by C. Greenwood
Orrick cast a look at the guards in the outer room to be sure they were paying no attention. Then he crept across his cell to sit in the shadowed corner, against the bars separating him from the stranger.
“What do you want, and how do you know my name?” he asked quietly.
The old man remained slumped in a relaxed pose, but there was no longer any mistaking his condition for a drunken stupor. The one good eye he fixed on Orrick was sharp.
“I apologize for this ruse, my friend, but it was necessary for me to speak with you,” he whispered. “I could think of no better way to reach you in here than to get myself arrested for disorderly behavior.”
It was not really an answer to either of Orrick’s questions.
“Why should you want to see me?” he asked. “Do we know one another?”
“No, we’ve never met,” came the low response. “But we have a mutual friend, I think.”
“Geveral,” Orrick guessed, not sure how he knew. Maybe it was the pointy ears.
The old one gave a soft chuckle. “You’ve noted the resemblance, I see. Yes, I’ve had the opportunity to help your young weather mage friend on one or two occasions, and now I mean to help you too.”
Orrick saw no reason to trust the stranger. “What makes you think I’m in need of your help?”
His companion looked amused.” Well, you’re trapped behind the bars of a prison cell and rumor has it you’re scheduled for hanging at dawn. But if you’re confident you have everything under control, only say the word and I’ll keep my assistance to myself.”
Orrick scowled. “All right, old man. Maybe I am in trouble. But how is it you know so much of my business? Did Geveral and Eydis send you to rescue me?”
“No, neither of them,” the other answered. “But let us just say I am someone with an interest in seeing the three catalysts of prophecy survive long enough to defeat an ancient darkness. Perhaps I am more interested in the affairs of mortals than I have let on in past meetings with our friend Geveral.”
Orrick narrowed his eyes but remembered to keep his voice low, mindful of the guards. “You sound like some kind of immortal meddler to me.”
“That is exactly what I am,” came the good-natured answer. “A long-lived eternal who does his best to nudge the events of Earth Realm in the right direction. Not all my kind are entirely benevolent, but you have no need to distrust me. My name is Janya, by the way. Maybe Geveral has spoken of me?”
Orrick vaguely remembered Geveral mentioning an old mage who helped him tame his weather magic. But instead of answering the old man, he prodded, “You have yet to explain how you knew of my situation.”
“I keep my ears open to the business of the world,” Janya said mysteriously. “I happened to be near Jarceaux, and when I heard whispers that a catalyst was in danger, I decided to intervene. You have an important destiny in the protection of Earth Realm. It wouldn’t do to let you die.”
“You’re wrong and you’re wasting your time,” Orrick growled.
Why did everyone keep insisting it was his duty to save the world? This wrinkled old mage was beginning to remind him of Eydis.
“It’s myself I’m looking to save. Not Earth Realm,” he continued.
Janya looked unoffended. “Then I will just have to change your mind.”
Annoyed, Orrick made as if to rise and end their conversation. The interfering dryad could sit in a cell all night, if it pleased him. But he wouldn’t make Orrick into something he was not.
Janya stopped his leaving by snaking a hand through the bars and grabbing his arm. The mage cast an anxious look toward the guards, but their conversation had not been noticed.
“Something is coming,” he whispered urgently. For the first time, his look was grave. “The other eternals speak of a gathering shadow spreading over Lythnia. And my sources tell me forces are gathering at Endguard, a meeting of Rathnakar’s undead soldiers and the wild creatures of the Lostlands. Such an unheard of alliance can mean only one thing. The Raven King is about to rain chaos down upon us.”
Against his will, Orrick’s attention was hooked at mention of Endguard. He had unfinished business with those aviads and minohides who now occupied the stolen fortress. Beyond that, if the old mage was right that the enemy was preparing for some crucial event, Eydis would be there. He knew the stubborn redhead too well to hope she could resist such an opportunity to do something stupidly heroic. And the dryad youth wouldn’t be able to hold her back. Geveral had always been eager to go where Eydis led.
But he could do nothing to change any of this. Eydis and Geveral had chosen to set themselves on a path to glory or destruction, and it was not one he meant to follow.
“I can’t help you,” he said simply.
“Even if I break you out of this prison and save your life?” Janya asked.
Orrick ignored the bluff and walked away, not caring if he drew the guard’s attention. There was nothing the old man could do for him.
Back across the room, lying on his cot, he could feel the mage’s gaze on him. But he turned his back and refused to acknowledge it. He had only hours to live, and people were still trying to drag him into ridiculous schemes. The only plan he really needed just now was a plan of escape. He set his mind to work on thinking one up.
Outside, the twinkling stars he had been watching through the window faded into darkness, obscured by clouds. It was a warm dry night, but thunder rumbled in the distance.
Orrick closed his ears to the reverberation and to the sounds of the guards talking and moving about in the other room. An unexpected cloudburst might delay his dawn execution, but he needed something more reliable than the weather to count on. Maybe if he feigned violent illness, he could get one of the guards into the room. But even if he could get the fellow within reach, he had no weapon, other than his bare hands.
A loud crack of thunder rattled the walls. The storm had arrived with surprising swiftness. Shards of lightning crackled across the sky, bathing the street outside with flashes of light and illuminating the outlines of darkened houses and empty shops. It was an unnatural storm, without a drop of moisture in the air.
A sudden suspicion tickled at the back of Orrick’s mind. After all the time he had spent traveling in Geveral’s company, no sudden change of weather could be taken as an innocent occurrence.
He rolled over in his cot to catch the eye of the old mage in the next cell. The look Janya shot him was all the confirmation he needed.
In the next room, the two guards were becoming as interested in the storm as Orrick. At the next loud clap of thunder, this one sharp enough to rattle teeth, one of the guards made a loud exclamation and ducked out the front door to view the storm from outside. The lone remaining guard was distracted, peering out after his friend.
An instant later, there came a harsh cracking noise, accompanied by a flare of light beyond the open front door. Orrick rolled out of his cot this time and pressed himself against the bars to the outer room. But from this angle, he couldn’t get a view through the doorway. He could only gather by the shouting of the guards that a tree out front had been struck by lightning and caught fire. The second guard rushed out to help the first fight the blaze.
Now that they were alone, Orrick could ask Janya over the rumbling thunder, “Is this your doing?”
In answer, the old mage made a motion with his hand, waving Orrick to keep back to the far wall. Guessing what he had in mind, Orrick was quick to obey.
After a few seconds, there was another sharp cracking sound, this one even louder and closer than the one before. A blinding flare of light and a sensation of heat made Orrick cover his face with his arms. When he lowered them again, he found the outside wall of his cell had been blasted, seemingly by lightning. There were no flames but a jagged man-sized split in the wall, its edges smoking and smoldering.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Orrick hesitated only a moment. “What are you waiting for?” demanded Janya. “You will find Ilarion waiting i
n a copse of trees at the northern edge of town. Hurry to him.”
At least that was what Orrick thought he said. But the noise of the lightning splintering the wall had muffled his hearing. Anyway, he must have misunderstood, because it was impossible that Ilarion the ghost horse could be nearby.
“I thought Ilarion belonged to the White Lady,” he protested over the rushing in his ears. The last thing he wanted was further dealings with the pale female spirit that had interfered with him in the past.
“The White Lady is not the only eternal whose call Ilarion answers,” shouted Janya. “Now go. The guards will be returning to find out the cause of the noise.”
“What of you?” Orrick argued, unwilling to leave the mage trapped in his cell.
“My pretended offense is a small one. I will be released soon enough,” said Janya. “But you must fly to Endguard at once and aid the other catalysts. I’ll whip up a cloudburst to follow after you and obscure your tracks from any who would pursue.”
Orrick would have protested that he still had no intention of going to Endguard, but he sensed there was no more time to be lost.
Quickly he scrambled out the freshly created hole in the wall, singeing his clothing as he squeezed between the smoldering timbers.
His escape route let onto a dark and narrow street running behind the building. Shaking off his lingering concern for the old man who had arranged his escape, Orrick set off quickly down the road. By the time he heard shouts of alarm raised in the distance, he had already put several buildings between him and the prison. But he couldn’t afford to relax yet. Not when the guards’ cries were bound to bring swift reinforcements.
He hurried down backstreets and dirty alleys, keeping to the shadows like a rat. He wished now that he had paid more attention to his surroundings when being transferred to and from his trial earlier. Jarceaux was a strange town to him and stranger still on such a dark night. Still, he had a good sense of direction, and he knew generally in which direction the northern edge of town lay.
As he dashed along, he didn’t pass a soul. Few would be out at this hour. Closed shops along his route gave way to boarded-up warehouses, and eventually even those grew thin. Then he was leaving the last of the town behind him, and there up ahead was a copse of trees. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the pale apparition waiting beneath their sheltering branches. The ghost horse. Ilarion looked much like any other white horse at first, but Orrick knew from experience that would change. Ilarion whickered softly at his approach but didn’t bolt away at sight of a stranger running toward him. Perhaps he recognized Orrick from the brief time the White Lady had loaned him the animal.
Orrick briefly stroked the horse’s nose to let it get used to him. “I have need of you again, ghost stallion,” he said lowly. “Let us hope you prove less treacherous than your pale and scheming mistress.”
A loud crack of thunder reminded him time was short. He scrambled up onto the back of his mount and urged the animal forward. Seemingly sensing his urgency, Ilarion broke into a run, flying through the tall grass and across the plain at a dizzying pace no mortal horse could match. Immediately Orrick found himself transformed into a ghostly form of the same transparency as the horse.
As the world around them passed by in a blur of speed, a group of clouds formed directly overhead and opened up, pouring rain down over man and horse alike. The old mage hadn’t forgotten his promise to wash away their tracks.
Riding away into the night, Orrick squelched the nagging guilt gnawing away inside him. The elderly dryad had freed him so he could rush to Endguard. But that wasn’t where he was going. Instead, he set his horse toward the Lostlands and Arik the One-Eyed.
CHAPTER NINE
Geveral
Geveral looked out the window and down over the gray slate rooftops of the small city of Castigeau. In the pale light just after dawn, a drowsiness hung over the town. The few people walking the cobbled streets below were quiet, as if reluctant to break the last hush of early morning. Even the sounds of the occasional wagon rolling by or flocks of bleating sheep being driven to market seemed muffled over the distance.
This was the third rangeland city Geveral and the others had visited in as many days. Already all these places were beginning to look alike. Since their arrival last night, he, Keir, and the oracle had been accorded every courtesy by the local lord of Castigeau. They had even been given these elegant rooms in the highest tower of the lord’s castle. But Geveral knew there would be little enough time to rest here.
Ever since leaving the temple of Silverwood Grove, the oracle had set a punishing pace. They had flown off on the back of Kalandhia, the oracle leaving instructions behind for her attendants to follow as speedily as they could. But the three of them did not make directly for Endguard as the others from the temple would do. Instead, they would stop at every city or town of any size along the way, mustering support from local rulers and captains, anyone of power who had an army to command.
“I still don’t understand why we aren’t going straight to the king,” Geveral muttered to himself. “Who could offer a bigger army than he? With the support of his troops, we could march straight for Endguard.”
“The oracle’s reputation and her bribes wouldn’t go as far in the capital city,” came a response from a dark corner of the sitting room.
Geveral started. Keir had been so quiet since Eydis had restored him to life that it was easy to forget his presence. So often he hovered in shadows, as he did now, his flimsy form floating like a wispy vapor near the ceiling.
Keir continued, “Her influence around the smaller rangeland and wetland cities may aid our cause, whereas the king in his capital is said to be unsuperstitious. Even if he granted the oracle an audience, it could require weeks of waiting and no guarantee of belief or support. At least the gifts of gold she has amassed from pilgrims over the years may impress a few insignificant local rulers here. In the wealthy capital, they would be only a drop in the well. With limited time, she is wiser to focus her efforts where they will do the most good.”
Such understanding in a youngling of Keir’s years never stopped surprising Geveral. Then again, the dragonkin orphan raised by dwarves had long ago ceased to be an ordinary boy.
Geveral turned his back to the window and took a seat facing Keir. There were any number of finely upholstered chairs to choose from in the pleasant room. The floor was scattered with thick rugs, the walls hung with colorful tapestries. A long fireplace filled one wall although it was unlit on such a warm day. If their quarters were anything to go by, the oracle certainly had the attention, if not yet the support, of the local lord.
Although he observed these things, none of them was the focus of Geveral’s attention. He watched the hovering form of Keir, lingering in the high corner.
“Are you all right, Keir?” he asked gently. It was difficult to look directly at the unnerving sight of the half-formed boy, part gray ghost and part solid flesh. He tried to look only at the single eye and the piece of wing that remained. At least those were familiar.
“Are you happy to be alive again, Keir?” he asked. “I hope you’re not in any pain?”
“If you mean is it possible to be comfortable in this half form, then no. But I do not suffer physically. My main concern is controlling the remnants of the shadow monster within so he doesn’t break loose in me and harm others.”
Geveral stirred awkwardly. He was spared the need to think up something comforting to say by the sound of the door to the corridor opening.
The oracle looked even stranger than usual outside the temple of Silverwood Grove. She still wore her simple clothing and the black veil that did little to cover her shaven head. But she had added a loose trailing robe of gold that lent her an air of stateliness. Perhaps she sensed she would need all the dignity she could summon to impress the locals. At least her health had recovered from her recent weakness.
As she strode into the room, her usually placid countenance was troubl
ed. Something like anger glinted in her dark, lashless eyes.
“It is no use,” she said, stalking into the room and letting the door close heavily behind her. “There is too much to be done and not enough time.”
“What’s wrong? Did Lord Branimir refuse to lend us his troops?” Geveral asked, worried. They’d had alarmingly little success so far in raising the support they needed.
“It is not that. His soldiers are going to Endguard, and he will ride at their head—for a price,” she answered. “These greedy minor lords will do nothing without the promise of reward. They are impressed by my reputation and my visions but not enough to believe in the danger the world faces. No, it isn’t refusal that dismays me but the disappointing number of soldiers Lord Branimir has to offer. At this rate, it will take weeks and more gold than I possess to muster a force of any meaningful size to face the dark army waiting at Endguard. We do not have that time to spare.”
“If this plan is failing, then what are our alternatives?” asked Geveral. “What more can we do?”
He wished fleetingly that Eydis were here instead of off in the mountains somewhere, searching for her wizard enemy. She might have some useful ideas.
The oracle eyed him sharply, as if guessing his ebbing confidence.
To escape her gaze, he fiddled nervously with the newly carved walking stick he had brought all the way from the grove. The gift from the ancient trees calmed him, reminded him he was not without friends, even in these uncertain times.
“We are not without options,” the oracle said. “I had hoped not to fall back on my alternative strategy, but I see it has become necessary.”
Geveral was wary. “What other strategy?”
“For what reason do you suppose I chose the two of you to accompany me?” she asked. “The dragon could not carry more than two or three riders. It was not by accident that I passed over my best attendants and selected you and the dragonkin boy as my companions on this mission.”