The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  King and guardsman separated, but the smile seemed permanently pasted to Sterrane’s face. He exchanged a few words with Baran in rapid Béarnese, none of which Garn understood. A moment later, Baran caught his horse, raised its head, and bridled it. Dry grasses jutted from either side of the bit, and the gelding pawed its irritation at the interruption of its meal. All of the knights, except for the one standing sentry over Morhane’s bodyguards, prepared their mounts as well. The muscled white chargers obeyed every touch and word, standing as attentively as their masters while the men prepared and mounted.

  Baran shouted a few commands, and the knights responded immediately. All of the childish excitement left the lieutenant, and Garn grudgingly admitted that he had misjudged the other’s competence. When it mattered, Baran became as serious and businesslike as any of the knights. The lieutenant held the chestnut while Sterrane mounted, and two of the knights positioned their horses in front of the heir.

  Baran shifted to the common trading tongue for Mitrian’s and Garn’s benefit. “Mitrian, Shadimar. I’d like to place you behind the king. Then Koska and Flent, with Garn and myself behind them.”

  Mitrian and Shadimar moved into position, Secodon at his master’s heels. The Erythanian sentry ordered Morhane’s bodyguards to stand. As one, they rose. When the knight maneuvered him past Garn and Baran, Flent stopped and addressed the lieutenant. “What’s our status, sir? Are we in trouble for doing our job?”

  “Not yet,” Baran said.

  “Not yet, sir?” Flent turned the commander’s words into a question. “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll need to be tried.”

  Koska glanced up quickly, then lowered his head again, staring at the ground. All color drained from Flent’s face. “Tried? Why? We were just following orders.”

  “Morhane chose the two of you for a reason.” Baran instinctively inserted himself between Garn and the bodyguards, and his manner softened. “I doubt you’ll find Sterrane’s justice as ugly as Morhane’s. So long as you’re honest and pledge your loyalty, I don’t believe you’ll be punished. Just keep in mind that your service is to the reigning king. From what I remember about Sterrane and from what Mitrian told me, I’m certain he’ll prove fair.”

  The knight nudged Flent, encouraging him to keep moving.

  Flent squared his jaw. “The king is dead. Long live the king.” He headed for his indicated position, Koska quiet at his side.

  “Long live the king,” Baran repeated formally, then turned his attention to the knight sentry. “Garn and I can watch these two.” He indicated Flent and Koska. “Take your position.”

  The knight acknowledged the command with a nod, then hurried to obey. Garn turned his attention to Koska. The larger bodyguard’s attempt to attack had already singled him out as the more dangerous, and his silence during the recent exchange only reinforced Garn’s impression.

  Baran waited until every person had taken his or her position. “To Béarn,” he said.

  With two Knights of Erythane in the lead, they marched from the sheltering forest toward the city. Koska walked with his head low and his shoulders slumped, Flent restive at his side. Garn believed the smaller guard’s disquiet represented concern for his own welfare rather than preparation for an attack. In front of the bodyguards, Mitrian remained alert, her fingers resting on her crossguard. Beside her, Shadimar strode grimly. Garn always found the Wizard’s moods difficult to judge. Instead, he watched the wolf at his master’s side. For reasons Garn could not explain, its manner always seemed to reflect the Eastern Wizard’s attitude. Now, it trotted with its ears pricked forward and its tail waving like a flag.

  Even from a distance, Béarn appeared far different by day, and Garn scarcely recognized the cottages, trees, and boulders that had served as his cover the previous night. A mass of hardy, olive-skinned Béarnides waited at the border. Several raised their arms and gestured at the approaching procession. Their voices wafted to Garn as a distant, indecipherable hum.

  Perched upon a carved stone speaking dais, Nifthelan watched the approaching group, seeming as interested as the other citizens. His two-knight escort threaded through the throng, opening a path for Sterrane and his entourage. Though the Béarnides politely moved aside for the Erythanians, they huddled at the edges of the pathway. Sheer numbers caused them to compress the pathway by increments, and the knights had to continuously redefine the boundaries. The knights leading the procession dropped back, guarding Sterrane from the sides as well as the fore.

  The irregular stones of the roadway, which had torn Garn’s knees the previous night, now crunched beneath his feet. He remained wary, nearly to an extreme. Trusting Baran to watch Koska, he studied the Béarnian citizens. Though work-hardened and gigantically boned, the women as well as the men, they seemed mostly gaunt. The previous night, Garn had simply assumed that he had taken the shortest route through the town. Now he could see that Béarn spanned less than a sixth of Pudar’s size. The finding surprised him enough to question, despite the potential threat of the citizenry. “Is this all?”

  Baran kept his gaze fixed on the bodyguards. “Isn’t it enough? I think every man, woman, and child in Béarn is here. Except the courtiers and guards, of course.”

  “I’ve seen bigger crowds in the Pudarian market on an off day.” Garn conceded slightly, “Though not usually this tightly packed.”

  “Pudar’s the trading city.”

  Baran’s explanation did not appease Garn. “And this is the king’s city.”

  The noise of the crowd swelled as they came closer, though their words still remained garbled. Baran fairly shouted to be heard. “So?”

  Baran’s glib dismissal gave Garn pause. He did not know why he had expected grandeur to radiate outward from the palace and encompass the entire town; it had just seemed to follow naturally from the high king’s presence. “I thought there’d be more.”

  “Most people do. I have to assume our distant ancestors placed the town here for security. There’s not a lot of unnecessary travel to a mountain city, by tradesmen or by tourists. More recently, Morhane’s tax drove most of the wealthier merchants away. That meant less money for the stone masons, craftsmen, and inns. Used to be, anyone with spare floor space could make a few coins putting up visitors for the night. But people came to see the statues and stone carvings; and most of Béarn’s citizens had to sell their treasures for food. The masons have to market every piece of artwork to the traders to make ends meet, so there’s no place to go anymore to see shops filled with samples and works in progress.”

  “Oh.” Garn remembered the rampant displays of wealth in Béarn’s castle corridors, wondering how much food Morhane’s bedroom furnishings alone might buy.

  “Since Morhane came, the most lucrative job has become court guard, followed by military service. Nifthelan has done well because the townsfolk see to it that he wants for nothing. But the other artists get far too little, in pay or credit, for their talents.”

  Despite his curiosity, Garn focused in on the more important matter raised by the lieutenant’s words. “So if the guards are well-paid, they may stay loyal to Morhane’s memory.” His voice was all but swallowed beneath the hubbub.

  The wild clamor of Béarnian voices finally became decipherable. “Sterrane! Sterrane!” The cliffs seemed to quiver to the vibrations of their chant.

  Apparently tired of shouting to be heard, Baran dismissed the concern with a wave. “It’s more complicated than that. We’ll see how things stand when we get to the castle.” He added something more, but the chant swelled to a peak, drowning his words.

  The two Erythanian knights already in the town joined with the pair at Sterrane’s side. Together, they managed to open the way to the base of the dais steps. Baran nudged Garn, putting his mouth close to the ex-gladiator’s ear. “Can you take care of the guards?” He pointed at Flent and Koska. “I’m going up with the king.”

  Garn nodded vigorously. He doubted the bodyguards would cause
trouble with Sterrane beyond their reach, and he preferred a position that kept him away from the center of attention. Crowds reminded him of the gladiator fights, especially crowds screaming names and encouragements.

  Sterrane mounted the dais in the company of Baran, Shadimar, and Mitrian. Secodon remained with Garn and his two charges, and the Erythanian knights fanned into formation behind them, a wedge between the king’s retinue and the crowd. Garn could see Baran’s lips moving as he coached Sterrane, and the king’s shaggy head bobbing in response, but his ears rang with the villagers’ seemingly tireless chant.

  As they joined Nifthelan, Baran raised his hands. Spreading his fingers, he jerked his hands apart, a signal for silence. In response, the crowd quieted. Only whispers touched Garn’s ears, the last tiny hisses of judgment prior to the unofficial pronouncement of the new king. Baran executed a stiff bow, then began his speech. “Fellow Béarnides, as our esteemed mason has told you, King Morhane is dead.”

  Koska looked up then for the first time since the clearing. His hands balled to fists at his sides, though the Knights of Erythane had relieved him of his weapons.

  The crowd remained silent, more interested in the information that followed.

  Baran did not disappoint them. “As the last surviving heir of King Valar, it’s Sterrane’s right to take the throne.”

  Support rose from the citizenry. It started as a dull rumble, then again flared to a chant. “Sterrane! Sterrane! Sterrane!”

  As the voices died to allow the heir to speak, Koska shouted his disapproval. “Stop it!” He flung an arm into the air for emphasis. “Fools! Stop it at once!”

  “Quiet!” Garn swore viciously at his charge. He grabbed Koska’s arm, wrenching it back to his side.

  Koska twisted free with a hiss, making a crazed dash for the dais stairs.

  Garn dove on Koska. He caught the Béarnide around the waist, and they crashed to the ground together.

  Flent staggered aside, giving the combatants room. Secodon crouched, ears twitching to catch his master’s command. The chestnut sidestepped nervously.

  Koska writhed like an eel. His fist caught Garn with a blow to the head that flashed white light across Garn’s vision. His belt raked the bruises mottling Garn’s side. Stung to fury by the pain, Garn wrapped his fingers around Koska’s throat, driving his thumbs into the guard’s windpipe. Koska thrashed frantically beneath him, skittering half free of Garn’s pinning weight. His own hands locked on Garn’s wrists. He gouged his nails beneath the bandage, tearing at the gash from Morhane’s stiletto.

  “Garn, stop! Let go!” Sterrane’s voice rang out, and his agitation indicated that he had shouted more than once before blood rage had receded enough to allow Garn to hear. A furry blur sailed over Koska, catching Garn full in the chest with his weight. Bowled over, Garn lost his grip. He rolled, raising to a crouch, and found himself staring into Secodon’s bared teeth and a warning growl. He froze.

  Sterrane was still talking, but he changed to the Béarnian tongue, presumably at Shadimar’s prompting. The difference in the formality, timbre, and competence of his speech surprised Garn. If not for the complete familiarity of the voice, he would have searched for the speaker. “My first act as king will be to pass the following law: All citizens may express themselves freely before me, no matter the subject. While I’ll keep the right of final decision regarding Béarn’s fate, I will take counsel from any citizen.”

  The crowd become motionlessly expectant. By convention, king’s proclamations were always decided before advisers or the gentry first, in the safety of chambers or the courtroom. Not only had Sterrane broken the ritual even before his coronation; he had preached a policy that, Garn believed, no man could deem anything less than just.

  “Rise, Koska.” Sterrane indicated the platform of the dais. “Approach and speak your mind.”

  Certain Secodon would not harm him, Garn ignored the wolf. Blood flowed freely, staining his bandage, and every injury he had taken in Morhane’s castle ached. Sullenly, he tended to the open wound, leaving Koska to Mitrian’s and Baran’s guarding. Flent wrung his hands. He seemed to have no intention of starting a row. If he tried to run, he would not get far through the press of the crowd.

  Given free rein, Koska seemed less sure of himself. He mounted the stairs slowly, glancing first at Sterrane, who gave him a warm smile of welcome. Baran stepped between guard and king, his features crinkled in warning. Mitrian watched Garn, obviously concerned by the blood. Shadimar stood in silence beside Nifthelan, looking unperturbed, as usual.

  The crowd remained quiet but restless.

  Koska cleared his throat. Then, apparently taking Sterrane at his word, he raised his voice in opposition. “Fellow Béarnides, have you all gone mad? How can you fawn like jackals over the man who murdered our king!”

  Many answers rose from the audience, yet they all blended into an indecipherable outcry. When the din died again, it was Nifthelan’s reply that cut above the others. “You know the legends promised the return of Valar’s son, accompanied by the Western Wizard.” He gestured at Shadimar, who frowned. Garn knew Shadimar called himself the Eastern Wizard, but his presence could serve legend equally well. Few enough believed in any of the Cardinal Wizards any more. “You may be too young, Koska, but I still remember Valar: regal, fair, proud and strong! Béarn flourished under his rule, as it will in the reign of his son. Hail, King Sterrane!”

  The crowd answered with a resounding cheer.

  Koska’s mouth opened and closed, but his words were drowned beneath the roar. At length, when no one gave him an opening to speak, he descended from the dais in defeat.

  Having staunched the bleeding, Garn wrapped a new bandage about the wound. Grudgingly, he stepped back to let Koska and the others retake their positions in the processional, soothed by mental images of his own sword thrust through Koska’s back. Apparently aware of Garn’s gaze drilling into his spine, the bodyguard glanced behind him several times. They headed for the castle, the citizenry following in a tumultuous mass. Despite the obvious victory, Garn did not allow himself to drop his guard. Buoyed by myth and the promise of a better life, they had understandably given their support to the new king. The palace guards and militia, Garn guessed, would not prove so easily swayed.

  Apparently, the noise in Béarn’s streets had alerted the castle sentries. As Sterrane’s processional reached the walls, Garn discovered a half dozen guards in mail perched upon the ramparts with readied bows. Five men stood before the gate, each clutching the leashes of several gray war dogs like the one Garn had fought in Morhane’s bedroom. The mongrels growled at the crowd of peasants, some of whom had armed themselves with axes, staves, or shovels.

  In the courtyard beyond the gates, Rathelon was poised before a small army dressed in Béarn’s blue. Sunlight flashed from his helmet, and his black eyes seemed to burn as brightly. The blue plume of office waved in a mild breeze. “What is this?” he demanded as Sterrane and the others approached.

  Sterrane cleared his throat, speaking in crisp Béarnese. “I’m Sterrane, Valar’s son, and rightful king of Béarn.” Sweat trickled from his brow, and Garn’s anger receded slightly. Usually, words of any kind came only with difficulty to his childlike friend. Despite his bold oratory before Béarn’s citizenry, Sterrane still despised confrontation.

  The crowd shouted unintelligible support. The knights formed a semicircle behind Sterrane and his entourage. Garn kept his gaze locked on the captain.

  Rathelon glowered. His men remained still. “We have a king, and we’re faithful to him. Go away!”

  “Morhane is dead!” Baran shouted from Sterrane’s side. He said something to the heir that Garn could not hear. “All these and the master mason stand in witness.” He made a sweeping gesture to include the knights and all of the people enclosed by their formation. Nifthelan had left the entourage to stand among the craftsmen.

  Sterrane drew the royal crest from beneath his shirt and ducked through the chain.
He raised the medallion, letting the links dangle from his fist.

  Rathelon’s gaze found Baran, and he squinted in rage. “If the king is dead, then Miyaga is queen. Long live the queen! And as her regent, I demand that you surrender the crest and signet.”

  Baran shouted back. “Valar’s line, not Morhane’s, has birthright to the throne.”

  Rathelon did not give the claim a moment’s consideration. “The law states that in the event of the king’s demise, right of ascension goes first to his queen, then to his legitimate offspring in order of age, then to his grandchildren, beginning with the offspring of the king’s oldest child.” Rathelon kept his voice in monotone to indicate a direct quotation of the law. “It goes on from there, but there’s no need in this case. By right, the throne belongs to Miyaga. And King Morhane, may he sleep in Dakoi’s loving arms, designated me as regent.”

  The crowd dropped to tense whispers. Baran went rigid. His uncertainty bristled warning through Garn. Clearly, Baran had not considered semantics. Legend and loyalty had blinded him to detail. “But Valar’s line is the true king’s line.”

  Rathelon grinned, now fully in control. “The law implies otherwise.”

  Apparently knowing Rathelon was wrong, in theory if not by the specific wording of the law, Baran rolled a desperate gaze to Shadimar. Clearly, he hoped the Wizard would have the eloquence and knowledge to make the point the lieutenant could not. Though every eye had shifted to Baran, awaiting the reply that would turn the tables on Rathelon, it was Mitrian who answered Rathelon’s challenge. She gestured one of the Erythanian knights forward.

  The knight first looked to Baran, who nodded his approval. The white charger threaded calmly to Mitrian’s side. Garn folded his arms across his chest, tired, aching, and irritable; but still curious about his consort’s approach. Apparently, her years as a strategist’s daughter had not wholly gone to waste.

  “I’m a stranger to Béarn,” Mitrian started. Although she did not shout like the others, interest and need held the citizens quiet. Her steady voice thundered over the whispers. “I don’t expect you to listen to me. But will everyone here trust the words of this man?” She indicated the Erythanian knight.