Emissary

by Thomas Locke

Hyam lifted the orb high. “Trace, Joelle, keep us moving forward.”

  In response, the mage said, “Joelle, grip his other side. No, lass, don’t touch his arms. Hold his body. All right, lad. We’ll maintain our forward progress. You do what must be done.”

  “Fast as we can go,” Hyam said, and shut his eyes.

  He did not need to see the horde of fluid foes. He could sense them. He could also hear the screams of pure terror rising from the rear vessel.

  And he could sense the crimson one.

  Their enemy rode with the horde. His sightless eyes were fastened upon Hyam as he lifted the phantom staff over his head and cried, “Join me, cousin, and I will spare your friends!”

  “You lie!” Hyam cried, and only realized he had spoken aloud when Joelle said, “Hyam?”

  “Focus, lass!” Trace called. “Speed! For all our sakes!”

  The crimson one laughed, a spectral sound of dust from open graves. “You’re right, cousin! But bond with me and I will give you the lass to do with as you will!”

  Joelle must have caught some whiff of the real threat, for she faltered and the ships slowed, until Trace shrilled with all his might, “Focus!”

  The vessels sped back up, lifting almost clear of the water. But still they could not outrun the thundering mass of liquid fiends.

  From the crow’s nest came a cry so high-pitched it might have belonged to a young girl. “Land, Pa! Land!”

  “Where away?”

  “Falmouth rocks, two points off dead ahead!”

  “Trace!”

  “Focus, lass. Power, focus, speed!”

  And still it was not enough. Hyam did not need to open his eyes to know they would not make it. He could not halt the tide of fury. He strained, he fought with every sinew of his being. The crimson rider deflected his strongest push with terrifying ease. The skull laughed at him.

  The screams from the rear vessel rose to a crescendo.

  Hyam opened his eyes. He was defeated long before he saw the foe.

  The wave towered a thousand paces straight up, curved slightly at the crest. The wave was rimmed by fangs long as oars, and upon the highest peak rode a pale version of the crimson roan. Within the liquid wall sped an army of unworldly beings. Specters without name or true form, as they shifted and grew and reached out with swords and spears and then with nothing more than claws the size of sails. Sailors and warriors in the rear vessel had crowded to the bow deck and wailed in helpless terror.

  Hyam would gladly have thrown himself overboard, given himself as a sacrifice, but it would have achieved nothing. He had never known what it meant to be totally powerless before, not even at his weakest in the empty Long Hall nights. Nothing compared to having people who trusted him pay the ultimate price.

  He screamed his futile fury and lifted the orb higher still, pushing back against the onslaught with all his might.

  When from behind him, out beyond the rocks he had never even seen, a dark castle emitted its own light. It linked with his orb, a joining so simple and uniquely powerful his scream was instantly silenced.

  A brilliance spread out over the sea, a pearl-white luminescence shot with violet. The joined lights dwarfed even the sun. The combined force stilled the vessels’ frantic rush for safety, then passed over them and left them limp and stalled. But speed was no longer required. For behind them the wave was gone. The beasts were mashed back into the ocean’s depths.

  Of the crimson rider there was no sign.

  43

  Hyam spent his first four days at Falmouth Port buried in stone. He found a particular irony at being kept inside a windowless cell of ancient black rock, while all his efforts were focused upon the same activities that formed the core of every Long Hall.

  The same, and yet utterly different.

  The only time he left the castle cellars was to visit the stables once each day. Dama had fretted terribly over being taken underground, so Hyam left the dog with Matu. The destrier occupied one of a long line of stables meant for warhorses. The dog and steed were content.

  “Falmouth Port has no Long Hall!” Master Trace said the words so often he might as well have adopted it as his new litany. But there was no ire to his words, only wonder. The answers he sought came on the fourth morning, when they were visited by Bayard, the leader of Falmouth, the reigning Earl of Oberon.

  Bayard had been out on patrol when they had presented the city with a quandary. The wizards of Falmouth had kept their prowess a secret for a thousand years. As they had the fact that the Oberons had established the port for the explicit purpose of hiding their orb. Protecting their powers. Just in case. That was how the senior mage responded to every one of Trace’s questions. Just in case. More the mage would not say until the earl returned.

  Now the earl was here. And he greeted his senior wizard with an embrace that mashed the old woman to his dusty armor. She protested, “Unhand me, good sir!”

  “You did well, Edlyn.”

  “Of course I did. I always have. I always will. But that does not grant you the right to paw me!”

  “It is your magnetic quality,” the earl replied, his face grave, his eyes sparkling. “It is your immense beauty. Your winsome ways.”

  “And you are a liar and a scurrilous lout.” Edlyn was as old as Trace and made the former Master of Havering Long Hall look positively fat. Hyam doubted she weighed as much as her robes. “I should have spanked you as a child.”

  “You did. Many times.”

  “Not hard enough.” She motioned to where Hyam stood by the central slab. “My lord, may I have the pleasure of introducing Hyam of the Three Valleys, Emissary to the Ashanta. And these are his company, Master Trace and Lady Joelle. This is Bayard, Earl of Oberon and the seventy-first of his line.”

  “Three mages whose approach forced the crimson rider to show his hand.” The Earl of Oberon studied them with frank intent. “Were the reports true?”

  “They were indeed.” Mistress Edlyn placed a protective hand upon the hidden orb of Falmouth. “Had I not been safe down here, without a window to look through, I would have been frightened out of my skin.”

  Bayard, Earl of Oberon, was a tall man with long dark hair that spilled over his mail. He bore the face of a fighter, which meant he was aged far beyond his thirty-some years. “The reports made much of a wave tall as the castle keep and beasts fashioned from the ocean depths.”

  “And the crimson one rode atop the crest,” Trace confirmed. “I saw it, and I shall continue to do so in my dreams.”

  “Your Mistress saved our lives,” Hyam said.

  “Which means you are in my debt,” the earl said.

  “We are,” Hyam agreed.

  “So may I count upon your support in our quest?”

  “Only if your aim is to bring down the dread foe.”

  The earl revealed a remarkably sunny smile, which contrasted sharply with the grave cast to his features. “I think this calls for a banquet.”

  They assembled in a great hall that dated back to the dawn of the current age. The shadow of dread and hardship was left beyond the portals, for within was good cheer and warmth from six fireplaces and excellent food. There was goose roasted with a honey glaze and venison and a stew of lamb and plums. There were six different platters of steaks carved from some great fish—Hyam doubted the stories told by those who served him—of sea creatures as massive as their ships. But Gimmit assured him they were true.

  The earl had wanted Hyam to join him at the head table. But Hyam had not seen his company since the first morning after his arrival, and besides that, he was made uncomfortable by the regal nature of the hall and the gathering. Hyam and his crew occupied three tables down the hall’s right side, with him seated closest to the earl’s throne.

  He was glad for the chance to set down his burdens and his work. For since his arrival he had done little save struggle to fashion a way to bring down his foe. But all was not adversity and worry. Hyam had been given a cell carved deep in
the rock upon which the Falmouth castle rested, and the stone and the two orbs had sheltered his dreams, and he had been well fed, and he had been surrounded by allies. The Mistress of the hidden orb was a capable teacher, and her fifty mages welcomed the strangers because she ordered them to do so.

  The company of mages enjoyed the banquet from their table along the opposite wall. Their grey robes and their magical abilities were the only two things they shared with their Long Hall cousins, as far as Hyam was concerned.

  The hall was larger than Hyam’s village square and lined on either side by pillars the size of forest trees. The distant ceiling was painted with scenes from the Milantian war. One of the mages’ duties was to keep the images fresh and the colors pure. The illustrations carried such vibrancy Hyam could almost hear the sounds of battle, feel the impact of warring magic. Dangling from each pillar was a giant standard, each representing one of the fiefs that had come when the first King Oberon had raised the war banner, the colors as vivid as they had been a thousand years before. The message was clear enough. Here in this place, the past remained alive. The sacrifices that had resulted in the realm’s survival were held close. The watch remained on duty. The foes would not vanquish mankind. Not so long as Falmouth survived.

  When he was done eating, Bayard carried his goblet to each long table in turn, toasting those seated there. His salutes were formal and courteous, as were his guests’ responses. When the earl arrived at their table, Hyam and his company were ready. They rose to their feet and saluted the earl and responded with the same formal words as had been spoken by all the other clans. They thanked him for his hospitality and stood ready for his call.

  But instead of returning to the main table where his wife sat with their only child, Bayard gestured to an aide, who brought over a high-backed chair. The earl seated himself between Hyam and Trace. “Now you may ask your question again.”

  “How on heaven and earth,” Trace replied, “did your ancestor manage to hide an orb here?”

  “My forebear, the first king, was by all accounts a remarkable individual. I have studied all I can and tried to cut away ten centuries of lore to find the heart of the man himself.” Bayard drained his goblet and held it out for the aide to refill. “I had little choice, given my immediate predecessors.”

  Hyam ventured, “My home was so isolated I did not even know the old king had been a poor ruler.”

  “My uncle was a drunkard who saw the throne as little more than a chance to indulge his every whim. Most of which had to do with either wine or serving wenches. He learned all those lessons at his father’s knee, who was himself a lecher with a violent temper. My uncle grew so fat he could not climb into the saddle unaided. Every year they had to make new armor.” Bayard drained his goblet and held it out once more. “My parents died in the fevers. My uncle accepted me as his heir because he had no choice. That is all I care to say about the man whose excesses and blindness cost us the empire.”

  “The orb,” Trace repeated.

  “What did Mistress Edlyn tell you?”

  “She said to ask you,” Trace replied. “Nothing more.”

  “The first king found it upon the battlefield. I assume it belonged to one of the vanquished Milantians, but I can find no record of it. When the orbs were destroyed, the king kept this one in secret. He chose Falmouth as its hiding place for two reasons. First, because of its location. It is forbidding and dangerous and far from prying eyes, with mountains to its back and storm-tossed seas to its face, and the badlands leading down to the desert.”

  “After Ravi defeated your uncle and you asked for this as your fief, we thought you were hiding away in shame,” Trace recalled.

  “And so we wanted everyone to assume. But the crimson mage must have suspected we held a secret power, or sensed it. Because when he started wreaking havoc among the badland clans, he never approached us. Until you came.” The jewels rimming the goblet sparkled in the torchlight as he drank. “The first king worried over the Ashanta’s insistence that all the remaining orbs be kept in what came to be known as Long Halls. The risk was too great that the wizards would grow lazy.”

  “Not to mention self-righteous and complacent,” Hyam added.

  “And smug and petty and bitter and spiteful,” Joelle finished.

  Bayard smiled at them. “Well, now.”

  “The hidden orb,” Trace pressed.

  “My forebear ordered the formation of a secret clan of wizards, one based here. And that brings us to the second reason why Falmouth was chosen. He wanted a place close enough to the edge of civilization to always know risk and hazard and a need for vigilance. A place unable to forget that danger does not die away. Peril does not vanish. It merely slumbers for a time, then rises up once more and seeks a weakness. A vulnerability that can be utilized. A failing where it can strike.”

  The earl then turned to Hyam. He drank from his goblet. And he watched the younger man over the rim. Waiting.

  “There is a third reason,” Hyam said.

  The earl set down his chalice. “Is there.”

  “There is a river of power that flows beneath this place,” Hyam replied. “A strong one.”

  “The Mistress was right to save you, even if it meant revealing our hand.” Bayard rose to his feet. “She tells me you are putting together a battle plan.”

  Hyam jerked back in his seat. “I didn’t—”

  “You thought you could hide away the purpose behind four days of magic?” Bayard smiled. “My grandfather named her Mistress when she was still in her twenties. The old mage who taught her said she was the strongest wizard he had ever known. You would do well to trust her.”

  “I do, sire. It’s just . . . I only have fragments of an idea.”

  “Bring them with you tomorrow. We gather at noon for a council of war.” The Lord of Oberon started to turn away, then remained standing where he was, staring down at Joelle. “You are the emissary’s sword bearer?”

  “I am, my lord.”

  “Are the rumors true? You carry a Milantian blade?”

  “I do.”

  “You will show me? No, not here. I will not have such an implement revealed in this hour of ease.” To Hyam’s surprise, the earl pointed to the ceiling far overhead. “Cast your eye to the right of the high point, midway to the banner with the golden lion. Tell me what you see.”

  It took Hyam a moment before he realized, “A beam of light courses from his sword?”

  Bayard let his arm drop to his side. “There is no record of such, save this one painting. But as a child learning the lessons of long-ago battle, I wondered why the crimson mages were always depicted with an orb in one hand and a sword in the other. Why would the most powerful wizards need a sword? The only answer that has ever satisfied me is there in that painting.” The earl studied the hilt rising by Joelle’s left shoulder. “Guard your weapon well. And keep it hidden from our enemy’s gaze.”

  44

  Hyam had no interest in sharing his splinters of an idea with a group of seasoned generals. He was not ready, nor did he see any benefit, not unless he could determine a few things in advance. So he sent word to the earl, who arrived in the wizard’s chamber at dawn. He was accompanied by the biggest man Hyam had ever seen, a red-bearded giant named Fuca. The warrior wore a checked cloak that was gathered at his left shoulder by a battle crest and bound to his waist by a gilded belt holding a battle-ax. Fuca’s wrists were encircled by armored braces from which extended snakelike scars. More scars rose from his cloak and disappeared into his hairline. He eyed Hyam with a gaze of crystal-blue death.

  Bayard found a soldier’s humor in the unease of Hyam and Trace and Joelle. “Fuca was chosen as leader of the badland clans. He did this by wreaking havoc on everyone who stood between him and the title. He used to wear finger bones woven into his hair. I begged him to take them out, as most of them formerly belonged to the clans he now leads.”

  Fuca revealed a voice of soft thunder. “I feel naked without them.�
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  “I trust Fuca with my life and my fiefdom’s future,” Bayard said. “Now tell me why we are here.”

  “I need something for my idea to work,” Hyam said. “Something that I don’t want revealed to your war council.”

  “I suppose I should be ever so grateful for your trust,” Bayard said wryly.

  “His idea is a good one,” Mistress Edlyn said. “And his reasons for secrecy are sound.”

  “Very well. I am ready.”

  “You brought the map I requested?” Hyam asked.

  In reply, the earl unfurled a chart of sewn parchment, big as sailcloth. It completely covered the central stone table. The map showed Falmouth in considerable detail down at the base. The badlands rose in a sweep of valleys and ridges. Most of the vales bore names and townships and coats of arms. Many of the seals were crossed out. Hyam did not need to ask the meaning of the expunged crests.

  “This does not include the findings of our last sorties.” Bayard stabbed three more valleys. “These clans have been wiped from the earth.”

  “A few of my people made it through to Falmouth,” Fuca rumbled.

  “Not many,” Bayard countered. “Not enough.”

  Hyam knew the earl’s city had become a haven for the surviving clansmen, and Bayard was using these warriors to strengthen his force. Joelle and Trace had described houses crammed to overflowing and lanes so packed it was hard to make way. Hyam had not seen them. The Mistress Edlyn had ordered him not to leave the castle. They had to assume the city held spies and possibly assassins as well.

  Bayard’s sorties into the badlands never confronted the enemy, nor did he try. Instead, he sought to keep the roads open and the haven available to all who came. The crimson one’s attacks had resulted in a broad ring of destruction with Emporis at its heart. Valleys in every direction had their clans expunged.

  “How close does the forest come to Emporis?” Hyam asked.

  “Forest?” Both the earl and the clan leader frowned at the query. “What importance do woodlands hold?”