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

by Berardinelli, James

  Sorial’s statement was prophetic. The next day, as he was helping a farmer eradicate a persistent and damaging nest of rot-grubs, he received an urgent summons to join the king in the “war room.” Advance scouts had spotted a large group of men moving north toward the fringes of The Forbidden Lands.

  The war room was in actuality Azarak’s private audience chamber. The chairs had been removed and a huge map of the city and its environs was spread out on the table. When Sorial arrived, seven others were already present: the king and queen, Alicia, Chancellor Gorton, and the city’s three top generals, including Overcommander Vikon, a man who did little to hide his mistrust of Vantok’s new wizards.

  Earlier, as he had passed through the city and the palace grounds, Sorial had noted the sense of urgency and purposeful bustle. This wasn’t an ordinary day and everyone knew it. Vantok had been openly preparing for war since the departure of the Obis contingent but this was different. Now, it was no longer a possibility. It was reality.

  “Ah, Sorial,” said Azarak as the wizard entered. “The invasion we’ve been anticipating has begun. Less than an hour ago, Overcommander Vikon informed me that our scouts along the northern fringes of The Forbidden Lands have observed the entirety of The Lord of Fire’s army pouring north out of the mountains. Estimates of their numbers are in excess of ten thousand men with an additional one to two thousand retainers - cooks, supply wagon managers, whores, and so forth. The report reached us nearly a full day after the army was sighted, so we have to assume they’re well onto the plains by now and headed this way. That puts them three to four days’ hard march away.”

  “It seems unlikely that surprise is part of their plan, so they may wish to husband their stamina rather than waste it in a fast march that will yield little military capital,” suggested Vikon. Although he was ostensibly addressing Sorial, his eyes were fixed on the king. “We should know more when the next report arrives in about six hours. My standing orders are that, upon first sighting of a marching enemy force, dispatches were to be sent at six hour intervals.”

  “We’ve been developing a battle plan for some time. If this was just a conflict of conventional forces, I’d feel better prepared, but the infusion of magic into this war places us in uncertain territory,” said Azarak.

  “What’s notable,” interjected the Overcommander, “is the lack of cavalry. I guess horses ain’t easy to come by in The Forbidden Lands, but my scouts observed less than one hundred riders. I’d dearly love to be able to send a full battalion against them but we’re going to need every horse to help with the evacuation and most of the animals in Vantok ain’t suitable for use in war, anyway. Nags and bays, most of ’em. We’ve got some cavalry from Basingham and Earlford and a small force of our own. That should be enough to counter anything they send against us and harry their flanks. But we can’t mount a full-blown charge. So it’ll be trench warfare, archers, and hand-to-hand.

  “We’re going to ring the city halfway round with two trenches. They’ll stretch from where the river enters the city environs to the northeast to where it passes beyond in the southwest.” Vikon used a riding crop to indicate markers on the map that represented his defenses. “The outer one will be filled with spiked poles. That kind of tactic works better against cavalry but it will slow them down so our archers can pepper them as they’re navigating it. The inner one is where our advance force will be stationed. All indications are that they’ll attack from the south-southeast, so we’ll make that the core of our defense. The evacuation route will be to the west and northwest, crossing the river using the ford and bridges at the public bathing areas. That should be far enough from the fighting to allow maximum survival of those leaving the city. We have a fairly high confidence the enemy won’t circle around and attack from the north. While such a strategy might hold some appeal, the need to ford the river upstream makes it a difficult proposition.”

  “Especially since we have The Lady of Water on our side,” said Azarak. “Justin knows this and won’t put his troops in danger by forcing them to enter a body of water. To avoid a river crossing, he’s going to have to attack across the trenches. We’ve already begun an evacuation of the southern and eastern farms. Those who choose to remain in the city during the battle will be relocated from the eastern quarters to the west.”

  “I’m sure the nobles will be thrilled by that prospect,” said Alicia.

  “They won’t have a choice. Relocate or leave - those are the options,” huffed Vikon. “Martial Law goes into effect at sundown tonight and I’m not going to coddle anyone just because he has a title in front of his name.”

  “How do we contain The Lord of Fire?” asked Azarak.

  Answering that question was why Sorial and Alicia were here. Confronting Justin in battle was something Sorial had considered before and after his conversation with Ferguson; following his failure against Ariel, he knew that a different tactic was needed and deep magic wasn’t an option at this point. Alicia’s story of the long ago struggle between two wizards had provided him with insight into a workable plan. “We don’t wait for Justin to start using magic. He has less energy available than we do. We may be less experienced but we’re younger and fresher. Our basic, brute-force attacks can be as effective against human opponents as multiple ballistae or trebuchets. The Lord of Fire will likely hold back until he feels our attacks are doing too much damage then he’ll move to stop us.” Or so Sorial hoped. There was an alternative possibility - that Justin would attack immediately with the goal of ending the battle quickly with a massive first strike.

  “Once he enters the fray, the key is not to engage him directly. Neither Alicia or me, and perhaps not both of us combined, can defeat him in a direct confrontation. If we try, he’ll destroy us then there won’t be no shield between you and him. The best strategy is for us to distract him while the best archer in the militia gets into a position to shoot an arrow through his neck. The trick for us will be keeping him off-balance without getting killed.”

  “An arrow?” Vikon was flabbergasted. “That’s your plan? Shoot him with an arrow.”

  Sorial knew how weak it sounded. Azarak stepped in. “If you remember, Overcommander, an arrow nearly killed Magus Sorial on the day of his demonstration. If it wasn’t for his wife’s healing abilities, he wouldn’t be standing here providing us with advice.”

  Sorial nodded his agreement. “Wizards ain’t immune to normal weapons, though it’s likely Justin will have some kind of warding in place. He’s too shrewd to make himself vulnerable in the midst of battle. The solution to that is for me to coat the arrows with clay that can withstand the heat of a fire shield.”

  “What about a revolver?” asked Azarak.

  “Too inaccurate at long distances,” replied Vikon. “If The Lord of Fire is three hundred feet away, you might miss him by a body’s length and making a pinpoint shot to the neck is near impossible. An expert bowman can do it, but if you alter the weight of the arrow, it ain’t going to fly the same. Even the most accurate archer will have difficulty adjusting and it will take a couple of shots to acclimate.”

  “We’ll only get one. As soon as Justin realizes he’s a target, he’ll take precautions to make sure nothing gets through and he’ll kill the shooter. But I’ll make enough arrows beforehand so they can be tried on the practice field.”

  The problem for a traditional military person like Vikon was the impracticality of scripting a foolproof plan of defense with such a large random element involved. Sorial didn’t know much about the Overcommander but he hoped the man was flexible and capable of rapid improvisation. If not, he could find that many of his strategies would be ineffective. Sorial might have one advantage with Justin that hadn’t been the case with Ariel: since The Lord of Fire couldn’t walk on air, he would be easier to track, and pinpointing his location would increase the chances of containing him.

  Azarak continued the briefing. “In the meantime, we have three days to prepare Vantok’s defenses. As previously dis
cussed, we’ll establish the outer trench a mile south of the city - that’s far enough away so there should be minimal collateral damage during the primary engagement, although the outer farms will get hit.” He used the pre-placed markers on the map to illustrate the location then cast an apologetic glance at Sorial. Lamanar and Kara’s farm, now the wizard’s property, would be in the direct line of attack. “There will be a six hundred foot open zone between trenches. Archers placed inside the inner trench will begin firing as soon as the enemy reaches the outer one. Once the first barrier has been overcome, the archers will retreat to a place behind the main line of infantry and begin firing into the open zone. None of our soldiers will enter that field. We have three large trebuchets. Those will be anchored five hundred feet behind the inner trench so they can pound the enemy’s lines while they’re engaging the infantry. There are no signs that the enemy army is transporting siege engines and there isn’t sufficient large, good quality timber nearby for any to be constructed on-site. So we can assume the only missiles we’ll be facing are arrows.”

  And whatever The Lord of Fire has prepared.

  “We need to get the men supplied, equipped, and in place. Wagons have to be prepared for an evacuation and any women, children, and elders who want to leave the city pre-emptively should be encouraged to do so as soon as possible. Messengers need to be sent to the other cities to inform them of the situation.”

  “How advanced is defense construction?” asked Sorial.

  “A group of five-hundred men began work early this morning.”

  “I can help, Your Majesty,” said Sorial. “Tell me what you need done; I’m The Lord of Earth, after all. No need to have men digging holes. You can use the manpower elsewhere.”

  Azarak nodded. “You can confer with the Overcommander and his lieutenants. Any help you can provide with the more mundane tasks will be appreciated, although your primary duty will remain taking charge of Vantok’s magical defense. But if we can move a fraction of those five-hundred to duties other than those with picks and shovels, it will work in our favor.”

  “There’s also something Alicia and I have developed that could provide a nasty surprise for the enemy’s front line.” He went on to explain what he had in mind. When he was done, even Vikon was smiling.

  “My boy,” he said. “If you can deploy this on a large enough scale... Just inside the outer ring, I think. Bog them down with the front lines in range of our archers. Death from above and below. I like it a lot. If you can make this happen, I swear by my mother’s name I’ll ne’er have another bad word to say ’bout wizards or magic again.”

  Azarak added, “If this works, even with The Lord of Fire on the other side, you may win this war for us. Sorial, you can help with the outer trench. When that’s done, you and Alicia work on ‘seeding’ the ground while a group of soldiers digs the inner trench. Do whatever needs to be done to make it happen.”

  The war room was a brightly lit chamber with two lanterns on each wall illuminating the small space. So it was that, when one lantern guttered and went out, no one noticed. At that very moment, many miles to the south and east, Justin pulled his gaze away from the fire into which he had been staring, called his generals together, and informed them of a new strategy. Risky, yes, and inferior to the one he had initially contemplated, but better than leading thousands of men into a trap. For this war, the only trap would be one of his devising.

  * * *

  It was a strange thing. An hour before midnight on a warm Planting night, the prime time of the day for drinking, and The Wayfarer’s Comfort was empty. Technically, the inn remained open, but everyone had something more important to do than throw back a mug of watered-down ale while trading gossip with neighbors and strangers. Outside, the noise level was akin to what one might hear in the streets at noon as wagons were stocked, horses were bridled, and men gathered in their regimens. The fighting wouldn’t begin for another few days but war had come to Vantok.

  Battle - it was an ominous word for a bloody business. Warburm had never fought in a war, but neither had anyone else. It had been centuries since the “civilized” cities had engaged in such barbaric behavior. Maybe it was different in the Deep South. Certainly, the men he’d seen in Havenham looked to be the sort who lived and died by the cudgel. The closest Warburm had ever come to war was when he had led a skirmishing party out of Sussaman to rout a troublesome band of thieves and rapists living off the land to the north. The odds had been roughly even - thirty against forty - but to rout the enemy, Sussaman’s force had lost more than half its men. At the time, Warburm had been used to killing and fighting for his life, but he had never encountered such a primal experience of bloodletting and chaos as when two groups clashed with murderous intent. The thought of it happening on a much larger scale was enough to make even a seasoned warrior like him quail.

  He stood behind the bar and gazed fondly around the common room that had been the center of his life for the last 15-odd years. He had come to Vantok as an adventurer of some repute and a follower of Ferguson. Now, he was an innkeeper - a role he had initially played reluctantly but had settled into comfortably. Returning to a life that required travel and fighting, while not anathema, didn’t hold the appeal it once had. The journey to Havenham had provided a forceful reminder that time hadn’t stood still for him. Galloping around the continent was for the young; Warburm was getting old.

  If Vantok stood after this battle, Warburm would likely spend the rest of his life behind this bar and in the kitchen, dispensing beer and ale, baking bread, and butchering meat for his customers. He had a wife to warm his bed at night and plenty of coin tucked away to get him through any lean times. But if the city fell, it would be time to forge a new life elsewhere. Maybe he’d go to Sussaman. He was known there and, in the event that The Lord of Fire reached into the North, the settlement was likely too small to merit notice.

  This war would be unique in recent recorded history. Oh, various cities had fought one another from time-to-time, but this was the first occasion when an invader had attacked since an army of barbarians had streamed down from The White World 1500 years ago, butchering the populace of Ibitsal before facing defeat at Obis. Although Warburm’s knowledge of history was rusty and incomplete, he didn’t believe the South had ever been invaded, at least not since before the current cities had risen.

  If The Lord of Fire won, Warburm didn’t expect The Wayfarer’s Comfort to remain standing. In fact, most of Vantok would be destroyed in an orgy of burning and pillaging. In a war between cities, there was an unwritten code that civilians were to be spared and buildings left standing when possible. It was different with an invasion. Men who remained in Vantok would be put to the sword. Women would be raped and enslaved. And the city would be reduced to ruins. The Wayfarer’s Comfort, which had stood in this spot since long before Warburm bought it, wouldn’t be spared.

  Of course, Warburm had a job to do - one last assignment before the old warrior hung up his sword and sat his weary bones down in front of a warm, cheery fire. There was irony aplenty in Warburm’s current situation, taking commands from the boy he had ordered around for more than a dozen years. The man whose directives he had followed might soon be his prisoner. And, if things went wrong, he might be Ferguson’s executioner. Warburm had no compunctions about killing the old priest. Ferguson had been an important man in his time, but that time was past. The ease with which the Temple had abandoned him to his fate was ample evidence of that. In the next generation, power would rest with the wizards, not the priests and kings. It remained to be seen what kind of wizards would rise to the top and whether they would seek to unite or destroy. There were no more gods to keep them in check and that was a sobering realization. Never before had men been so dependent on the nature of a few of their number.

  “Can I go, sir? Don’t seem to be no customers tonight. Me ma and pa be talkin’ about packin’ up an’ headin’ to Bissinghim.” Carrie was one of Warburm’s longest tenured serving girls
. She had come to him at the age of eight and had been with him since his third year in the place. She was as close to him as his own daughter. His feelings toward her were so strongly paternal that he had never sought her bed the way he had most of the women who worked for him. She had been a fixture here and, following Annie’s death, had become the most popular among the customers for a grope or a little more.

  “You can go, lassie.” He looked into her soft brown eyes and gave her a reassuring smile. “If all goes well, your job will be here when it be over. If not, mebbe we’ll meet again some time.” He doubted that but he knew those were the words she longed to hear. Carrie craved normalcy and routine - two things that were about to be stripped from her. Stripped from them all.

  She left with a smile and Warburm was again alone with his memories and the ghosts of his past. As he surveyed the quiet common room, he again saw Annie with her wide smile and cheerful manner, taking orders, teasing patrons with a glimpse down the gaping “v” of her blouse, and laughing at bawdy jokes that only those who imbibed too much found funny. There was a young Sorial, wending his way between customers on an off-day to sit in the kitchen and get warm in the dead of Winter. There were Brendig and Darrin, off-duty but together as always, accepting free tankards of ale in return for keeping an extra special eye on the inn and its stable.

  Outside, the bustle continued. It wasn’t quiet in The Wayfarer’s Comfort, but it was still. Still and empty as a graveyard. Warburm hoped that wasn’t prophetic.

  * * *

  Pausing outside the door to his wife’s private chambers, Carannan took a deep breath then entered. The Lady Evane, sitting in front of her looking glass and dressed in a sleeping gown even though it was nearly noon, put down her brush and rose when her husband entered. She regarded him somberly but said nothing. Carannan looked into those eyes and saw what he had seen since their marriage nearly twenty years ago: detachment. She had spent a lifetime keeping him at bay as if by getting too close she might become infected with something. Even early in their marriage, when they had shared a bed and joined together in the dark, she had been distant. Maybe she had enjoyed some of their sessions but he couldn’t remember any outward sign of it. For the most part, she had lain there and done her duty. No moans, no sighs of pleasure. Alicia was the one good thing to have come from those passionless nights. Had Carannan not received positive reinforcement from several mistresses, he might have thought himself an incompetent lover. But those years of unfaithfulness were long past as were the days when he had harbored hope that his wife might come to show a measure of affection. She was who she was and would never be more.