Echoes of the Fourth Magic

by R. A. Salvatore

  Reinheiser noted this impressive defense as the party trotted the last approach to the walls. He laughed inwardly, realizing that this overblown exhibition didn’t put forth the show of strength that Ungden no doubt envisioned. Quite the opposite, it revealed the insecurity, and thus the weakness, of the throne. The physicist also noted Bracken’s sigh when the banner of Ungden, a gray shark on a black background, came into view waving high above the city. Like many of his peers, Reinheiser realized, from that expression and the words of Ardaz, Bracken preferred the old shield of Calva, four white bridges and four pearls on a sea-blue field. But it was not within the privileges of the Warders of the White Walls to question the decrees of their Overlord.

  Bracken gave a call of recognition to a soldier on the roof of the gatehouse and one of the great gates cracked open enough to admit the horsed men in single file. A short tunnel, its walls lined with arrow slits and its ceiling interfaced with murder holes, led to the open courtyard of the fortress, and Mitchell and Reinheiser uneasily suffered the curious and dangerous stares of many concealed guards as they paced their mounts through. A final portcullis cranked open when they neared, and the captain sighed audibly as they left the passage of horrors and came again into the sunlight.

  Reinheiser could only imagine the glory Pallendara had once attained as he looked around him now. A tangible pall hung over the city, a gray fog of lethargy, where men kept at work out of duty and fear, not love. The people they passed stayed huddled and closed, with their eyes down in front of them to watch their own measured steps. Everywhere, engines of war dominated the view: a massive catapult belittling a three-tiered fountain, and ballistae mounted on the bases where proud statues once stood. Even the unemotional physicist felt a pang at the lost wonders this city must have known.

  Bracken hurried them through the streets, revealing similar feelings and also, perhaps, a bit of embarrassment.

  Nonetheless, a redundant stream of images dogged the trip as they wove around battlement after battlement, one line of defense after another. Every corner carried the same grim facade, and the group seemed to be going in circles.

  Finally they dismounted, and a climb of a hundred marble steps brought them to the golden doors of Pallendara’s Throne Hall. Apparently the party was expected, for the guards immediately swung the doors open and escorted them inside. A red carpet led them through the halls and into a long chamber cluttered with statues and sculptures, its walls overlaid with tapestries and paintings; the finest works in all Calva thrown together into a muddled hoard of greed.

  The court of Ungden the Usurper.

  At the far end of the hall, on an oversized throne of gold and jewels, sat the Overlord. To his left, hunched over and leaning on a cane, stood a man in a white robe, its hood pulled low to conceal his face. Behind the throne, a line of soldiers in the silver and black uniform of the city waited at the call of their Overlord. Everything before him matched the court that Reinheiser had envisioned, everything except for the Overlord himself.

  Reinheiser had anticipated an older version of Captain Mitchell, a brutish warrior who had bullied his way to power. But Ungden hardly fit that description. Slender and delicate, dressed in brightly colored silks with a ruffled collar and puffed sleeves, and overdecked in jewelry, a ring on every finger, two on some, and three on one, and several bracelets that clanked noisily with his every move, he seemed more a child dressed in a mature man’s clothing. Indeed, from a distance Reinheiser could hardly believe that this figure was old enough, given the years that the simple arithmetic from the day of his ascent to power would indicate. But when the physicist drew near, he recognized this as an obvious illusion of vanity. Powder lessened the wrinkles on Ungden’s face and a black wig hid his graying hairs.

  Reinheiser tried to hide his surprise at the sight, but it seemed impossible to him that this man who had wrested the throne of a proud and mighty people was, by all measure of his reckoning, a fop.

  When the party had settled before him, Ungden threw a leg over one arm of the throne and incessantly strummed the other with meticulously manicured fingers like a bored and impatient child.

  “My lord,” Bracken said, bowing low, “I found these men on the foothills of the Crystal Mountains. I brought them here that you might judge if they indeed be the ancient ones the scouts were quested to find.”

  He presented Reinheiser’s map to Ungden and moved off to the side.

  Ungden scanned the parchment quickly and without much interest, then turned it over to the robed man beside him, who tucked it away in a deep pocket without even looking at it. After the two conferred in whispers for a moment, Ungden focused his gaze upon Mitchell.

  “Your name,” he demanded.

  “Mitchell, Hollis T. Mitchell.”

  “Well, Hollis T. Mitchell, tell me about this map.”

  “My friend, Martin Reinheiser, could probably tell you more, Lord Ungden. He penned it himself.”

  “Ah, yes, I am quite sure that he could,” Ungden replied calmly. “But I asked you.” He offered no further explanation, as if his simple request contained an indisputable logic to end any further debate. And in this, his Throne Hall, surrounded by his armed and dangerous guard, it certainly did. The Overlord was no fool, and his counsel well informed. Just by the way the two men had presented themselves, it was obvious that Mitchell was easier prey on a verbal level than Reinheiser, and if these strangers were withholding secrets, Mitchell was the more likely of the two to slip up.

  The captain proved a more worthy adversary than he looked, though, and with Reinheiser’s coaching behind him, he knew what to say.

  “That map, Overlord, will guide you to your greatest foes, the elves of the second mutation.”

  Ungden’s eyes flashed and he started forward in his chair. He caught himself almost immediately and reclined back with feigned calm. The robed man beside him didn’t react at all, as if Mitchell’s declaration had come as no surprise.

  “And why do you freely give me such a map?” Ungden asked suspiciously. “Surely you must realize the worth of such information. Why do you offer it for nothing, when a king’s treasure might have been yours?”

  “Two reasons,” Mitchell explained. “First, it is right that you should know where to find and deal with these mutants.” He paused for a moment, trying to remember the way Reinheiser had phrased this rehearsed speech. “The elves are impure, a stain upon the race of man, and like you, I seek to purify the race. I believe that was fate’s purpose in bringing us, the ancient ones, to Aielle.”

  Hidden under the cowl of his robe, the wizard beside the throne grinned in amusement.

  “Second,” the captain continued, “I do ask for something in return.”

  “Then you are a fool,” Ungden said with a chuckle, “for I already have your information. You have nothing left with which to bargain.”

  “But I do,” Mitchell argued. “I have myself.”

  Ungden gave Mitchell a sidelong glance, and Reinheiser nodded in satisfaction that he had coached the captain well.

  “Explain, then, your worth to me,” Ungden demanded.

  “What I ask in return is a position in your army,” Mitchell replied. “A position of high rank, that I may aid in the purification of the race of man. That is my destiny.”

  Ungden lifted his eyebrows at this suggestion. “And what am I to tell my officers when I appoint an unproven stranger among them?”

  “Tell them that a lord is coming from another place and another time,” Mitchell replied without hesitation. “A great warrior who knows much of combat and will help lead Calva to victory over its hated foes.”

  The wizard leaned over and whispered something to Ungden, who nodded in agreement. “What is the name of this place that you are from, this nation that called you a lord?” he asked.

  “The United States of America,” Mitchell replied proudly. “The mightiest nation that this world has ever known.”

  “Indeed,” Ungden said, obviously
unimpressed by what he, the Overlord of the grandest nation in Aielle, perceived as a preposterous claim. “And there you were king?”

  “No, not king, but I commanded the army for the king, and by his will, so that he would be free to attend to other matters of state. Millions were at my disposal, Lord Ungden, with weapons beyond anything you can imagine.”

  “Millions,” Ungden mocked sarcastically, imitating the captain’s excited tone, but his robed adviser whispered to him again and his taunting smile disappeared. He sat quietly for a moment, trying futilely to compose himself in light of the confirmation from his aide that such an empire had indeed existed.

  “My forces are under the able command of Persomy, First Warder of the White Wall,” Ungden explained. “He is bound to me by an oath of loyalty that cannot be doubted and he carries out my orders without question. And he does so very well, I must say. So you understand that I really do not need another commander.”

  Mitchell’s face twisted at Ungden’s unanticipated refusal.

  “However,” Ungden continued, “my good friend Istaahl has advised me that perhaps you will indeed prove a valuable asset to my army. Therefore, Hollis T. Mitchell, I commission you temporary Undercommander of the forces of Pallendara and the nation of Calva, reporting only to Persomy and to myself. The permanency of your position depends on how we fare against the night dancers, for you and Persomy shall meet this very day and draw up our plan of attack.”

  “Thank you, Overlord Ungden,” Mitchell stammered through a broad grin. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Ungden narrowed his eyes, obviously disapproving of cockiness in an inferior. He leaned forward in his throne and eyed the captain directly, showing him a wicked smile. “Be assured, Undercommander,” he explained with deadly certainty, “that I shall hold you solely responsible if we fail.”

  No longer smiling, Mitchell needed no explanation of the implications of Ungden’s promise.

  Chapter 19

  Shadows of the Throne

  THE USURPER TURNED his untrusting eye at Reinheiser. “And what do you desire?” he asked, his words heavy with the cynicism that dominated every aspect of his life.

  “Desire?” Reinheiser echoed with feigned surprise.

  “Do not be evasive,” the Overlord warned, but though he smiled knowingly, the physicist held fast to his naive facade. “What do you ask,” Ungden demanded, “in return for your part in delivering the map?”

  “Why nothing, my lord,” Reinheiser replied. “I only did what I believed was proper.”

  Ungden nodded approvingly, though his expression showed that his doubts remained. Tainted by his own perverted outlook, the Usurper recognized personal gain as the primary motivation for any man’s actions and suspected treachery in anyone who claimed otherwise. He knew that Reinheiser was lying. The wizard beside the throne again smiled under his hood. He knew it, too; and furthermore, he understood what it was that Martin Reinheiser sought.

  “Although,” Reinheiser continued, as if a small favor had occurred to him as an afterthought, “I would truly appreciate a tour of this magnificent palace, and perhaps of the city, too.”

  “It shall be done,” Ungden said. “And more than that, for you certainly deserve it, you shall remain in the palace, comfortable and respected as my royal guest.”

  “Thank you, gracious lord,” Reinheiser said, and bowed low as if honored, though he realized that the invitation was just Ungden’s way of keeping an eye on him.

  The Usurper accepted the bow with an unenthusiastic wave of his hand, indicating that he was through with the two strangers and the meeting at an end.

  Reinheiser saw many splendors that day, artworks as wondrous as any from his own world. Unfortunately, the manner in which they were thrown together and cluttered about in every room assaulted his senses with an overload of images and insulted the artists who had devoted months, even years, of their lives to create them. Like the dragons of mythology, Ungden hoarded his treasures without any idea of appreciation for them. To the Usurper, owning seemed an end unto itself, and mere placement, aesthetically insulting, showed that his greed far outweighed any love he had for the art.

  Yet Reinheiser, too, cared little for art. His desire to see the palace had nothing to do with observing masterpieces, and it took quite an effort for him to hold his facade and convince the wary guard that he was interested in the tour. It wasn’t until the afternoon that he found what he was truly looking for. As his guide led him to his room, they passed a darkened, unadorned hallway. Right away Reinheiser suspected something important about this corridor, for it was the only area he had viewed in the entire palace bare of Ungden’s pillaged collection.

  “Take me down there,” he demanded.

  “Nay, I cannot,” the guard replied.

  “You wear the ring of a Warder of the White Walls,” Reinheiser promptly reminded. “Your Overlord granted me this tour and you are bound to carry out his will. Now, take me down there.”

  The guard returned Reinheiser’s threatening glare with a dangerous look of this own. “ ‘I cannot,” he stated again. “That passage leads to the tower of Istaahl, and he alone determines his guests.”

  “Even above Ungden?” Reinheiser stated the question rhetorically, meaning to unnerve the guard and remind him of his loyalties, but the Warder remained resolute in his refusal.

  “Overlord Ungden has granted Istaahl full rights of privacy and sovereignty over his tower,” the man explained. “We may approach only at the invitation of the mage.”

  Reinheiser had run out of arguments, though it wasn’t of much consequence. He had discovered what he set out to find, and was confident that he would meet with the wizard soon enough; that had been predetermined. He would have to be patient for a while.

  Just for a short while. Conveniently, Reinheiser’s room was close by. He entered and shut the door behind him, stopping to listen for steps as the guard departed. But no footsteps moved away; as Reinheiser had fully expected, his room was to be watched. Frustrated, he reclined on his bed, rehearsing the speech he had planned for the wizard and trying to formulate a plan to slip past the sentry. Wearied from the long ride, he was soon fast asleep.

  He woke with a sudden start, and thought at first that someone had shaken him, as the last rays of daylight eked in through the small window of his room. He crept to the door and listened again. Still the hall was silent, completely so. “Time to go,” Reinheiser told himself, though he had no strategy completed, deciding in his arrogance and impatience that he was mentally quick enough to adlib his way through. When he opened the door, though, he found that deception wouldn’t be necessary, for the guard lay curled up in a sound slumber against the wall across the corridor.

  From the impressive tales Ardaz had told him of the Warders of the White Walls, Reinheiser understood this neglect of duty to be more than uncharacteristic. Not about to stop and question his good fortune, he slipped quietly away and headed down the corridor to the tower of the mage, pausing in the shadows beside the iron-bound tower door for a few seconds to be certain he wasn’t being followed. Then, satisfied that he was alone, he knocked lightly on the hard wood.

  No response. He rapped as loudly as he dared, but still there came no answer. Reinheiser found himself faced with a difficult and dangerous decision. He knew that he was playing with trouble, perhaps even risking his very life. On the other hand, he realized that he had been fortunate even to get this far and that it was unlikely that this opportunity would come again soon. He boldly cracked open the heavy door and entered the room of the mage.

  It was a circular chamber with a stone stairway arching up along the wall on the left to an opening in the second level. There was only one small window, barely more than an arrow slit, meager resistance against the shades of gloom that hung about every nook of the room like splotches of midnight horrors. Reinheiser stood motionless, gripped by an illogical apprehension that disturbing the deathly silence would clue some hidden, poised de
mon to murderous action.

  He gingerly shuffled his way to a chair against the wall behind the open door and softly pushed the door closed. He had to admit to himself that he was intimidated by the mysterious magic of this world. Even so, the hunger for knowledge overruled any fears, for Reinheiser desired—craved—to learn and master this art that hinted at tremendous personal power.

  As he scanned the room for clues about its resident, his eyes were drawn to a large oaken desk against the wall across from where he sat, its top cluttered with quills and inkwells and various arcane artifacts: a jeweled knife, a skull, and the eyes of some unfortunate creature. But whether these were actual components in spellcasting or macabre scarecrows against inquisitive trespassers, the physicist could only guess. Two tall, many-fingered candelabrum with twisting and intertwining stems balanced the real corners of the desk, and between them stood an upright case sectioned into dozens of compartments, most of which contained rolled parchments.

  What dark secrets must be penned upon them! Reinheiser thought. Despite the presence of so great a lure, he dared not approach and risk the spells the wizard might have cast to protect his works.