by Sean Hinn
“I think so.”
“Not good enough.” She turned to Nova.
“Got spares tied to me pack,” she replied to the unasked question. “Armor, too.”
“And the packs?”
“Just outside the gate, Sarge, like ye asked,” said Lux.
“I... I don’t have anything to pack,” said Kari.
“Ye couldn’t keep up if ye did. Not yet, but that’ll change.” She turned to her captain. “Captain Flint.” Her tone bore a hint of unsteadiness.
The captain stood.
“Been an honor, sir. See ye in Stonarris.” She clasped arms with her lifelong friend and mentor.
“I’ll save ye some mead.”
One by one, the company clasped arms and parted ways with their captain. Few words were said. Kari had gone to the bar to retrieve her uncle’s axe; she was the last to stand before him.
“Two turns, Kari,” said Jade, not unkindly, walking through the Hammer door.
“Uncle.” Kari fell into her uncle’s arms, moaning. She had no tears left to cry, but even after all she had lost, she discovered that her heart still had the capacity to break.
“Ye listen to Jade now, Kari. She be the best sergeant I ever trained.”
Kari shook in the elderly dwarf’s arms. “I will, Uncle Lat.”
“And ye don’t worry about me. If ye get to Cindra fast enough, there may still be time.”
“I don’t understand, Uncle. How can she help us?”
He stroked her blonde hair. “She’ll know what to do, Kari, I promise. Ye just be sure ye get there in one piece, hear?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
He broke their embrace and held his niece at arm’s length. “I love ye, Kari Flint.”
“I love ye, Uncle.”
“Go now, dear. Be yer mother’s daughter. She’d be so proud.”
Kari could barely speak through her grief. “I miss her. Her and Da. I miss them so much.”
“Ye’ll see ’em again. Not soon, I hope.”
Kari released a long, sorrowful breath. “Not soon.”
He kissed her forehead, a long, trembling kiss, holding her head in his thick calloused hands. “Your uncle’s gonna make himself a drink now, sweet one. Goodbye.”
Captain Latimer Flint walked to the bar, quivering hands pouring himself a glass of nightnectar, as his grandniece turned to watch him. Kari took one final look at her uncle, and then around the Hammer. She opened the tavern door.
“Goodbye,” she said, to more than her uncle.
XXI: MOR
The Master of Kehrlia sat pensively at his desk, replaying the conversation and examining his memories. Mila Felsin. He had dismissed Jarriah’s suggestion quickly, and then the apprentice himself, careful not to reveal any hint that he took the idea seriously.
But he did.
Mila Felsin, he considered. She was of course quite talented, and the Master of Kehrlia had seen many a wizard pass through the trainings of the tower over the years. Wizard, he thought. She is more like a sorceress, is she not? A literal distinction did exist between the two labels, though many, particularly non-wizards, had grown to use the terms interchangeably in recent generations.
They were not, however. Every first-year wizard at Kehrlia learned the technical distinction between the two: a wizard was made; a sorcerer was born. Which was not to imply that a sorcerer did not require training; without proper instruction, those born with magic would rarely be able to accomplish more than starting a hearthfire, or illuminating a dark room for a few turns. But a properly trained sorcerer, born unto magic, could reach pinnacles of power that no ordinary wizard could hope to achieve. Or so the texts said. Every first-year wizard was convinced that magic coursed through their veins, that they carried the ancient power of sorcery in their very bones, that after they gained an understanding of their innate gift, they would surpass all others. None had proven themselves right in hundreds of years.
By an apprentice’s second year, when he or she began to learn and practice basic spells, it would become clear. The primary delineation between a sorcerer and wizard could be reduced to one simple test. An extraordinarily intelligent and studious wizard could, within a few cycles, learn to communicate basic phrases, images, and ideas telepathically over short distances, perhaps across a desk, or a room, if they could see their subject and that subject properly opened himself to the intrusion. A sorcerer, however, once schooled in the procedure, could read the thoughts of any unprotected mind, communicate complete thoughts – even implant suggested ideas – nearly at will. They could do so through walls. And they could do so within moments of learning the proper technique.
There were other distinctions, of course, but verifying telepathic power was a simple and straightforward process. All students were tested. Each was given a random passage to memorize and then tried to convey that passage, or at least a visual representation of it, silently to an instructor. As an incentive, any who did pass the test would be guaranteed graduation. None had passed the test, therefore, none possessed the power of sorcery. It was as simple as that.
Sartean, paranoid by nature, had always believed that a particularly clever student, possessing such power, might try to conceal it. They might choose instead to leave their graduation to chance, fearing that they would be at risk of harm by other students, or instructors, or even the Master of Kehrlia, should they be found out. During Sartean’s tenure at Kehrlia, at least, they would have been wise to do so. He would never have suffered a verified sorcerer to live; doing so would ensure his term as Master would be brief.
But the arrogant imprudence of the young, he believed, was assurance enough that no sorcerer had emerged in his lifetime. He considered himself as wise and shrewd as anyone, but in recalling his youth, he knew: if he had possessed the ability to pass his own test those many years ago, he would have done so.
He had been present at Mila’s test, as he had been for all his students. It was one of the rare examinations he personally oversaw as a matter of course. Nothing extraordinary happened. He did not recall having any reason to believe that she was a sorceress-in-hiding. On the contrary; she seemed genuinely disappointed that she had failed, though that was not uncommon. The brightest wizards were typically the most disappointed when they failed their test, and she had already stood out among her peers at that early point in her training.
Yet Sartean could not reject out of hand the idea that Mila was, in fact, extraordinary. She had breezed through Kehrlia. There was nothing she found difficult. She had brought back both artifacts at the opening fourth-year trials – that had never been done. Ever. She had discovered a way to stabilize Speedsap – a task that had been believed to be impossible; the very idea of it was as absurd as the claims made by charlatans that they could turn lead into gold. Sartean knew how she had done it, or at least, how she claimed to have done it. She claimed that she had mingled Speedsap with a sleeping potion. Sartean knew better. That idea had been tried a thousand times before, by brilliant and powerful wizards. Sartean had always intended to discover her secret, but thought it best, for a time, to allow her to believe she had successfully fooled him.
And then there is the matter of the phenarril, thought Sartean. Brilliant, how she had synthesized the proper growing environment, which argued against the idea that she was anything more than a genius practitioner of magic. Could not one with such wit simply achieve greatness without needing to possess some innate ability?
Certainly, Sartean allowed. Yet he could not let the matter rest. What if the girl is to be my downfall? What if she is a sorceress, and plans to usurp me? The idea was not inconceivable. A confrontation was looming between them; his only course of action was to impress upon her the need to solve the problem of the lost harvest, and quickly. He could not wait for a new crop to grow to maturity, which meant he would require her to somehow redouble her efforts – which she would claim to be impossible. And he would then find himself with no choice but to be…persuasive. How
would she react? Might it be her to subdue him, or weaken him, allowing his nightmarish vision to come to pass?
Sartean shuddered. I am frightened of a child! he chided himself. Yet he could not shake the feeling that he was right, that Mila Felsin was somehow connected to the threat that he faced. Nothing else fit; some extraordinary power would be required to defeat him, and the only one in all of Mor who could conceivably weaken him was Mila Felsin.
Paranoia decided the matter. He would not wait for the girl to come to him, to find him cowering in his tower. I am the most powerful wizard in all the kingdoms of Greater Tahr, he reminded himself. I will kill the whelp if I must, before she dares rise against me.
“A bit of travel, then,” Sartean said aloud, standing to retrieve a pair of stones stored within a locked case on the bookshelf beside his desk. The Journey Gems were meant for just such occasions, when he would find himself with the need to travel a great distance without being seen. He warded his library door with a gesture, ensuring he would not be disturbed, and laid the stones on the knee-high glass table that held his beloved Listening Stone. Taking a seat upon his velvet pillow, he began the complex incantation that would initiate the charging of the two gems.
The process would take several days to complete, but once charged, the emerald would contain the power to transport him instantly to his target destination – in this case, Mila’s farmhouse office. The second stone, a sapphire, would return him to the steps of Kehrlia. In the event that the unthinkable happened – that Mila Felsin would not only choose to do battle with him, but appear poised to defeat him – his escape would require less than a thought; even semiconscious, he could use the sapphire to return home.
Great degrees of energy, however, were required to charge the gems, more than Sartean possessed alone. Thus, they were rarely used…though in truth, the wizard considered the matter trivial. I am the Master of Kehrlia, after all.
The Incantors who inhabited the tower would find themselves feeling lethargic for the next several days as the stones sapped their strength. Most would be puzzled by their weariness; there were but a few senior Incantors who understood the true nature of unrestrained magic. Those who did would not allow themselves to be used thusly. As for those who were yet ignorant…
“Chattel,” Sartean D’Avers said aloud.
XXII: G’NAATH
“That canna be good,” Oort stated the obvious, frantically lacing his boots.
“Yeh think? Move yer hide, Oort.”
“Ready.”
Thinsel stood to make for the tunnels; Oort grabbed her wrist, pulling her near. He looked into his wife’s worried face. “Thinny.”
“I know, Oort.”
“Yeh do. But lemme say it. I love yeh, Thinsel Greykin. All my years, and all to come.” He kissed her forehead.
“All to come,” she replied. “Now move, yeh old lump.”
The pair broke down the tunnel as swiftly as they could manage, Oort in the lead. The last horn of the day would sound shortly; at such a late hour, few were wandering G’naath. Those that were took notice of the scrambling couple but gave them a wide berth; they made quick time, arriving at Cindra’s door without incident.
“Get in! Now!” Oort knew that whatever riled the old gnome, it must have been serious: never before had she stood waiting with her door open. The two hustled inside as Cindra pulled the door shut. She took a step into the room and turned to face the door, weaving her hands in a precise pattern and muttering softly.
“We be safe fer now,” she declared.
“Safe from what?” demanded Thinsel, breathing heavily.
Cindra shook her head in dismay. “Oh, Thinsel, I be so sorry. Yeh been found out.”
“Found out?” asked Oort, equally winded.
“The stone?” asked Thinsel.
“The stone,” Cindra nodded. “Fer me life I dunno how. Oh, Fury!” The elderly gnome stomped and paced around the small office.
Oort and Thinsel stood mute, neither knowing what to say. Oort pulled his wife close; she trembled.
“It’ll be alright, Thinny.”
“No! No, it won’t! Fury, but this is bad!” Cindra shook her balled fists.
“Why don’t yeh have a seat, Lady,” said Thinsel unsteadily. “Catch yer breath and tell us what’s what.”
Cindra took a breath and nodded. “Tea. I’ll make us some tea.” She turned to a cabinet on the far wall, withdrawing three cups and a half-filled pouch of dried tea leaves, placing them on the table beside the tea kettle as Oort and Thinsel quietly took a seat. Cindra returned to the cabinets, rifling through them, frantically looking for something.
Thinsel stood. “What do yeh need, Lady? Here, let me help.”
“I don’t need help, I need me damned kettle!”
“Lady,” said Oort. “Here.” He motioned to the kettle on the table.
“Oh.” Cindra straightened herself and faced the couple, nibbling at a fingernail. “I… Sorry. I be a bit distressed at the moment.”
Thinsel walked around the table and took the lady’s hand. “We don’t need tea, dear. Just sit now, sit and tell us.”
Cindra allowed herself to be led, but insisted on making the tea. She placed her hands on the kettle and closed her eyes; after half a turn, steam escaped the spout. She did not withdraw her hands; after several more moments, when the base of the ceramic kettle began to glow red, Oort grasped her wrist. Cindra looked up.
“It be hot now, Lady.”
Cindra appeared to be lost, as if she had arrived in her seat suddenly and unexpectedly, extracted from some faraway place. She blinked and shook her head, clearing her mind. Oort placed several leaves in each cup; Thinsel wrapped her hand in her skirts and grasped the handle of the kettle, pouring the steaming water.
“There yeh be. Tea,” said Thinsel, attempting a calm and cheerful tone.
Cindra met Thinsel’s eyes and centered herself, finding her voice. When she spoke, her speech had lost its gnomish inflections again, reverting to the accent she had absorbed living among the elves, as it would occasionally do.
“I am so sorry, Thinsel. I let you down.”
“Yeh did not. Now what happened?”
Cindra told the Greykins all that she had overheard, ending with the discovery of the stone.
“Yeh canna be sure they found it, Lady,” said Oort.
“I am sure. There is no doubt, and soon they will come for you. Both of you.”
Thinsel nodded, squeezing Oort’s hand. “What now?”
Cindra’s eyes narrowed, her gaze lifting past the couple to the door behind them. Oort and Thinsel turned to see what she glared at; the wooden door was framed in a pale crimson glow. The light gradually dimmed until it had faded completely.
“Why’s it doin’ that?” asked Oort.
“Someone just walked past,” guessed Thinsel.
Cindra nodded. “As for what now, I do not know. I do not think you’ll be able to escape G’naath. By now they will have notified the gate.”
“There must be another way out,” said Oort. “But first yeh gotta explain what yeh heard from them Elders. I be not sure that I follow.”
Cindra sighed. “It’s as I suspected. The quakes, the troubles in Belgorne. The Elders have made contact with an Old One, and they now do its bidding.”
“That canna be,” argued Thinsel. “Yeh said they lack the power.”
“I did. I was wrong. Somehow they found it, or stole it, or bargained for it. It doesn’t matter. What I know now for certain–”
She raised her gaze again. The door glowed. She continued.
“What I know for certain is that whatever they plan, it is to happen soon. A ceremony, I believe. I would assume they intend to try a Calling.”
“A Calling?” asked Thinsel.
“A blood ritual. A most horrible sacrilege. To even attempt it, many innocents must have died before now. If it is a Calling they try, and if they succeed, Tahr will face an evil I cannot even begin to imag
ine. I do not know that any will be able to stand against it.”
Oort spoke next. “Can yeh stop ‘em, Lady? Have yeh the power?”
Cindra shook her head. “Once, perhaps. Before they had been granted power. Not now. My lífda is nearly empty.”
“I don’t s’pose this great evil is just gonna hang around here in G’naath?” Thinsel asked, knowing the answer.
Cindra shook her head.
“Then whatever it be, it could hurt our Shyla?”
Cindra nodded.
Oort slammed a fist on the table. “Then we gotta stop it! Ain’t no choice!”
“How?” asked Cindra.
“Well don’t yeh ask me how, yer the wise old witch, think o’ somethin’!”
“Oort!” Thinsel slapped her husband’s hand.
“Bah, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just sayin’, we canna just give up! We gotta think!”
Cindra looked to the door.
“He’s right. We have to think of something. And quickly.”
Oort and Thinsel turned; the door glowed brightly.
“They know we be here,” said Thinsel.
Cindra nodded. “They do. It will take them time to find the door, but they will, and soon. We do not have long. A few hours, perhaps.”
“They can’t break past yer magic, can they?” asked Oort.
Cindra met his gaze. “They have amassed power enough to shatter kingdoms, Oort,” she said gravely.
Oort and Thinsel’s held each other’s hands, their short, thick fingers intertwined for what they each feared could be the last time. The three sat in near silence for the better part of an hour, thinking. The glow around the door brightened steadily.
Cindra closed her eyes in desperate concentration. She could find no answers, not the faintest glimmer of an idea. Absently she noticed the occasional whisper from the couple, gently spoken words of love and comfort. She tuned it out, tearing through her own mind, examining every corner, turning every stone. She found nothing.
Thinsel broke the silence. “Shyla’s driphole.”