“...I hope you would do nothing different. I don’t regret one moment of the last year except how it ended. Becoming Queen of Vantok has given meaning to my life. It continues to give meaning to my life. Had I remained in Obis, I might have been shielded from all this, at least for a time, but it wouldn’t change anything. Vantok would still have fallen. Azarak would still be dead. Sorial and Alicia would still be missing. And I would be sitting behind a great wall in a cold castle awaiting the arrival of The Lord of Fire and his army. Much better to face my end as a leader of people than as a second princess whose death, like her life, would leave no impact.”
Brave words. Now all she had to do was find the conviction to believe them. If she did, it would mean her salvation.
* * *
Sorial entered the refugee camp on foot, walking under his own power. The inspiration for accomplishing this had occurred to him during the trip to Basingham when he was wondering whether Rexall and Warburm had successfully spirited away Ariel and Ferguson. Thinking of the prelate prompted Sorial to wonder whether a process similar to the one used to graft stone footwear onto Ferguson’s soles could be adapted to fashion and affix a rock leg. Since the damage was below the knee, the joint’s flexibility remained; a stone replacement for the missing calf, ankle, and foot seemed a better option than having a peg-leg fitted. The approached worked as well as could be expected, enabling him to travel with a relatively normal, albeit slow, gait. No walking stick was needed and, with his trousers nearly brushing the ground, the injury wasn’t immediately apparent. He needed regular healing from Alicia, however, to control the bleeding and inflammation resulting from the open sore where bone met stone. Over time, he knew that area would toughen but, at the moment, it was swollen and painful.
They discovered on the road what had happened at Vantok. The dejected, lost expressions of the stragglers headed for Basingham spoke of the situation more eloquently than their words. But Sorial and Alicia asked questions and learned of the army’s defeat at the hands of “fire monsters out of the abyss” and, incredibly, a dragon. There were second-hand accounts aplenty of how King Azarak had defied The Lord of Fire to the moment of his execution.
Their tattered clothing provided a cloak of anonymity for the wizard couple although, in truth, neither was well-known by appearance. During the past few weeks especially, their names had frequently been on the lips of peasants and nobles alike, but few could put a face to “Magus Alicia” or “Magus Sorial.” Now, they were just two more rootless survivors seeking a place to rest and heal.
As they drew close to Basingham, the mass of humanity on the road expanded from a trickle to a river. While clothing distinguished nobles from commoners, that was the only significant mark of difference. Vantok’s destruction had been a leveler of class. In the battle, lords had died as easily as peasants. On the road, ladies were just as weary and despairing as their former servants.
The camp was sprawling, covering a great swath of land to the north of the main thoroughfare into Basingham. By King Durth’s decree, no survivor from Vantok was permitted within 100 yards of the city’s walls without a pass so there was that much space between Basingham’s outer boundary and the fringes of the camp. Sorial had difficulty estimating how many refugees had found their way here. Thousands, to be sure. The number of soldiers looked to be in the hundreds. There were many women and children, all wearing masks of despair and fear. They asked the same question: what next?
Sorial looked for familiar faces but didn’t find any. That wasn’t surprising: just as he wasn’t well-known to the citizens of Vantok, so the citizens of Vantok weren’t well-known to him. He moved slowly through the rows of makeshift tents and small, open-air “plots” claimed by families, and saw the same thing in every face. One bandaged soldier, taking note of Sorial’s infirmities, nodded in silent acknowledgment. A kinship existed among those wounded in battle.
“You be welcome at our cook pot, young sir and miss,” said a middle-aged woman sitting by the soldier’s side. She might have been his wife, mother, sister, or none of those things. She favored Sorial and Alicia with a sad, toothy smile as she stirred the watery contents of a small pot suspended over a meager fire. There would barely be enough in there for herself and the soldier. Were any of the many children milling around theirs?
“Thank you,” said Alicia. “But we’ll have to decline your generous offer. We’re looking for… family.”
“Good luck with that,” spat the soldier. “Only a few of them as lived in Vantok came here and if’n they fought in the battle, you’re as like to find them face-down in the mud down south by the river.” There was anger in his eyes to go along with a haunted, hollow look. “I wonder if they ain’t the lucky ones. They don’t have to suffer through all this. How’re we supposed to start over again at our ages? Me with a bad back and a ruined foot. The gods have truly abandoned us, ’spite what the priests want us to believe.”
The wizards moved on. Snatches of overheard conversations convinced them that the view expressed by the soldier wasn’t isolated. Ferguson’s carefully constructed fable about the gods still caring for their children was openly challenged. These were people whose entire lives had been uprooted, whose meaning for existence had been snuffed out. Many had led hard, deprived existences but they had been anchored to a daily routine that offered a measure of comfort in its sameness. Now that was gone. Some would find a new path but many wouldn’t. Despair, the inevitable stench of a major loss in war, hung heavily over this group of survivors.
“We need to locate Queen Myselene,” said Sorial. She was their liege and, although they had failed in their primary mission to save the city, they bore important information she should be in possession of.
“She may not be here, among the refugees,” said Alicia. “Assuming Basingham recognizes her as the rightful ruler of Vantok, she’d be offered royal accommodations in the palace. We may have to look inside the city to find her.”
The camp was organized haphazardly, as would be expected for something that had sprouted overnight and expanded more quickly than those who sought to manage it could keep control. There were no class divisions, with nobles and peasants sometimes sharing cook pots and sleeping areas. The few they asked didn’t know where the queen was, although everyone agreed she was in the camp. “Led us here, she did,” said one man with a spark of pride. “Didn’t gallop off into the city to leave us behind. Now that’s what I call a real leader!”
It was obvious that Myselene had won over a majority of her new subjects. No one had an ill word to say about her. But how much of that resulted from a desperate need to believe in someone or something at a time like this? Azarak’s execution, by all accounts a simple and straightforward immolation, was already being embellished by storytellers. In one tale, even as the flames licked at him, he had broken free of his bonds, wrested The Lord of Fire’s sword from the wizard’s scabbard, and dealt a nearly mortal blow to his executioner before succumbing. No doubt there were even more elaborate stories of Azarak’s heroism in the face of death. By the time the balladeers began writing lyrics, the late king of Vantok would be a towering figure. The human qualities that had made him worthy of service would be forgotten. That’s the way it was with legends. Sorial wondered how he would be remembered, if at all.
Finally, Sorial encountered someone he recognized. He identified Rotgut at the same time that his old compatriot saw him. The older man rushed over to them and wrapped Sorial in a bear hug, heedless of the wizard’s injuries. “As I live an’ breathe, Yer Magus! What a sight for sore eyes. We gave you up for lost. An’ you too, Lady Alicia.”
“My father…” she began.
“He’s here,” said Rotgut. “’Cept for a few scratches, he’s hale and itching ta find a way ta take back the city. The queen’s named him Overcommander, although there’s damn few of us left for him ta command. Yer mother’s here too. Come with me, I’ll take you ta the duke. He’ll be happy ta see you, I know that fer sure.”
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Rotgut led them on a circuitous route through the camp, zigzagging around plots, tents, bedrolls, and campfires. As they walked, he gave his version of the battle. It was little different from what Sorial had pieced together from the fragments of accounts he had heard on the road.
“It was a grand fight until them damn fire-monsters showed up. Then everythin’ went ta hell. An here was me for a minute thinkin’ we might actually win. Goes to show how little the common soljer knows. One moment, yer fightin’ for all yer worth. Next, yer runnin’ fer yer life.”
“Heard anything about Warburm?” asked Sorial.
“Worried ’bout yer old master? Aye, he’s here. Arrived a few days ago in a wagon with that rapscallion you used ta hang out with. The red-haired one.”
So Warburm and Rexall made it. But had they carried out their commission? Locating them became a priority for Sorial - right after he met with the queen.
Myselene’s command tent was readily identifiable. It was large, professionally constructed, and guarded by two-dozen armed men. Those at the flap nodded to Rotgut and, although they looked curiously at Alicia and Sorial, they didn’t question them or attempt to stop them.
There were four people in the tent when the wizards entered. Myselene, Chancellor Gorton, and Duke Carannan were gathered around a map pinned to a corkboard leaning against a rickety table. The tent’s remaining occupant was Prelate Ferguson, who sat in a chair listening to the conversation of the other three with an expression of rapt attention. Silence descended as the newcomers entered.
“Alicia! Sorial!” cried Carannan. He rushed to embrace his daughter. She squealed with delight as he lifted her off her feet.
“Thank the gods!” said Gorton, uttering an expression that no longer had meaning but was so commonplace it was difficult to surrender.
Myselene, tears of relief spilling from her eyes, approached Sorial, gently touched his empty sleeve in a wordless acknowledgment of his suffering, and kissed him on one cheek.
Ferguson, meanwhile, gazed on the reunion, his expression unreadable.
Once the greetings were done, there was a brief exchange of information. Carannan offered a chronology of how Vantok had fallen. Although it was obviously painful for him to relive the final act of the battle, he left nothing out. Sorial and Alicia listened raptly, realizing their suspicion about Justin’s plan had been accurate.
“I didn’t even see him,” said Carannan, referring to their nemesis. “I assume he was there but he never became directly involved. Those creatures of his were more than enough to do the job. It’s said he emerged from the shadows after the battle was won to take the throne. He personally executed Azarak.”
Sorial relayed the details of his encounter with the efreet and discussed in general terms how djinn could be defeated. He concluded by saying, “Since Justin’s army includes eleven of them, this tactic will prove invaluable. Unfortunately, it can only be carried out by a wizard in contact with the creature. I don’t know if there are any non-magical ways to bring them down.” Remembering the ferocity of the creature he had killed, Sorial somehow doubted weapons of iron or stone would be effective.
“Is Ariel here?” he asked.
“Master Warburm and Lieutenant Rexall spirited her away, as arranged,” said Myselene. “And also Vantok’s prelate, who has been freed from his shackles under my sufferance to serve as an advisor.”
“A sad affair,” commented Ferguson, speaking for the first time since the wizards’ arrival. “But not entirely unexpected, I suppose. Like everyone here, I hoped the inevitable could be avoided but it was a fool’s hope. Someone with Justin’s experience is worth ten untried wizards in a battle. You two have come far since stepping through the portals but not nearly far enough to contend with him. As for his ability to secure the aid of djinn and a dragon... most impressive. This must be the last time we underestimate Justin.
“The loss of Vantok is a tragedy that will be repeated. Although we shouldn’t give up Basingham and Earlford, it’s hard to imagine winning those fights. The Lord of Fire is using those as stepping-stones to his ultimate goal and so must we. With each battle, we have to understand better how to contend with him so when the final contest arrives, we’ll be able to win. The penalty for failing is too great. The Otherverse looms large in his plans. The old gods are dead, banished from existence by their own hands. I’m now more sure than ever that The Lord of Fire doesn’t merely seek to vanquish the six human cities but to seize control of the power of The Otherverse - not as it bleeds into our realm as magic, but from within. Such an attempt might easily destroy him. But, if not, it could elevate him to godhood. This war has always been about more than a handful of houses, buildings, and farms. It’s about stabilizing what the gods have left behind in our care. The true struggle has now begun.”
This concludes The Curse in the Gift
The story concludes in Volume 3 of the Last Whisper of the Gods Saga, Shadow of the Otherverse, which pits Sorial and Alicia against The Lord of Fire and his minions in a war for control of the continent and the mysterious Otherverse.
Thank you for taking the time to read The Curse in the Gift. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated. Thank you. James Berardinelli.
The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) Page 55