The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Heads bobbed along the line of peasants, and many of the guards added their agreement. Garn eyed the guards, trying to sort Rathelon’s followers from those more likely to join Sterrane, with little success. He could measure bulk and potential weapon skill, but not intention.

  The knight removed his helmet, spilling straight brown hair to his shoulders. His dark eyes sought and held Mitrian’s. He kept his shoulders back and his head high. Above all else, he would not betray his honor.

  Mitrian eased into the questioning. “Your name?”

  The knight responded from long rote. “Sir Kakkanoch Larrinsson, Knight of the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: King Orlis and his majesty—” He broke off there, suddenly recognizing his quandary. He grinned sheepishly, obviously with more humility than most of his fellows. “I guess we’re here to decide that.”

  Twitters ruffled the crowd. The other knights frowned.

  Bothered by the distraction, Garn crouched.

  Mitrian continued her questioning. “Sir Kakkanoch, if a living king specifies an heir other than the one who fulfills the standing law, who would become his successor?”

  Kakkanoch considered briefly. Then a smile touched his lips as he recognized the purpose of Mitrian’s tactic. He kept his answer straightforward. “So long as the king designated his successor freely and without duress, his word would overrule the law.”

  Rathelon remained still, glaring at Garn. Surely, he could not believe that Morhane would have given away Miyaga’s right to the throne, yet Mitrian’s calm presentation had to whittle away at his confidence.

  Mitrian elicited the coup de grace. “Did you hear Morhane do this?”

  Kakkanoch gave the question a moment’s consideration, apparently needing to get the facts right. “King Morhane acknowledged Sterrane as his nephew. Following that identification, he said ‘Of course, these are yours.’ At that time, he gave Sterrane the symbols of his office: the royal crest and the king’s signet.”

  Rathelon went still as a statue. Then rage shivered through him, and he hollered in defense, “Of course his majesty gave over his badges of office to assassins who cornered him. Who among us wouldn’t have done the same?”

  It was a rhetorical question, yet Garn wished he could have answered. Even he would sacrifice his life before handing power and the lives of his subjects to an enemy.

  Mitrian had an answer for Rathelon’s charge. “Sir Kakkanoch, in your opinion, did King Morhane face any threat when he gave his throne to Sterrane?”

  The silence intensified until Garn could hear his own heartbeat. It seemed impossible for such a huge crowd to fall into a hush that deep.

  The Erythanian knight spoke cleanly, his voice plainly audible over the silence. “No weapons had been bared and no threats exchanged. The king had declared, ‘I have nothing to fear from my nephew, and he has nothing to fear from me.’ In my opinion, King Morhane passed his title to his nephew, Sterrane, Valar’s son, of his own free will.”

  The crowd erupted into a frenzied cacophony.

  “Lies!” Rathelon shouted. “All lies! My father would never steal the birthright from his own.”

  Even Garn could see the error in this argument. Fired to recklessness by his own impatience, he shouted. “Morhane murdered his own brother for a title. Did you think he would hesitate to betray you and Miyaga as quickly?”

  For the first time, Rathelon’s attention snapped to Garn, and his brows beetled so low that his eyes all but disappeared. “You! I knew you were causing trouble. I should have killed you when I had you groveling at my mercy.”

  Mitrian headed toward Garn, intending to calm him before his mouth caused more trouble than it had already. But Garn had heard enough. His wounds throbbed, his head had started to pound again, and he had tired of fools’ games. “Open the damned gates, Rathelon, unless you’re too much of a coward to face my sword.”

  Rathelon howled a command. One of the guards before the gate released his dogs, and the beasts leapt at the crowd.

  Screaming, the villagers broke and fled. One dog sped for Garn. He dropped to one knee, drawing and slashing in the same motion. His sword opened its belly, and the beast collapsed in a scarlet pool. Secodon sped from Shadimar’s side to hold two dogs at bay. A fourth writhed in Sterrane’s beefy fist by the loose folds at the back of its neck. The last sprang forward, impaling itself on Baran’s blade.

  Rathelon’s hands knotted into fists. He shouted again, pointing angrily at Garn and his companions. At his gesture, the other guards released their dogs.

  Ten mongrels charged Béarn’s heir and his entourage. Garn bit his lip and tensed to meet the assault, his arm still burning from the previous bite.

  Shadimar lowered his head, muttering something Garn did not try to understand.

  “Back! DondRondBiffBorkBouncerBonnieKrimKramLosMorst! Heee-al!” Despite the length of the list, the names slid gracefully from the speaker’s tongue, and the tone still managed to retain enough authority to stop the dogs in their tracks, perhaps with Shadimar’s aid. Whoever had spoken was a master with words and voice, and Garn guessed the identity of the newcomer at once.

  Mar Lon. As the hounds fell back, Garn jerked his head toward the man on the wall who had given the command. Mar Lon still wore his uniform and plume of office, and his sword dangled from his hip, sheathed. He carried a tear-shaped, ten-stringed instrument with a long neck, strapped across his chest.

  Finally. Relief dulled the edges of Garn’s rage, but not for long. What in hell took him so long? He had forgotten the patient timing that Mar Lon had used to his advantage in Morhane’s bedroom.

  Rathelon looked shocked. As the dogs cowered at the sentries’ feet, their captain reddened.

  Mar Lon rested a hand on his musical instrument, well away from his sword. “This is the man who should have been king.” He indicated Sterrane. “He deserves to take back his throne without bloodshed.”

  Shadimar grinned. “Mar Lon, I presume?” He did not await confirmation. “I had expected Davrin. Last I heard, you were an infant.”

  Mar Lon took the insult in stride, though the Wizard’s casual attitude cheapened his entrance. “How easily immortals lose track of time. My father is dead. An ‘accident’ that conveniently occurred right after he suggested that Béarn help the cities of its own kingdom in the Great War.”

  The Knights of Erythane exchanged glances over this revelation. It was the first time Garn had seen them react to anything other than a direct command.

  Mar Lon bowed. “And you, of course, must be Tokar.” He used the Western Wizard’s name.

  Shadimar winced. Before he could correct the misconception, Rathelon bellowed.

  “Mar Lon, damn you, traitor! I delegate command!”

  The bard laughed. “You may still lead the men, Rathelon. But obviously the dogs obey me.”

  Garn did not understand Rathelon’s next harsh words, but the townsfolk recoiled in fear. And Garn had no trouble translating the command that followed. “Kill them!”

  The archers on the walls nocked arrows. The swordsmen pressed forward, and two soldiers among Rathelon’s ranks worked to open the gates. Shadimar raised his arm, though Garn knew the Wizard could not harm mortals. Mitrian’s sword rasped from its sheath.

  Garn strode forward, coming so close to the gate that the archers could only shoot him if they leaned over the ramparts. “So my impression was correct, Rathelon, you coward. Send your men to fight your battles now that your mother’s too old!”

  Rathelon howled wordlessly. Muddled by this unrecognizable command, the guards hesitated. Many turned their heads, awaiting a definite order from their captain, unwilling to fire upon a crowd until directly instructed to do so. Others shifted nervously, their loyalties torn. To pledge service to the losing faction, whichever that might turn out to be, meant certain condemnation: imprisonment, banishment, or death.

  Garn stared into Rathelon’s rabid eyes, seeing the same uncontrollable rage he had fought so hard to overc
ome in himself. He forced away a smile. Anger would make Rathelon careless.

  On the ramparts, Mar Lon tuned each string of his instrument individually, not needing to compare their pitches. He seemed to take no notice of the threat beneath him. Shadimar lowered his head, his voice emerging as a dull, senseless rumble. He raised both arms, as if to indicate Mar Lon, but his gaze did not follow his own motion. He still studied the ground.

  Mar Lon’s unpolished poetry in the dungeon maze did not prepare Garn for the perfection of his talent. The first few notes that blossomed from the lonriset drew the anger out of Garn, their pitch flowing about him in a golden wave of sound. Then Mar Lon sang, his voice as deep and resonant as eternity. His verses wove a story more intricate than any tapestry, conjuring images of silver-colored cliffs carved to a castle’s spires and a hero king of the mountain, named Valar. Mar Lon’s description of the king made Garn swell with a power that seemed real and personal.

  Even as the description left the bard’s lips, the clouds pinwheeled, as if sucked into a central vortex, then stretched into streamers above his head. Sunlight spilled through the opening, and the sky turned as blue as the ocean’s depths.

  Crowd and guards alike gasped in wonder.

  A moment later, the wispy tendrils reshaped, taking the form and figure of a thickly-muscled and heavily-bellied man. Features swirled into place: piercing eyes, rugged brows and forehead, and a solid chin. It could have passed for Sterrane, though silver streaks of cloud colored the temples, giving an impression of age. Clearly, the vision represented Sterrane’s father.

  Still, the bard sang. His voice became deep and solemn as he described Morhane’s spree of slaughter. The sky picture went fuzzy, striped suddenly with dawnlike stretches of red. Shadows seemed to crowd upon Garn in a whisper of song that left an impression of evil in its wake. The clouds, too, darkened, bunching into a solid mass that blotted the sun and made the day seem more like night. Then Mar Lon performed Sterrane’s return, a simple melody as straightforward and natural as the break of waves upon the shore. The clouds lightened to a neutral slate, drawing and twisting into a more normal configuration. He concluded with the imminent beauty of peace foretold by the legends. Normal colors and patterns returned to the horizon, though it seemed distinctly brighter to Garn, the sun sharper, the clouds whiter, and the blue blush of its background more uniform.

  Buoyed by hope, Béarn’s citizens stood in the vacuum of the bard’s final note, and Garn knew they all longed for more music. Most moved in a dream whose silence was broken only by the last fading notes of the lonriset. Though grounded in reality, even Garn paused, enmeshed in that tranquil web of sound. Though it was the music that had spellbound him, the sky images seemed less explicable. Never before had he seen Shadimar use magic that could not pass for coincidence, yet Garn could think of no other source. But when he finally thought to turn his attention to the Eastern Wizard, Shadimar stood in place, looking as moved by Mar Lon’s performance as anyone.

  Rage accentuated the rise and fall of Rathelon’s chest with every breath, and the rearing bear symbol seemed to twitch with a life of its own.

  Baran accepted the necessary burden of first words in the wake of Mar Lon’s song. The bard’s harmonics made the guard’s voice sound tough and gravelly. “Lay down your arms, Rathelon. For the kingdom as well as your cause, it would be best if you do so peaceably. I would suggest you remand yourself to the custody of the Knights of Erythane.” The lieutenant hesitated a moment, as if hoping someone else would also jump rank and share the burden of degrading a superior officer. When no one did, he continued. “You’ll be temporarily relieved of your duties as captain until a swift and fair hearing.”

  Garn remained in place at the gate, and Baran stepped up beside him.

  Rathelon’s gaze flicked to the archers, who had lowered their bows. As his attention shifted to the swordsmen in his ranks, they looked away, not daring to meet his fiery stare. Gingerly, he removed his sword and dagger from their sheaths and stepped forward. Though Baran had spoken, Rathelon passed his weapons to Garn through the space between the bars of the gate. He spoke so softly, his words did not travel to the crowd. “I await the day I can deliver these to you again, point first.” Head high, will unbowed, he motioned for the gates to be opened.

  CHAPTER 6

  A Call to Home

  Garn awakened on a yielding surface that seemed to mold to his body and felt smooth as silk against his skin. He lay still, savoring the security and downy comfort, hoping the dream would never end. An instant later, the dull ache of his wounds returned in a rush; and his thoughts flashed back to the morning after a pit fight that had nearly killed him. Enraged by the agony of a sword cut that had all but disemboweled him, he had attacked a guard. The bruises and slashes that the other guards’ whips had stamped into Garn’s flesh felt hauntingly similar to the injuries he had sustained during his break-in to Béarn’s castle.

  Garn pushed pain aside, concentrating on the heat of sun rays magnified through glass. He opened his lids. Late morning sunlight glared into his eyes, slanting through a window set over the head of his silk-sheeted bed. Bed? The image did not fit into Garn’s view of the world. He shook his head, trying to clear a sensation he had known only a few times before: morning confusion. Usually, he slept on the barest edge of waking, alert to every sound and movement around him. This time, two days without sleep and his body’s need to heal had driven him into the darkest depths of unconsciousness. He lay still, seeking clues to time and place by the flickering shadows on the ceiling. A wall sconce studded with pearls supported a lantern above his head, and the image snapped the last piece into place.

  Garn recalled trailing Sterrane, Baran, and Mar Lon through the courtyard, across the planking that bridged the shallow moat, and through great, iron doors festooned with the royal crest. They had entered a hallway broad enough to hold a small war. Brackets of bronze held burning torches carved into the shapes of every animal Garn had ever seen, and some unfamiliar ones as well. Bears, deer, cats, horses, and foxes clutched the flaming rods, each etched in intricate detail. Precious gems hung in strings from each bracket, swaying slightly in the breeze of his passage.

  There, Garn’s memory ended. He furrowed his brow, delving into his mind for clues, but the lost time would not come. Concerned, he crawled across the bed. It gave, pliant to his every movement, and he clambered to the floor amid the grind and ache of his injuries. The room had no other furnishings. A niche in the wall supported a bar, a fresh tunic, a pair of breeks, and a matched set of white wraps draped across it. Beneath it, a pan held a pitcher of tepid water.

  Garn glanced at his own tattered clothing. His shirt clung like a moth-eaten rag, and the knees of his britches had nearly disappeared. Bruises mottled his arms, knees, and calves. Old blood discolored the bandage on his wrist, and the cut itched mercilessly. Quickly, he washed and changed, rewrapping the dog bite and the slash across his wrist. He saw no evidence of infection, and both had already begun to heal.

  As Garn buckled his sword belt into place over his new breeks, a knock rattled the door to his room, the sound reverberating through the confines.

  Unfamiliar with the proper conventions and hating to shout at someone he could not see, Garn pulled the panel open. A burly guard in Béarn’s colors appeared startled at the swiftness of Garn’s answer. For a moment he froze in place. Then, restoring formality, he bowed. “Sir, I was told to escort you to the feast and coronation.”

  Garn had no idea what the last word meant, but “feast” he understood only too well. He scarcely remembered his last meal, meager fare before a campfire at a time when anticipation and excitement had held hunger mostly at bay. Assuming he had slept through the night and nearly to midday, a full day’s cycle had passed since he had last eaten. Nevertheless, his first thought was for his wife and friends. “Where’s Mitrian?”

  The Béarnide ushered Garn out into the corridor. “The king and your friends will meet you there.”
Without another word, he headed up the hallway. Garn trotted after him, fascinated by the walls’ ornamentation. Where they were not carved and painted, spotless tapestries told stories, scene by scene. Some depicted tales of the world’s creation, equally split between the religions of the Westerners, the Easterners, and the Northmen. Garn recognized the lore from his companions’ prayers, though he believed none of it. Other tapestries showed gruesome slaughters at the swords of golden-haired reavers who, he supposed, were Renshai. Several particularly intricate weavings displayed mages, always in a cluster of four and surrounded by beasts of earth, sea, and air.

  Garn’s previous short excursion through the hallways, and even into Morhane’s bedchamber, had not prepared him for the finery of the West’s high kingdom. Even the castle in Pudar, which he had seen in the days when he served as a guard, held only a fraction of Béarn’s grandeur. The guard led Garn down a cross corridor, while the ex-gladiator savored the creative beauty of the halls. Soon, the gild on the torch holders became simple, a blue brocade, but that did not detract from the dazzling display of Béarn’s wealth.

  The hallway ended at a double set of teak doors emblazoned with the royal crest, outlined in fire opals. A pair of guards stood at attention just outside, their glaives crossed over the entrance. As Garn and his escort come up to them, the glaives snapped down to the guards’ sides, butts smacking the stone simultaneously. Together, they turned, pushing aside the teak doors.

  Loud, tinny music escaped from the growing crack between the doors. When they opened fully, Garn first noticed a rough-coated bear capering at the end of a chain. His gaze went naturally to the man at the other end, a tall, lean Westerner dressed in a multicolored tunic. The music came from a line of minstrels playing mandolins, their harmony competent but disappointing in the wake of Mar Lon’s talent. Beyond the entertainment, four rows of tables filled the dining hall, each with a central candelabra made of silver and a lace cloth covered with steaming dishes. At the farthest end of the room, Sterrane sat at the head table, Mar Lon and Mitrian at either hand. Shadimar and Baran sat across from the king, an empty chair between them. The lieutenant wore a casual black tunic and britches, the castle colors conspicuously absent, especially so near Mar Lon’s ever-present uniform. Courtiers and visiting dignitaries occupied the other fifteen tables, and servants wound along the aisles, refilling wine glasses and collecting discards.