They heard the shuffling before they saw the undead creatures, all skeletons with decrepit weapons in their bony hands. They poured from around the pillars and entered from the main door that they had so recently passed through. They all had red eyes, and evil emanated from them as from the heat of a roaring fire. They stopped and stood, facing the pair in silence, waiting . . . waiting for something.
The small man spoke, chilling their blood and taking the wind from their lungs. “We do not suffer the living.”
Chapter 15
Conspiracies
It didn’t take long for the dogs to return . . . sort of. Dareen heard them first, and then saw them at her window at the top of her ceiling. They were barking non-stop, and their handlers were trying to get control of them. She couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but it didn’t sound good or proper. Only when she saw Darker and the wizard Jakar’s robe and boots at her window’s iron bars did she know that they had come to the end of the trail.
What she couldn’t understand was the motives and processes that the other wizard Alister was using to confuse her captors. If he was trying to pique their interest in her as some sort of magic-capable peasant, it appeared to be backfiring and putting her life in danger. Darker’s last words could very well prove to be true, and she might have little time left to live. As she sat in her cell, helpless, with no sign of aid from her sons and no information from the druid’s falcon, she started to despair and felt hope was slipping from her. Her only solace was in the fact that she had freed her own daughter and liberated many of the Ulathan children, and some parents to boot.
In short order, the wizard returned. This time, he was visibly upset and losing his temper, very unlike the Kesh magic-users she had seen or heard about, not that she had much experience with them.
“What game are you playing with us . . . eh?” Jakar said, coming in and standing directly at her gate with his head tilted at her and his eyes narrowed. Darker stood behind him, peeking around his robe like a small child, giving her a nasty look. She would not have been surprised had he stuck his tongue out at her. The Balarian assassin Silis went silently to the corner near the windows and looked about intently, half appearing to pay attention to what was being said and half appearing to inspect her room.
“Honestly, my liege,” Dareen started, using her voice to soften her words and inflecting her tone to one of contrition, “I don’t understand what you’re getting at. I’ve been stuck in this cell for weeks, and I nearly died here.”
“Kill her,” Darker hissed, looking up at Jakar and then back at Dareen.
Jakar ignored the new warden, keeping his eyes on the prisoner. “You know exactly what I am referring to. This makes two dead bodies in as many days and you feign ignorance?”
“No,” Dareen began, “I see the bodies, but I didn’t kill them. Why don’t you use your magic on me and see that I’m telling the truth?”
Jakar stood more upright at that and then looked at her with wider eyes now. “You would be willing to submit to the spell of truth?”
“Aye,” she said as if she were a Kesh brigand or civilian. “I’d be willing to submit to any of your spells that can detect liars, and happy to do it. I have nothing to hide.”
The trio of captors stood in silence, contemplating her words from various perspectives. Darker could not contain himself and looked at Jakar, asking, “I ain’t never heard of a truth spell. When did ya come up with dat one?”
Jakar frowned and broke his stare at Dareen to grace their new warden with a nasty look. “Shut up, you dolt.”
Silis chuckled, the first and only time Dareen had ever seen any emotion come from the Balarian. The man stopped long enough to comment to Jakar. “This one is too clever for what you’re contemplating. Best to either execute her or interrogate her the old-fashioned way.”
Jakar resumed his attention and gazed at Dareen, hearing the Balarian but not looking at him. He responded, “You are correct as usual, Silis. I am leaning toward an immediate execution, but there is something that bothers me greatly.”
The pause appeared to be bait for the question, and Silis was wise enough to know he didn’t have to ask it in present company. Darker did it for him. “What cud bother such a great mage as you, Master?”
Jakar looked more annoyed than bothered, most likely regretting their choice of a warden at the moment, though the candidate pool was admittedly a poor one. The wizard answered anyway, wanting to vocalize his concern. “If she dies before we can ascertain how our guards died, then if she was not responsible, it would mean the danger to them . . . and to us . . . remains. I would feel better if the threat was identified properly so an orderly assessment could be made and a proper remedy applied to manage our risk.”
Darker looked confused, and Dareen was barely managing to follow the magic-user’s train of thought. Only Silis appeared to be unflummoxed at what Jakar was getting at. He spoke in his usual soft tone. “A confession would also be sufficient.”
“That it would,” Jakar said, nodding in approval. “The interrogation would still allow her to express details of the murders, correct?”
“Yes,” Silis explained. “Bones heal, and unless there’s an infection, her lacerations won’t be fatal. At this point. I don’t think the magocracy cares if she is disabled or not.”
The Balarian was referring to Kesh’s ruling magic caste as the chief form of their government. Jakar responded, “No, I do not think we would mind if she were . . .” There was a pause, and the wizard suddenly put his free hand up to his head, rubbing a spot above his ear but below his tasseled hat. He seemed to have thought of something that gave him pause. “On second thought, I do not think we should do anything to . . . shall we say, disfigure the prisoner.”
“Disfigure?” Silis asked, the first time he showed a hint of confusion or a lack of understanding when dealing with Jakar.
“Yes,” Jakar said simply.
The Balarian shrugged and filed the objection away for further analysis at a later date, perhaps when he could obtain more information. He hadn’t yet heard the news of the High-Mage’s physical condition and appearance, so he had no idea that Jakar was taking that into consideration. Instead, Silis said, “I can have one of my men handle this tomorrow. I have a specialist returning from patrol late this evening. He can secure the information you need.”
Jakar didn’t seem to want to wait. “Darker, do you have a . . . specialist”—at this, the wizard used the Balarian’s own term for a dungeon torturer—“who can begin this interrogation sooner?”
Darker seemed to think this over a bit before he said, “I may have one or two in mind. Shall I fetch them?”
“Yes,” Jakar said, an evil grin crossing his face. “I think I would prefer putting our prisoner under some stress at the moment. She seems entirely too content for what has transpired. I will not grant her another night to practice or dabble in her witchcraft, if that is what she is doing, and if she is innocent, then we will sleep better knowing that as well.”
“Stress, Master?” Darker asked.
Jakar paused while staring at Dareen, looking for any sign of fear, and then he said one word. “Pain.”
“Have you found the traitor?” Am-Tor asked his steward, Edward. The new High-Mage continued pacing in his tower chamber from one windowsill to another. He was triumphant, but enemies and adversaries abounded and surrounded him on all fronts. He felt safe only in the bosom of the Kesh fortress that had protected their leader for eons.
Edward followed him with his eyes from his post near the door. “You refer to Am-Shee?” The steward knew that the High-Mage hated any title or accolade to be given to the man in much the same way he hated his traitor apprentice, banishing the man’s name from the record books. Despite his own edict, the High-Mage oftentimes used the name when swearing or uttering curses at the current plight and state of affairs of their realm.
“Who other?” Am-Tor asked.
“Ah, I was wonderi
ng if you were asking of your old apprentice, may his name never be spoken again.” Edward was diplomatic and chosen for precisely his command of both language and proper protocol, especially when dealing with the magic-user caste of Kesh.
The High-Mage almost spat as his anger interfered in pronouncing his next sentence. “Ack, that fool. He is both stupid and a coward. Do not remind me of his treachery.” Am-Tor took a moment to look at his steward, and Edward was careful to lower his gaze and avert making eye contact with the disfigured man.
“A shame your attempt on his life failed,” Edward stated, only repeating what Am-Tor had told the man weeks before. Still, it was a sore subject with the High-Mage.
“That is because I was not there and not able to do it myself. Had I personally taken care of it, the traitor would be dead by now.”
“Of course,” Edward said in appeasement.
“Has Zorcross arrived in Ulsthor?”
“We only received word today that he arrived a week ago.”
“Why was I not notified?” Am-Tor questioned.
Edward lifted his hands palms up and raised his shoulders. “Our messengers have been assaulted on the road from Ulsthor. The first two did not appear to make it. Also, you indicated that you would be using the Chamber of Seeing to organize our defenses and plan our next assaults. Were you not able to communicate with Zorcross?”
Am-Tor spat on the ground, his mannerism and tone displaying obvious disgust. “The great eye was repaired. Only I could have restored its power and ability to see into the dark corners of the world. However, the great eye has been compromised, and I must liberate it first before it will be of use to us.”
Edward did perk up at this information. He lowered his hands and grasped them in front of his robe, asking, “May I inquire who or what could . . . compromise the chief critir? Surely it was not Am-Shee. He couldn’t face the might and power of you, our new High-Mage.”
Despite it being a statement, the steward was probing to find out if he had chosen wisely or not in the power struggle swirling around them. He was forced to make a decision, and he sided with Am-Tor, especially after seeing what the man had done to the Onyx Tower and the former High-Mage. There was nothing left of Sultain, nothing at all. Edward wanted to know if Am-Shee posed a significant risk or not.
“Of course not,” the new High-Mage said, lowering his head and resuming his pacing, where he seemed to have more control over his emotions. “That fool bungled the Rockton raid, losing both his wizard and apprentice in the process. He can barely look after himself, much less interfere with something as great as the chief critir.”
“Then what?” Edward prompted.
Am-Tor spoke quieter as if attempting to avoid being overhead by some unseen force or entity. “That blasted Arnen has wrested the chief critir from my deceased predecessor, bending its will toward him. The man is dead! Can you imagine?”
Edward wasn’t sure which man Am-Tor was referring to, Sultain or the Arnen. “Both men are dead.”
“Blast it, do you have to be so difficult?” the High-Mage said, not looking at his steward but obviously referring to him. “The Arnen, that dead druid, is a nuisance. I am not sure I have the luxury of waiting for time to dispose of him.”
“What do you mean?” Edward asked, sincere this time in attempting to learn what the High-Mage knew. All things concerning the power struggle for Kesh was of import to everyone involved. Edward intended to make himself valuable to any party, for the right price.
Am-Tor did stop to look at his steward now, gracing the moment with face-to-face contact, and Edward instantly regretted asking his last question. Better to have returned later than face the disfigured High-Mage who was only angered when discussing his rivals or former traitor apprentices. The High-Mage spoke. “Only the power of Akun allows this cursed servant of Agon to walk the world again. He should be nothing but dust now. Once Akun departs and the Father’s power is diminished, this Arnen will crumble and his soul will join his ancestors in blissful exile for the rest of eternity. Then we will finally be rid of his cursed order.”
Edward was well schooled as any magic-user, and all of them were steeped in the lore and history of their world. The Arnen were considered one of the most powerful forces to have ever challenged the might and grandeur of the Kesh. The other being the great draconus species, which some thought were legend. In this, the steward knew what the High-Mage was referring to, and it made sense, but the time intervening from now until the druid’s demise would be filled with risk and danger to the Kesh. “Understood, High-Mage. Is there anything further you wish of me?”
Am-Tor sensed the steward’s discomfort, and it even hinted at his physical condition, but the High-Mage needed an intermediary when conducting business, so Am-Tor would ignore the possible offense by the man . . . at least for now. “No, summon Jakar and inform him that I want a full report of our defenses until I can find the traitor Am-Shee.”
The use of the singular pronoun in the High-Mage’s statement did not go unnoticed by Edward. Am-Tor would start taking matters into his own hands. Probably a good thing, too, the steward thought as he bowed and prepared to exit the room. Things were getting out of control, and the entire Kesh realm was bordering on chaos and civil war. For the better good of their realm, there needed to be a firm ruler. Only one High-Mage. “As you wish,” Edward said, exiting and closing the door. For better or for worse, he would serve Am-Tor . . . for now.
The arrival of the barbarians was both welcome and terrifying. More than three hundred of the Northmen arrived in Ulatha and made camp outside the castle and town of Korwell. They had no interest in taking up shelter in the abandoned buildings that the Kesh had plundered and looted, preferring to remain in their natural habitat—the great outdoors.
Kaz greeted them and spent the first three nights among them. Some in the garrison felt relieved that the large barbarian was no longer residing in the castle proper. Others, like Hermes, felt a bit diminished, as the magic-user drew a large part of his power from the fear that the Northman exuded in others. Only Hork seemed unfazed by current events, though he did order a doubling of the castle guard.
Bran had regained consciousness and only heard about the arrival of the barbarian’s clan from the rumors that always floated around a military camp and garrison. He had been given not only better food and water, but the wizard also forced some type of magic pill on him that invigorated him greatly and helped restore his constitution. It did not cure him completely, but it did make him healthier than he was before being ambushed in his sparring practice. The wizard complained greatly at the cost of parting with the magical healing pill that was referred to as a talaman.
The air was cooler and the wind was picking up from the northwest when the guards arrived to escort him outside. He had only been allowed to leave his new quarters in the tower complex twice, once for a meeting with Kaz, who seemed to approve of the magical healing, and a second time to be fitted for a breastplate. Apparently, he was going to be given armor to protect his chest and especially his ribcage. It appeared that the Northman was taking this grudge match and protecting his honor to a new level of obsession. Bran wasn’t sure if he could survive the match even in a completely healthy state.
“Keep moving.” The guard almost jabbed him with his spear as they herded him toward the main tower, the king’s tower. Bran gave the guard a wicked look, expressing his anger, but kept moving toward the bottom of the outer stairwell that would allow him to enter and ascend. He wasn’t sure, but he had a pretty good idea where he was being led to.
The climb was uneventful. He knew the way well, though he was unsure why he was going to the top of the tower unless they were planning on pushing him over the edge and killing him there. Once at the top, he passed through the archway of the door-less passage and saw the Kesh wizard Hermes standing and facing north.
Bran had always thought that Korwell should have fixed the door to the stairwell, but it had always been overlooked.
Later reports indicated that the tower was the very way the assassins had entered the king’s tower and murdered the king in his sleep. No one knew for sure if he was asleep, but that was the rumor. Another prod of the spear, and Bran scowled, though he complied and walked across the top of the tower to stand next to the wizard. A guard put a spear in front of him to ensure there was a sufficient distance between the two, even though he was unarmed.
The guards did not leave, and Bran did not speak. Neither did they. Hermes appeared to be occupied with watching something, and after a dozen seconds, Bran decided to give up and turned his head to look out over the town and adjoining field far below. He sucked in the cool air from the mountains sweeping over his town at what he saw. There were many tents made from furs, mostly brown, some whitish, and others a mottled black in color. One banner flew above all, the banner of what looked like a giant eagle.
Hermes noted the Ulathan captain’s surprise and said, “Impressive, is it not?”
Bran ignored the question and asked one of his own. “How many are there?”
“That information is classified, not something we would share with our enemies.” The wizard turned to face the Ulathan. “You can count, however, and from your reaction, I think you understand that there are more Northmen here now than you could ever hope to defeat.”
“Well, not if I had my full army with me,” Bran countered, not liking that the Kesh was taking comfort in his anxiety and shock. “What are they doing here?”
“Why, they are supporting us,” Hermes said matter-of-factly. “They are but the first of many reinforcements who will support Kesh in its . . .” The man suddenly stopped in search of a good word.
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