by Gaelen Foley
They all started flipping through pages to find that section in their various tomes.
Jonty soon rattled off some choices. “Milk thistle, musk thistle, star thistle, sow thistle, blessed thistle, common thistle, globe thistle, cotton thistle— Hold on! What’s this? Fire thistle. Also known as a firechoke.”
“Let me see that.” Wrynne exchanged books with him. “Hmm. Hmm,” she repeated in a lower tone as she scanned the page. “Well, that’s not good,” she mumbled.
“What is it?” Kai asked, staring at her.
“It says the fire thistle falls into the dread category of the fleurs du mal.”
“Flowers of evil?” Jonty asked in surprise.
She nodded. “Also known as flowers of hell.”
“Fonja’s knees,” Petra murmured.
She read to them from the tome. “‘The fire thistle is occasionally found in the lonely places of this world, but it is not of this earth. It blows in from the Infernal Plane—’”
“What?” Sagard exclaimed.
“‘Blows in’?” Jonty echoed.
“‘Carried on the solar winds,’” she continued reading. “‘Its seeds are known to be a great delicacy to rocs—’”
“We saw them! At Silvermount. That must be what it is!” Jonty said.
“Shh! Rocs are the least of the dangers associated with the fire thistle, according to this,” Wrynne reported. “‘As one of the commonest flowers of the lower planes,’ it says here that ‘the prickles of this sentient plant bear a venomous poison’— Ha! I knew that thing was staring at me!”
Jonty squinted at her. “Did you say sentient plant?”
She pored over the page. “It has a base form of consciousness, so yes, according to this. Well, many plants do,” she added, glancing at him. “That’s why they grow better when we talk to them. But this one is unique.”
She read on. “‘The firechoke seeks a higher level of consciousness by taking over human beings in something akin to demonic possession.’”
“Are you saying Lord Eudo’s possessed by an evil flower?” Sagard asked slowly with a frown.
“Possibly?” At a loss, Wrynne looked down at the book again. “‘The fire thistle seeks to infect people with a seed of evil through the dispersion of its thistledown.’”
“You mean like dandelion fluff?” Jeremy suggested.
“Somewhat similar. But larger and sharper, judging by the sketch.” She studied the article herself for another couple of minutes and then summarized for them. “It seems that if a human being is hit with one of the bits of thistledown, the seed penetrates through the skin. The evil stored in the seed dissolves into the person, corrupting him or her. The victim is slowly taken over by the consciousness of the fleur du mal.”
She winced. “There is no known cure. It says the more innocent the individual who becomes infected, the faster and more potently the poison works. ‘As a sentient organism, the fleur du mal is an agent of darkness, after a fashion. The base consciousness of the fire thistle hates all that belongs to the Light. It wants to dominate and destroy the good, and to extend its control as far as possible through the ones it infects.’”
“Well, that could explain why Lord Eudo would’ve sought to target someone like Thaydor…if it especially hates the good,” Jonty said in a guarded tone. “And to get control of the king.”
“According to this, having once been infected, Eudo’s evil will only grow and intensify until the firechoke venom ultimately kills him.” She looked around at them anxiously. “He might not be the only one who was struck by a piece of this nasty thistledown, though. We need to find and burn this thing before it infects anybody else.”
“You stay here,” the bard said. “I’ll see to it.”
“But Jonty, I’m the one who knows where it is!”
“If anything happens to you, Thaydor will have our heads on pikes.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me. Let’s go together. We need to destroy it—”
“You can’t,” a new voice broke in abruptly.
They all looked over.
A tall, broad-shouldered silhouette loomed at the end of the aisle, blocking the exit. The mysterious man standing before them had a sculpted face, long black hair, and brooding silver eyes faintly lined with kohl. The midnight cloak dripping from his shoulders bore the fiery crest of Okteus, Lord of Shadows.
“If you have truly seen a fire thistle in our world,” the stranger said, “the only way to get rid of it is to open a portal to the Infernal Plane and push it back into Hell.”
Wrynne stared dubiously at him. “And you are?”
“Stand back, my lady,” Berold said. “Look there, on his cloak. He’s obviously a sorcerer.”
The boys gasped and quickly backed away, making hand signs against the evil eye.
“He was spying on us!” Kai uttered.
“No,” the stranger retorted, while Wrynne noted the wand tucked into a black leather sheath by the dagger at his lean hip. “I was sitting right over there, grading papers,” he informed them, and her eyebrows arched high at this response.
He’s a teacher? It seemed so unlikely that it nearly made her laugh. It was easier to imagine this exotic wizard fellow summoning dragons and roasting cities from astride one’s back than grading tests.
He frowned at them in annoyance, then returned his gaze to Wrynne. “Your friends make enough noise, lady, to be heard in the Bronze Mountains. I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion, and it’s fortunate I did. Obviously, none of you have any notion what you’re dealing with. Where did you see a fire thistle?” he demanded.
“How do you open a portal to the Infernal Plane?” she countered.
“You don’t,” he clipped out. “But I can.”
Jonty grasped her arm. “Wrynne, if this man is truly a disciple of the Dark One, he can’t be trusted.”
“We might not have a choice. Sir, what is your name?”
He eyed her as warily, as she did him. She watched his gaze land on her necklace, identifying her as a follower of the Light. He gazed deeply into her eyes for a second, as though trying either to read or hypnotize her.
“I am called Novus Blacktwist,” he finally admitted, but then Wrynne remembered that sorcerers never revealed their true names. “Now tell me where you saw the firechoke.”
“Tell him nothing, mistress! He probably wants it for an ingredient in some vile potion,” Berold warned.
Novus let out a weary sigh. “I’m trying to help you here. This is a very serious situation.”
“We’re aware of that.” Wrynne held him in a penetrating stare, trying to gauge how strongly she sensed evil from the man. It was always hard to be certain, especially since Oktean mages could cloak their true intents from Ilian magic.
But given his dark expertise, Novus Blacktwist undoubtedly knew what they were dealing with better than she did.
“Well?” he prompted.
She concluded on the spot that he did not give off any stronger presence of wickedness than Reynulf. Definitely dangerous, but a little less than sinister.
“’Twas at the Harmonists’ retreat of Silvermount,” she conceded. “There were rocs there. We couldn’t understand why at the time, but this makes sense. It would also help explain Lord Eudo’s behavior for the past year. If he was infected—”
“Shh!” Novus hushed her, moving closer with an impatient wave of his hand. “Don’t keep mentioning that name! He has spies everywhere. Do you want them to hear you?”
“He does?” she asked, wide-eyed.
The handsome wizard scowled at her.
Wrynne tried not to stare at him, for he was quite a novelty—not just because she had never dreamed a sorcerer could possess such striking good looks, but mostly because this was the closest she had ever stood to a follower of the Dark god. According to the pagans, Okteus was the god of night and magic, evil brother to Ilios, and the wicked uncle of Xoltheus, the war god.
“I don’t unde
rstand,” Sagard muttered. “How could this fire thistle thing just ‘blow in’ from the Infernal Plane, like the book says? Portals between dimensions don’t just open by themselves.”
“Well, er,” Novus said, discreetly dropping his gaze and folding his arms across his chest, “I may know something about that.”
“You did it?” Wrynne exclaimed.
“Hardly,” he said with disdain. “But I recall hearing a rumor about a year ago or so concerning a few of my students. I tutor a small number of gifted young adepts at the Wizards’ Spire.”
“I see,” Wrynne said, barely able to fathom what subjects he taught.
“Nobody confessed, but I heard that a few of my wee geniuses got into a spat with a group of young Efrenists,” he said with a long-suffering air. “The Silver Sage’s disciples enraged my adepts by claiming there was no real difference between good and evil, as they are wont to do. I only became aware of the prank when I overheard one of my students boasting of how they had set out to show the Efrenist students there was a large difference, indeed. I believe they might’ve opened up a portal at Silvermount to give their foes a firsthand view of Hades.”
“How incredibly stupid,” Wrynne said.
“Try teaching them.” He sighed and shook his head. “Well, it’s not wise to enrage a wizard. Not even a spotty-faced apprentice.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jonty mumbled.
“Well, Professor Blacktwist—”
“Novus, please,” he said.
“If you’re the one who taught them how to do this little trick, then I think you should be the one to fix it.”
“Why else would I be standing here?” he asked.
“Mind your tone in speaking to milady,” Humphrey warned the prickly fellow. “And don’t try turnin’ anyone into a newt.”
Novus looked askance him. “Honestly.”
“I propose we go to Silvermount immediately. The sooner we get rid of the fire thistle, the sooner Lord Eudo might return to normal, call off the Urms, and stop this madness.”
Novus shrugged. “Getting rid of it won’t cure him, as I said. But it might loosen its hold over him. Anything is possible.”
“How do we know we can trust you?” Jonty asked.
“Do you think I want Urms in the city, master bard? I have to live here, too.”
Wrynne gave her friend a glance. Satisfied?
Jonty shrugged.
“Knights, how do you feel about battling rocs?” she asked her big, gruff bodyguards.
They exchanged wry glances, looking intrigued at the prospect of such sport, especially the young squires.
“Good. You’ll keep the rocs at bay long enough for Novus to open the portal, then Jonty and I will carefully shove the fire thistle through it and send the awful thing home.”
“But my lady,” Petra spoke up, “shouldn’t we ask Sir Thaydor first if it’s all right for you to go?”
Wrynne looked quizzically at the boy. “He’s a bit busy at the moment, don’t you think?”
* * *
Indeed, he was.
As Thaydor stood on the platform in the square, the morning light glinting on the axe in his hands, he couldn’t help wondering what manner of man set out to make his living as an executioner.
It seemed an odd choice of vocations by anybody’s standards. Not that he could talk, he supposed. Being a knight did involve killing people, too. And monsters. And creatures in between…
Urmugoths, for example.
Eudo’s hired Urms with the silver armbands stood in a ring around the platform, their broad, leather-armored backs to Thaydor.
He figured he could take a couple of heads off from behind with a well-placed swing of the axe. Make a hole in the wall of beasts flanking the dais. Rush the king out of it. His blood thrummed with anticipation.
On second thought, perhaps he should not mock the executioner, for they were not so different. What manner of man enjoyed the holy rage of battle as he did?
Meanwhile, Lord Eudo was speechifying about the necessity of making himself regent, since the king had no heir.
Baynard stood in chains in his nightshirt and braies, the very sketch of misery, staring at the chopping block and the large wicker basket below it, meant to catch his severed head.
Thaydor couldn’t help feeling a little annoyed seeing the old man looking so desolate. You bloody royal dunderhead. You ought to know me better than that by now. You think I’d let you die?
But the doomed monarch was in his own world, perhaps contemplating joining his dead queen in the next world and having to account for himself on how he had betrayed her.
Through the eyeholes of his grim black mask, Thaydor scanned the area. Just out of sight, around the corners of the four streets leading into Concourse Square, and hidden for the moment by buildings and alleys, he knew his so-called rebel knights waited, in position.
As for the square itself, thankfully, it wasn’t too crowded. Still, one had to figure that despite his men’s best efforts, a few civilians would probably die. It couldn’t be helped. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time and either hadn’t heard or had ignored the rumors he had spread through the city: that there would be trouble and nobody ought to attend.
Ah well. Now they’d pay the price for being the sort of people who found a public execution entertaining.
“And now, Your Majesty, any last words you wish to share with your former subjects?” Lord Eudo asked. He was not quite able to keep the glee out of his voice while the white banners with the silver thistle insignia flapped in the breeze all around the platform.
Baynard raised his chin and looked around with tears in his eyes. “I have failed you all, and I am sorry.”
Eudo smirked. The aura of evil pulsated from him, sickening and cold.
Even now, it puzzled Thaydor. He had known the Silver Sage for years at court, and while there was no love lost between them, he had detected no such palpable malevolency as he sensed in the man now. If he had, he would have seen him barred from court years ago for the king’s own safety.
Maybe Wrynne was on to something with her theory about some sort of exposure to a poisonous plant. He supposed stranger things had happened.
Having made his simple and obviously heartfelt apology, the king stepped forward to the chopping block, unasked. He knelt with a clank of his chains and laid his neck on the designated spot.
The sight of his liege lord waiting to be murdered brought the battle rage quickly into Thaydor’s veins.
The moment was upon them.
Lord Eudo spoke some condescending prayer to Efrena over him, then nodded at Executioner Thaydor.
As he took the few slow paces over to the king’s side, the three drummers began to pound a noisy rhythm meant to cover up any screaming. Their beat served as the agreed-upon signal to his knights that it was time—and matched Thaydor’s driving pulse.
He raised the axe.
Seconds from taking full power over Veraidel, Lord Eudo seemed practically orgasmic. He watched, riveted.
But when Thaydor took an unexpected step forward and swung the axe horizontally rather than straight down, two of the Urms’ ugly, yellow-eyed heads went flying. He had already grabbed the king and yanked him to his feet before the bodies hit the ground.
The knights charged in, and chaos broke out.
Thaydor whipped off the mask and turned to the king. “Follow me, sire!”
“Stop him!” Eudo screamed.
And the drums thundered on.
* * *
Except for the knights’ banter, the same eerie silence Wrynne remembered hung over the Harmonists’ retreat.
“Bet it tastes like chicken,” Berold murmured.
“Soon find out,” Sagard rumbled in reply. “Roasted roc breast with a nice cream sauce, maybe?”
“Might be good with vegetables,” Humphrey chimed in from behind her.
“Milady, did you know Sagard can cook?” Berold asked merrily.
&
nbsp; “Soothes the nerves after a hard battle,” the burly head-lopper admitted.
“Shh!” Wrynne whispered.
“Would you please be quiet?” Jonty also insisted. “The birds might hear you. If they’re still here.”
“I hope they do,” Sagard mumbled. “I’m hungry.”
The boys snickered, but Wrynne shook her head. “Watch how fast you change your tune once your ‘dinner’ shows up. We might be the ones on the menu.”
“Nay, mistress,” Humphrey assured her. “We’ll keep ye safe.”
They had left the horses farther down the mountain to avoid attracting hungry rocs. Still, the men kept Wrynne in the center of their company, the better to protect her.
Though it wasn’t quite the same as having Thaydor there, she felt relatively safe with two massive knights and one wiry but very determined squire ahead of her, two squires and a knight behind her, a bard on her left, and a wizard on her right.
Of course, she was prepared to defend herself, as well. She gripped her crossbow in one hand, her staff in the other, and continuously scanned the underbrush for the huge nest that she had seen before. She just hoped the fire thistle stuck to its side a few days ago hadn’t blown away to some new destination, where it could infect more innocent people.
So far, the whole place was just as she remembered, overgrown and haunting. She spotted a few pigeons roosting on the giant Efrena statue’s head and shoulders, but still no sign of the rocs. Perhaps the monstrous birds had moved on or returned to the mountains. Somehow she doubted she and her companions would be so lucky.
At least they didn’t find any fresh deer carcasses this time.
“Ho, look at that!” Kai said from his spot between Sagard and Berold.
Wrynne tensed as the lad ran a few yards ahead of them and bent to pick up something off the ground.
He laughed as he held up a huge black feather. “Jonty, do you want this? You could write some really epic tales with a quill pen this big.”
“Give me that,” Novus snapped, reaching for it.
“You have a use for it?” Wrynne asked, glancing at him.