In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1)

by Steve M. Shoemake

  She laughed lightly. “Make yourself comfortable. I am not using them.” She continued to look at Magi squarely. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  Magi started to answer when Marik and Kyle came and sat down. For a fraction of an instant, he saw a look that can only be described as shock cross her face, but it was gone so fast that he wasn’t sure he even saw it. He was about to answer her and introduce Marik and Kyle when she put her hood back over her face, threw a few coins on the table, and bid him farewell.

  “You sure have a way with women,” Kyle remarked. “She was striking. Why do you think she ran off? I mean, we could all use a bath, but still. Master?” He turned to Marik.

  Marik just sat there sipping his ale and staring at the spot where her cloak had snapped behind her with a modest wind gust as she exited the inn. “Who can tell with these village women?” he muttered.

  Xaro

  His lieutenants took the news as he expected. One believed, four still doubted. Even his mage, who should know better, and his warrior, who had seen the proof for himself…Xaro knew that even they were not fully convinced that an ancient God was really interested in Tenebrae. They did not dare admit their doubts directly, but they didn’t need to. Xaro could read them better than they knew—he could sense their patronization. It didn’t matter—the doubters were still useful, and would not be in doubt for long. They were loyal to him for the sake of his power and vision.

  The world had seen no evidence of a true deity for so many untold generations that men and other races had all created gods in their own images to suit their own situations. Xaro laughed at the absurdity of it. Farmers creating rain gods. Dwarves creating stone gods. Elves and their forest worship. Warriors worshipping iron gods. Shipwrights and their useless sea gods. Maidens and their silly fertility goddesses. Even his fellow magic-users worshipped stars and moons and books and nothing. Temples rose up and got abandoned. Generations passed, and more gods came and went. Only the clerics have it right.

  His Dark Cleric, Malenec, knew the truth. All True Clerics drew their strength not from spells, but from prayers. A prayer to a false god was as worthless as wheels on a ship. There were few True Clerics left, however, and Xaro suspected he knew them all: the three Elven guardians in the Tower, and Malenec. All of them were in Urthrax, with their immense lagoon that they bless as Holy Water. False clerics who knew a few simple healing spells and potions were a dime a dozen. But the power to raise an undead army—now that required real power, he grudgingly had to admit.

  Malenec had no use for steel or spell or disguise—he was a True Cleric. A Dark Cleric, drawing his power from Kuth-Cergor, who some referred to in ages past as ‘The Unholy One.’ Xaro scoffed at that title. As if mankind could judge what is holy and what is not.

  Xaro shook his head, considering his Dark Cleric. It was true that Malenec served him as one of his five lieutenants and called him Master. But it was also true that Malenec had a direct line of communication to their God as well, and had slipped in the past describing his army as if they were Malenec’s own. And while Kuth-Cergor had blessed Xaro with more ability than virtually any other man—Xaro knew this to be true—yet he would not recognize him as his True Cleric. It bothered Xaro. No matter.

  Let the world worship their wood and tin and stars for now. Soon they will become reacquainted with a real god, and I will rule the land at his right hand. He gave many gifts to me; he gave one gift to Malenec. So be it.

  Herodius

  The armada of boats launching from the Isles was a sight to behold; Herodius could not imagine all 40,000 men departing. The logistics were staggering, but order was kept. The boats were well provisioned as groups of three hundred slaves manned each boat. The massive increase in the number of rowers was planned by the Ogre to account for the fact that they would not have the current working with them as the ships did on the way over. They joined the other slaves that were already aboard to form two shifts of one hundred and fifty oarsmen, seventy-five to a side, rowing for twelve hours and then eating and sleeping for twelve hours. Day after day after day.

  Every muscle in Herodius’s back and his shoulders screamed for mercy as he rowed in time with the rest of his shipmates. Strong though they all were, the boats were heavy and the wind was still. A bucket of mostly warm water, with some sweat and blood mixed in, was passed along each row with a crude ladle for each islander to draw forth one cup. That was the only break you received, and if you dawdled more than ten or fifteen seconds, the man next to you was likely to grab it from you. The man next to you might have been your neighbor at one time.

  Now each islander was a numbered slave, his family branded with a matching number, right down to the toddlers. Pregnant women would have their babies marked soon after birth. Your number was how they controlled you. If 7X59Y misbehaved, word was sent back to the new island governors, and the family members of fighter 7X59Y were punished. They were all called soldiers from this point forward. Nobody was a farmer or a smitty or a carpenter. Only soldiers.

  Your number was your code, with different digits and letters representing which and what part of the island you came from, etc. There was probably more to the code than just five alphanumeric symbols, but it wasn’t explained to Herodius. He only knew that they tracked your island and your community, and that it matched your family brand.

  Herodius recalled how one of his friends tried to alter his mark before they left. The enormous ogre singled him out before his fellow islanders. “So, you wish to alter your appearance…we shall alter your spawn’s.” His daughter had her hair ripped out by the roots for that. Nobody tried to alter their number after that. They want us to lose our humanity, to turn us into dogs, harden us for war. Herodius kept rowing.

  Finally the bucket came to him. Sweat had been pouring from his body after hours of exertion, and he was painfully thirsty. He looked in the bucket. Back home, he had fresh spring water to drink, and plenty of it. Not just for himself and his family, but his animals and crops were all well watered. Now he would get one ladle of dirty water.

  “What’s the matter, Herodius? Too good for our water? Plenty of your friends here are waitin’ to get their cup.” Captain Grull happened to be assigned to Herodius’s ship. He was quick with his whip, and it did not take long for the men to row in strained silence.

  “I am not too good for the water.” He dipped the ladle and raised it to his parched lips, drinking greedily. “I only hope to return to my family.”

  Captain Grull leaned in close to Herodius. He was a stocky man, outfitted with plain but sturdy armor, a whip on one hip and a long sword on another. He was missing a tooth, and his breath reeked of mouth sores. A smile from Captain Grull would curdle fresh goat’s milk.

  “Hope is a powerful thing, Herodius,” he whispered. “‘Course, the way we left ’em, you might not want to return. You might only find pieces and shells.” Laughing, he grabbed the bucket from him and shoved it into the hands of the man in the next row.

  Herodius just stared at Captain Grull, eyes ablaze, but said nothing. He did continue to test his ankle shackle, looking for any weakness in the chain or collar. There were none. Yet.

  Queen Najalas

  After weeks of travel through the enormous woods of Filestalas, the Queen and her party finally came to Shith, along with several Elves that accompanied her on the journey from Thalanthalas.

  Shith was a tale of two cities. The old parts of town welcomed visitors from the East, as the forest thinned and the landscape began to roll downhill. Trees gave way to grass, grass gave way to dirt, and dirt eventually gave way to stone as travelers approached the city center and the newer southwest portion. The stonework led to a shipping canal, which had been dug over the years as a means of facilitating quick sailing to Oraz or a sea passage around the southern edge of Elvidor to reach Rookwood without having to cross the sprawling Elvish forest. Trade developed, as this was the southernmost port on the continent, and was far enough east to avoid t
he Great Whirlpool altogether.

  Shith was remarkably more clean and orderly than most cities, in part due to the city’s natural slope toward the water. It made for a natural sewer system that washed refuse and waste from the city into the sea. No dead bodies lied in the road; here the Queen’s power reached far, as knights bearing the banner of Rookwood kept the peace, and the roads were kept clean. Beggars were unobtrusive, and while there were telltale signs of poverty, there were also signs of pride and dignity. Villagers washed their clothes. Gardens were well tended. Open markets were buzzing, and more than just misery and hopelessness filled the air. Small children played while bards sang loudly from busy corners, hoping to catch some silver in their hat. The noble who governed the city, Lord Ian Jamison, was a favorite of the Queen’s. Gregarious, efficient, and practical…like the Queen herself in many ways. The Queen knew that some called him “Eight-fingered Ian” behind his back, but she would never refer to him in such a manner. He had lost two fingers in a sword duel, but famously fought the villain with his off-hand, and won. He was a hero in Shith, and fiercely loyal to the crown…her one toehold of power in the West.

  Knowing that the Queen was coming, Lord Ian had prepared, against her wishes, a trumpeted entry into the city as her small party emerged from the depths of the forest. I knew sending an advance party would lead to this nonsense. Bother. She looked over at Simon and sighed. He just shook his head and sent word to tell Ian to quit with the outdoor ceremony, that this wasn’t a visit of State.

  As they reached the grassy path leading to entrance to old Shith, they came to the two long rows of trumpeters, with hundreds of surprised subjects lining the path behind them, anxious to get a look. Flanked by a knight on one side of her and an Elf on the other, Queen Najalas felt somewhat safe. But it wouldn’t be hard for someone to fire a crossbow at us. She frowned as they approached Lord Jamison.

  “Your Majesty,” he said stiffly, bowing low as the epitome of formality. “It is my great pleasure to see you here! Welcome to Shith, my Queen. On behalf of our humble city, you must accept our condolences for the loss of your husband, our King. If there is anything you need—ask, and I shall make it so.”

  He was finely dressed in his ceremonial armor. His bronze breastplate bore the crest of Rookwood: eagle over five mountain peaks (one for each massive tower), meant to symbolize that the crown ruled all of Elvidor. His blond hair blew back in a cool but stiff breeze that morning. The Queen did not stare at the two fingers missing off his right hand.

  “Thank you, Lord Jamison. While I appreciate the effort, I assure you that I won’t be here long. I am in fact travelling to visit Pilanthas. May we quickly dispense of the trumpets and banners to let people go about their day? Thank you.” It was a command worded politely as a question. “Now, if you would be so kind, I would be most pleased if you could escort me and my companions to see the great Elf. I assume you know where he lives, Ian?”

  Lord Jamison bowed low again, and gave his captain a quick order. “Disperse the crowd!” He turned back to his Queen. “I do indeed. The way is not far, and I would be honored to lead you there.” He hopped onto a beautiful chestnut stallion with surprising agility given his armor and the handicap of his hand. At a walk, he took the lead and the Queen fell in beside him, with Simon, always present, on her other side.

  While Simon and Ian began a pleasant conversation about the wonderful spices that they had begun to import all the way from Adimand, the Queen watched a young boy wave at her as his mother hastily curtsied and shooed the boy back toward their home. Not for the first time, the Queen couldn’t help thinking: Elvidor needs an heir.

  Xaro

  Xaro was outside his fortress, looking at the improvements and restorations that had progressed. The walls were fortified, and impressively tall. New turrets had been erected, and he was inspecting a few prototypes of a lightweight siege engine that he could transport by ship and assemble whenever he came ashore, hastening an attack without having to fell a bunch of trees as soon as his army disembarked.

  But the bulk of his efforts and resources had been focused almost exclusively on the Pits. He knew that the war would be waged in another land. He wanted Sands End to be defensible, but what he mostly wanted were warriors fit to take the battle abroad to the enemy of his God. And he knew when the islanders came, it would take months and months of drilling in the Pits to turn these farmers into True Warriors, and more training beyond that to learn how to work cohesively with the undead whenever Malenec got his act together.

  Xaro stood in the center of the largest pit. Underground rooms had been dug to allow warriors to rise up from below the dirt. Stands for viewing and critiquing had been built. Healing houses had been built, along with barracks and food halls. Smaller pits were used to teach every different weapon class. Dunes had been flattened and turned into large dust fields to practice marching formations, fighting in a phalanx, and cavalry maneuvers. Hand-to-hand fighting tactics would be drilled in yet other pits. Outdoor dungeons, separate from those within the bowels of Sands End, were to be used for the disobedient or lazy, and even ‘humiliation poles’, that Tar-Tan had erected, would host incompetent fighters who would be stripped and mocked. Xaro wrinkled his nose at those, but let them stand for now. Perhaps they would be effective, but he had his doubts.

  He was spending lavishly, trading gold and silver at a feverish clip with the Elves of Shinty-Moore, the Dwarves of Harken, and the merchant farmers across Adimand. He still had some of Lord Kensington’s wealth, but it was not inexhaustible. He would likely need some modest conquests along the way to fill his coffers before he ever tackled Rookwood.

  He pulled the stopper from his waterskin and drank heartily. The desert was interminably hot, and he was always thirsty here. But it was a good place to train an army—it made them hard, and the campaign he would wage for his God would require a hard army. He wished Tar-Tan could get here more quickly with their new recruits; looking at all he had built, he knew Sands End was now the premier training ground in the world for would-be Warriors. Not even the Kekero fighting pits, where he had cut his own teeth, could compare to the grounds he had built for this express purpose.

  He considered his last updates again. They were decent for the most part. The only update that troubled him was Malenec’s. Xaro didn’t appreciate his tone and the way he spoke to him. And he was concerned about the power Malenec could wield with an undead army loyal to him. He would have to keep a close eye on his Dark Cleric.

  Veronica, sweet Veronica. Pure and deadly. Xaro sighed—his private Assassin was intoxicating to him. He knew she was competent. But every time he spoke with her, he became more captivated with the purity of her focus. The idea someone so beautiful—that pale skin, black hair, and red lips!—could be that single-minded was almost irresistible. Xaro could not wait to meet his Assassin in person.

  Now, if she could successfully eliminate the Queen’s hero, the might of Rookwood would scatter like the sands at Sands End. Strongiron was a fool. He could have had Tar-Tan’s place; Xaro would have given him complete command of his Human army, and there would have been no ‘humiliation poles’ necessary under his command. He begrudgingly admitted to himself that Strongiron was that good. He was a natural leader; Xaro had noticed that from his first day in the Pits. Other men loved him, would bleed for him. That was invaluable, Xaro knew. And yet, there were other ways of extracting good performances from men. Fear, for one. Men feared his enormous general, Tar-Tan. Xaro chuckled at the prospect of his nearly nine-foot tall half-ogre threatening the family of one of his captured slaves. They would be obedient, at the least. We shall see if they will be loyal.

  Trevor’s update pleased him enormously. His own prophecy, combined with the foresight Kuth-Cergor would sometimes grant him, gave him all the confidence in the world that he had found the one mage powerful enough to stop him. It had to be this Magi Blacksmooth. And as long as he had that ring, he would never be susceptible to the Scroll’s awesome power.
It was paramount for Trevor to steal that ring from this upstart mage. If that ring did what Xaro suspected… He had to have it. He could not take the chance of wasting such a magnificent scroll. Twenty years of planning, and one shot to get it right. No, the ring needed to be removed before he would authorize Marik to use the scroll, which he did immediately after Trevor’s private update. But more importantly, he wanted that ring removed by someone other than Marik. Nobody knew exactly how special that ring was, though Marik undoubtedly now suspects what it is, of course. He will have put together my authorization to use the scroll with the convenient ‘loss’ of Magi’s ring…he’ll figure it out. Had he suspected earlier, he would have been sorely tempted to take it himself. Lord knows he had plenty of opportunity.

  Marik. He was the most disciplined, most focused, and the most important member of his Council. Raising that boy had been a labor, Xaro knew. But now that the scroll had been read and the process begun, it was only a matter of time. Soon the boy would be ready to climb the Staircase himself. The battle might be enjoined by then, and Xaro would not waste talent such as Magi’s. He couldn’t dream of killing him.

  But he wasn’t going to stand idly by and let him fight against Kuth-Cergor, either, should it come to that.

  Queen Najalas

  In the old part of town, not far from the main entrance to the east at the edge of Filestalas, one home was set back off the road. It was old, but meticulously well maintained. And it was unmistakably Elvish in design, as living trees formed a foundation of pillars. It looked like many of the homes and shops in Thalanthalas.

  Lord Jamison led Queen Najalas and Simon as they approached Pilanthas’s home while her men guarded the horses and supplies, though she felt as safe here as she would anywhere. Her Captain of the Guard, Simon, would not hear of letting her enter the house alone, however. “Oh very well, Simon. If you fear for my life in the company of an ancient Elf, be my guest.” Lord Jamison bid them goodbye and trotted off, waving at a figure standing in the doorway of the elaborate tree house set on the ground.