The Warlock Senator (Book 2)

by Sam Ferguson

  Erik turned back and saw Al smiling warmly at him. Erik offered a half smile and picked his chair off the floor and set it right. Then he poured another glass of water and sat back down as he scooped the last few grapes from a silver fruit bowl and popped them into his mouth in a single fistful.

  “One other thing I should mention to you,” Al said. “On my way here I was attacked by a Blacktongue. He was partnered with another man.”

  “A Blacktongue?” Erik asked. “Why were they after you?”

  Al smiled. “After I put the Blacktongue down I asked the man named Deglain that very question, among others.” Al frowned. “Would you like the good news or the bad news?”

  “Give me the bad news first,” Erik said.

  “He was hired by a warlock named Gondok’hr. He said he was part of the warlock’s personal retinue, but he didn’t know where I could find the warlock or what his plans were.”

  “So another warlock is after us, and all we know is that he hired the same assassins that Tukai used.”

  Al nodded and smiled. “And the good news is that he said there are more assassins on their way to make sure we all die.”

  Erik blanched. “That’s the good news?” Erik asked.

  Al nodded excitedly. “Sure is. Think about it, this means that we will get some excitement along our journey to the tribunal!” Al said with a winking grin.

  Erik sighed and shook his head. “Sounds wonderful.” The two of them sat quietly for a few minutes. Quiet enough that Erik was sure Al could hear him chewing the grapes and gulping them down with the water.

  “Are you alright?” Al asked.

  Erik nodded quietly.

  “Let me into that head of yours, beanpole,” Al said with a forced smile. “What are you thinking about?”

  “That we are both walking into a trap,” Erik replied coolly.

  Al’s smile stretched wider. “That we are, my boy,” he said. “But, we’ll beat them,” he promised with a wink.

  Erik laughed nervously. “You forget I can tell when you’re lying,” Erik replied.

  Al’s smile faded. “Well, it was worth a shot,” he said with a shrug.

  *****

  Master Wendal turned the brass knob and pushed the heavy, oaken door inward. B’dargen’s office smelled of parchment, formaldehyde, and smoke. Wendal was used to such smells. His own office smelled of them quite often. That was the way with mages. The items they studied often carried pungent odors with them. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The large double windows allowed him to see easily in the afternoon sun as the light streamed in, reaching every corner of the room.

  He scanned the bookshelves and the small table in the center of the room briefly before proceeding to the desk. A maroon pipe lay in its holder. The cherry flavored tobacco still smoldered, letting its scent waft through the air. Wendal wrinkled his nose and tried to blow the smoke away so he wouldn’t have to smell it. Besides the pipe and a couple of books on arcane lore, the top of the desk was clear and clean. He moved on to the drawers.

  The first drawer was filled with writing utensils and blank parchment. He also found scissors, an iron stamp and a stick of wax. He picked the red wax up and turned it over. One end had been melted numerous times, indicating that Wendal had been sending several letters. He put the wax stick back and closed the drawer.

  In the second he found a couple of journals. He pulled them out and perused through them, but found only general information about how B’dargen believed his pupils were developing. There was absolutely nothing in the journals of a personal nature, so he closed them and put them back. Behind them he found a couple of letters. He pulled them out and started to sort them by sender.

  “Three from House Finorel,” Wendal counted aloud. He set the others down, noting the senders’ names. He scanned through the three bearing Governor Finorel’s signature. The letters spoke of orcs, which was unusual, but there was no mention of working against the king. Wendal put the letters back. He scanned through the other letters, but they hardly appeared sinister. Two were orders for frogs and bats, which Wendal himself had done at least a dozen times for the students to have dissection subjects. Another letter was from a bookstore in Drakai Glazei, responding to an apparent inquiry about text books for the students. A dozen more mundane letters passed before Wendal’s eyes before he finally finished. Frowning, he stuck the letters back in the drawer. As he started to close it, a small roll of paper fell out from the side.

  “Must have gotten stuck when I opened it,” Wendal said as he plucked the paper up and unrolled it. There was no seal, and was signed only with the letter “G” at the bottom. As Wendal read the note his eyes went wide. He rolled it up and tucked it into his pocket. Quickly he closed the drawer and went for the door. Just as he reached out for the knob it turned and the door opened in, barely missing his nose as he recoiled back.

  In stepped Master B’dargen. His square jaw was clenched tight under his scowl, and his blue eyes carried the heat of anger inside as he muttered something to himself. Upon seeing Master Wendal, Master B’dargen took a half step back and his brows raised under his blonde head of hair, wrinkling his forehead.

  “Master Wendal, what are you doing here?” Master B’dargen asked.

  Wendal froze. What should he say? His mind raced, grasping for some reason to be where he was. “I…” he started. “I was coming to ask if you had any bats left over, and see if I could borrow them.”

  Master B’dargen glanced around Wendal and looked inside his office. Then he motioned for Wendal to step aside and he marched in. “Bats?” he asked. “What do you need bats for? We are already beyond the dissection lesson.”

  Master Wendal nodded and side-stepped closer to the hall. “True, but I was planning an extra lesson for my students. I was going to reanimate the bats and show them how to throw accurate fireball spells.”

  The other master shook his head and folded his arms. “Your students are third-years. They shouldn’t be playing with fireballs for another year,” he said sternly.

  “Yes, Master B’dargen,” Wendal said with a bow of his head. “I’m sorry, I meant no harm by it.”

  “Either way I have no bats left. I only order enough for dissections,” B’dargen said.

  Wendal nodded and left the room, apologizing as he exited.

  Master B’dargen call out after him. “If I was gone why did you enter my office and close the door?”

  “When I came to call there were some students running through the hall and I closed the door behind me. After I saw you weren’t inside I was going to leave a note for you, but I had nothing to write with. I was just on my way back to my office to write the note.” Wendal shrugged and smiled back at B’dargen, who now stood halfway in the hallway and halfway in the doorway. “Thanks anyway,” Wendal said as he turned and briskly walked away.

  He could feel B’dargen’s hot, angry glare boring into his back as he walked down the hall.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Leanor pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and rubbed her arms. She grabbed a leather bag, clamping down on the top. The bag heaved and writhed as the contents inside squirmed.

  She saw the basin resting upon a stone. A chill ran down her spine. Her foot hesitated, paused in that slight arch just before the foot leaves the ground to take a step. Her body’s reticence reflected that of her shaking will. Many years ago, she had sworn never to return, never to indulge this side of her. She compelled her foot forward, despite the nagging in her gut.

  “I hate this,” Leanor muttered to herself. She walked toward the basin of ashes and sucked in a deep breath. Scanning the woods around her, she made sure she was alone before pouring the bag out into the basin. A nine inch long cucumber slug slammed down and slimed its way to the powdery ash, recoiling against the substance. Next came a sheep’s eye, a spider’s egg sack, a snake head, and a lizard’s tail.

  She waved her hand over the basin and spoke. “As the day is eaten by the
night, the darkness is the truest keeper of the light.” She spat into the ashes and they began to glow. “Darkest night, reveal your face and let me partake of your light.”

  Green flame reached through the ashes, enveloping the slug and the other offerings in the basin. The slug shriveled, but did not char. Instead, the offering simply absorbed into the ash as the flames grew taller. A pale, wrinkled face peered at Leanor from the flames for only a moment before vanishing again.

  The oak tree beyond the basin began to swell, doubling, then tripling in size. A knot slid into the center and slowly dilated. The tree groaned and creaked at the effort. Finally a mountainous mass emerged up from the dirt and joined to the back of the mutated oak tree.

  Leanor ran her hand through the flaming ashes in the basin. The flames licked and tickled her arm, but she remained unharmed. Her fingers sifted through the ash until she found the round, gelatinous mass. She pulled it from the basin and walked to the tree. She reached forward and deposited the black, smoldering mass into the dilated knothole. The tree closed around her forearm like a mouth, sucking the blackened ooze from her palm and only releasing her arm when all of the slime was cleaned from her skin.

  The tree emitted a low, rumbling groan. The knot swelled again until it was large enough for her to pass through.

  Ethereal green flames hovered in the air before her face. The inside of the oak smelled like freshly chipped wood, but it resembled stone in its appearance. The magical cave descended steeply into the ground. She steadied herself with her left hand as she exited the tree-like cave entrance and found herself in an earthen tunnel.

  The hovering green flame floated before her still, lighting her way enough so she wouldn’t trip.

  At last, she came to a great chamber. A pair of underground rivers flanked her as she stepped out from the tunnel and into the chamber. The glowing, azure rivers converged in the center of the great hall, forming a living pool of light. In the center of this pool, upon an island of stone, were three women. One was next to a cauldron, periodically glancing to a podium which held a large tome. Another was sitting behind a desk of stone on a chair made of mammoth bones, stirring a solution in a beaker. The third was consulting a looking crystal, though Leanor was too far away to see what she was looking at.

  The old, wrinkled lady stood up from the mammoth bone chair and pointed to Leanor. “Ah, Sister Nora has returned!” A smile inched its way across the left side of the old witch’s face.

  Leanor bristled. “I am called Leanor now, Hairen” she said.

  The old witch shrugged. “A panther is always a panther, regardless of what new name it is given.”

  “Hairen, I am not returning to the coven,” Leanor said assertively.

  Hairen huffed and pushed the beaker away from her. “Then why have you come?” the old witch asked.

  Leanor walked toward the edge of her stone platform, stopping a couple of paces away from where it gave way to the ever flowing rivers pouring into the pool. “I need your help,” Leanor answered.

  The youngest witch turned from the looking crystal and placed her hands squarely upon her hips. “Leech,” she hissed. “You turn your back on us for years and only come now to demand our service.”

  Leanor bit her tongue and bowed her head. “I wouldn’t come, except I have no one else to turn to,” she said.

  The middle-aged witch at the cauldron looked up and stepped forward. “What of your shining knight?” She flicked her raven hair over her shoulders. “What was his name again?” She mockingly tapped her chin as if lost in thought.

  “My husband is dead,” Leanor replied softly.

  Hairen nodded her head and the others turned back to their previous activities. “I told you that only sadness would come from marrying a nobleman,” Hairen said. Leanor looked, but found no compassion on the old witch’s face.

  Leanor had forgotten how apathetic and cold Hairen was. “My son is also dead,” Leanor said.

  “Your son?” Hairen asked. The other two redirected their attention back to Leanor. “How was he killed?”

  Leanor started to speak, but the lump that formed in her throat may as well have been stone. She could not force the words to come out.

  Hairen took a step forward and waved her hand. A silver mist flew from her and went into Leanor’s mouth, nose, and ears. Hairen sucked in a breath and her eyes glazed out of focus. Her spine arched backward and her arms flailed to her sides.

  Mist rose from the pool and formed into ghostly images. First, Timon appeared with a swollen hand. “Curse that guttersnipe!” he shouted. “Erik broke my hand!” Timon then walked into a room and picked up a wooden shield. “Eldrik!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I thought I told you not to touch my things!” Timon walked to a shelf near a window and took a wooden sword from the shelf. He then turned back to face the door. He held up the sword and shield. “I found them mom, they were in Eldrik’s room,” he said with a smile. Suddenly his face twisted grotesquely. He stepped forward with his mouth open and eyes wide. Then he fell to his face. An arrow protruded from his back.

  Leanor and Hairen both screamed and fell to their knees, crying out Timon’s name and sobbing wildly. The apparition dissolved and was replaced by the figure of Lord Cedreau.

  “I will make Lord Lokton pay for his treachery!” he swore.

  The younger two witches stole a glance at each other.

  Lord Cedreau rode away, only to return as a corpse upon a sled a moment later.

  Leanor and Hairen wailed terribly.

  The mists dispersed only to reform and unveil a funeral scene.

  Leanor trembled. “Enough,” she begged. The mists dissolved and the silver smoke retracted from her head. She remained trembling on all fours for quite some time, crying and shaking.

  Hairen regained her strength and rose to her feet again. “So, that was your price,” she said flatly. Hairen turned to the others. “Get her a bed and make her a bowl of soup.”

  The other two nodded.

  “And Merriam,” Hairen said with a stern voice. “No tricks.”

  *****

  Leanor woke suddenly and jerked upright, calling out for Timon.

  “We made you some soup,” Silvi said.

  Leanor drew in a couple of measured breaths and resigned her gaze to her lap and let her hands fall to her sides. “You still have my old bed,” she commented. She stroked the black fur blanket, seeking comfort from the familiar softness. “You look as radiant as ever,” Leanor forced herself to say.

  “Some things don’t change,” Silvi said with a shrug.

  “And others do,” Merriam said from the far corner of the room. A book blocked Leanor’s view of Merriam’s face, but given the years of bitterness between them Leanor knew better than to look to Merriam for kindness anyway. “I thought you would never return,” Merriam added.

  Leanor sighed and swung her feet over to the side of the bed to the floor. “I have nowhere else to go,” she explained.

  “What makes you think we would help you?” Merriam asked.

  “You helped me before,” Leanor replied.

  “I owed you a favor,” Merriam reminded her.

  Leanor sighed again and went to the table. A wooden bowl filled with steaming, yellow broth sat before her. She took the spoon and plunged it to the bottom and gave the contents a stir. Hunks of white chicken meat flittered to the top among a slurry of cubed carrots and potatoes. She took a spoonful into her mouth and slowly chewed the savory bits before swallowing. She then set the spoon down and dropped her face into her upturned hands.

  “See, Silvi, your soup is horrendous,” Merriam chuckled.

  “Hold your tongue,” Hairen scolded as she strolled into the bed chamber. “You ought to treat her better, she was our sister.”

  “Was,” Merriam emphasized.

  “She saved your life,” Hairen countered.

  “She ruined my life,” Merriam quipped. She slammed her book shut and rose from her seat as if to challenge
Hairen.

  Hairen held her hands out to the sides. “Choose well where you shall stick your dagger, Merriam, for I am not easy to kill.”

  Merriam fumed and snarled. Her face blushed and veins in her forehead throbbed and pulsed. “It isn’t you I hate, it’s her!” She spat at the floor.

  “Me!?” Leanor shouted. The three witches turned to face her. “You exist only because when Lord Cedreau discovered this place I convinced him to let it alone.”

  “You stole him,” Merriam hissed. “You knew I wanted him.”

  “He chose me,” Leanor shot back.

  “But you didn’t want him, not as I did,” Merriam argued.

  Leanor shook her head. “You would have put him under a spell and made him your slave,” Leanor shouted. “I loved him as he was.”

  Lightning erupted through the chamber. A rumbling thunder shook the entire cave so that only Hairen remained on her feet. “What is done, is done. I daresay you had the final victory in the end,” Hairen said as she turned a glaring eye on Merriam.

  “What do you mean?” Leanor asked.

  “Magic comes with a price,” Hairen began. “That’s why I refused to help you when you returned to me seventeen years ago. Yet, you went behind my back.”

  Leanor shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. After you said no, Silvi offered to help me. I didn’t mention anything to Merriam.”

  “Seventeen years ago you were barren, unable to conceive. You feared your husband would leave you for another, so I can understand your desperation, but did you really think Silvi could cast such a spell alone?”

  Leanor shrugged, mouth agape and tears forming in her eyes. She glanced to Silvi. The raven-haired beauty looked to the floor. Leanor looked back to Merriam. Merriam straightened her neck, puffing her chin up and glaring down at her. Leanor clutched at her chest with her right hand and turned back to Silvi. “Why, Silvi?”