Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  “You?” Lilastien asked, crossly. “You, counted on us? Why?” she demanded. “Why in the name of holy Trygg would you place any amount of trust in my people? Why would you mistake our pursuit of our own interests for anything but that? My people are no more wise than yours,” she offered. “Perhaps less so. We felt we had the prescriptions for the problems that faced the realm. After what you’ve learned of us, why would you consider our perspective valid?” she challenged.

  “Because my race foolishly considered those who professed our best interests actually entertain our best interests!” I fired back. “You entrust a child with the world’s greatest secrets . . . and then give her every excuse for not producing them, at need. You assure us that the Fair Folk will support our war against the enemy . . . and then you send us trinkets we barely understand and hope we will have some success against the shadow. I will feel no shame in challenging Ameras,” I added, proudly. “Her sire conspired to set us against his foes like a trained dog with scant understanding of the enemy or even the true nature of the contest.”

  “In his position, would you have acted differently?” she challenged. “Imagine it: your one little refuge surrounded by a hundred thousand gurvani, scores of irionite-armed shamans, with the knowledge of what would happen if you failed.”

  “I don’t have to imagine it! That’s precisely what I experienced at Boval Castle!” I reminded her.

  “Distracting Sheruel with a bunch of well-meaning humani wizards while you prepare a surprise attack isn’t the worst strategy,” she pointed out.

  “It doesn’t build up a lot of trust with the well-meaning wizards,” Taren said, shaking his head. “Especially when you fail to tell them the context of the war that was suddenly sprung on them.”

  “I’m not excusing his behavior, I’m explaining it,” Lilastien said, patiently. “The Aronin was sworn to protect the molopor. He used everything he had available to do so, and still he lost. Had the Enshadowed attacked directly, he might have held them off until reinforcements could arrive. Unfortunately,” she continued, “they had found another means. Ameras is the heir to that charge, but she has neither her father’s wisdom nor his power . . . just his responsibility.”

  “I feel for the lass, I do,” Taren said, slowly. “She lost her father over this. And you’re right, it probably was his best strategy. But to leave her alone, half-trained in the wilderness, that seems like poor planning.”

  “The secrets the Aronin are entrusted with are potent,” Lilastien sighed. “Not to mention hopelessly complex. Ameras is just coming out of adolescence, a time of exploration and education for the Alka Alon. Only she’s been condemned with this legacy and forced to stay . . . here,” she said, gesturing to the lake. “Away from her own kind, deprived of their vital society, and forced to take up with one of you lot for companionship. Her father was too rushed contending with Sheruel and the molopor to pass along the details of opening the vault. Don’t blame her. It’s just a bad situation.”

  “I agree. But it must be remedied,” I insisted. “How many of your own folk will be troubled by this news?”

  “Many,” she nodded. “The Council will be livid. And terrified. If the molopor can’t be recovered, then one of their means of escape from this world will be gone. And if the vault can’t be open, the means of using it will be lost.”

  “Which means that they will take action, eventually,” I reasoned.

  “Undoubtedly,” Lilastien agreed. “But the secret of opening it was the Aronin’s alone. As was the inventory and the knowledge to use many of the artefacts within.”

  “Maybe we can figure it out,” Taren said, pursing his lips in thought. “I mean, we could just ask the Aronin,” he proposed.

  “The Aronin is dead,” Lilastien reminded him, as she punched something up on her tray.

  “That doesn’t necessarily preclude discussion,” Taren shrugged. “I’ve had some very intriguing discussions with dead people at Castle Salaisus. Only humans, but I don’t doubt we could conjure up the Aronin’s spirit.”

  “Necromancy?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t thought about that.

  “Technically,” he nodded. “But if the shade of the Aronin could be persuaded to give us that information, I—”

  “They are precluded from doing so to anyone outside of their line,” Lilastien said, shaking her head as music began to play. It was a duet between two men, one with a deep baritone and the other with a mellow tenor, a slow but hypnotic melody in some dialect of Old High Perwyneese. I could understand only a couple of words. “Ameras would have to come to Salaisus. And I don’t think the Council would approve.”

  “I’m not inclined to include the Council in this discussion,” I decided. “At least not theirs. This is a matter for the Beryen Council, not the Alka Alon Council. It’s the very reason why it was formed.”

  “It was formed so that the Alka Alon Council wouldn’t have to contend with the humani directly,” Lilastien countered. “But you may be right about this. In this case, it’s wiser to ask for forgiveness, not permission.”

  “Forgiveness?” Taren asked. “How about ‘acceptance?’ I, for one, have grown weary of this uneven alliance. If we have an opportunity to recover this information and open the damn vault, we’re taking it.” He spoke with surprising commitment. Ordinarily, Taren tends to be rather reserved. Maybe the lack of magic was making him cranky.

  “I’m already considered a rebel,” shrugged Lilastien. “If you can convince Ameras, I’m game.”

  “Say, what is that song?” I asked, suddenly. If Lilastien would help, we could probably pull it off.

  “This?” she asked, amused. “It’s Louis Armstrong and Bing Crosby. It’s called ‘Gone Fishin’. Which sounds like excellent advice on a beautiful day like today,” she said, as she rose and grabbed her fusion rifle.

  “I’ll join you,” Taren grinned. “It is a beautiful day, and I haven’t indulged in fishing in years.”

  I held back, because I could hear Ameras and Rolof returning, and I wanted a private word.

  The two each had a large leaf they were using as impromptu baskets heaped with fresh tubers. Ameras seemed much more composed, now, and Rolof looked a little less guarded. I was hoping that was a good sign.

  “Count Minalan, would you like to help us trim these up?” Ameras asked, politely.

  “You can call me Minalan,” I suggested. “And I’d be happy to.”

  “They need to be washed,” Rolof directed. “The green shoots need to be entirely removed. It’s a natavia variety – wholesome, but the greens will give you a bad case of the trots.”

  I fell into their preparation and enjoyed a few domestic moments with a knife and a lap full of tubers. As goodwives and old maidens all know, that’s an excellent time to talk.

  “Lilastien explained some of the context of your position,” I began. “I am sorry if I upset you. The Aronin was a . . . a formative person in my life,” I said, diplomatically.

  “My father was widely respected for his wisdom,” she agreed, cautiously. “He was known for his subtle advice in a culture that prides itself on its subtlety.”

  “He died well,” I decided, wondering if it was a mistake to offer my opinion. “He endured years of torture, first at Sheruel’s nonexistent hands, and then at Korbal’s all-too-real hands. He did not submit,” I informed her. “He did not relent. He kept his secrets throughout it all.”

  “What did he tell you?” Ameras asked, her eyes sorrowful as she cleaned tubers. “I thought him dead. Years ago. At your little castle.”

  “I did, too,” I confessed. “He and his court fought valiantly. I’d like to think they could have won if the situation had been different. As it was, I did not think Sheruel and his minions would have the foresight to capture him and some of his companions. I thought them bent on their destruction.”

  “They were guided by the Enshadowed,” she agreed, solemnly. “Of that I am certain.”

  “Your father confirme
d that in the dungeons of Olem Seheri, before he died,” I agreed as I drew my knife and started trimming tubers. “He also suggested that I seek you out and convince you to open the vault for us. Before the Enshadowed got a chance to raid it. He was quite concerned that we protect it from that. You see,” I said, conversationally, “if we don’t, then when the Enshadowed do find it and open it, they don’t plan on using them on just us humani and the Alka Alon; they plan to attack the Vundel.”

  The revelation made both their eyes grow wide, and Ameras gasped.

  “The Vundel? Are they suicidal fools?” she demanded.

  “Perhaps,” I shrugged. “I would say power-mad and desperate for immortality, but their motivation isn’t as important as their means: they are attempting to make an alliance with the vassals of the Formless. You’re familiar with them?”

  “This news grows darker and darker,” Rolof said, shaking his head slowly. “Aye, we know of the Formless,” he said, glancing at Ameras. “And their vassals.”

  “Then you understand why he was so adamant I find you. Even now the Enshadowed search the valley seeking the vault,” I explained.

  “That is not all they seek here, then,” Rolof murmured.

  I sighed. “I know. They also seek to trap me while I’m here, and when I have no recourse to magic. Likely to slay me and take the Magolith,” I said, tapping the sphere on my hip. “Korbal covets it. After your father perished,” I explained, “I captured Mycin Amana, Korbal’s consort, in the dungeons, and then fought against Korbal. And Sheruel. After the one betrayed the other, I used the Magolith to imprison Korbal into his current form . . . which is deteriorating. Without it, he will likely die a horrible death.”

  “You stood against the Abomination?” Rolof asked, surprised. “And survived?”

  “I had help,” I dismissed. “And he was distracted. I’ll tell you about that, sometime. It’s six hells of a story.”

  “I have no doubt,” nodded Rolof, looking at me with new respect. He might be a half-crazed hermit, but he had been an accomplished warmage for years. “But that was not the other errand I predict the Enshadowed were undertaking in Anghysbel.”

  “They seek the Kurja,” Ameras nodded, looking at her tiny little feet. If she was distraught before, now she seemed nearly inconsolable.

  “The . . . Kurja,” I sighed. “The lizard people? Or is this some fresh new nightmare? I’m thinking of starting a list so that I can keep track.”

  “The latter,” Rolof said, missing my sarcasm entirely.

  “It is the third great charge of my line,” Ameras revealed, “after the molopor and the vault: keeping watch over the Kurja. The vassals of the Formless,” she explained. “Or one of them. Perhaps he was speaking of one of the others, but if they are in Anghysbel, it is likely that they wish to contact the Kurja.”

  “And what in Trygg’s blessed name are the Kurja? Besides vassals of the Formless?” I demanded, as I sliced up tubers.

  “It would be better to show you,” Ameras decided. “Minalan, I appreciate how well you have fared against the foe. Clearly, my father was prescient when he entrusted you with your charge.”

  “Yes, I feel so honored,” I said, drolly. “I just wish he had been more truthful with me, instead of feeding me bullshit to go fight a war I was destined to lose. It makes one lose a bit of faith in nearly immortal, profoundly wise woodland beings.”

  “Did you not fulfill his words?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. “Was he not truthful to you?”

  “I . . .” I began, and then stopped. The conversation I had with the Aronin in Amadia came back to me with stunning clarity.

  . . . but the gurvani, they have waited and prepared for generations for this day. They will drive your people from the valley, for they have grievances with you for past wrongs. They will remake the valley into a mighty fortress from which they will war on all humankind. So I have foreseen. And when they do so, they will war on my people, for they forget our ancient kinship, and they will drive my people from this place of refuge and force us to once again be part of the outer world . . .

  That, at least, had come true . . . The Dark Vale was the epicenter of evil in the Mindens. My old home had turned into a cesspit of sinister destruction, a place of sacrifice, and blood. Armies had assailed us from it ever since.

  . . . this node of evil is well protected, now. It lies buried in the heart of the mountains, within a maze of warrens. To strike at it now would be futile. If it can be drawn out, however, then perhaps it can be destroyed. But to do so you must be cunning and stubborn in your defense, so that only the node could break you. It may well cost you your life, and destroy the Valley, but it may save your people from enslavement and death.

  Well, I had, indeed, sacrificed Boval Vale and escaped, and then nearly lost my life confronting Sheruel before escaping – thanks to the Aronin. But I had lived to save a portion of my people from enslavement and death. Vanador was testament to that.

  . . . we knew he would seek to engage you personally. Sheruel had a thirst for vengeance too strong to do otherwise. You kept his army at bay for weeks longer than he had planned. And we knew you would mount a defense. We had to wait for the encounter . . .

  That, too, had come to pass, I had to admit. No one could have predicted that I would be able to hold out that long. The siege should have been over quickly, as so many had been, during the invasion.

  . . . someone who understands what is involved must organize the defense of Men, Spellmonger. Else the human world will be destroyed, as the Dead God gains power. You must go to the Councils of Men and tell them what you know. While your magics are crude and elementary, they must be strengthened and organized against the gurvani tide, else Man will be washed away . . .

  I had certainly fulfilled that prediction. If it wasn’t for me bullshitting a couple of dukes and bribing a bunch of wizards, the gurvani would be nearly to Merwyn, by now. Man would have been washed away.

  . . . they will offer no quarter, and will slaughter every Man they encounter. They will bring forth flame and steel, and magics most terrible. They will brandish weapons not seen in ages of Men. They will seek to turn the weak-willed to their bidding, and use Man’s own power against him. If you value your race, a great line of defense must be erected against their assault. It is your charge to see to that . . .

  Well, his magical compulsion had certainly helped my motivation, but if you wanted to get technical, yes, he had predicted how the gurvani – and their secret Enshadowed masters – had waged war upon humanity and the Alka Alon.

  . . . you will not be unaided. Your friends here will follow you unquestionably. As you work, the lore of the ancients will prove helpful. My own folk will do what we can to aid you, but you should be sufficient to rally the human lands for this crisis . . .

  It was hard to argue with that, I realized, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. If I hadn’t been so damn persuasive, Lenguin and Enora would still be alive. There would be no Kingdom. No King Rard. The Bans on Magic would still be in place. I hated thinking that he’d been right, to predict that, but I consoled myself that perhaps I had just been particularly charming that day.

  . . . you must leave. You and your people here are to be the core of a great new army, an army that can beat back this tide. An army that you will lead. It must persist, and persevere, until there is no more danger. You must lead them, Minalan. No one else. You and your children shall become the base of a great line, should you succeed . . .

  And that was the rub. Me and my people had, indeed, become the core of a great new army, one that had managed to throw the gurvani back repeatedly. Not just the gurvani, but the Enshadowed and the Nemovorti.

  And I had created it. And the City of Wizards, Vanador.

  But what had it gotten me? I was keeping the tides of darkness at bay, but at an enormous cost in blood and treasure. Every battle I won demonstrated to me that the war would, most likely, be lost. The Alka Alon’s tepid assistance had do
ne just enough to strengthen us to stand . . . but not to be victorious. They had held back meaningful assistance unless the situation was dire . . . and even then, they had sent us scant assistance.

  But implicit with the Aronin’s prediction was a promise, I realized.

  . . . when the time is ripe, in its fullness, you will seek out my daughter, who even now seeks a place of refuge for the rest of my folk here in the valley. I have given to her certain . . . things that may assist you. Arcane secrets, you would call them. She has agreed to act as my messenger in this. Seek her when you can find no other way . . .

  Which was why I was here . . . talking to a frenetic pixie who was hopelessly in need of nut juice. Or something.

  But her father had committed her. I was certain of that.

  “He did not . . . he did not provide the proper context,” I finally said. “But he did tell me the truth. Including that you would give me aid when I can find no other way.”

  “You have fought the Abomination and the Necromancer, combined,” sniffed Ameras. “It sounds as if you have cultivated plenty of resources since you left our refuge.”

  “Sheruel and Korbal aren’t the real threat,” I reminded her. “Callidore losing magic is. What if we do manage to defeat them? The Formless still persist in the Deeps. A few generations of peace and then an apocalyptic, horrific end of the world?” I challenged her. “While your folk slip quietly away?”

  “Your charge was against the immediate threat, Minalan,” she said, wrinkling her brow.

  “It might amuse you to know that I have increased my charge,” I said. “Your father thought that the threat of the Abomination was sufficient. I find myself unwilling to face Korbal and Sheruel when a far more serious threat exists.”

  “One which no one can change,” she said, shaking her head, sadly. “Are you not content with the glory available for defeating the gurvani?”