoulders and returned to the fire.

  Tol rode slowly on, pondering the guard’s choice of words. Had there been no resistance to Nazramin’s coup? No fights in the street, or marketplace brawls? There were folk in Daltigoth who would riot over the rising price of a loaf of bread. Hadn’t the usurpation of the throne stirred anyone enough to fight for their country?

  Daltigoth seemed empty as Tol traversed the snow-choked streets. Unlike Caergoth, the capital’s streets hadn’t been cleared. As much as anything, the weather must have kept the city quiet. It was hard to work up enthusiasm for rioting when snow lay knee-deep on the ground.

  He expected to find the Inner City locked down tight, with Nazramin’s minions on the gates. Instead, all seemed as usual: the night gate was open, and dismounted members of the Horse Guards stood watch. Giving them a false name was out of the question, but if they now owed allegiance to Nazramin, there might be trouble. Number Six was under his fur cape, pommel turned out for easy drawing.

  “My lord, welcome back!” one of the guards said. He saluted with his dagger and stood aside.

  Tol shifted uneasily on his saddle.

  “All is well?” he asked.

  “As well as could be expected.”

  “How fares the emperor?”

  “Hale and hearty as always, my lord.”

  That sounded strange, but Tol hadn’t asked which emperor, so he rode on. After leaving his horse at the imperial stable, he climbed the south steps of the palace. Racks of torches blazed on either
side of the door, and more soldiers stood watch. They passed Tol in without demur.

  A servant in the antechamber took his outer furs. “The emperor expects you, my lord,” the servant said.

  Again Tol wondered, which emperor? He made no reply, just stalked to the evening hall, where the master of the empire received his guests after sundown.

  He ran straight into a sizable gang of armed men. They were not regular soldiers, and seeing their hard, unfriendly faces, Tol recognized Nazramin’s Wolves, as the prince’s private gang of thugs were known in the city.

  His hand dropped to his sword hilt. There were twenty-six of them, he counted quickly. Twenty-six to one.

  “My lord,” said a Wolf with black eyes and two parallel scars on his left cheek. “You are expected. Give over your sword, please.”

  Tol weighed his chances. He might get seven or eight of them if he was lucky, but the rest would certainly hack him to pieces. Number Six was relinquished.

  Two-Scars smiled unpleasantly, stood aside, and with a mocking sweep of his hand, bade Tol proceed.

  The evening hall was brilliantly lit and stiflingly hot. Every available sconce held a burning torch, and a great heap of coals glowed in the massive fireplace at the rear of the room. Near the hearth, half a dozen robed figures clustered around the throne of Ergoth. As Tol approached, the group parted, revealing the occupant of the throne. Tol felt the breath go out of his chest.

  Nazramin.

  Though dressed in the deep scarlet emperor’s robe, Nazramin did not yet wear the imperial circlet. “Ah, Lord Pig Farmer,” he said. “Good of you to come.”

  “I came to see the emperor.”

  “You see him now.”

  The men flanking the throne were introduced as Nazramin’s chamberlain, the commander of the city hordes, and so on. Tol knew none of them.

  “Where is Ackal IV?” he asked coldly.

  “With the gods. He perished in an apoplectic fit five days ago. Tragic.”

  “What of his son, Crown Prince Hatonar?”

  “The boy wisely ceded his claim to me. The empire must be ruled by men of strong will and hard purpose, not children.”