The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2)

by Berardinelli, James

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “No, I suppose I don’t. I wouldn’t have let him live if I did.”

  “Do you think you could kill him in cold blood? If it came down to it?”

  Sorial didn’t like to think about it, but some part of him feared he might eventually learn the answer to that question. Ultimately, he wondered whether he should be more concerned about The Lord of Fire and his unwashed minions or The Prelate of Vantok and the knowledge locked inside his head.

  * * *

  “You cost me a good man. One might say an irreplaceable man. Now when we kill your brother, which we still must do, we have no candidate to replace him with. It’ll be a race with Ferguson to see which of us can come up with the new Lord of Earth. And, knowing the man of old, he probably has someone hidden behind a curtain. Ferguson has a contingency for everything.”

  Justin’s anger wasn’t as sharp or blistering as Ariel had anticipated, but the moment she entered his tent, she knew he wasn’t his usual self. He was exhausted and in obvious pain. The skin on his forearms and the backs of his hands was blistered and burned - unthinkable wounds to have been suffered by The Lord of Fire.

  “You faced the efreet,” she surmised. It was the only explanation.

  He nodded wearily. “You have an excellent grasp of the obvious, my dear. I did it as soon as I returned from the portal. I knew I couldn’t rely on Sorial dying at your hands, so I made sure to strengthen my position. The efreet is a formidable foe. He commands elements in ways I never imagined possible. His fire burned me. For this first time since I was a lad and fell into the still-hot coals of a cook-fire, my skin smoked and charred. But I’m no callow novice to be intimidated by an unexpected setback. Eventually, I beat him down, pummeling him with magic he didn’t expect, using my fire to cage and throttle him until he yielded, screaming in anguish. I savored his cries even as my own wounds nearly reduced me to unconsciousness. In subjugating him, I used far more energy than I planned and find myself wondering if I’ll have enough to go the distance.”

  “This, at least, should cheer you.” She handed him the vial.

  “You’re sure this isn’t the blood of some witless squire you mistook for your victim?” The words dripped with sarcasm so thick that it came close to malice.

  “It comes from a ruined arm whose damage I caused. It belongs to King Rangarak.”

  “Then you’ve done well, at least in this. And showed restraint in the face of what must have been a difficult temptation to resist - a king at your mercy. It’s a good thing you did. Another failure and I might have found it necessary to dispose of your services.”

  Ariel nodded, although her expression beneath the cowl was a grimace. Sometimes, she thought he went too far. He had stated often enough that he viewed her as an ally. Yet, despite his repeated assertion of their equality, he treated her like a subject. Like a commander to a subordinate, he issued orders and there was an aspect to his overall plan - something involving the end-game - that he kept to himself. His stated objective was to unify men under the leadership of a council of wizards, but there was more to it than that, she was sure. Yet he didn’t trust her enough to reveal the fullness of his intentions. Perhaps her actions hadn’t merited the degree of openness and honesty she expected, but it rankled.

  “Do you need me for anything now?” The loyal soldier, asking for orders.

  Justin grunted. “No. I’ll take care of this then get back to the business of preparing for war. You might want to spend some time in and around Vantok. You can report back to me about the ramifications of our little experiment and maybe you’ll get lucky enough to uncover your brother’s location. Beyond that, do as you please for the next few weeks. But be back here before the first day of Summer. I need you with me before we start marching.” Having said that, he turned his back to her and began studying the vial of blood. It was as curt a dismissal as Ariel could recall having received from Justin. And it stung.

  She left the tent, emerging into the dim late afternoon sunlight. All around her, men milled about, doing chores and drilling. Since the arrival of the paid mercenaries, discipline had improved. She wasn’t good at estimating the force’s size, but it was probably close to 10,000 - easily outnumbering Vantok’s militia. Factoring in the power of two wizards and the participation of the djinn, and the advantage was clear. The wild card was Sorial. But if she could find a way to eliminate him...

  Justin had told her to look for him. She would do more than look. She would find. And this time, once she confronted him, she would remove his head and bring it back with her as a prize for The Lord of Fire. Then there would be no doubt.

  * * *

  By late in the afternoon on the day following Rangarak’s accident, the Iron King was awake and as alert as the opium permitted. He was in a sitting position, propped up by pillows and surrounded by the small crowd he had summoned. His bedroom was large but the presence of so many people made it seem cramped. In addition to the king and his five elite bodyguards, King Azarak and Queen Myselene were present, as were Chancellor Toranim, soon-to-be Vice Chancellor Grushik, and His Most Honorable Lord Sangaska.

  When Rangarak spoke, his voice was soft and raspy - hardly the booming bass that intimidated even seasoned members of his court. “First, I must apologize for my atrocious performance at the tournament. Damn horse musta lost its fucking footing. I only hope the pisser who put me down won the whole thing.” He hadn’t - he had been soundly beaten in the next round, suffering a broken leg in the process - but Azarak wasn’t about to reveal that.

  “The healers who’ve been hovering around me like flies around shit tell me I should give up my arm. They’re afraid it will putrefy and I told them what they could do with their advice. Useless, the lot of ’em. Not only will I keep the arm but I’ll use it again. Fact is, though, it’s going to be a while before I can go home. A long while. At least a season. And that means some accommodations are gonna have to be made.”

  Azarak’s heart quailed when he heard the proclamation even though it was expected. More than one healer had warned him that if Rangarak didn’t accept the advice to have the arm amputated, it would be ten to fifteen weeks before he would be hale enough to endure the long journey north, especially since he would refuse transport in a wagon. His hope to keep Rangarak’s stay to a reasonable length lay with Alicia. The next difficulty might be getting His Iron Majesty to consent to an examination by the young wizard.

  The Iron King continued, “I have no desire to become a burden to my host and hostess. Although they’ve graciously offered this chamber for as long as it’s needed, I intend to join my men in camp. It’s the duty of a leader to be with his underlings. The command tent has already been erected and there’s nothing in the way of a necessity that I can’t get there. The beddings aren’t as overstuffed and the pillows aren’t as fluffy, but things like those are for women and children, not blooded men.”

  It was intended as an insult and taken as one, but Azarak said nothing. Had it been someone other than Rangarak, it could be blamed on the opium, but the king of Vantok suspected his northern counterpart would have been as offensive even if he had not been under the influence of the intoxicant.

  The Iron King winced as if in sudden discomfort. “Is it hot in here?” he asked. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow.

  It was stuffy in the smoky room, but no more so than in recent days. If Rangarak wanted heat, he would get his wish in a few weeks. The balmy warmth of early Planting would turn into an inferno before Summer arrived unless Sorial found a solution to that problem.

  “Open a damn window!” shouted the king, even though every window in the chamber was fully open. Sweat was now pouring down his face and his swarthy skin had adopted a reddish cast. He looked like a blacksmith after a long afternoon at the forge.

  “Get a healer,” said Azarak to Toranim, alarm blossoming in his voice. Something was obviously very wrong with the Iron King.

  “It burns!” screamed
Rangarak, the agony evident in his voice. His breathing became ragged and his eyes bulged. Every inch of his exposed flesh was bright red and Azarak’s nostrils caught a whiff of cooking meat. The next noises made by the bedridden man were animalistic. He began to thrash about wildly, arms and legs flailing even as his skin blistered and charred.

  The thrashing didn’t last long. As the stench of a burned roast grew stronger, steam and smoke poured off Rangarak’s flesh. Grushik took a step toward his father but recoiled from the heat. The sheets bore scorch marks. Everyone watched, transfixed with horror, as Rangarak’s body shriveled and baked as if in the heart of an intense fire, even though there were no flames. He screamed and screamed and screamed until there was an explosive exhalation of breath, then nothing.

  By the time Toranim returned with two healers, the Iron King was dead. All that remained of his body were bones and ashes. In less than two minutes, the most powerful man on the continent had been burned alive by a fire no one saw. Azarak’s hands were trembling. Myselene had hidden her face against his shoulder. He could feel the wetness of her tears through his tunic. Was she weeping for her father or because of the ghastly manner of his end?

  “Sorcery!” hissed Grushik, the first to comment on the tableau. Whatever reservations he might have had in the wake of Sorial’s demonstration were gone. “Black magic! Betrayal!”

  “Your Majesty,” urged Toranim, perhaps the only one still in full possession of his wits. “You must lock down the palace. Immediately!”

  Azarak understood his urgency. The chancellor wasn’t concerned about capturing whoever had done this to Rangarak - not that there was much doubt about the culprit’s identity - but because the party from Obis couldn’t be allowed to reach the army. Although it wasn’t possible to determine Grushik’s intentions, the possibility that he might rouse his soldiers for a retaliatory strike at Vantok couldn’t be ignored. Azarak’s chief objective had suddenly become avoiding a war with Obis, and the first step toward peace, regardless of how tenuous it might be, was to hold captive Grushik and Sangaska.

  A quarter of an hour later, Azarak and Toranim were in the king’s private audience chamber trying to piece together what happened and what their next move should be. Myselene had promised to join them as soon as she completed “an urgent errand.” None of the other council members were present; this was a private discussion.

  Grushik and Sangaska were being held in their chambers. The on-duty members of Rangarak’s guard had been disarmed without incident and were being taken to the palace dungeon - the only place where they could be imprisoned. The healers who had attended Rangarak faced the same fate, not so much because of how they had acted but because they knew too much.

  “Where’s Sorial?” demanded Azarak, collapsing into his customary chair. He motioned over a servant with a goblet of wine then dismissed the man. He drank deeply but even the slightly sweet vintage couldn’t dispel the lingering flavor of burned flesh. How was it possible that things had turned so badly so quickly?

  “Not yet returned. I’ve already taken the liberty of sending a party to meet him, assuming he uses the customary route, but he likely won’t be in the city much before nightfall. You don’t think he had anything to do with...?”

  “Not Sorial; his specialty is earth. No, this is the work of The Lord of Fire. That much is obvious, and it’s a particularly gruesome calling card. An invitation to war, not only for Vantok, but for the whole of the continent, North and South. Possibly after we get done killing ourselves.”

  The door opened and Myselene entered, but not alone. In her company was Gorton, his face grave.

  “Before you ask, Your Majesty, I come here not as a citizen of Vantok or Obis. The queen has filled me in on the situation and I stand before you to say that if we don’t act swiftly and correctly, the two cities will be at war before the sun dips below the horizon. No one wants that, except perhaps an enemy who’d benefit from soldiers of Vantok and Obis killing one another.”

  “Trust him, Azarak,” pleaded Myselene, seeing reluctance in her husband’s face. “I know Gorton. He’s a good man. And he has influence with the commanders of the army.”

  “Very well,” agreed the king. At this time, he could use any and all advice.

  “First, you must release Grushik and Sangaska as well as any guards you’ve taken into custody. Let them depart with Rangarak’s remains. Impress upon them that they were confined for their own safety to ensure that whatever entity attacked their father didn’t also target them. They probably won’t believe that but it’s a plausible story.

  “I understand why you acted as you did, Your Majesty. You were concerned that, if you allowed them to depart so soon after the tragedy, they would rouse the forces from Obis and launch an attack on the city. That wouldn’t have happened. Grushik is as ambitious a man as you’ll ever meet and his father’s death, no matter how mysterious, has made him a king. There would no doubt have been a great deal of posturing and probably a substantial sum needed for ‘reparations,’ but an armed conflict would have been unlikely. No longer. Grushik will see his imprisonment, no matter how brief, as an insult to his honor and potentially an attempt to conceal something. He’ll believe that Rangarak’s death was ordered by you and carried out by your wizard. He will attack. To not do so would be to lose face and risk being rejected as king when he returns to Obis.”

  “Yet, knowing this, you advise that I release him?”

  “To hold him would be to risk terrible reprisals. The army commanders, who are now in charge with their king dead and their two princes in custody, will act as one might expect from unimaginative soldiers: attack with the goal of freeing their leaders. I have no doubt that, in such a conflict, you will eventually prevail. Without a shrewd strategist like Rangarak to lead them, they’re just a bunch of brutes in armor. But you’ll lose close to half your militia deflecting this threat. Worse, when word of this reaches Obis, the new ruler - whoever he may be - will mobilize the entire army and march it south. And we both know you have another, more immediate concern.

  “Keep Grushik imprisoned, and Vantok will fall. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but soon. Release him, and there’s still a chance to salvage the situation: avoid war with Obis and return to preparing for the real threat to this city’s existence.”

  Azarak didn’t ask Gorton how he knew the things he did. As the master of Obis’ intelligence network, it would have been surprising if he was unaware of the danger represented by The Lord of Fire. “What is this chance?” he asked, knowing before he said the words that he wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Embedded deep in the code of honor for every man in Obis is the concept of The Challenge. Its origins are military but it’s employed any time there is a widespread dispute that can’t be solved through normal means. The Challenge calls for two men to meet in single combat and have the outcome of the disagreement decided by them, and them alone. Terms are decided beforehand and abided by both sides in the aftermath. In some wars, The Challenge has led to cities being saved, with huge would-be occupying armies simply walking away, or cities being captured, with the citizens opening the gates to their oppressors. If the feud is in the nature of a more personal dispute, The Challenge resolves it.”

  “You’re suggesting that I goad Grushik into challenging me?”

  Gorton shook his head in the negative. “It would never happen. Grushik is too shrewd. By the terms of The Challenge, he who issues the challenge must fight. The one who is challenged can choose a champion. He wouldn’t risk fighting an unknown opponent. No, Your Majesty, you must challenge him.”

  Azarak raised an eyebrow in surprise. “On what grounds?”

  “He’s planning to sack your city, isn’t he? Wouldn’t you consider that grounds enough? For him, this is a matter of honor. He will accept The Challenge, believing himself able to best you in combat. It would be advantageous to him. He doesn’t want to lose even a small fraction of his army in an ultimately meaningless battle. He wants t
o retain honor so he’ll be acclaimed as king upon his return. Killing you would achieve that, and that’s the reason he’ll fight you himself rather than calling for a champion. Upon victory, he would depart, probably taking your head as a trophy. Your wife would ascend to the throne of Vantok.”

  “And if I win?”

  “Sangaska takes the Crown and leaves. Either way, your city is safe. The question is: Are you willing to die in single combat to save your city?”

  If Azarak was possessed of a suspicious nature, he might have believed this had all been orchestrated to put his wife on the throne as a puppet of Obis. He knew he couldn’t defeat Grushik in a duel, regardless of what the weapons were. Was it possible that Grushik had somehow orchestrated his own father’s ghastly death in such a way to make it appear like magic? Was Gorton’s timely “defection” a coincidence or part of a deeper plot? Could Myselene betray him within days of their wedding?

  He glanced at her face. In it, he saw only concern and anxiety - the emotions of a new wife who had heard her husband’s death sentence pronounced. But she was also a child of the Iron King, as ambitious in her own way as Grushik. Was it enough for her to be Vantok’s co-ruler or did she thirst for sole power? The truth was, Azarak trusted and believed her. And if that trust was misplaced, he might well be a dead man.

  Still, there was nothing that said Azarak couldn’t make use of all the weapons at his disposal. He thought of himself as an honorable man but not a stupid one.

  Everyone was quiet, awaiting Azarak’s decision. “Very well. Bring Grushik to me. I’ll issue The Challenge then let him return with his father’s bones to the Obis campsite. Vice Chancellor Gorton, perhaps you would be good enough to instruct me further about the thing I am about to become committed to?”

  * * *

  “You will rue this day, Your Majesty,” snarled Grushik, his features mottled with anger. He stood facing an impassive Azarak, who sat straight-backed on the throne, the crown of Vantok adorning his brow. The king had chosen to face Obis’ heir apparent in this setting rather than in the more intimate locale of his private sanctum. The session was closed to the public. Aside from Toranim, Azarak, Grushik, and handful of guards, no one else was present, although Myselene and Gorton watched from a concealed alcove. Absent the throngs that normally packed the chamber, the cavernous throne room was an intimidating place.