by Sean Hinn
“Aw, Fury, not ye too!” Lux pleaded. “Them people be just people! They ain’t to blame any more’n I be to blame for what Dohr did to–”
“Peace, Lux,” Nishali said. “I wished to test your heart on the matter, no more. We will of course warn G’naath. Agreed, General?”
Marchion thought for a moment. “We do that, we sentence the dwarves of Belgorne to death. G’naath will almost certainly drop the tunnels. I would suggest we welcome the dwarves in Thornwood, but I doubt many would survive the trip in winter. We will need to handle this delicately. Tell me Lux, can Dohr be reasoned with?”
“He be a coward, General. Ye ever try to reason with a coward?”
“I see your point.”
“Then we do not reason with him,” Nishali said, her tone heavy with meaning.
Marchion shook his head. “Our queen would never sanction that, Nishali. You know better.”
“You misunderstand. I do not suggest we assassinate him. Only that we apply a bit of pressure. Persuade him to change course.”
“Oh, he’ll tell ye nice-like, ye hold a dagger to his neck,” said Lux. “But the turn he gets into G’naath, all bets’ll be off.”
“You seem to know him well,” Kade surmised.
“Well enough. If ye saw what he did to Thinsel, ye’d know ‘im, too.”
“That is another problem we must consider,” Nishali said. “This gnome king, Oort is it?” Lux nodded. Nishali continued “When he discovers what Dohr did to his wife, war may be unavoidable.”
“This is a mess,” Marchion said. “There is no good solution.”
“There may be one,” Kade said. “Arrest King Dohr.”
“Arrest him?” asked Nishali. “On what authority?”
Marchion understood. “Our treaty among the kingdoms. If any man, elf, dwarf or gnome commits a crime against another race, we are duty bound to bring them to justice. Lux, who would serve as king in Dohr’s absence?”
Lux chewed his kip for a moment. “Well, I s’pose that’d be the highest-ranking soldier present.”
“And that would be General Brandaxe, yes?” asked Marchion. “Hatchet?”
“Aye, ‘cept he ain’t present. I s’pose right now it’d be Captain Kalder.”
“Who is in the process of committing treason,” Kade said.
Lux shook his head. “It ain’t treason to disobey an order that ain’t just. Not in Belgorne it ain’t, at least.”
“We have the numbers,” Marchion said. “If we were to march on their encampment and demand his arrest, I doubt there would be a fight.”
“Wouldn’t be no fight,” Lux said. “Ain’t but a hundred soldiers with the survivors, and they be green as shoots. Ye send in a messenger under banner of truce, state the case all legal-like, there won’t be no fight.”
“It is settled then, provided this king Oort will be satisfied. Will he?” Marchion asked Lux.
Nishali held up a hand, closing her eyes. She opened them after a moment. “We will find out momentarily,” Nishali said. “Our sentries report riders from the southeast. Dwarves and gnomes.”
XXXV: KEHRLIA
Master.”
Sartean rolled away from the voice.
“Master. You must wake.”
“Go away, Jarriah.”
Jarriah sighed. Sartean rolled back over when he heard the door to the library open.
“No. Wait! My flask.”
Jarriah closed the door and returned to stand before Sartean.
“Only a bit, Master. As you–”
Sartean ripped the flask from Jarriah’s hand and downed fully a third of its contents. Jarriah knew better than to comment.
“AaaaaRRGGGHH!” Sartean shouted as the potion began to course through his system. He clenched his jaw and fists, shaking with satisfaction. He turned to Jarriah, handing him the flask, a look of determination in his eyes.
“Tell me why you have awoken me.”
“There is a message for you, Master. From Gerald Longstock.”
Sartean frowned. “Thomison’s house wizard? Let me guess, now that he finds himself unemployed–”
“He is not unemployed, Master. Thomison lives.”
“What?”
“His message said no more. Only that he wishes access to Kehrlia to treat with you.”
Sartean stood, though not on the first attempt. Jarriah moved to assist him; he waved the young Incantor off and managed his feet on the second try.
“The dragon?”
“Gone, for now. It made for Fang at dusk.”
“Dawn? I have slept for half a day?”
Jarriah shook his head. “You have slept for nearly a full day, Master. Dawn approaches. I have prepared you a bath.”
Sartean glared at Jarriah. “I do not need a bath. I need my questions answered. What of those who did not make the tower?”
Jarriah shook his head. “Dead to a one. Or gone from Mor, at least. We… I mean the others and I, we searched for signs. Besides the Daughters and a few clerics of Lor, all practitioners of magic in Mor are here within the tower.”
“All but Gerald Longstock, you mean.”
Jarriah nodded.
Sartean sat behind his great black desk, thinking. Longstock was always a bit of mystery to the Master Incantor; he had been expected to complete training at Kehrlia at the top of his class, but unexpectedly failed at his graduating trials.
And spectacularly so, Sartean recalled.
It was not unheard of for a promising wizard to crack at the end, but nearly all would plead for a second chance, claiming illness, or offering some other excuse. No such chance had ever been granted under Sartean’s tenure as Master, but in Longstock’s case, he very well might have made an exception.
It was also not unheard of for one to decide they did not wish to live the life of an Incantor, preferring instead to resign in their third or fourth year and forgo magic for some other pursuit. Yet Longstock had competed at Kehrlia until the very last.
The most promising wizard in a generation, content to serve as an unendorsed house wizard under Thomison. How very odd.
Sartean shook his head, returning himself to the present. The matter at hand was not so much that Longstock had come calling, but rather that Thomison lived, for if that were so, it could only mean that Longstock was a powerful wizard indeed. What does he want? How could he dare ask audience with me after the scene in the throneroom? Sartean’s mind was cloudy; he had not eaten, had not drunk anything but Flightfluid in days. That can wait, he decided.
“Where is he now?” Sartean asked.
“On the steps, Master. With a squad of soldiers.”
“Send them in. I will meet them in the vestibule.”
Jarriah nodded. He made for the door but stopped himself, turning. “Shall I bring you fresh robes, Master?”
Sartean stood, glowering at Jarriah. “Do I need them?”
“Please do not make me answer that, Master.”
Anger flashed in Sartean’s eyes before he closed them and took a breath. When he opened them again his tone was mild. “I will arrive below in presentable fashion, Jarriah.”
Jarriah blinked, taken aback by Sartean’s uncharacteristic restraint. “Right. Um, I’ll just… yes.” Jarriah closed the door behind him.
~
Sartean arrived in the vestibule only a few turns later, clean and dressed in grey. Gerald stood warily in the center of the grand entrance, twenty-one soldiers arranged in three ranks behind him. Jarriah and a handful of others stood opposite them.
Gerald spoke first as Sartean approached. “If your intention is to try to kill me outright, Sartean, I’ll ask that only that you hear me first, and that you allow these men to leave unharmed before we start slinging bits of magic at one another.”
Sartean laughed, a dark sound, hollow of sincerity. “I have no intention to kill you, Longstock,” Sartean said. “Not today, in any case. Why are you here?”
“For Mor. And, to some degree, for Kehrli
a.”
“I am listening.”
“I’m not one to beat about it, Sartean. I’m too old, so I’ll be direct. You want the throne. As it stands today, you’d need to kill every solider in Mor to get it. You must know this much, yes?”
Sartean frowned. “You presume quite a bit.”
“I do. Am I wrong?”
A quiet moment passed. “Let us assume you are correct. For sake of argument.”
“Yes. For sake of argument. And let us also assume, for sake of argument, that you and all of Kehrlia are impotent against this beast flying around.”
“The dragon.”
“Dragon?” Gerald asked. “You know what that… thing is?”
Sartean nodded. “And I know its name. Kalashagon.”
A palpable chill swept through the vestibule.
“Very well,” Gerald said, his voice a bit less confident. “The dragon. You had the Daughters’ help last night, did you not?”
Sartean did not reply.
“As I suspected. Yet even then, you could not slay the bastard. I propose an alliance.”
“Between?”
“Not between. Among. Everyone. Kehrlia. The soldiery. The people of Mor. Thornwood. Belgorne. G’naath. Everyone.”
“And you speak for whom, exactly?”
“For the army, as of right now. Hopefully for the rest, soon.”
Sartean cast glances towards Jarriah and the other Incantors present, interested in their expressions. Most held their breath, awaiting Sartean’s reply. Good.
“And our friend Vincent? He is well, I hope?”
Gerald took a breath. “Now is not the time for resentments, Sartean. There will be plenty enough time for those after we kill this bastard dragon.”
“I suppose he intends to form this grand alliance, then. Yes? And take the credit, of course.”
“Does it matter?” Gerald asked.
Sartean shook his head. “No. I was merely curious.”
“Tahr needs Kehrlia, Sartean. And not only against the dragon. There is no food. I can grow all we need, but I’ll need your Incantors. All of them.”
“Would you like my robes, as well?” Sartean asked.
“Again, would it matter? What good is power if we cannot use it to defend and uphold our people? Ally with us. With the power of the elves and the other armies of Tahr, we stand a chance. And I will not attempt to deceive you. When it’s said and done, Thomison intends to claim the throne. Temporarily, until the people choose their next king. But if you assist us, you’ll have a prominent place in Mor, as you do now.”
“And if I refuse?”
Gerald shrugged. “Then we all either burn or starve, and the dragon picks what’s left off our rotting carcasses.”
“I see your point.”
Gerald stepped forward, extending his hand. “Shall I tell Vincent you’re with us?”
Sartean stared at Gerald’s hand for a long turn. Finally, he clasped it.
“You may.” Sartean turned to face his Incantors. “Kehrlia will stand in alliance with the rest of Tahr. As of this moment, we will work in concert with the army.” He turned back to Gerald.
“Where do you propose we begin?” Sartean asked.
“Let me tell Vincent and General Slater the news. Convene this time tomorrow?”
Sartean nodded. “Here or at the Barracks, as you prefer.”
“You’ve made the right choice, Sartean. Mor will owe you a debt. All of Tahr will.”
“Nonsense. Kehrlia exists to serve.”
The moment Gerald and his squad left the vestibule, Sartean turned to Jarriah.
“I want every senior Incantor in the training room in a turn.”
Jarriah nodded and closed his eyes, sending the thought throughout Kehrlia. In less than a turn, fifteen Incantors sat around a blue and white marble table large enough to accommodate twice their number. Sartean sat in a highbacked chair awaiting their arrival. He began to cough repeatedly. He motioned for Jarriah to come close, a significant tremble in his hand. Jarriah understood and handed him the flask. Sartean drained it, shuddering.
“There is but one bottle more, Master,” Jarriah said.
“Refill it.”
“You made me promise–”
“GO NOW!”
Jarriah sprinted from the room. Sartean looked around the table to see his senior Incantors assembled. They had all been watching him; when he looked up, they each looked down.
“No one sleeps until the dragon is dead.”
A middle-aged Incantor named Glamford spoke. “But, Master, you said in the vestibule that we would work in AAARRGGGH–”
Sartean was glad for the argument; incentive was needed. He barely moved a muscle. Glamford’s left arm tore itself free from his body and hovered before him, blood spraying from the severed arteries at his shoulder and from the disembodied limb. Its fingers clenched into a fist and the arm flew at the screaming man, punching a hole directly through his face and out the back of his head. The chair upon which he sat was thrown backwards several feet. A bit too slowly, his corpse slid from upon it and onto the floor. A woman seated at Glamford’s left sat motionless, covered in blood. Neither she nor Sartean moved to clean up the mess.
The sixty-five-year-old Incantor Orrin raised his hand like a bashful first-year student.
“Yes, Orrin?”
“We… I mean, Incantor Jarriah, he… he had an idea, Master.”
“Good. Then we shall await his return.” Sartean coughed again, covering his mouth. He was unsurprised to see several small droplets of blood when he pulled away his hand. He wiped his palm on his robes and glanced over to where Glamford’s disfigured body lay.
So much for redemption, he mused.
XXXVI: MOR
Thomison waited until they had ridden all the way back to the Barracks before removing his helm. He and Gerald stabled their mounts and entered the Barracks, joining Slater at the command table.
“Think he took the bait?” Slater asked.
“Absolutely. No question. Did you see how quickly he agreed, Gerald? No negotiation. No wordplay. He’ll be after the dragon again by this time tomorrow.”
“If he doesn’t come for the army,” Gerald countered. “He seemed a bit galled by my audacity.”
Vincent shook his head. “Oh, he was, but he won’t. He knows he’ll need an army to manage Mor. And he won’t dare weaken his forces before battling the beast.”
“You’d best be right,” Slater said. “You’re gambling quite a bit on the idea that he’ll risk Kehrlia against the dragon again.”
“Not at all. If he intended something else, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“And why not?”
“Because he would have killed us all right there in the vestibule. Trust me, General. He’ll want full credit for slaying the dragon, because when he has it, there will be no stopping his ascension.”
“Makes it hard to decide who to cheer for,” Gerald quipped.
“Cheer for Kehrlia. I meant what I said: to Fury with the throne. We need that dragon dead. Or at least weakened. We surely can’t begin the farming operation with that thing flying overhead.”
“I suppose not,” Gerald agreed. “But you’d best be right about this alliance. Especially with the elves.”
“Why?”
“Because you and the good General here both hit the nail on the head when we last spoke. For one, this beast is almost certainly not the last of what’s to come. And if the dragon kills all the Incantors, we’re going to need help growing food. Only the elves have the sort of magic that can help us do that.”
“Then that solves my next dilemma.”
“Which one is that?” asked Slater.
“Where to go first. Belgorne or Thornwood.”
“Thornwood for certain,” Slater said. “Although if reports about the elves’ movement is accurate, they already know about the beast.”
“I am sure they do,” agreed Vincent. “But if they
’re tilting for G’naath, they’ve got their hands full. We’ll need to convince them it’s in their best interests to ally with us.”
“Hard sell,” Slater said.
“Not for Vincent,” Gerald said cheerfully. “I once saw him talk a gem dealer into surrendering his fortune to an orphanage.”
“You saw The Merchant do that,” Vincent countered. “This is different.”
Gerald nodded. “Quite. You’re not strapped to a chair this time.”
“Never mind that. You know what to do, General?”
Slater nodded. “We’ve sent riders to the farmlands. But you had better kick up some mud on your way to and from the Grove. If I can’t promise food, Mor won’t hold together long, dragon or no.”
“We’ll leave immediately.”
“Immediately?” Gerald protested. “I’ll need supplies! Everything is back at Concorde.”
“Not everything,” a woman’s voice sounded from behind. Gerald and Vincent turned to see Maris, Chaneela, and Eriks Lane approaching behind them.
“Eriks!” Vincent exclaimed, rushing to shake hands with his friend. Gerald joined him. “Had your fill of the Languid Lady, have you?”
“Please,” Lane scoffed. “Who could have their fill of such a fine establishment?”
“Ahem,” Chaneela coughed.
Vincent and Gerald turned quickly and properly greeted the two women, Gerald with a kiss to Chaneela’s turned cheek. Vincent looked as if he might have intended to lean in for his own kiss, but Maris pulled his lips to hers before he could decide the matter.
Vincent returned the kiss before turning between General Slater and the former army captain.
“So, I assume by the fact that he is not in shackles, you and Lane have mended fences?” he asked Slater, referring to Lane’s decades-old departure from the soldiery.
“Lane’s quarrel was never with me,” Slater said.
“True enough,” Lane agreed. “Dawn approaches, Thomison. Let’s get moving. Here,” he said, tossing a saddlebag to Gerald.
Gerald rummaged through it quickly. “Ah yes, good. I might have forgotten those. And this… yes, excellent. Did you…?” Gerald looked to Lane, who looked to Chaneela. Gerald followed his gaze.
