Heirs of the Enemy

by Richard S. Tuttle

  “Very well,” agreed Zack, “but remember that discovery means much more than your death. It would also bring harm to the Bringer. Always keep that in mind.”

  “Such thoughts are never far from my mind,” the fairy replied seriously. “I will find you when the meeting is over. There is no sense in you remaining idle. There is too much to learn and too short a time to learn it.”

  Zack couldn’t help chuckling to himself as the tiny man shot off into the darkness of the corridor. He felt as if he had created a monster by tutoring Flea in the arts of spying. Most fairies were fairly adept at spying primarily because of their size, but Flea had shown even greater potential than most. He had much more patience than most fairies, and he was not easily distracted, not even by other fairies. In fact, he had a singular devotion to perfecting the craft of spying, an attitude that Zack could not let go to waste.

  With his fairy dispatched on another mission, Lord Zachary suddenly appeared to be over whatever ill had beset him earlier. He turned around and straightened up before walking out of the darkness and entering one of the rooms filled with celebrating elites.

  Lord Zachary spent the next two hours mingling with the Zarans. As he began to worry about Flea, he saw General Forshire enter the room. He was starting to make his way towards his fellow Alcean when he saw a Federation colonel following Clint. He immediately halted and watched. The colonel was trying hard to see who Clint spoke to without getting too close or being too obvious. The colonel was good at his trade, but not good enough to hide it from a spymaster.

  Zack worked his way around the group Clint was speaking to until he was placed where Clint could not help seeing him. The Ranger held his hand alongside his leg and moved his fingers rapidly in a code that only a fellow Ranger would understand. Clint smoothly nodded his head as if he was agreeing with something one of the people around him had said. Zack moved off without saying a word. He positioned himself so that he could watch both Clint and the colonel. A few moments later, Clint walked away from the group, and the colonel followed at a distance. Satisfied that Clint knew about his tail, the spymaster exited the building for a stroll around the grounds. A short time later, he felt the presence of a fairy as Flea slipped into his pocket.

  “Report,” Zack said softly as he continued walking the grounds.

  “All four cities will be attacked at the same time,” reported Flea. “Sixty-thousand men are assigned to each city, but the plans remain flexible enough so that any who finish early can be used as a reserve to help those who run into delays.”

  “And when will the attacks occur?” asked Zack.

  “They were scheduled to start a month from now, but there has been a delay. The Federation is sending men to explore the areas leading to the four capitals. The attacks will be delayed until after they return. There will be a further delay while supplies are prepositioned. The best estimate at this time is two months from today.”

  “Get this information to Shrimp and then return,” ordered the spymaster.

  “This is important,” frowned Flea. “It is exactly the information we have been sent to retrieve. Shouldn’t I take it directly to the Bringer?”

  “I need you here,” replied Zack. “Another opportunity like this celebration will not come again. Let Shrimp designate someone to carry the news to Arik.”

  Chapter 9

  Counting Mages

  Garth and Kalina sat in a chamber in the old dwarven mines on the Isle of Despair. Morro and his father, Legaulle, entered the chamber from an adjacent one that had been secured to house the Elven Scrolls of History. Legaulle eased himself onto a stool while Morro stood behind him.

  “I have double checked all of the records,” stated the elven historian. “There are eighteen elven women unaccounted for.”

  “Is it possible that some of those women might have died while in the Federation reeducation camps?” asked Kalina.

  “No,” Morro responded. “Deaths of the children were faithfully reported to the Dielderal along with the names of those who opted to remain in the Federation rather than return to Elfwoods.”

  Legaulle beamed with pride. “My son, and future historian of the Dielderal, is correct. The Federation clerks were fastidious with their record keeping as far as the Dielderal were concerned. There are eighteen women unaccounted for.”

  “So there should be eighteen demonkin,” nodded Garth.

  “Twenty-two,” corrected Kalina. “Do not forget the women taken from Elfwoods when Legaulle was attacked.”

  “I meant of the K’san variety,” frowned Garth.

  “That is correct,” agreed Morro.

  “We killed eight of them in Alcea,” mused Garth.

  “Plus two in Waxhaw, one in Herinak, and the one in Farmin,” added Kalina.

  “That leaves six of them unaccounted for,” frowned Garth. “We know that there is one in Despair from Clint’s latest dispatch, and others have been reported in Calusa, Ur, Giza, and Valdo. So where is the last K’san?”

  “I am confused,” stated Legaulle. “You have had Morro and me search our archives to arrive at this number, but why is their location important.”

  “Because Garth plans to kill them all,” offered Morro. “Am I right?”

  “Someone has to eliminate them.” Garth nodded. “With this war getting closer on both continents, we cannot afford to allow the K’sans to interfere. They are far too powerful to ignore any longer.”

  “It is their ability to communicate that troubles me,” interjected Kalina. “That is why we had to take out the one in Farmin. He could have broadcast our attack on the reeducation center and spoiled our plans for the other attacks.”

  “Maybe they have replaced the one in Farmin,” suggested Morro. “It would seem logical to have at least one in each of the four major cities of the Federation.”

  “That is worth checking out,” stated Garth. “We can go there next.”

  “We will run into a problem if we start eliminating the K’sans,” Kalina warned. “If our attacks are methodical or rushed, each remaining K’san will become more alert. I do not look forward to taking on a K’san when they are expecting us to attack.”

  “I understand,” agreed Garth. “As much as I want them eliminated, I do not intend to be foolish about it. They have been arrogant so far, but as their ranks diminish, they will become more defensive.”

  “Arrogance may be part of their makeup,” suggested Legaulle. “Perhaps it is their weakness.”

  “Their weakness?” questioned Morro.

  “Every creature has a weakness, Morro,” smiled the historian. “Yours is your love for the elven children. You would forfeit your own life for any one of them. Garth’s is justice. He would walk into a battle knowing that he would die because it was the right thing to do, and he was the only person capable of doing it. If you examine people close enough, you will find that each and every one of us has a special weakness. I think arrogance might be the weakness of K’san.”

  “They do tend to think that they are invincible,” mused Kalina, “even after many of them have died. It certainly is not logical. Perhaps Legaulle is correct, but I do not think we should plan our strategy based on that assumption.”

  “I agree,” stated Garth Shado. “I think we need to revisit Farmin and determine if the last K’san has moved there to replace the one we killed.”

  * * * *

  The campsite was in a solitary area of the Bloodwood, well off the Coast Road that ran between Valdo and Farmin. The seven mages sitting around the campfire were a strange group. Zynor appeared as an old man with long wisps of white hair surrounding his bald dome. He hummed softly as he gently stroked one of the unicorns with a brush.

  Kalmar was a young human with shoulder length brown hair and a cheery disposition. He sat on a log alongside Eulena, a short, young, female elf. They conversed quietly about the differences between elven and human healing arts. Valera was a tall, skinny, blond woman from Waxhaw. She sat alongside Crystil,
an ageless old hag whose scrawny hair had all but fallen out. Both women were exceptionally quiet, and not very much alike, but they had developed a bond of sorts that did not require words to understand one another. It was not that they passed messages between each other in silence, but rather that they had a basic understanding of each other’s feelings.

  Theos was a young Tyronian man, a firebrand in more ways than one. His bright, fiery, red hair always fell in a tangle about his head, and it sort of matched the state of his mind. Theos was not possessed as some believed, but there was a burning anger deep within him that he could not control. He was impatient, and he ranted against injustice. Such traits could be dangerous in a world where conformity was demanded, but it was even more dangerous for Theos, as he held great powers within him. Theos paced the clearing as if trying to physically wear himself down so that he would be tired enough to get to sleep.

  The Mage sat alone on a stump. He was known as Fakir Aziz by the rest of the group, but he had gone by other names in the past. Some of the Knights of Alcea knew him as Boris Khatama, while others remembered him as Egam. Names meant little to the immortal Mage. What mattered to him was the eternal struggle between good and evil. Fakir’s eyes wandered around the camp, stopping on each of his traveling companions. He seemed troubled by something, but none of the others appeared to notice. Eventually, Fakir’s eyes landed on the pacing Tyronian mage. He frowned deeply.

  “What is troubling you, Theos?” asked the Mage.

  The others all glanced at the Tyronian, and Theos stopped pacing.

  “What are we doing here?” Theos asked in a tone that spoke of great tension, as if his mind was coiled tightly like a spring about to break its restraints. “For days we have camped here and done nothing. Is this what you dragged us away from our homes for? Are we simply to be vagabonds in the wilderness?”

  “This time is meant to learn about ourselves,” Fakir answered calmly. “It is also a time to get to know one another. Were your hours spent conversing with the others instead of yielding to your inner anger, you would develop greater control over your powers. You would also learn the answers to mysteries that no man can solve alone.”

  “Tripe,” retorted Theos. “Look around you, Fakir. Do you see any great intellectual discussions going on? Zynor spends his every waking moment rubbing the coats completely off the unicorns. Come winter those beasts will freeze to death for lack of it. Valera and Crystil don’t say three words a day between them. Kalmar and Eulena need no others in their romantic discussions, and you…sometimes I think you are not even here. Oh, your body is always present, but I think your mind travels the world, leaving nothing but a shell behind to mark some physical place to return to.”

  “Our talks are not romantic,” replied Kalmar, “and you are always welcome to join in. In fact, I would love to hear your comments on what we talk about.”

  Others opened their mouths to refute the words of Theos, but Fakir held up a hand for silence. No one spoke.

  “You wrong your friends, Theos,” the Mage stated compassionately, “and friends they are. Each has gone out of his way to make you welcome, but that is not what you are really after. You speak ill of the others to cover your feelings of unease with the anger burning inside you. We all understand your problem. Don’t you think it is time that you understand it as well?”

  “I cannot control how I feel,” snapped Theos.

  “You can,” retorted the Mage. “In fact, you must. You have great power within you, Theos, but it is worthless unless you can control it.”

  “You are the Mage,” scowled Theos. “Why don’t you control my anger?”

  “I could,” Fakir answered softly, “but what would you do when I was not there to hold your hand? You are not a child, Theos. You are a man. It is time to behave like one.”

  The comment about being a child was more than Theos could stand. He glared at the Mage and then stormed out of the campsite. Kalmar rose to go after him, but Fakir shook his head in a silent order to refrain from interfering.

  “His feelings are his to control,” Fakir stated. “While it is possible to help him with words alone, he must first be receptive to such aid. He is not there yet.”

  “What are we doing here, Fakir?” asked Eulena. “I understand the reason why we had to leave Valdo, but wouldn’t we be more productive in the city where we can help the sick and dying?”

  The Mage sighed deeply and nodded his head. “I am proud of the way you all came together in Valdo to help the unfortunate. Even Theos donated his gold to make it all possible, but more than opportunity awaits us in the cities of the Federation. There is also danger lurking there. This is especially true as long as Theos refuses to face up to his problem. For now, we can only give him time to come around. In the meantime, return to your pursuits.”

  The group slowly returned to what they had been doing. A couple of hours passed, yet Theos did not return. Fakir Aziz was the first to bed down for the night. Zynor decided to let the unicorns get some sleep. He moved to the fire ring and playfully began casting illusions. Valera became amused, and she joined in. Kalmar picked up the challenge next, and soon they were competing among themselves to make the most outlandish illusion. That is when the soldiers arrived.

  “Rebel mages!” shouted the squad leader. “Attack!”

  Eulena swiftly erected a physical shield over the campsite, and the first arrows glanced off it.

  “Reinforce my shields, Kalmar,” she called out.

  The Koroccan mage promptly complied as Fakir Aziz woke and sat up. He frowned deeply as he evaluated the situation.

  “What do we do?” Zynor asked the Mage. “They think we are rebel mages.”

  “Let them expend their missiles,” answered Fakir. “Then we shall explain their error to them. Each of you take turns with the shields.”

  Suddenly, fiery projectiles screamed through the trees. Four soldiers were swept off their feet as the projectiles impacted, and the flames began to devour their bodies. Other soldiers shouted in alarm, but their shouts turned to screams of pain as the trees nearest them began exploding, sending rivers of deadly splinters into their bodies. Tree after tree exploded and then there were no more shouts of alarm. It was all over in seconds. Out of the drifting smoke, Theos appeared. He walked calmly through the devastation, checking each body for signs of life. When he had examined all twenty bodies, he turned towards the campsite.

  “You can lower your shields now,” he called out. “They are all dead.”

  “Drop the shields,” ordered Fakir Aziz. “Zynor, take Kalmar with you and round up their horses. I do not want them running off and alerting anyone to the destruction that took place here. The rest of you take care of burying the bodies.”

  The shields winked out of existence and the five mages filed out of the campsite as Theos was entering it. He watched them leave with a puzzling frown upon his face.

  “Where are they going?”

  “I have given them tasks to do,” answered the Mage. “The women will be burying the dead while the men will gather the horses.”

  “Why bother with that? It would be easier to just move our campsite than to bury twenty men, and we have no need for horses when we have unicorns.”

  “You have need of a horse,” declared the Mage. “You may have your pick of the herd.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You are leaving us, Theos. While I sympathize with your plight, my task is too great to allow you to be a part of it.”

  “So that’s it?” scowled Theos. “I save your lives, and you send me away as if I were some errant child?”

  “Our lives were not in danger,” retorted the Mage. “We could have easily held our shields for days if it was necessary, and there was no chance that the soldiers could get away from us to alert anyone else. The situation, while unfortunate, was under control. Now the situation is chaotic. Twenty soldiers are dead, and you have announced our exact location with a powerful display of battle magic.
If there are black-cloaks in the area, or worse, a demonkin, we will be visited before morning. That would mean true danger for us.”

  “Fine,” snapped Theos. “I have no desire to stick around here and rot with the rest of you anyways. I will leave first thing in the morning.”

  “You will leave now,” Fakir retorted sternly. “The rest of us will be moving away from this place, and the less you know of our travels, the better it will be for all concerned.”

  Theos spun away from Fakir and stomped across the clearing to gather his belongings. His movements were exaggerated, and Fakir could sense the anger coursing through his veins. He walked towards Theos and placed a hand on his head. Theos glared at the Mage and tried to throw off the old man’s hand, but his body refused to acknowledge the order. Slowly the anger drained out of the Tyronian mage, and he stared at Fakir questioningly. The Mage removed his hand from the Tyronian’s head and held out a small slip of paper.

  “You are a good man at heart, Theos of Tyronia,” the Mage said softly, “but you must learn to control the rage within yourself. Seek out this man. Perhaps he can do for you what others have failed to do.”

  Theos reached out and accepted the slip of paper. He stared at it briefly and shrugged. Without a word, Theos turned and walked out of the clearing, crumpling the slip of paper and discarding it as he made his way through the trees. Fakir Aziz sighed heavily and shook his head sadly. He retrieved the slip of paper and threw it into the campfire.

  A while later, the others returned to the campsite. The group was oddly quiet as they entered the clearing, and Fakir said nothing on their return. At first everyone sat around the fire saying nothing, but eventually Kalmar could no longer stand the silence.

  “Theos said that you banished him from the group,” the Koroccan mage said softly. “I know that what he did was a bit over the top, but was it really necessary to send him away? He was only trying to save us.”