by CS Sealey
“What are you talking about?” Rasmus muttered. “I’m fine…”
“You’re a bloody mess, Rasmus.” He heaved his brother up onto his feet. “Man, you’re heavy. Have you been stealing rations?”
His forced laughter died when Rasmus staggered, unable to take his own weight. It was only then that Tiderius realized that Rasmus’s legs were also slashed and bloodied. He carefully eased his brother back to the ground and straightened once more.
“I’ll find a healer. Don’t move.”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere.”
*
Emil went deeper into the cover of the trees and made his way to the sparkling Great River Divide. The ships were barely moving now that the main sails had been gathered up and secured to the yards. He could see the soldiers on the deck ready to disembark, eager to fight. Emil crept to the edge of the trees. He calmed and held out his arms, his hands angled away from him, then drew in a deep breath. He felt the movement of the breeze about him, the natural dampness, and called to it. The air around him acted like parched soil, sucking in moisture from the environment. Emil’s face dripped with condensation. He delved into his power once more and began to conjure a complex spell of alteration. Feeling the hairs on his arms prickle, he released his magic with a sweep of his arms. Like a ripple on the surface of a lake, the spell spread out from him in a wide circle, reacting with the moisture in the air, converting it into fog. Raising his arms again, he sent the fog drifting out through the trees to hug the river’s surface.
The shaman kept the fog thin at first but once it had reached the first ship, he allowed it to thicken and rise from the water to create a wall between the ships and their destination. Within minutes, the five ships could no longer be seen from the shore. There were shouts of confusion from those aboard the vessels and Emil chuckled to himself as he imagined the chaos happening on deck. It was in this moment of confusion that he turned his attention to the wind, projecting his strength into it and commanding it. The unnatural wind swirled around the vessels, catching the few sails that were still unfurled. Concentrating hard, Emil managed to turn the huge ships around.
It was a powerful spell, controlling the wind, and he grew weak as he continued to maneuver the five ships in an arc. When he was certain they were pointing back upriver, he summoned as much power as he could and created a strong westerly draft. The vessels jerked with the sudden burst and cries from the confused crew sifted through the fog as the ships began to drift east.
Before the last of the ships disappeared with the mist, Emil mustered his remaining strength and sent a single destructive spell soaring through the air toward one of the curved hulls. He heard a creak of timber and a distant shout, then nothing more.
Sighing with relief and weariness, he steadied himself on a nearby tree trunk. He could sustain the spells for a few hours, time enough to send the ships many miles upstream. With luck, by the time the captains regained control of their vessels, the Ronnesian defense would have recovered.
CHAPTER 22
Archis Varren stormed down the stairs to the castle entrance hall and severely regarded the man who stood there.
“What is this?” he demanded, reaching the bottom step of the sweeping staircase. “I gave you strict orders to take your men south and destroy the Ronnesians’ northern defenses at Kilsney. Why have you returned so soon?”
The sailor quivered at Varren’s tone. “Lord Varren, sir,” he began and saluted quickly, “we reached their encampment as you ordered, sir, but – ”
“I do not like this but, Captain Beren.”
“Sir, I cannot explain it any other way but to say that a freakish wind arose and forced us back up the river – ”
Varren held up his hand to halt the man’s words. “I fail to understand how that could have stopped you from dropping anchor.”
“As do I, my lord. But a mist rose up in a matter of minutes and then a strong wind turned us about. We could do nothing to slow ourselves. We drew up all our sails and lowered our anchors but the wind continued to push us back. None of my lieutenants understood it either, sir, and I’ve been on the sea for twenty years!”
“Yet you seem perfectly incapable of following orders!”
“Sir, I beg you to understand. The mist dispersed when we reached Lake Divide, but the wind didn’t relent until we were barely an hour from the capital.”
“Then you should have turned tail and gone straight back down there!” Varren exclaimed. “Gods, do I have to captain each and every one of your ships myself to ensure my orders are carried out?”
“Sir, we considered returning but we lost one of our ships just up from the lake and – ”
“You lost a ship?” Varren exclaimed incredulously. “How can you lose a ship when you failed to enter battle?”
“She just sank, sir!”
Varren cursed furiously and ran his hands through his hair. “Didn’t someone check the ships before they set sail?”
“Yes, my lord, and they were all perfectly sound!”
“What of the men aboard her?”
“Unsure, sir, though some could have swum to shore and survived.”
Varren cursed again.
“And, sir – ”
“What?”
“Sir, the bridge had been destroyed by the time we reached Kilsney and our men were overcome by the Ronnesian defense. Most were attempting to cross the river or escape along the southern bank, but some had surrendered. When the wind died, we thought it best to return to the capital and regroup before launching another attack.”
“You thought that, did you?”
“Sir, there’s one more thing I think I should mention.”
“More bad news?”
“Some of my men claim to have seen a man on the southern shore, robed in brown and gray. Of course, I dismissed him as some kind of farmer but my men thought he was a monk – ”
“A what?”
“A holy man, sir, with braided hair, but I know for a fact there are no monasteries in that part of Menthenae.”
“But what is the significance of this? You tell me that your ships just turned on their own, sailed for day up the Divide and one of them sank! What do I care for an old man out walking on the bank? What could a monk have to do with…” His voice trailed off as the whisper of a possibility answered the question for him. Varren felt his insides churn with fury. If his attempt to attack the Ronnesian northern border had been thwarted because the queen’s servants had come north, that would explain the campaign’s failure. If she was ordering her mages to attack with the army, to use their powers against the ungifted, that would mean that she had broken the unspoken rule.
A freakish wind, the captain had called it. A mist that had appeared out of nowhere and a wind they had been powerless to control.
Latrett.
His anger rose again and he dismissed the captain with a wave of his hand and muttered that he would relay the information to the king.
“What of the invasion, sir?” the captain called after him.
“Get out!” Varren snarled over his shoulder and continued up the stairs to the king’s quarters. He was already planning another offensive. This time, he told himself, he would lead the attack across the river himself. Of course, it would take a week or so to prepare for the necessary provisions but he was determined to make a swift retaliation. Never in the whole history of their conflict had either side used their mages in open warfare. They had only ever fought one another – mage against mage. He had lost count of how many times he had wanted to draw his sword and join his fellow countrymen in battle. He would have been able to launch an attack that would have left the Ronnesians crippled beyond repair. He could have had Queen Zennia begging at his feet before he had reached his sixteenth year if he had been given half a chance. Varren would no longer hold back. He was free to wield his powers as he chose, as his ancestors had once done, and with such euphoria that he would never want to return to his present caged existence
.
When he reached the king’s quarters, he did not knock but threw the door open with a surge of magic and stormed inside. Samian jumped up from his sofa, several papers flying into the air from his surprised fingers.
“Damn it, Archis! What is the meaning of this?”
“The Ronnesian crone!” Varren yelled, striding across the room with his arms wide. “She has no respect for the honor of warfare!”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“Sorcha sent her shaman to the border and shattered our invasion!”
“But what of our ships?”
“All but one returned without even a single man disembarking.”
“What of the – ”
“That shaman bastard sank the damn thing, didn’t he?” Varren hurled a glass from the king’s table at the wall, where it smashed.
Samian sighed and slumped back onto the couch.
“I want permission to respond,” Varren continued, turning and gripping the back of a cushioned chair by the fire. “I won’t let them get away with this!”
“No, Archis,” Samian said wearily.
“No?”
“Winter has come early this year and I don’t want our men fighting in snow. Better for them to rest while we recruit for the first day of spring.”
“And what am I to tell the soldiers who want revenge for the murder of their general, the men on board that ship, and those we lost at Kilsney?”
“I was coming to that,” the king said. “Investigations on the assassination of General Carter have come to nothing. They were incapable of finding this Tirk. I am dissatisfied. I want you to follow it up personally since you were the first on the scene. The command of the soldiers will temporarily go to the Deputy of Arms upon his return from Kilsney.”
“If he returns,” Varren muttered. “I was informed that our army was in disarray and that some had surrendered.”
“Then we should pray for his safe return,” Samian said simply. “Archis, I want you to find out who ordered the murder of General Carter. Use any means necessary. Whatever gold you need may be taken from the treasury. I don’t want the Ronnesians to get away with it.”
“They won’t,” Varren said resolutely.
“As for the men wanting revenge for their fallen comrades, it will have to wait until the spring. They can stew their anger during the winter and channel it into their training. Don’t mistake me, Archis,” he added sternly, “they will have their chance to avenge their brothers, I promise you, but we will not act when the Ronnesians expect, nor will we do it in a cloud of rage. We will plan this very carefully, and we will win.”
Varren nodded, then, without waiting for further orders, turned and headed for the door. He went over the facts in his mind as he strode through the corridors of the castle. Miriam, the prostitute who had done the deed, had been a local woman. Tirk’s accent, however, had betrayed him as being a Ronnesian, one who was familiar with Delseroy. There were very few of those left in the city now. However, Varren did not believe that Tirk was the brains behind the assassination. Something about his manner suggested that he was merely a contractor. Therefore, unless he had returned to report to the client, Tirk could still be in Delseroy, reveling in the aftermath of his success. One thing was certain, however – Tirk’s days were numbered. As far as Varren was concerned, the man was already dead.
He hastened up one floor and strode along a corridor to Eron Galenros’s quarters. His only hope of finding Tirk’s exact position, and quickly, would be to allow Galenros into his mind to see the face of the man he was seeking. That way, the seer could locate him through the sight.
As expected, Galenros was in his sitting room. Varren found him seated in the only chair in the room with his pitch-black eyes open. Varren stood before him and waited for a few minutes but the seer did not return from the sight, so he sat cross-legged on the bare tiles opposite and waited patiently. He was thankful for the hot coals still flickering in the grate.
Galenros was a strange man, for he tended to keep his quarters relatively bare when he could have furnished them richly. There were no paintings or tapestries adorning the walls, no carpets covering the stone floor and no ornaments on the grand mantlepiece. But as the seer had explained once to Varren, there was no reason to decorate the rooms when he did little in them but sleep. Galenros was more likely to be found reading or contemplating his visions in the castle gardens or library.
An hour later, Galenros stirred and his pupils returned to their normal brown hue. He ran his hands through his white hair, then turned his eyes to Varren.
“You have been waiting long, I think,” he said, shifting slightly in the chair. “I believe you have something to ask of me.”
“You’re right,” Varren said. “Are you able to help me?”
“The times are rare when you come to me for help, Archis, but I am always willing. Whether I am able, however…”
“I need to find someone.”
“Can you see his face?”
Varren nodded.
“Give me your hands.”
Varren raised them and the seer took them in his own. They both closed their eyes and Varren pictured Tirk in his mind. Sharing a vision with a seer was a draining exercise, but Varren was confident of his strength. He could sense Galenros scrutinizing Tirk’s face in Varren’s mind before images began to take shape. He saw the man driving away from the South Gate with his cart loaded with possessions. Tirk flicked the reins and spurred his horse on, glancing behind him every few moments as though to reassure himself that he was not being followed. Varren rose up from the scene and began to circle. The land stretched out below him like a map. It would only take Tirk an hour to reach the Great Northern Forest.
He felt the link between himself and Galenros sever and gladly pulled back from the vision as it began to fade.
“Nomanis Tirk…” Galenros said thoughtfully. “He is on his way to Rhóhn to buy passage to Tolersley, then on to Kaledros. I sensed he was afraid of being followed but also elated at some past event.”
“Yes. I must leave immediately if I am to intercept him,” Varren said, standing. “There’s a small farmstead on the edge of the forest I am familiar with. I will go there and make for the road. Inform the king where I have gone should he ask.”
“Good hunting,” Galenros murmured, his eyes growing black once more. “I will monitor your progress. Keep your mind open for my advice.”
*
The cart had become stuck on the track and Tirk had leaped down to urge his horse forward. His face was red with frustration and exertion; beads of sweat trickled down his forehead despite the chill of the wind. He had been pushing at the wheels for a considerable amount of time with little success.
Varren watched him for several minutes, circling him silently, sizing him up and properly assessing his character. Though it was dark in the early hours before dawn, he still insisted upon approaching shrouded in a spell of invisibility. The last thing he wanted to do was give Nomanis Tirk the chance to run.
“Stupid beast!” Tirk shouted, his lantern hanging from a tightly clenched fist. “Move!”
“In a hurry, are we?” Varren asked close to the man’s ear.
Tirk spun around, petrified. The lantern slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. The flame flickered weakly, then went out. His frightened eyes looked straight through Varren’s body to the night-covered plains beyond.
“Who’s that?” Tirk whispered.
“I know what you’ve done, murderer.”
“W-what? I’m no murderer! Who are you? Where are you?”
“I am in your shadow and will be until the day you die.”
“Show yourself, coward! I-I have friends nearby! They’ll come if I shout for them!”
He is lying, Galenros’s voice whispered in Varren’s mind. He is alone.
Varren released his hold on the enchantment and dropped it from his shoulders. He materialized right in front of Tirk, making
him shriek. The man stumbled backward but tripped over his own feet and fell. His shout startled his horse, which tried to bolt but the cart was still firmly lodged in the ditch.
“Traitor,” Varren said, looming over his victim.
“No!” Tirk cried. “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!”
“Yet you know of what I speak.” Varren raised his arm from the folds of his cloak and a thin coil of blinding light shot out from his outstretched fingers. The spell hit Tirk’s neck and quickly entangled itself around his throat. Varren could smell the scent of burning flesh as the spell tightened.
“Who hired you?”
“An infantryman!” Tirk gasped, his hands grasping at his neck. “He went by the name of…of Gatennev!”
He is lying again, Galenros’s voice hissed.
“Don’t play with me, Tirk,” Varren said angrily. “General Owen Carter was brutally murdered by a prostitute, and she confessed to me that it was you who ordered the assassination.”
“She’s lying! The little bitch doesn’t know what she’s talking about!”
Varren regarded his victim contemptuously. He did not need Galenros’s prompts; he could feel Tirk’s essence spewing lies like a dam bursting its seams. The traitor really thought he could hide the truth from Archis Varren.
“You know who I am, don’t you?”
The man hesitated, then nervously nodded.
“I have enough to send you to the gallows, Tirk, but I would like you to confess.”
“I already told you! I didn’t do it!” Tirk insisted, his eyes wide and pleading. “Why would I have him killed? I’m not a businessman, nor do I have any political stakes!”
“Ah, you’re wrong about that,” Varren said, probing the man’s thoughts. “You do have political stakes, but not in Delseroy. You are a man of Te’Roek, true to only the queen of the Ronnesians, and a murderer!”
“No!”
“Your mind gives you away, Tirk!” the sorcerer hissed. “I can see all your lies and truths there in your head. Pathetic. By my authority as lord magistrate, I sentence you to death. Do you have anything you wish to say?”