Uthgarb left the palace immediately after the agreement was signed, pausing only to drink deeply from a goblet that Myselene assured him would “remove any ill effects from the large repast” he had consumed. In truth, the liquid was nothing more than water flavored with stinkweed. Nothing more was needed. He had, in fact, ingested no poison. Although the queen had no compunctions about dosing someone as loathsome as Uthgarb, it would have been a waste of good venom, which was costly. If the same results could be achieved by lies and innuendo... That was a lesson she had learned from her father and, on this occasion, his advice had served her well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: REMOVING THE STOPPER
“I hate libraries.”
Sorial concealed a smile. Every day for the past two weeks, his wife had voiced that sentiment and every day she went nonetheless. There was nothing he could do to help her in her studies; at times like these, he wondered whether his illiteracy was a blessing or a curse. Sitting in a cavernous room lit by a dozen lanterns and surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of scrolls and tomes wasn’t Sorial’s idea of a profitable day.
“Any progress?” he asked.
Her face contorted into an expression of frustration. “Everything is cryptic and what isn’t cryptic is boring. Azarak probably has three thousand books and twice that number of scrolls in his library and I’m not sure the answer is there. Many of the older documents are unreadable, incomplete, or in languages no longer used. Very little was written by men who understood or practiced magic, so there’s a lot of superstition and supposition to sift through. And an endless supply of irrelevant history. Did you know that Mandarb VII, His Majesty of Andel seven-hundred years ago, had a boil the size of a grape on his nose?”
They hadn’t talked much about Alicia’s findings in the library, meager though they were. This was her project, propelled by several conversations with Ferguson. Unlike Sorial, who tried to avoid Azarak’s notorious prisoner, Alicia repeatedly sought him out. The prelate apparently suggested areas in the library that would be “helpful,” but was unforthcoming with specifics. After a discussion with him two days ago, Alicia had returned home cursing Ferguson in a most unladylike manner. Even Vagrum, her mentor in the fine art of spewing profanity, had rarely been as graphic.
“Every day, it’s more of the same. Half the cross-referenced volumes aren’t here. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll need to seek out Ferguson’s library across the sea.”
“Anything about how to beat Justin?” Sorial asked a variation of this question every day. He didn’t expect Alicia’s studies to bear much fruit in that regard, but there might be something useful hidden in some old scroll. Their immediate concern remained The Lord of Fire; if they failed to defeat his army, everything else was moot. Arcane knowledge and libraries across the sea would have little meaning if they were dead.
“You know, the wizards of old fought a lot. They occasionally worked together but, for the most part, they were engaged in petty wars over demesnes or pissing contests to determine whose element was stronger. One of those wars in particular sticks in my mind. The account, written by an eyewitness, is very detailed. It’s 1200 years old but I could decipher most of it.
“The conflict between two of the most powerful wizards of that era lasted years and culminated in a final battle between a Lord of Water and a Lord of Fire. Their human troops were evenly matched, perhaps four thousand per side, and their respective magics nullified one another. The writer tells of great waves quenching infernos, bolts of living fire arcing from the sky, balls of water larger than houses raining down on combatants, and so forth. The unfortunate village where this took place was razed and the surrounding countryside blasted. There was nothing left, not even a blade of grass. Just when it appeared this engagement, like so many before it, would end in a stalemate and the war would continue, a lone archer, unseen in the midst of so much chaos, shot his last arrow in the direction of the opposing wizard. The shaft pierced The Lord of Water through the neck and he died instantly. The Lord of Fire claimed the victory, although he died a few days later from exhaustion.”
“So, the key to killing a wizard in battle is to distract him. Fight him with magic, get his full attention, and then shoot him with an arrow. By that argument, it might be easier for a human to kill a wizard than another wizard. Forget about learning deep magic, just find a good archer.”
“Not the most sophisticated tactical advice, I know, but it works. When Ariel attacked you during your demonstration, it wasn’t much different - an arrow taking down a wizard, although in that case there was magic involved. It’s about using the element of surprise. Hit Justin with something he’s not expecting. If he isn’t prepared for a form of attack, he’s vulnerable to it. The commanders need to understand this. I found a reference to a ‘magical battle manual,’ but, if it exists, Azarak doesn’t have it. Considering the long-winded and contorted ways wizards wrote, I might not be able to uncover much of value in it if I found it.”
“Maybe you should be on the battle council instead of me.”
“There’s something else. Ever heard of the city of Blixin?”
“I’ve heard of the village of Blixin.” It was an isolated hamlet to the northeast, several hundred miles down the coast from Earlford.
“Same place or at least I assume so. Geography’s not an area of expertise for me. A thousand years ago, it was on its way to becoming one of the South’s great cities until something happened to depopulate it. But that’s another story. The one I want to tell you happened earlier. Blixin was at war with the forces of a local warlord. In those days, The Lady of Earth had established her residence there. The city had no more than a token militia; her powers were enough to keep the warlord at bay. But the time came when she grew infirm and the warlord decided to mass his forces and attack. The old wizard, recognizing she no longer possessed the strength to drive him back, called out for aid from Vantok and her good friend, The Lord of Water. He came immediately, arriving only days ahead of the warlord’s army.
“Though the Lady of Earth was dying, she still had enough power to join with The Lord of Water to provide a defense for Blixin. Together, they worked on the land surrounding the city, transforming all of it save for a small patch into a deadly trap for the would-be invaders. Although the terrain looked no different than the fields all around for miles and miles, it was just a thin crust of earth over a deadly slurry of quicksand. Although magic was needed to form and conceal the substance, it could be maintained with minimal attention, much like Ariel’s heat bubble. When the warlord attacked, he lost more than half his men to the trap and, unable to advance across the compromised ground to sack the city, he was forced to retreat. The unstable ground remained after The Lady of Earth’s death; when the warlord made another attempt to take the city a year later, his efforts again proved unsuccessful.”
“So there may be some practical value in those old books after all.”
Alicia smiled. “All we have to do is figure out how to replicate the soft ground. Earth and water used to form a deadly quagmire for the enemy - Overcommander Vikon would love to have that at his disposal. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone until we’re sure we can do it, though. But it doesn’t seem like something that would require deep magic.”
“And The Otherverse?” Sorial knew that was Alicia’s underlying fascination. Since Ferguson had first mentioned it, she had become obsessed with discovering as much about the mysterious realm as possible. Ferguson dispensed crumbs of information and Alicia scoured page after page on a quest for something more substantive. The prelate believed Justin’s eventual goal was related to The Otherverse and Alicia felt that if they could discern The Lord of Fire’s end-game, it might provide them with a clue about how to stop him in the near-term. Sorial wasn’t convinced.
“There are references to it everywhere but, as with everything related to magic, little is clear. Actually, I think one reason why there’s no explanation about it is because it may have once been a c
ommonplace term - so well known by everyone that there was no ambiguity. Just another place we can’t reach, like the sky. Everyone knows it’s there but that doesn’t make it more accessible and no one ever explains about what ‘sky’ is when they write about it. The sky’s the sky. And The Otherverse is The Otherverse. Over the years, once magic disappeared, it lost its importance and people forgot about it. It’s beyond the portals where elemental magic has no meaning. It’s the source of wizards’ power but, whether it was created by the gods or predates them is unclear. Maybe no one ever knew. It must still exist, otherwise wizards couldn’t function. And if Justin’s goal is to access it, and I have no idea how that would be possible, he may be trying to set himself up as a god.”
That was sobering and unwelcome news but it was irrelevant to the current situation. Justin’s goal might be to enter The Otherverse, but he wasn’t there yet or he wouldn’t be preparing for a conventional war. So the question of how to defeat The Lord of Fire in battle remained.
“At least you’re making progress,” said Sorial.
“Progress? It’s like wading through a moat of shit that’s up to your neck. You don’t realize how lucky you are not to be able to read. If we survive this war, I’m going to teach you so you can suffer alongside me, stableboy.”
Someone had once told Sorial that was the truth of marriage: mutual suffering. It might have been Warburm following one of his regular shouting matches with his wife. At the time, it was said tongue-in-cheek but he suspected Alicia was in earnest.
“I’m not going back tomorrow. I need a break.” She had said the same thing yesterday and the day before, but the lure of the library drew her like an insect to a flame. Until she was needed elsewhere, she would continue haunting the palace library.
“How was your day?” asked Alicia, stripping off her clothes as she prepared to join Sorial in bed. He lay in the semi-darkness watching her undress. Her body still fascinated him. The curves and contours of her flesh were familiar but no less delightful for their familiarity. He had wanted her for so long; sometimes he found it hard to believe she was here with him.
“Well?” demanded Alicia, hands on hips. He suspected her anger was feigned. She would have been more annoyed had he not been distracted by her nakedness.
“Same thing.” While Alicia’s days were spent in the library, Sorial had been making rounds of the city’s farms. As The Lord of Earth, he had discovered there were things he could do to enrich the parched soil and help the fledgling crops grow to maturity more quickly. Vantok was in desperate need of vegetables and grain. Merchants traveling the road from Basingham arrived in a trickle where there had once been a stream. A combination of bandit activity and rumors about the looming war kept all but the most enterprising caravans away, and those that braved the journey charged outrageous prices for their wares. Vantok needed to become self-sufficient quickly or, even with the program of rationing implemented by the king, people would begin to starve.
Alicia climbed into bed next to him and snuggled close. The single lantern still burning in the room provided enough light from him to see her nose wrinkle in distaste. “You smell like dirt,” she said.
“Dirt’s a healthy smell. It could be worse.”
“I know. I remember what you smelled like when you were in the stables.”
“Let’s see if we can find a way to take your mind off the smell.”
* * *
Azarak’s recognition that his feelings for Myselene ran deeper than mere affection had blindsided him. As he watched her assurance on the throne grow with each passing day, he felt shame that he had ever doubted her loyalty. She had remained steadfast throughout the ordeal with her family, supporting him after the deaths of her father and brother. Yet he wondered whether love and rulership were good bedfellows. After all, he had loved Amenia - loved her to distraction. But, truth be told, he had never respected her much. She had been a lovely ornament to adorn his arm at official dinners and functions and, at least at first, a delightful bedfellow. Myselene, however, was much more. Until this marriage, he had never realized how much the first one had been lacking.
Myselene put down her knife and fork and regarded him oddly across the table at which they were sharing the night’s meal. She had caught him staring and thought something was amiss.
“The nobles are irate with you,” he commented, taking a bite of the heavily spiced venison. She had commandeered the contents of several wagons that arrived this morning: a large shipment of rice and grain brought in from Earlford. The price she had paid more than satisfied the merchant but Vantok’s richest citizens were unhappy they hadn’t been given a chance to bid on it.
Myselene smiled and shrugged. “They’ll get over it. Many of them have sacks stockpiled in their cellars. We’re going to have to consider requisitioning all private stores.”
“Only as a last resort. The knowledge that Sorial and Alicia are wizards has quelled the most distressing signs of unrest, but it continues to fester. Many among the nobility lobby in secret for my ouster. If we take their grain by force, we’ll face pockets of armed resistance. War is coming; Gorton believes The Lord of Fire will likely begin his march around the first of Summer, if not before. We need unity.”
“If war is coming, all the more reason for the Crown to stockpile as much grain as possible. An army fights better on a full belly than an empty one. The nobles may resist attempts to take their grain but when they see an army of ten thousand approaching from the south, they’ll fall in line.”
Gorton’s latest intelligence had placed The Lord of Fire’s forces at about ten thousand, exceeding Vantok’s army by about two-thousand even factoring in the men gained as a result of Myselene’s dowry and the supplementary squadrons from Basingham and Earlford. That was hardly a decisive advantage, however, especially considering that the men of Vantok would be fighting for their land and homes. It didn’t seem to be an opportune time for the enemy to attack, but the spies’ reports indicated they were preparing to strike camp and march. That concerned Azarak.
“What’s he planning?” muttered the king. “Why come north without a clear advantage?”
“He’s relying on his magic to provide the edge?” suggested Myselene.
Azarak shook his head. “He knows about Sorial and Alicia and he’s lost Ariel. He has something else planned. But what?” In a straightforward battle between Vantok’s eight thousand and The Lord of Fire’s ten thousand with Alicia and Sorial to counter Justin, Azarak felt confident the city would stand. The problem was, the enemy knew that as well and wouldn’t attack unless there was something to tip the balance - something hidden from Azarak and his military planners. Answering the “what?” question might be the key to winning the battle.
“Meet with the nobles and see if you can broker a deal,” said Azarak. “Let them keep a measure of the grain if they surrender the rest willingly. They’re more likely to negotiate with you than with me. They like you. Everyone likes you.”
“Including you?”
“Especially me. My beautiful, radiant, clever queen. In peacetime, your rule will lift Vantok to levels I could never have achieved on my own.”
Uncharacteristically, Myselene blushed at the compliment. She was used to flattery, but this was different, more heartfelt. And from someone whose opinion mattered. Over the past few weeks, since she had begun taking Gorton’s advice to replace Toranim as Azarak’s confidante, they had grown closer as husband and wife. Some of the darkness had lifted from the king’s countenance. It still lurked but she felt confident she could hold it at bay. That meant accepting more of the burden of rule, hearing his confessions and concerns, and arousing him in bed. Queen, advisor, and lover - she embraced all three roles with equal verve.
“Then let’s hope we get back to peacetime as soon as possible,” said Myselene. “In the meantime, I’ll charm the nobles out of their grain. I’ll learn their weaknesses from Gorton and use those against them.”
“As you did with Am
bassador Uthgarb?” Azarak admired the manner in which his wife had handled the fat man. His own approach would have been more blunt and less effective, likely involving a stint in the dungeon. After signing the agreement, Uthgarb had hastily departed for Basingham. An official missive was received two days ago indicating that King Durth planned to appoint someone new to the position. Uthgarb, it appeared, had had his fill of the queen’s hospitality.
“Exactly as I dealt with Ambassador Uthgarb. Sex, money, food... everyone has a vice. It’s just a matter of uncovering it and finding a way to exploit it.”
Azarak smiled. She will indeed make an excellent queen in peacetime - and perhaps in war as well.
* * *
Rexall and Warburm were waiting when Sorial descended the stairs into the cellar of The Wayfarer’s Comfort. No longer a refuge from the heat, it had returned to its normal function as a storeroom. There was also a secret exit that led to underground passages. This was as good a place as any to hold a clandestine meeting. Sorial recalled how, not that many years ago, Warburm had met down here with a “secret” cadre of confederates whose primary objective was to carry out Prelate Ferguson’s orders. One of their key objectives had been to compel Sorial to enter a portal. Those meetings had been fruitful and the identities of the members were no longer secret. One was Sorial’s father-by-marriage.
Rexall, true to his word, had enlisted in Vantok’s army the day after they had spoken at the river. At Sorial’s request he had been promoted to the queen’s personal protection retinue where, in less than two weeks’ time, he had established himself as one of her favorites. The red-haired soldier was dressed in a rumpled uniform with an insignia designating his regiment on his left breast. Warburm, as usual, was wearing a stained apron and clothing that appeared not to have been washed since before the trip to The Forbidden Lands. His affinity for dirt was in some ways more extreme than Sorial’s.
The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) Page 44