by J. S. Morin
Brannis took the lead as they approached the gates. Heavily armed though they were, they bore imperial garb and insignia, the golden fist upon a red triangular background. Brannis did not expect difficulty. The gate stood wide and there was no move to bar or defend it as they drew near.
“Hail, Gatekeeper!” Brannis called out.
“Gatekeeper” was perhaps overly formal, given that the lone man preventing their entry was a bored-looking young man from the local militia, wearing Lord Fenrigar’s green-and-black livery, with a sword still sheathed at his hip. He also carried a slate and chalk.
“Peace, Sir Knight. Identify yourself and state your business here in Pevett. We were not expecting any envoy from the knights.”
The sentry’s voice was thin and reedy, and he did not pause once in his greeting, rushing it all out in one long breath. He looked over the group, nodding to himself at each, and made a series of marks on his slate.
“I am Sir Brannis Solaran, commander of the Eighth Battalion, and this is what remains of my command. We are en route to Kadris to report and receive new orders. And this is Iridan Korian, of the Imperial Circle. He was assigned to accompany my command and lend the Circle’s support to our efforts,” Brannis replied. Then he added in a lower voice, “And we are rather road weary and seek soft beds for the night before we travel onward.”
“Very well, I shall send word ahead to Lord Fenrigar. If you would be so good as to follow the main thoroughfare to the town center and bear left, you will find a warm welcome at the keep. Lord Fenrigar has always been a friend of the knighthood.” A deep breath and then, “My name is Snead, and if you require anything, please allow me to assist you.”
Brannis wondered if there was some sort of condition that the man suffered from that made him gasp out his speech thus.
“Thank you,” Brannis said, “but we do not require—”
“Actually, Snead,” Iridan interrupted, “ if you could be so good as to point my way to the Circle’s meeting place here in Pevett, I would much like to confer with my colleagues.” And aside to Brannis, he confided, “I would like to confirm that our warning was received, and send word ahead of our impending arrival. Pevett has a speaking stone unless I am mistaken.”
“Very well,” Brannis said, “show my friend the way to the Circle’s home in Pevett, and the rest of us will find ourselves accommodations for the night. We are no dignitaries, merely soldiers who must report back to Kadris with all practical haste. It would be unseemly to be feted by your most gracious Lord Fenrigar when we have such pressing business. Please pass our regards along to his lordship, and should he still require our presence, we will of course oblige.”
Brannis had always been a natural at sidestepping social occasions he did not care to become entangled in.
“Very well, sir. If you insist.” Snead seemed nonplussed by their declining Lord Fenrigar’s hospitality. “If you head for the dockside, you can find—”
“We shall manage fine on our own,” Rashan said. “I am familiar with the town.”
It was the first Rashan had spoken since they arrived at the gates. He had agreed to let Brannis, uniformed officer and knight of the Kadrin Empire, smooth the introductions, but he clearly still viewed himself as the one in charge. He urged his horse forward and past the rest of the group. Brannis and the others fell in behind, and Iridan split off to go seek out the local sorcerers. Brannis nodded a brief acknowledgment to Snead as they passed.
When they were well out of earshot of Snead, Rashan spoke: “I have not been here in a long time, but while I suspect it may be under new ownership, the Rockshore Inn and Tavern, or its successor, ought to still be just a short walk from the dockside.
“I am curious, Brannis. If he had asked the rest of our names, what would you have told him? The truth, and count on a general ignorance of history to make it just slip by unnoticed? Would you have lied, or better yet, would you have proudly announced you were bringing the great Warlock Rashan back home with you?” Rashan chuckled, clearly enjoying pondering what Brannis might have done.
“I suppose I could have let Snead decide. I cannot be held accountable for a man’s education, nor for his lack of one. I think you underestimate yourself, though, if you think your name forgotten. ‘Rashan’s Bargain,’ remember? Perhaps he would not know the origin of the phrase, but the name would have likely stuck in his ear, possibly enough to bother him into inquiring further, if he did not know the tale already,” Brannis said.
For whatever reason, the way Rashan asked questions worked its way past any thought of whether he should answer or not. He seemed to take an interest in dissecting his own thought process aloud.
“Ahh, what an unfortunate association,” Rashan said. “I know, I have heard the phrase enough times, even before leaving the Empire. You have not seen a face go quite as red so quickly as when someone realizes they have been overheard by the warlock whose name they have just used so disparagingly. Believe what you will about me—and I know my reputation is as bloody as it is well-earned—but I have never taken retribution for such casual disrespect. I save my vitriol for my enemies, and I have no enemies among my own people. I am their champion, their defender, their weapon. I am the bloody right hand of their emperor, loyally cutting down whatever His Highness directs me against. All I have done has been to carry out the emperor’s will, for good or ill.”
Brannis noted that Rashan grew increasingly impassioned as he spoke, clearly proud of his service in the emperor’s name. The streets were busy, and among the noise of the crowd, no one was paying them enough attention to bother eavesdropping, though anyone who had would have been fascinated.
“So all the wars, all the conquests, it was all the emperor’s idea?” Brannis asked.
“Emperors, plural. Mind you, Brannis, that I was far from young at the Battle of Farren’s Plain. I served four emperors, each with their own way of keeping the Empire. I first took the mantle of warlock during the reign of Escelon the Fourth. He was old and knew his health was failing. He told me that he wanted his empire secured before his son took the throne. He had me drive back the goblins—likely ancestors of the ones you recently encountered—from the northwest of the Empire and back up into the Granite Talons Mountain Range. I took ships and sank the fleets of Gar-Danel that had preyed on our merchants. I was preparing to launch a full-scale war against Megrenn when Escelon died one night in his sleep.
“Tameron the First was his heir and did not see things as his father did. He had me stop my planned invasion and focus my efforts on building the strength of the Empire from within. He wanted me to train others to be warlocks and to teach our sorcerers how to do battle—and I assure you there is a difference.” Brannis nodded. “Under his long rule, Kadrin waged no war of aggression, but twice fought off smaller foes who sought to steal small stretches of land while we seemed passive. I also killed three of my own sons trying to make warlocks out of them.” Rashan paused for a moment and sighed, seeming to drift away mentally from the conversation for just a moment. “It cannot be done so easily, you know. The talent is either there or it is not. It was a hard thing to learn.
“After Tameron was Liead. Liead the Only, for he forbade his ancestors from reusing his name. He and I were friends. I had educated him as a boy, and he grew up as more like a son to me than to the emperor. He shared my views and saw the Kadrin Empire for what it could be, and not what it was. It was he who gave me wide latitude to expand the Empire wherever I could. It was under his reign that my Megrenn invasion took place, whence my appellation was earned, and when we added Tuermon, Ghelk, and Safschan to the Empire. Loramar was Ghelkan, and his rise was a consequence of our conquest. The First and Second Necromancer Wars were both fought during Liead’s time as emperor.
“When Merenon the Second took the throne, I was well entrenched as his main adviser, having been his father’s most trusted friend for over sixty summers. He was a brilliant strategist; I made sure of that. It was his idea to form the
Red Riders,” Rashan said, sighing yet again, “and doom so many of our young sorcerers to a life of battle against the dead. But his idea was what saved us from Loramar. Well, saved Kadrin anyway; I suppose I would have survived in any event.”
* * * * * * * *
“So what you are saying is, you would almost have preferred that I reveal you as the great and powerful Rashan, long-lost warlock of the Empire and returning hero,” Brannis suggested. “Trying to stir the stew a bit before our arrival in Kadrin, letting rumor be your herald?”
Rashan slit his eyes at Brannis. The boy was no fool. Rashan had always preferred for his words to have two meanings when possible; it was just more efficient. Most who heard him would only listen to the obvious, the blustering of an old war-mule of a sorcerer, claiming to be Warlock Rashan. He liked to discover who actually paid attention to why he spoke, and not just the plain meaning of the words. Those who did were the ones who were useful beyond carrying out orders; they were the thinkers who could act on their own and succeed. The young knight’s motives were simple enough to read, so he had no doubt of Brannis’s loyalty to the Empire, and being kin made it even simpler. Yes, he would put Brannis to use.
“No, merely amusing myself at the possible scene it might have caused. You are right, though: that man Snead may well have figured it out, even if he would not have believed it,” Rashan said. “Besides, we are not going to be sneaking up on anyone. They will know rather quickly when we are to be arriving, and who you are supposedly bringing with you.”
* * * * * * * *
The Imperial Circle’s home in Pevett was a hexagonal granite tower of modest size, rising to a copper dome three stories up. The tower was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence of ornate design, artfully distracting from the spikes at its top. The gate stood open, allowing convenient access to the cobbled path to the main door. There was no hitching post out front, so Iridan tied his horse’s reigns to the fence.
Iridan took the path at a slow walk, taking in the carefully manicured grass and small flowers that made up the courtyard that surrounded the tower. Though admittedly he had not seen the lord’s keep on the other side of the town, it was the only landscaped part of Pevett he had seen. Stone benches and tables were interspersed across the grounds but were unoccupied. The hour was growing late, and if anyone had partaken of the pleasant autumn weather, they had already sought shelter from the chill that dusk was already beginning to bring.
The door at the end of the path stood atop three wide stone steps and was a massive thing of carved panels, stained a deep reddish-black with brass adornments at the edges where time and use might have otherwise worn it. Iridan imagined that it was probably oak, but he was no good with trees and what their wood looked like. There was no guard posted outside, since no one with any sense would trespass on the Imperial Circle’s land. Carved in the stone above the door was the motto “Herein Lies Power,” written in the syllables of arcane text. He took hold of the ogre-headed knocker and rapped thrice on the door—thock, thock, thock.
A moment passed and Iridan waited before the door finally opened, revealing a middle-aged servant dressed in a tidy brown tunic and trousers, bearing a small emblem denoting service to the Circle: a small lightning bolt within a flame, stitched in yellow thread, meant to look gold at a casual glance. The servant’s hair was grey and only ringed the periphery of his head. He wore a tiny pair of spectacles and appeared rather scholarly.
“Greetings, young man. What business brings you here?” the servant asked.
He glanced up and down at Iridan, which reminded Iridan that he was dressed most intentionally not to look like a sorcerer, given the hazards of his recent assignment.
“My name is Iridan Korian, Fourth Circle. I am returning from an assignment with an army regiment scouting beyond the Cloud Wall Mountains in Kelvie Forest. This is the first town we have come to that has a speaking stone, and I would be obliged if I could make use of it.”
Iridian knew his rank of Fourth Circle was enough to at least garner a modicum of respect from someone who would realize that it was rather an advanced position for someone of his apparent age, though with sorcerers, trying to determine age by sight could be misleading.
“Oh, and I might ask if I could trouble your hospitality for a change of uniform. I was deployed to be inconspicuous among the soldiers I accompanied.”
“Well, enter then, Iridan Korian. I will announce you to the master of Pevett Tower, Haridiar Stellarus of the Second Circle. You may make your requests of him. In the meantime, avail yourself of a late repast in the dining hall.”
The servant clapped his hands, and a younger man, no larger than Iridan, came from around a corner so quickly he must have been awaiting his summons.
“Geofard,” the servant said, “take our guest to the dining hall and see if the cook has kept something warm for him to sup on.”
With that, the servant bowed quickly and turned to depart, leaving Iridan to Geofard’s care. The young man led Iridan to a small but elegant room with a polished wood table, lit by magic, as would be the case all throughout the tower, he knew. Sorcerers left few opportunities unexploited when it came to using their magic to make their homes more comfortable. Lighting that would react to a mere gesture or word was too dear a luxury for many to consider lighting with candles.
The boy mumbled a few pleasantries and trundled off to presumably get him some dinner. Iridan had not come with the thought of a free meal in mind but found he was hungry enough not to argue, and expected that the sorcerers of Pevett were unlikely to deny themselves a fine kitchen staff.
Iridan’s conjecture bore out, and he was halfway through a fine venison stew when the master of the tower arrived. The man was taller than Iridan by a head and built like a merchant. That is to say, he was rotund and looked unfamiliar with the concepts of fresh air and manual labor.
“So, back from the borderlands, I hear.” Haridiar stalked across the room to clasp hands with Iridan as the latter quickly set down his spoon and stood to meet his superior. “Good lad. Way to make a name for yourself, hold one over the heads of all those pompous fools who think they will learn all about magic sniffing at the same aether from dawn to dusk. Haridiar Stellarus, Master of Pevett Tower.”
“Iridan Korian, Fourth Circle, sir. Thank you for your hospitality,” Iridan responded. He was about to continue, but Haridiar was quicker.
“So my man Delft says you have a favor to ask, want to use our speaking stone, is that so?” he asked.
“Well, we had sent a report back via an enspelled bird, you see, but we have no means of ensuring our message was received and understood. I would be much reassured if I was to know our warning had been heeded.”
“‘Warning,’ you say? What sort of warning? Things not all flowers and tea cakes in the borderlands?” Haridiar’s already considerable interest in Iridan seemed to suddenly grew.
“No, sir, not at all. I accompanied one hundred men, ten of them knights, into Kelvie Forest. Two other commands of similar size went as well and spread out to investigate reports of goblin activity. Fifteen remain now, including myself, and of the other two commands, we believe all are lost save two we rescued in the wood; they are included among the fifteen.
“We also picked up a traveler, a woodland hermit who gave us shelter and aided in healing a bad case of aether burn I suffered in battle. We head on to Kadris come morning, and I had hoped to convey all this to someone in the Inner Circle before we depart.”
“Well, that’s quite disturbing.” Haridiar’s face grew pale. “Nearly three hundred lost. I presume the other groups had a sorcerer assigned them as well? Do you know their names—the ones the Circle may have lost?”
“One was Kelurian Donarte, Fifth Circle, I believe. The other was Randul of Sarcen, Fourth Circle. I do not believe any others were assigned to the expedition. We have no physical evidence of their demise, but we strongly suspect it.”
Iridan was glad that Haridiar was more concerned a
bout his fellow sorcerers than about finding out details about their newest acquaintance. He was not sure how to truthfully give the tale without making himself out to be a fool or half crazed. Had he thought Rashan was lying, he could give a faithful account without casting his own credibility into doubt, but he was fairly convinced that Rashan was who he claimed to be. Let Brannis be the skeptic; Iridan wanted to believe.
“Terrible tragedy. Terrible tragedy.” The master of Pevett Tower shook his head sadly. “By all means, take your leisure with the speaking stone. I shall leave orders that you are not to be disturbed. Until you are given leave by the Inner Circle, I will ask no further details of you. You have sated my curiosity enough that I can in good conscience allow you access to our stone. I shall press for no details that you may not be at liberty to divulge.” Haridiar gave Iridan a wink. “Come right this way. Follow me.”
And with that, he headed for the stairs. Iridan followed close behind. Down they went, two levels underground, the stone walls smooth and well cared for at either side of them as they descended. A fine rug hugged the middle of each stairway, thick reddish-purple fabric deadening their footfalls and reducing the echo of the stone stairwell. The sorcerers in Pevett clearly took excellent care of their home.
Haridiar stopped before a door marked “Room of Words” in arcane text. “Geknu feroll benah,” he intoned and then made a series of twisting motions with his fingers and wrists.
Iridan watched in the aether as the wards protecting the door unraveled. It was a common enough spell, but to unlock a particular ward required either knowing the correct gestures to pull it apart, or long hours of guesswork figuring them out. Iridan was not sure he had seen what Haridiar had done well enough to copy it, should he have the need.
“Do not worry. I shall leave it unwarded behind you. My sorcerers and servants alike are trustworthy and will leave you in peace.”
With that, Haridiar left Iridan to enter the Room of Words.
The room itself was sparse. A stone table stood in the center of the octagonal room, an O-shaped rug encircling it. Four comfortable-looking high-backed chairs surrounded the table, with padded seats, backs, and arms. Set into the surface of the table was a geodesic sphere of glass. While the glass itself was of ordinary, though excellent craftsmanship, it was enchanted to communicate across vast distances with others like it.