Strongiron was dumbfounded. He had been gone maybe six months? His King…dead? The Queen was a strong woman, for sure—but King Alomar was different. He loved his King. The realm was blessed to have had such a wise and just leader. And with the news that I bring… He sat down. “The healers were unable to help him?”
“You know most Clerics are worthless charlatans. We haven’t had a real one for hundreds of years. In the end, it was a farce that wore Alomar’s strength and my patience. The mages were of some comfort. Quentin, especially. But in the end they only helped the pain, mostly.” She fixed Strongiron again with a penetrating stare. “I would ask you again, before you continue, will you join my small council, accept your knighthood, and lead our armies? Consider well before you answer, as I may have someone else join this discussion if you refuse.”
I suppose she has already grieved, but God she is direct! “Yes, my Queen. I may not be worthy, but you have my service, as your husband had before.” He knelt and bowed his head. The Queen couldn’t be bothered with scepters or swords, she simply said, “Arise, Strongiron, son of Peace-arm, Commander of the Realm, Knight of the Order of Thunder, as is befitting of the House Tuitio.” She paused, and smiled briefly as he lifted his head. “Now then. What is your update?”
“Evil cloaked in truth, my queen.” Strongiron stood up at that point and could not sit still. He restlessly paced up and down the humble throne room. Compared to Lord Kensington’s palace half a world away, the fairly practical surroundings were an encouragement to him. He was a loyal, practical man, and he stared up at his loyal, practical queen. I’ll say this about my Queen: if God existed and handed out both wisdom and beauty, Queen Najalas must have asked for extra wisdom and skipped the beauty, for sure. One of her favorite sayings was, “I asked to be a fair queen, but instead became a fair queen.”
Queen Najalas raised one eyebrow. They were dirty blond, and matched her nondescript hair, which hung long and flat about her shoulders. Her nose was thin, as were her lips, and her eyes were the color of mud. Her elaborate crown had no place on her head, so she left it on the side of her throne, preferring no adornment.
Strongiron looked at her and repeated, “I tell you—it is Evil cloaked in Truth.”
“Go on.” She listened patiently.
Strongiron continued to pace. “At first, we all marveled at his skill. He fought well—too well. I’ve never seen a man train in the fighting pits and never earn a scratch. This man never lost, never even got nicked in training. Now you know me and trust my right arm—I tell you that even I did not parry every blow, and bear a dozen new scars that I gladly exchanged for the Mark of a True Warrior. I fear no man. And I tell you, this man—his name is Xaro—he is a threat. I would not waste your time, my Queen, if it was just a bad man trying to earn his Mark. The world is full of rogues and mercenaries, some of whom we employ in our own armies as need warrants it. But he is different. I saw Lord Kensington kneel before this man!”
“Lord Kensington is a weakling who cares only for the money his pits generate. He would kneel before you or I as well if we dropped enough gold in his palm. Why should we care about this Xaro?” The Queen did not really think Lord Kensington would kneel before her, but she was growing a little impatient. What did her new general see in this man that was so different?
Strongiron set his massive jaw. “He emptied the pits. He turned the entire group of warriors into his personal army. Two thousand strong, if there were a dozen.”
“So this man just gathered up two thousand swords in training? How, and to what end?” The Queen focused her eyes intently on the commander of Elvidor’s massive army.
“You have hit upon the question, my Queen.” Strongiron said. He grabbed the dirk off the inside of his belt and began twirling it restlessly in his hand as he stopped pacing. He looked up at his Queen. “As to the ‘how,’ that I can answer: he deceived them all. Once Lord Kensington had marked him as a Warrior, he showed his true colors. He is a True Mage, who has somehow bewitched his eyes to make them appear normal. But that is not the half of it. I know that this man intends to invade Rookwood.”
“And how do you know that?” The Queen looked perplexed.
“Because he all but asked me to lead the attack.” A blunt answer for a blunt woman. “I refused, of course. I’m a King’s Man.” He hastily added, “A Queen’s Man, for that matter.”
If this news rattled the Queen, no one would know. She didn’t so much as flinch. “I see. So I should think this Xaro is at least as good a judge of talent as my late husband. Duly noted. But I am curious Strongiron, about two things. What was his reaction to your rebuff, and perhaps more pointedly—if you are a ‘Queen’s Man’ as you say, why didn’t you kill him then and there if you judged him to be such an obvious threat?”
Strongiron stopped twirling his dirk with a final flourish and tucked it back into his belt. Not in a flamboyant manner, but rather with the practiced skill of a man who knew his way around every form of war instrument that existed. He sat and looked at his Queen through his dazzling blue eyes. “His reaction was as I expected—he simply moved on to the next best warrior he could find. Unless I am mistaken, he has employed an unusually intelligent half-ogre to lead his army. I refused him twice, which was enough for him, and we parted with an understanding that should we meet again, it would not be peaceable.
“As to your second question…I did consider it. I was prepared to do so. It was not a fear of death that gave me pause; it was my loyalty to the King…and now to you. Had I lost, you would not have this information. The fastest Elf that guards our Southern flank would be the extent of your advance warning. And in the end, that was too large a risk. Even if this man refrained from his spellcasting—he is a worthy fighter. It is no guarantee that I would have lived, my Queen. Few men concern me in battle one-on-one. Indeed, I earned my Mark by winning a challenge one-on-three. But this one is different, and I hope I am making that plain.”
The Queen drew her already thin lips together into a tight line. “Yes. You are as clear as ever.” She softened her tone slightly. “King Alomar was right about you, Strongiron. Your voice on my council is much appreciated.” Rising to her full height, only a few inches short of six feet, she stepped down from the throne to walk to the far window. Gazing out, she said simply, “And that was the last you saw of him?”
Strongiron shook his head, though the Queen wasn’t looking at him. “No. I saw him one last time. I began to make my way home to Rookwood. I hadn’t even made it outside the city proper when I heard Xaro speaking from the central fighting pit. All warriors had been asked to assemble. My horse was packed, but I lingered on the outside of the crowds to see what announcement he had planned. It was then that I understood completely. He had stripped Lord Kensington, mocked and beaten him. Then he asked all the would-be Warriors who they stood to learn more from; a new Master-At-Arms appointed by this kneeling Lord, or Xaro the Ogre-slayer, the Griffin-killer. He would rebuild the pits, outfitting them better, manning them better, and when they were ready, he would lead them on the greatest mission the world has ever known.”
The queen listened and turned from the window to look into the face of her serious general. “What mission?”
Strongiron stood suddenly, placing his palms open faced in front of him. “He means to take over the world, and called on the ancient name of Kuth-Cergor as his Master, with columns of flame spewing from his hands and the very soil trembling at his voice.”
Strongiron closed his fists and put his arms at his sides. “And my Queen, by trick or no—his Master answered. War is coming, whether we will it or not. This man is evil, cloaked in truth.”
Queen Najalas
The fortress city of Rookwood was the largest city in Elvidor. The continent was split by the Crystal Mountains, and in effect was two separate lands. East of the mountains, Rookwood ruled, with an army that could easily extend south into the Elven homeland of Filestalas, and north all the way to Spookwood. However, fe
w soldiers or loyal knights tried to keep the peace or govern west of the mountains; the Three Fingers area, all the coastal cities and villages were governed by Lords or Elders or rogues that largely served their own interests and were accountable to their local community or no one. Queen Najalas knew this and did not try and extend her power over the West…especially now. There were enough problems in the East, and in the rest of Tenebrae to contend with, if her New Commander was to be believed.
Queen Najalas had been busy in the days since Strongiron had notified her of this Xaro and his unholy God. She had sent emissaries to the other four continents, and had even sent envoys across the Crystal Mountains into the surrounding villages on the western side of Elvidor. She had reached out to the many Dwarves known to roam the continent of Oraz south of the fighting pits of Kekero, along the great Hawthorne mountain range. She had dispatched warriors to the Ice Realm of Rok-Throx on a fool’s mission to find Yeti that would fight if called upon. On a whim and a prayer—quite literally—she had sent a mage, Quentin, who possessed some talent for healing, on a quest to see if there really were any True Clerics left in the world.
Of course, her first action upon hearing Strongiron’s tale was to send a second warrior, Quinn, to Kekero to find Lord Kensington and verify this unreal story. She trusted her General completely, but it was a fantastical tale of Superhuman Warriors and Gods and Evil and Armies and Conquest. Before the Queen would do anything, she needed more than the word of one good man.
Two months later, she had her proof. Lord Kensington had accompanied Quinn back to Rookwood himself, begging the Queen for aid, sanctuary, and help in general. His pits had indeed been emptied by that “villain” Xaro. She had looked at the sniveling man in front of her with a mix of pity and disdain. His wounds had nearly healed, but he would always walk with a limp. He showed the Queen his back, and the scars were all the proof she needed to verify Strongiron’s account.
Weeks passed, and her defenses were somewhat bolstered, but defending the castle was not her main concern. She still wasn’t sure she believed a God—any God—was returning to the affairs of men, but she didn’t suppose she’d be able to stop one if he wanted the castle. Therefore she discounted that threat, preferring to focus on the things she could stop. But if this Xaro truly meant to take over the world, there would be a need for united resistance across continents and sea. Coordinating that would be an enormous challenge. What she needed was information, advice, wisdom. After meeting for some time with the neighboring Elves, she set her mind on seeking council with the wisest person any of them knew. She would not trust this mission to anyone but herself.
She set out with a small retinue on a slow, winding journey through the woods of Filestalas to traverse nearly the width of her realm in order to seek out Pilanthas in Shith. Who’s crazier, the ancient, Elven prophet or the Queen who seeks his advice? She smiled as she nudged her horse along. Before reaching Shith, she would visit Thalanthalas, of course. The Elven Chieftain Chocktaw and his daughter, Lady Elyn, would be offended if the Queen travelled this far and didn’t grace their hidden hall.
CHAPTER 6: TREACHERY REVEALED
Tar-Tan
Hundreds of oars dipped soundlessly and rhythmically into the black water in the dead of night. A cloudy night obscured both moon and stars, and the Uncharted Isles might as well have been black coal floating in black oil in a sealed barrel. The islands lived at edge of the map, rarely visited and virtually unknown. Virtually.
Xaro knew about the islands. He knew about the inhabitants. The men on the islands were strong; they worked the land hard. And there were many, many men. No army had landed on their shores for several generations. Whatever defenses they may have would be light. And because Xaro knew these things…so, too, did Tar-Tan. His planning had been impeccable, and he could now make out the vague blue-on-black outline of the nearest isles.
Tar-Tan thought about Xaro’s parting words as he led the small armada of longboats toward the sandy shoreline: “…give the men you find something to fight for, not just something to fear.” In the dark he grinned and shook his head to no one in particular. Sure, Xaro. I’ll just wake them all up and tell them to leave their families and homes to go fight for a long-forgotten God that I myself am not sure even exists.
No, we’ll be doing this my way. I can’t shoot fire from my hands or cause a booming voice to manifest itself from a crack in the sky. But I’ve always found a way of motivating people to do what I need.
And what I need is an army—a flesh and blood army. As he gave the signals for the boats carrying 1,500 of his best warriors to fan out, Tar-Tan was resolved to be Xaro’s top lieutenant. He would build him an army from the men of these islands.
Magi
Magi walked through the rain into his barracks to check on Kyle. Ten years is a long time…more than half my life. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“Fine,” he said. Kyle’s head looked completely normal, and he certainly sounded ok. Perhaps not quite as energetic or playful as he knew him to be, but given the force of the blow, Magi was thrilled that he was talking and not bleeding. Kari sat on the other side of the bed, staring at Magi. Marik stood near the foot of the bed. “I’m fine—really. Master Marik patched me up.”
Master Marik smiled at Magi and turned to his patient. “Let’s let Kyle get some rest,” he said. Then he turned to Magi. “You too. You have a busy day tomorrow.”
“Master—are we continuing the Tournament? Am I not disqualified?” Magi asked. He looked at Kyle.
“No. You compete against Tarsh in the morning.”
“Tarsh? Why not Ragor?” Magi asked. Surely I won’t have to face another close friend, after this.
“Ragor won his round, and awaits the winner of Tarsh and your match.” Marik replied.
“But…”
“But what?” Marik rounded on Magi. “You won. You must fight Tarsh. The Tournament has been a tradition for nearly twenty years, since I first opened my school in our village. I will not disqualify you—I saw no evidence of cheating. Are you claiming that you cheated?”
“No. No of course not. But the power of some of my spells could be harmful to other students, and—”
Marik interrupted, “The practice of magic can be harmful to some students. Look—what happened here was an accident. Nothing more, nothing less. Let this go, Magi. Remember what we discussed, and prepare yourself for Tarsh tomorrow morning, one hour after sunrise, when you hear the bell.” Marik left, his cloak snapping in the wind as he opened the door to a growing storm.
“Magi, the Master is right. I’m ok—really. Just a little headache. Go get some sleep. You too, Sis. I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry I snapped at you out there,” Kari said. “I was frightened. I mean, I felt some real power in the air. What did Master Marik tell you?” She knows I can’t keep a secret from her.
“Nothing much. Just—he wants me to do a better job of regulating how much power I put into each spell.” Magi stared at the dark-haired illusionist. While Marik’s solid white eyes were striking, Kari’s bright green eyes were equally striking. The hibiscus scent from her thick, dark hair, the reconciliation in her voice, the hint of a smile on her lips, and the warmth of those spectacular eyes unnerved Magi. I can’t picture her with colorless eyes—would she really climb the Staircase at that cost? “No major revelations, that’s for sure,” he said.
“Well, he’s right on two counts: You do need to be careful and you do need to prepare for tomorrow. Tarsh is good, Magi. He’s not the chubby kid that used to run through melon patches with us years ago. Remember the time you saved us as kids from that wolf in Lady Goodwin’s Mikenese melon patch? You remember, Kyle, don’t you?” She smiled at her brother, her voice rising slightly at the excitement of her memory.
There was something about her reminiscing like this that made her unbelievably attractive. Magi turned his head to look at Kyle and saw an odd look on his face. Was it…envy? Anger? It was gone just as quick
as it came. “Actually, I believe it was Lady Goodwin that saved us all. That was the day we discovered the old farmer’s widow was actually a magic user. Not a True Mage, but she could fire a wicked magic missile.” Kyle corrected his sister.
“Yes, she did save us in the end, I suppose. But Magi stood his ground. The rest of us scattered, dear brother.” Kari added dryly, in the way only a sister can get under a brother’s skin.
Magi just said nothing, quietly beaming, but not wanting to boast. He kept flicking his eyes back and forth between Kari and Kyle, hoping they’d change the subject. Well, kinda hoping.
Finally Kyle smirked. “Yeah, I guess we did kinda bolt. The bards will surely sing of that fateful day. Perhaps they’ll call it ‘The Making of a Legend—Magi Blacksmooth the Brave’, and not a dry eye in the pub nor an empty mug shall ensue,” he added, laughing off the slight edge in his tone. Soon they were all chuckling at the memory. “So what’s your point, Sis?”
Kari quickly got serious again. “Just what I said. Tarsh shouldn’t be taken lightly, Magi. In case you two haven’t noticed, your other roommate is not that pudgy kid from ten years ago who was thrilled just to be invited to hang out with us. He’s very talented. And we all know what Ragor is capable of.”
Kari got up and smiled at Magi. Is this her real face, or an illusion? Those eyes were so arresting they were almost unnatural. Almost. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Her skin was a shade darker than her brother’s. Nothing close to elvish skin, that was a deep reddish-brown, but more mocha-looking. That thick, dark hair always smelled like it was rinsed in crushed flowers and seemed to flow perfectly over her shoulders. And when she spoke…especially in the middle of a complex incantation for an illusion she was weaving, you couldn’t help but notice the contrast of her perfect teeth set against her ripe, cherry lips.
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 13