The Lords of Anavar

by Jim Greenfield

  "However, make no mistake. Macelan possessed such power as we can only dream about. It is likely that I underestimate him; I usually did."

  "What powers did he possess?" asked Yanor.

  "It would be easier to list those he did not. He could travel across large areas with a thought. He could be immaterial and pass through walls. He could read the thoughts of the unwary. His hearing was uncanny even unaided. No whisper escaped his notice and the information he obtained was as dangerous as his magic. And his voice. Beware his voice. His words could bend your will; wrap you in a fog from which you would never emerge. It was only chance that kept him from controlling the world."

  "Is it a chance we can use again?" asked Stile. His voice cracked slightly. Gerrand looked at the ceiling while he considered the question; then shook his head.

  "No. We cannot trust to luck, especially with Wolk betraying us."

  "What proof do we have?" asked Yanor. "Petyr is my friend and I won't have you speak in such a manner."

  "If he is such a good friend," said Gerrand. "Perhaps we should question your allegiance to the Council. Surely he would confide in you."

  "Gerrand, this is not the time," said Stile.

  "Yanor is interfering with our goal," said Gerrand. "He must put the Council before everything. Everything. Else why was he permitted to join the Council?"

  "I agree," said Hile Berbac. The others nodded their heads. Yanor returned to his chair muttering to himself.

  "All right," said Yanor. "We will proceed with your suspicions. But if you are wrong, Gerrand. I shall find a way to repay in kind."

  "Naturally. That's all the farther you can think."

  "Gerrand!" Stile stood in the center of the room. "We must stop bickering. Macelan is laughing at us. With this behavior he will feel no threat from us, and rightfully so."

  "We are no threat to him," said Gerrand. "We do not have the power to contend with him."

  "Is it hopeless?" asked Zae Pol. "That doesn't sound like you."

  "It is not hopeless, but we cannot use our strength until he is weakened, otherwise he will win. He has the skill to subvert us individually and he once spoke of a spell to gather in the strength of his enemies and use it against them."

  "So you think he might be waiting for us to strike and then steal away our magic?" asked Zae Pol.

  "How do we weaken him?" asked Lar Vokas. "If he is so powerful, won't he know what we are trying to do?"

  "He will if he pays attention to us. If the Council appears disbanded and unorganized, he will ignore us. He would not believe a single Mage capable of defeating his desires. We must project such an image while secretly working together to defeat him. We must appear fractious, and incapable of working together to allay his suspicions. Of course that is the easy part; we have achieved that already. But I must warn you, he can sense a spell and who wrought it. Each spell must be made separately; no collaborations. We must use our strength separately until the last."

  "How will you find him?" asked Stile.

  "I have someone working on it right now." It proved hard to suppress his grin.

  "Artus?" asked Stile. Alec Endria beamed. "Not Artus? You wouldn't dare. He is not part of the Council."

  "That is correct. He is working for me; only for me. I have other agents whose names I shall not divulge. I fear Macelan will have set so many things in motion that even if we defeat his return we shall face a hundred problems. War may be the first thing. Assassination, surely. Both things he talked about after he became hunted by the nobles."

  "Where were you then?" asked Yanor.

  "I was with him, at first. It was a wonderful time for learning and expanding the frontier of knowledge. Then his mind drifted into darker things and I fled to the coast alone and became a fisherman again. Now I am not sure if the dark places in his mind were always there. I rejected what he became and hid from his eye. I could not be certain how he would treat me and I feared the worst. I was not with him at the end and he sent images to me of what he would do to me once he returned."

  "I wish I could see them," sneered Hile Berbac.

  "You shall!" snapped Gerrand.

  Suddenly, Berbac stiffened and his eyes widened in horror.

  "I added your face instead of mine."

  Berbac moaned and his eyes rolled back. Doad Bess caught him as he fell. Berbac's white face dripped with sweat. Even Faeya Ryr took pity on him and wiped his face with a cool damp cloth. She shook her head at Gerrand.

  Tyman Stile looked at Gerrand who stared back, defiantly. Stile cleared his throat.

  "Well, there is no doubt that your power has not diminished, despite the passage of years. I know Hile asked for it, but we will need everyone able and willing to resist Macelan."

  "I apologize to the Council, but not to Berbac. When this is over, he and I shall have an understanding."

  "Good, good. Can Macelan change shape?"

  "I am certain he possessed some way of disguising himself, but I believe it to be a visual spell covering his features not a true transfiguration of his physical body."

  Gerrand paused, looking at each face in turn.

  "How many here appear as nature dictates? Who has not altered their appearance through the use of magic?"

  "We all have," said Zae Pol. "The very use of magic extends our youthful appearances. Even you do not look more than an elderly man, despite the many lifetimes you have lived."

  "That is correct. Although I was not present at his demise the story of the sorceress undoing his plans are correct."

  "There has never been a sorceress," said Tyman Stile. "That was just a myth."

  "Ah, there your information is incorrect. A young girl named Melith fell in love with Macelan, and to my surprise, he returned her love, for a time. He taught her as his pupil; however, she had power of her own. She was a witch when they met, perhaps one of the last ones and again, in retrospect there seemed to be some history between them, some shared experience. His heart was tightly in her grasp. He taught her much of his lore. However, as often happens with a woman such as Melith who cared only for power, her love waned and she left Macelan. He fell into a rage and demanded she return. She refused and used her power to hide from him. Here she miscalculated. His power was vastly greater still and he tore down mountains to find her. When he caught her he cursed her and imprisoned her in the Stone of Sorrows near Kammar."

  "Is she still there?" asked Faeya Ryr.

  "I don't know. I cannot see past the wards Macelan put there. She was caught by surprise, I don't know if she used her power to allow her to breathe or put herself into an enchanted sleep. One thing she did do was set a spell about Macelan that slowly wound itself about him and in the end, he was imprisoned. He just vanished from the earth. He was last seen in the mountains of Curesia in the throes of Melith's spell."

  "Interesting," said Zae Pol. "What did she look like?"

  "My memory is unclear. I believe she was short of stature but physically strong and fair of face, but I only saw her twice and from a distance. Macelan proved very jealous. She was very pale with black hair. She changed at nightfall into a harsher creature in appearance and temperament. Macelan's single-mindedness might have contributed to her decision to leave him. And once she left him, his mind began to unravel."

  Gerrand fell silent into his own thoughts. The others tried to guess what memories Gerrand saw in his mind.

  "Thank you, Gerrand," said Tyman Stile. "We shall adjourn for the day. Prepare yourselves to set forth on the morrow."

  The room emptied as Gerrand watched his memories. Faeya Ryr touched his arm and he turned to her, startled.

  "Sorry," said Faeya Ryr. "Are you okay?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "I remember a creature Macelan had altered into a killing machine. Stalkers we called them. Amogrihens was their proper name. He warped men and mountain cats together, strong, lethal and intelligent. If he creates them again, we shall rue their retu
rn. Many lost their lives to Macelan's Stalkers."

  "Hold me close, I will chase the night demons away."

  "It is a sweet thought," said Gerrand. "And I am sure it is enough to comfort me. Thank you."

  "You are a polite old man, Gerrand."

  Chapter 5

  The muscular man stood near the window watching the wagons pulling goods down the street in front of the palace in Jespin, capital of Curesia. The market bustled with merchants, buyers and the braying of animals. He oversaw the busiest marketplace in the northern lands and he believed it to be to all his credit. His long black hair was tightly tied back in a ponytail and stretched his facial skin to a more youthful appearance. His white teeth contrasted with his tanned skin. He exhaled deeply.

  "High Lord Gharom?"

  "Yes, Geral? What is it now?" His voice whined through his long nose.

  "I heard that Systin Farmoush has died."

  "I see." The ruler of Curesia turned back to the room, adjusted his robes, and then looked full upon Lord Geral Hamem. "Geral, this will not do. Simply will not do. Farmoush proved his value many times. More times than many in this room. Do you know the details?"

  "Some. He traveled with Festic Ells of Calendia."

  "This I know. I know this. Tell me something I do not know. Can you?"

  "Together they joined two Mages and their servants heading for Lathor, in Wierland. Gerrand was reported to be one of the travelers." Gharom's right eyebrow rose slightly.

  "The group was attacked by bandits and Farmoush was killed. There is nothing to suggest other than a random death." The tall man bowed when he finished and stepped back among the four other nobles in attendance. The narrow room, lined with tapestries, focused on the tall windows overlooking the street below. The High Lord often met with his advisors in this room but they never became accustomed to the closeness, especially with the High Lord's pet in attendance.

  "Random. There is no such thing as a random act concerning the Mage's Council. Tyman Stile and his busybodies. They think people care about their activities. There are plans afoot here, and I want to know what." He clapped his hands and a figure moved out of the tapestries. "Send me Lemmin Menn and Kisle Ber."

  The footman bowed and raced from the hall. Gharom looked over his nobles. Rechle Deama, Artis Dranon, Daral Mynal, Peral Jaha and Geral Hamem were all wealthy and powerful men in their own right. Any of them may become High Lord someday. They supported him and worked hard, and yet it proved difficult to evade that specter hanging over his head. He vowed to use them fully to allow little time for their own plotting.

  The golden beast lying in the sunlight stretched its long claws, yawning. The white fangs caught the attention of the men attending the High Lord. Rumors told of the beast killing enemies of the High Lord during the deep darkness of the night. Its silent footfalls allowed its passage into any home past any guard.

  Gharom reached down, scratching the thick mane. "Good girl, Siele." The cat licked his hand and growled low.

  "Ah, such a sweet girl. Perhaps you shall hunt soon." He glanced at his lords. One met his eyes; the others turned away. He smiled a toothy smile, as he stood erect.

  "My intelligence agents have told me that Queen Beatrice readies to reclaim her old boundaries. This is an old grievance and tedious, but we have our history to guide us. These lands belonged to Curesia before Wierland became a country. An upstart shall not claim lands our ancestors settled. I do not know why Queen Beatrice persists, but Wierland shall not advance upon us again. We shall be ready to oppose her vile desecration of our land."

  "Well spoken, High Lord," said Geral Hamem, the only man to meet his gaze.

  "Warlord Lemmin Menn shall devise an attack plan and we shall drop in on Wierland before Beatrice realizes what is happening. We shall crush them and perhaps expand our borders even more. I want you men to use your resources to find out what the Mage's Council is doing and who is paying them this time. If it is necessary, I will authorize an attack on the Council as well. It serves no useful purpose in these enlightened days."

  Lemmin Menn entered the room with a sweeping bow. A tall man with broad shoulders, he moved with the grace of a dancer.

  "How may I serve the High Lord?" His voice sounded brittle and dry, a reminder of a throat wound years ago. His eyes clear and gray pierced the High Lord with their keenness. This Warlord was worthy of his title.

  "I wish to prepare war against Wierland." Gharom's glance flickered between the Warlord and the nobles. "It is time they understood our resolve to keep our lands."

  "Very good, High Lord. I shall begin planning at once." Menn's voice did not display emotion at the news of war. He did what was expected of him.

  "One thing more, Lemmin. Find the Calendia spy, Festic Ells. He has information that I wish to obtain. I want him in my presence tonight if possible."

  "It shall be done, High Lord. If he remains in the city, you shall see him this night. If he is without, I will send news to you. He will be found quickly." He bowed. Lemmin Menn glared at the lords gathered there as he left the room.

  Rechle Deama muttered something under his breath to Peral Jaha. The High Lord noticed but elected to say nothing. He knew of the friction of the Warlord and the Lords. The Warlord did not inherit his position as the Lords had done. Lemmin Menn had lifted himself up from a merchant sailor to his present position over many bodies with his own abilities. The Warlord did not miss an opportunity to parade this fact before the Lords. The Lords who were not secure in their positions held Warlord Lemmin Menn in contempt and plotted his downfall. High Lord Gharom smiled at the petty intrigues. Such wastes of time would keep his own power secure.

  He excused the nobles until the afternoon when they would discuss their ideas with him. When the door shut, the curtain against the far wall moved. Gharom turned to see Petyr Wolk appear. Wolk, tall and broad, wore his beard close cropped and his thinning hair pulled back much like the High Lord's ponytail. He did not bow, but helped himself to the fruit bowl. He reached down and petted the golden cat. Gharom saw the glow from Wolk's hand. Siele purred and fell asleep. Gharom's palms began to itch.

  "Things are moving along," said Wolk. "That is good."

  "I expect war by the end of the month."

  "That long?" Wolk did not look up.

  "It is a difficult thing to wage, war. It cannot be done on an instant. I am only human and have no magic."

  "Is that a reproof? Do you believe magic to be a simple thing, cleverly done? Perhaps you understand magic as well as I understand war."

  "Fairly spoken, Lord Wolk. I shall keep my emotions under control."

  Wolk considered the peach in his hand.

  "Can you send a small strike team? I need you to increase tension in the area quickly. Assassinate someone, anyone, but do it quickly."

  "Seems so chaotic. I like such things planned in detail."

  "The more chaotic the better."

  "What about afterward? How will these things affect Curesia? I cannot allow any loss of face. We must be victorious."

  "You are a fool, Gharom. You cannot see beyond your nose, long though it is. After the wars, there shall be no need to worry about how Curesia appears to the other countries. Curesia alone shall remain."

  "It is all I hoped. I envisioned a great future for Curesia and it comes in my lifetime." He strode toward the window; his arms open to the sunlight. Wolk watched him closely. The sorcerer frowned and gently bit into the peach. He needed to push Gharom harder. Perhaps Gharom needed a sample of his true power.

  "High Lord Gharom, I believe you do not understand your position."

  "What do you mean?" His voice rose, as he perceived a threat.

  Wolk gestured; the air vanished from Gharom's lungs and he collapsed to the floor. He gasped and reached out his hand to Wolk.

  "I want you to understand. I am your master. I alone make the decisions in Curesia and soon the rest of the world. You bow to me and obey me in every matter. I rule now. Do you agree?"


  Gharom nodded his purple head with ebbing strength. Suddenly, he gasped as air released back into him. He coughed and gasped as slowly his breathing returned to normal. Wolk continued eating fruit.

  "I'm glad we had this talk," said Wolk. "I overestimated your commitment. I shall not do so again. You must move quickly to sow chaos and death. I shall be watching you very, very closely. Do not disappoint me again."

  Gharom coughed again and looked up. Wolk vanished. He did not hear him move. Wolk's boots should have been loud on the marble floor. The door opened and Kisle Ber entered.

  "High Lord! Are you all right?" He rushed to Gharom's side and helped him to his feet.

  "Yes, yes. Just slipped. Did you see anyone come out that door?"

  "No one. The corridor is empty." Kisle Ber watched the High Lord walk unsteadily to his chair. "Shall I call a healer?"

  "No. I stood up too fast and became dizzy. I had just fallen when you entered. Do not make a fuss. I hate it when people make a fuss. We have work to do."

  "Yes, High Lord. Command me."

  Kisle Ber stood a hand taller than the High Lord and muscles bulged within his snug tunic. His specialty, swordplay from horseback, won him many medals at competitions throughout the known world. It had been six years since a war of any significance needed his skills. He tugged at his long mustaches.

  "I have instructed the Warlord to prepare for war against Wierland." Kisle Ber grinned. Gharom pretended not to notice. "I want to move quicker than an army. I want Queen Beatrice dead. A thousand gold."

  "I will see to it, High Lord."

  "How many men do you need?"