The two dead men rested on a tapestry matching those in Fillister’s living quarters. Locked in contorted forms, their bone white faces and bodies expressed the agonies the two suffered before death. The shorter of the men still grasped a black bottle. Below its mouth only the darker colors within the weave of the tapestry remained, the lighter tones bleached as white as the dead men’s skin.
Wace knelt next to the bodies and cast a sign to uncover the contents if any fumes emanated from the container.
“I detect phantazein, a reagent made from spectral dust. That alone would kill. I suspect Andre created a suppressant to eliminate the smell. Phantazein carries a strong and most offensive odor. Based on this knowledge and the washing of the color within the tapestry where it spilled, I suspect this was a concoction for treating aged paper and parchment without harming the print.”
He picked up the bottle and sniffed. “There is no worry of plague. These fools drank a brew that effectively ate at their insides.”
“And washed the color from them as well. It’s safe to search them then,” Dech said as he knelt next to the mage.
“Certainly… on both counts.”
Dech began examining the smaller man and commented, “Fillister inadvertently killed his assassins.”
“I suppose he did at that. Not much comfort in the thought, but he would have appreciated the irony.”
Dech found the man had a trio of small barbed hooks at the neckline on the back of his tunic, a common weapon professional criminals employed. He pulled them free and set them aside.
“What purpose do those serve?” Wace asked.
“If a legionnaire or guardsman decides to take one of their sort into custody, it’s common to grasp them at the back of the neck. One of these can provide enough of a distraction to escape,” Dech said.
Neither man wore mail, padded gambesons serving their purpose instead. Patting down the torso, the warder found nothing underneath.
Inside the pouch at the man’s waist, he found coinage from both Arataine and Byrmont. Not an unusual occurrence among bordering nations. A small map showing a course from Byrmont to Fillister’s tower was more damning. Dech passed the map to Wace.
“Does this connect with the reports of Malig Tancar’s presence in Byrmont?” the mage asked.
“It’s not proof, but suspicion is more prudent than assuming coincidence.”
Dech moved to the other man. Finding no hidden devices like those that equipped his companion, Dech continued and searched the man’s gambeson. Noticing something underneath the padding and reaching into the neck opening, Dech felt a roll of heavy parchment and drew it out. He passed it to Wace, noting the broken red wax seal bearing the signet of the King of Arataine.
Wace unrolled the parchment and read while the warder searched the man’s belt pouch.
“This is the ruse that allowed these men access to Andre’s tower,” Wace said. “It makes claim that assassins seek to murder the king, his household, and retinue, dispatching these men to protect Fillister. The seal appears authentic.”
“It might be,” Dech replied as he moved on to the packs resting nearby. “Recall that Malig once wore the crown and might still have his signet ring. A talented crafter might also replicate it.”
Wace looked skyward in thought as the warder began pulling bottles from one of the packs.
“Obviously there was no attempt on anyone else within the king’s household,” Wace said. “If Malig is behind this, why target Andre Fillister?”
“Perhaps this provides an answer.” Dech drew a large tome from the pack. He looked inside the thick cover and saw NAN CATACLYSMA O’ LAERDAVILE Transliterated by, FINSEN HIERONYMUS printed on the title page. Tattered remnants of pages in the middle of the book protruded and a quick look made it clear the assassins or someone else recently pulled a few sheets from the work. A smear stained one of the torn pieces and a sniff made clear to Dech what it was. Seeing no text on the piece, he tore it loose and flicked it into the grass.
The pages within were made of exceptionally thin vellum, something rarely seen in the current time and reserved for the wealthy or archival purposes. Dech passed the book to the mage.
Wace reacted by involuntarily recoiling when he touched the book. “I now know what I sensed before. This piece contains magic of its own,” he commented. “Considerable magic in addition to the enchantments cast on it. I also sense a compulsion sign, fading but still present.”
“Can you tell the source of this sign?”
“Fillister,” Wace said with a nod. “Though what its intent was is beyond detection now.” Looking at the cover, Wace continued, “I know Fillister had long sought this tome, but he never made mention of acquiring it. Why would they remove only a few pages? Why not burn the book with the rest?”
“I suspect they used the pages in place of hay or grass.” He pointed at the piece he had discarded.
“They used pages from a tome as rare as this to wipe themselves? Disgraceful!”
“If they hadn’t, it would be ashes now. Maybe the book has no real connection to the assassination. They may have simply taken it at random. Might the compulsion spell have played a part?”
Wace grunted. “Sign, not spell, but yes it might. But why this book? It is quite rare and keenly sought after. Even the magic universities and the council are bereft of this work.” He flipped pages quickly and stopped periodically to read when something caught his eye. “This is quite extensive in its breadth of fields relating to past Cataclysms. Geology, metallurgy, the composition of infernal creatures, military tactics, magical stratagems, magic techniques from spells to signs and more.” He flipped through more pages. “Analysis and supposition of the Lord of the Vile’s avatars, effectiveness of fugue states like rages, teleseering, and other supposedly infernal-based magics in combating Underealm foes, alternate magic sources as a means of countering—”
“Alternate sources of magic,” Dech cut in. “Such as derkunblod?”
“As a matter of fact it is a topic within this book. McGrew mentioned it as well when he returned to Cruxford recently, but did not expound. We should see him when we return.”
“Did he tell you of Olk Mirkness and the derkunblod hermitage in Byrmont? I provided him with some information.”
“He did not,” Wace replied with interest. “I saw a mention of Olk Mirkness in Andre’s notes. Tell me what you told McGrew.”
Dech detailed the information he related to Wace’s colleague.
“That is odd indeed. A link between Malig, Mirkness, and derkunblod? Most odd. There was a report of the death of an arcane scholar in Linsey here in Arataine that arrived at the palace just yesterday. An apparent accident, but perhaps someone should look closer.”
“Is it known if this scholar studied darkness and blood magic?”
“I had only heard of her in passing before her death. All the more reason to have it investigated. Is there any more we need examine here?”
“We should check under the bodies before we leave,” he said as he replaced the few items the other pack contained.
The two men rolled the bodies enough to see underneath and found nothing more than some smashed bread. Satisfied there was nothing left to discover, they returned to the road.
“We certainly won’t make it back to Cruxford before dark,” Wace said once they were underway.
Dech nodded in agreement. “We have until tomorrow before we gain the king’s ire.”
Wace laughed. Digging into a pouch at his waist, he drew out Fillister’s notes recovered from the tower. Scanning them, he said, “He makes mention more than once of ‘a strange magic form’ he was pursuing. One that feeds from a source other than the Font of Glaes. Andre always approached things from odd angles, but that was usually a strength despite the opinions of his rivals. If this other magic he wrote of is derkunblod, is that the reason for his death?”
“You expect me to have an answer for that?” Dech replied.
Wace smi
led and shook his head. “I was wondering aloud. I question whether this mage in Byrmont is actually Mirkness, but we cannot discount it. Stranger things have occurred. I am no expert, but I do not recall anything about Mirkness and connections to non-standard magic.”
“If it is him, he’s had quite a while to learn new tricks.”
Wace looked through Fillister’s notes again. “Let me find the mention of Mirkness in here.” He flipped through the sheets several times before he turned them over and looked through them yet again. He stopped and sighed. “Here it is. Andre was prone to jot notes to himself on scraps of paper or—as in this case—jot notes on other notes.”
He read for some time, the look on his face becoming one of concern. “Dech, look at this,” he said passing a small sheet of parchment to the warder. “I have vast experience reading the mess he called writing, so let me know if you cannot interpret it.”
Dech smiled. “I deal with knights and legionnaires who often write while on horseback. I think I can manage.”
“Then read the dated lines.”
Dech saw notes written in tiny flat lines between formulae and topics beyond his knowledge.
1251, Winter 47th, I have sensed something familiar from long ago, but I do not recall what it is. I suspect it is a person. Remember to look into this again.
1251, Wntr 60th, Nearly forgot but for above note. It is a person, human, mage. But who and why eludes me. Must look further.
1251, Wntr 65th, This mage is distant, well west of Arataine, but he carries with him a powerful presence of a magic not familiar to me. Seems I know him, but I cannot recall. Confident it will come.
1251, Winter 78th, Mirkness! Olk Mirkness, it must be, but he is dead it is said. Perhaps he survived somehow, but the magic he casts now is not within my knowledge. Must look into it.
‘51, Wntr ?th, Dates be damned. Have amassed quite the collection to aid me in my mad pursuit of a dead Grandmage. Thus far, it has not revealed much, but is early. Onward!
1251, Spring 2nd, Progress. It is a suppressed form Mirkness practices now. I need more information. Perhaps Granum has what I need.
10th day of Spring, 1251, Have acquired Hieronymus’ transliteration of Cataclysma! A volume I have always desired. Can die a happy man. I think I know what Mirkness is up to and it bodes poor. Enough to dampen the joy at my new tome. Need confirmation before taking to Harold. I sense Mirkness senses me. Maybe he will stop by and say ‘hail’ one of these days. Ha!
1251, Spr 14th, I do believe I have it. Mirkness plots a course that endangers all. Must get it down in legible and intelligible form for the king. Will deliver it myself in a few days. Do not forget.
“His last note is from two days ago. So whatever he had was burned with the rest,” Dech said. “Does Fillister’s sensing Mirkness provide confirmation of the Grandmage’s non-demise?”
“It’s not absolute, but it’s enough for me. Andre was most adept at such. The mages on the council will seek Mirkness and confirm this.”
“Who or what is the Granum mentioned in the notes?”
“It reads as if it is a person. I have never heard the name, but Andre knew people far and wide. We’ll look in the archives and find this individual. If he or she is a mage or scholar, they ought to be in the records. What strikes me as odd is the very book he mentions is the sole surviving piece. Odd indeed. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would. Might Fillister’s compulsion sign or the tome’s magical qualities have anything to do with that?”
“I cannot say with certainty, but you may be on to something,” Wace said as he placed the note back in his pouch. He held the book they’d recovered and opened it. After turning several pages, he stopped and read for a moment. “There is a fair bit of information about derkunblod in here. Have you ever heard of a source called the Gout?”
“Source? As in a magical one?”
“Yes. One must draw magic from somewhere. If this work was supposed to be burned because of its derkunblod connection… that is most strange. A magically charged book such as this be the sole surviving work out of dozens? Most strange indeed. I do not like saying such things, but perhaps other forces are at work.”
“Fillister thought it important enough to acquire it. Might he have died trying to preserve it?”
“I admit it is a possibility,” Wace said in a troubled tone. “The compulsion sign points that way. I wish we knew the reason.”
Grey clouds rolled in from the west and soon rain began to pelt them. At first it was alternating spits of tiny droplets and large far spaced spheres the size of quail’s eggs. This gave way to a steady rain and then thunder as the storm clouds built up.
Dech guided Otto to walk beside Ridan and he pulled an oilskin bag from the packsaddle. Passing it to Wace, he said, “Unless the book and those notes are charmed against water, use that.”
As darkness took hold, the storm showed no sign of letting up. Nearing the ford they had crossed earlier in the day, they expected it was impassable and were not disappointed.
“We’ll not be crossing here. Not tonight or tomorrow,” Dech yelled over the sound of pelting rain, rumbling thunder, and roaring river. “There is a bridge north of here near O’erake. That’s the closest.”
“Is it wise to travel through the night under such conditions?”
“No. If we leave at first light, we can be in Cruxford by early evening barring delays. We’ll need to manage our horses’ pace and walk often.”
“Possessing functioning legs and feet will allow me to manage,” Wace said good-naturedly. “Where now?”
Dech pointed up the road from where they had traveled. “The inn back there.”
“Let us hope few travelers have the same notion.”
The pair learned the inn’s rooms were fully occupied, but the floor and benches in the tavern area were free to paying customers.
Staking their claim to a pair of benches near the front, the two sipped ale from earthenware mugs and looked through a glazed window as running water flowed down the road toward the river.
“If Andre was seeking a dead mage’s actions, why did he require the tome you carry?” Dech asked in a quiet voice, avoiding mention of details in case someone might overhear.
“So you’ve been pondering as well. It does contain information about the magic he may be practicing. You think it may be more?”
“The magic is not my element, but the danger posed by the plot is. What if it’s more than an obscure form of magic Andre thought posed a danger?”
“More?” Wace said. He paused in thought. “You mean the Cata—! It cannot be. It’s madness.”
“Consider the man Mirkness now serves,” Dech whispered.
Wace grimaced and took a long pull on his ale. Wiping his mouth before speaking, he finally uttered, “I hope you are wrong and I do believe I need something stronger than ale.”
. . .
Chapter 11
By morning, the skies had cleared. As Dech predicted, the river still ran uncrossably high at the ford, so they followed the detour he’d mentioned the previous evening. They arrived at the edges of Cruxford as dusk came on and reached the castle gates by the time it was full dark.
“Appearance says so, but I must ask, would ye be a mage and contrition knight?” one of the gate guards queried as they approached.
“We would,” Wace said.
“Wait a moment,” the man said turning and walking quickly into the guard tower. A moment later, an older man exited.
“High Mage Wace and Warder Dech?” he asked.
“We are,” Wace replied.
The man cleared his throat and drew in a deep breath. “Have written orders to inform you to report to His Highness King Harold of Arataine without delay, no matter the hour.”
Wace smiled at the man’s apparent enjoyment of making such a proclamation. “Then we shall. Put so boldly, how could we not.”
The pair rode through the gate and into the outer bailey and its many bu
ildings. At Dech’s suggestion, they left their horses at the order’s stable and walked to the keep. They discovered a large affair was just concluding with dozens of people wearing finery exiting the keep with others conversing in groups outside on the inner bailey.
A member of the steward’s staff informed them the king was in his private office awaiting their arrival.
Inside the keep were many others in the passages that led to the great hall, among them Greve Gerald Moore and his eldest son, Robert. As Dech slowed to speak with them, Rob smiled and began to lift a hand in greeting, but a subtle motion by his father stopped him, an act not lost on Dech.
“Warder,” was all Gerald said.
“Greve,” Dech replied. “This must be Robert Moore.”
“My eldest. He departs for home tomorrow.”
“Taking to the road again. I’ve heard many things about his journey here. Defender of Aratainian honor at Fridley. Successfully escorting members of the mage council. You should be proud.”
“I am, despite his tendency to show a lack of restraint,” Gerald said with smiling eyes. “I am thankful he had the good fortune to cross paths with those able to assist him.”
“I’m sure it was most deserved and given freely. I must depart, the king awaits. Greve, Master Robert.” Dech clicked his heels and dipped his head at the pair.
They replied in kind, Robert unable to suppress a smile.
“You know the Greve of Spring Shire?” Wace asked as they made their way down a long hall.
“We’ve met. Served on a few battlefields together as well.”
“So more than mere acquaintances. Battle bonds comrades like few things can, so my father said.”
“A nobleman, your father?”
“Yes. Second Baron Lassiter, Charles Wace. I’m the fourth of six children. Fortunately for me, I exhibited magical talent early in life so no wielding a sword for me. No offense, I simply meant I was hopeless with the blade and would have made a terrible clergyman or monk.”
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