In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1)

by Steve M. Shoemake

  His prayer answered, he never heard the last part of the conversation with the Queen and her Council: “The ancient Elf is right. The True Clerics have returned, with power. We must find our own.”

  CHAPTER 15: SCHEMES

  Veronica

  The flickering flame caused eerie shadows to form, shift, disappear, and reform across the arches of the stone bridge. The blood had pooled underneath Zender, the self-proclaimed “Mystic Under The Mountain.” Awfully slow for a True Mage, thought Veronica. Xaro would have blown that amateur powder back in my face.

  Still—the runes that covered the archways across the 200-foot bridge no longer glowed, for whatever that was worth. It gave Veronica pause.

  She continued to tumble over the various thoughts in her mind. If the Mage was telling the truth, then the bridge was bound to collapse without his blessing. The half-dwarf, Barnabus, had also warned her that she might find monsters of some sort. Perhaps he was alluding to Zender—surely his Dad the slave trader would have mentioned such a toll gate when he passed down the map?

  And yet, it was just as likely that this mage was a wandering mystic, full of lies. He said as much himself. The idea that magic—his magic—held this stone walkway up was somewhere between plausible and absurd. The trick was figuring out which explanation was more likely.

  She threw some stones on the walkway, landing a few beyond the first arch. The bridge held. She rolled a larger, almost mini boulder. There were no handrails, so it quickly rolled off the left edge…she was still listening to try and hear the sound of it hitting the ground.

  This is ridiculous. What choice do I have? It is the nature of an Assassin to plan, to analyze, to reason before acting. Every contingency must be thought through, and every Plan B needs a Plan C and D as well. Nothing rash—murder for hire is never an emotional or hurried event.

  In the end she looked at her rope—well less than 200 feet in length. But if she tied a retractable knot around a stout rock, it might give her 50 or 75 feet of protection. She could tie herself to a boulder on the near side and try and cross, hoping for the best. Once the rope was taut, if the bridge was holding, she’d pull it free and take her chances with the rest of the crossing. If the bridge gave way before then, she might be able to pull herself back. If the bridge gave way after she untied herself, nobody would ever hear her scream…or land.

  That was about the best planning she could reasonably expect. So, she ate a little food from her pack, drank a little water, and began looking for the right type of rock to tie her retrievable rope around.

  Once that was accomplished, and with the other end cinched around her waist, Vernon-the-Nobody set foot on the bridge, holding the rope in one hand and the torch in another.

  Nothing happened. She took another step. Then another. Each was a slow, steady step. She paused at the first archway and held her torch up to the runes that had been glowing. She had studied languages only in passing—she certainly was no scholar. But she thought she recognized Dwarven markings. She could not be sure.

  She passed through the arch uneventfully. Then the next. By the third of the ten arches, her rope had reached its maximum length. Time to remove the safety net. She gave the rope a hard jerk in a whipping motion to free the release—she wanted it back. Coiling it up, she stepped through the third archway.

  A pair of leathery wings descended on her from out of nowhere, as a large bat flew at her aggressively. Caught off guard she tried to ward off the bat with her torch, and began to stumble, losing her balance as she fell toward the edge of the bridge, breaking her fall with one hand, twisting around with her other. She had a small throwing knife concealed in that sleeve, and flung the tiny blade with a fast-twitch flick of her wrist. The blade sliced through one of the bat’s wing as if it was parchment. The wing, nearly detached, flapped awkwardly as the bat screeched and fell into the darkness past the far edge of the bridge.

  That was one of my better knives, Veronica thought to herself, annoyed.

  Onward she walked, slowly but without stopping, counting each arch. Finally, another minute or two later, and she reached the other side, having crossed all ten arches. When she looked back across to the other side from where she had come, her torchlight just barely illuminated the very last arch behind her. Zender’s body lay in darkness some 200 feet behind her.

  “I should have pushed his body over the edge, so it would rot in free-fall.” The bridge held, so we know only that he told the truth about being a liar, she thought. I wonder if everything else he said—all that prophecy nonsense—was also a lie. All he really knew was my name—surely even a fool of a mage could figure that out.

  Vernon-the-Nobody took out the map and turned her attention to the remaining pathway ahead.

  Kari

  Rebecca kept annoying Kari. For a Ranger who had travelled this path often with young mages, she seemed awfully inquisitive about her prophecy. Surely this woman knows I can’t say a thing. After the fourth question about “how it went in there,” even Tarsh began to roll his eyes.

  A day’s walk back from the Ol’ Shakoor’s dwelling, they paused by the banks of the Elomere for a light meal. “Ranger,” Kari began. “I have a question for you. I need to cross the Crystal Mountains. Would you have any suggestions on how best to do that?”

  Rebecca looked at the young illusionist thoughtfully. “What do you seek to the East?”

  Kari chewed a bit of dried deer meat. The salt made it almost inedible. Fortunately, they were next to the clear, crisp water of the Elomere to wash it down. It flowed fast enough to keep from freezing, but this time of year the water would be ice cold. And refreshing. She looked up at Rebecca. “I seek an audience with the Queen. I’m headed to Rookwood.”

  Tarsh looked up and was clearly puzzled, though he said nothing. Whatever his own prophecy revealed, he seemed to be struggling with it. Never particularly talkative, he had been particularly standoffish the last day or so. When he looked up, one could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes after Kari’s declaration—as if he was trying to “fit” his own prophecy in with what she had just said. Sweet, reliable Tarsh…

  Rebecca had a curious smile on her face. “Rookwood? That will be quite a journey. Depending on how fast you need to arrive, I would suggest you ‘magic’ yourself there. Can’t you mages just teleport?”

  Kari lowered her eyes. “A True Mage can teleport. I need to speak with the Queen before I…before I do anything…” She trailed off.

  “I see,” said Rebecca. “This time of year will not be easy. The Northern route around the mountains will take several weeks and a boat just to get clear of them. You will then be faced with months of travel overland, down the Lightning Road, and across the continent. I doubt you would reach the castle by that path inside of four months, and the journey will be hard and frozen. You likely wouldn’t survive on your own.”

  Kari nodded. She didn’t appreciate the Ranger’s tone, but she didn’t disagree. Travelling north across the edge of the Crystal Mountains was folly any time of the year; it was suicide in winter. “What of the South?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “The Elf’s Bane Pass is the only known way through the mountains. But it is far to the South, many weeks of riding away, and there are some areas where horses are more burden than benefit. It will take two months at least. There may, however, be a better plan.” Rebecca began sharpening a small hunting dagger, filling their small campsite with the repetitive sounds of stone sliding across steel.

  Kari found the Ranger staring at her. Tarsh, his ponytail tight once more, was staring at the Ranger. “Yes?” Kari asked. “Go on.”

  “Do you have any gold?” Shhhrikkkk went the stone on steel.

  “Some,” answered Kari. “What do you have in mind?”

  “If you have a little gold, let’s buy passage on a ship to sail out of Gaust across the Three Fingers. With a little gold, we will disembark at Nervadine and make our way through the pass on foot. If you have more gold, we can sail
past the eastern edge of the Great Whirlpool, and can disembark near Shith, skipping the mountains all together. If you have much gold, we can sail all the way through the Strait of Holstine and around the southern edge, all the way to Rookwood itself! Such a journey would take less than a month, maybe three weeks with favorable weather.”

  “Why would I need you to join us on the ship if we were to sail there?” Kari asked, pointedly.

  “You wouldn’t. But if you decide to travel overland at all, I would think a guide would be a good investment.” Rebecca smiled, but this one wasn’t particularly sweet. “Do you have enough gold to sail all the way there?”

  Kari sighed. She doubted she had enough gold to sail a log down the river, let alone a small team across the sea. However the prophecy revealed by the Ol’ Shakoor was clear: She was to travel to Rookwood, and like it or not, she was smart enough to know that she would need help along the way, considering her farthest travels to date were only just completed. “I don’t think so.”

  Rebecca flung her razor-sharp knife at Kari, right past her ear. Kari screamed and ducked, immediately bringing a spell to her lips. Then she saw a fat squirrel pinned to a tree behind her by the knife. The Lady Ranger stood up and plucked her knife from the animal, and broke its neck in a swift, singular motion. “For stew tonight. I’m sick of salted deer.”

  After cleaning her blade, she turned to the young illusionist and smiled, offering her hand to help her up. “I think you’ll find me more than capable of earning my keep. But what’s more, I think I can also help you with your gold problem. It would be nice to shorten our journey by sea, don’t you think? Tell me, Kari, how well do you know Phillip?” she asked innocently, sheathing her knife with another smile, this one playful.

  Magi

  The raft floated; that was the positive. The negative, of course, was that it didn’t move. Lake Calm was the deadest body of water any of them had ever seen. They paddled with makeshift oars hewn from extra pieces of wood they didn’t need for the raft. “It’s not like we have a sail, anyway,” was Kyle’s best attempt at staying positive.

  After pulling the raft together for most of the afternoon, they decided to rest at the water’s edge for the night, and began their crossing the next day. Like the previous day, all was gray outside, and the surface of the water might as well have been a mirror. They could not see anywhere into its depths.

  Pilanthas had told Magi to seek his father in Paragatha; that he would do. It was not far on the other side of the lake—they just had to paddle across it. “Would have been great if you had taught us a paddling spell, Master.” Kyle smiled at Marik, trying to keep the mood light.

  All Marik could muster back was, “Yes. Indeed.”

  Hours passed after that with nothing but the steady sound of wood slapping water. They cast some spells into the water around lunch to see if they could stun any fish to float up to the surface. Nothing. Carrying only stale travelling bread and dried meat, they ate in shifts to keep at least two people paddling.

  Late in the afternoon, the far bank appeared on the horizon. They skipped dinner altogether to keep paddling and finally reached land when the moon was high. The temperature had dropped quite a bit over the day, and now that they were on dry land, the wind began to howl. Despite the cold gusts, it was a relief to once again feel some kind of breeze on their faces after the dead air that hung over the lake.

  “I sense a storm,” Marik said. “Let’s find shelter and get warm.”

  The storm never came, but the wind was fierce. The magical fire was a godsend, but it did little to improve Magi’s mood. He slept fitfully, awoke first, and began packing up to head out. Used to sleeping lightly by now, the other two awoke from the noise and quickly readied themselves. Magi’s unspoken message could not be clearer: tag along if you wish, but I’m on my own schedule. Keep up.

  Paragatha. From whence he came. Today, he would hopefully meet his father—Marik’s friend long thought dead, a reckless man who destroyed his family in pursuit of riches more than 18 years ago. How that meeting would go tumbled through his mind a hundred different ways. He was sure about one thing only—there would be no tears of joy. At least not from him. If he lived, then why didn’t he ever try to contact Magi? He might as well have been abandoned.

  “Magi,” Marik began. “I’d like to go on ahead and meet your father first. It has been years, and I would like to prepare him for this, uh, shall we say unexpected visit. The shock of it may be awkward for everyone; allow me to give him some time to orient himself for this meeting. He could be remarried…or even mentally unstable. Please—let me scout this situation out first? I’ve heard nothing from the man in eighteen years, after all.”

  “No.”

  “Magi. Listen to reason. Just give me an hour or two to try and find him, to set expectations with him, prepare him a bit. He doesn’t know anything about our world, prophecies and what not. This will be a joyous occasion, but your Father will want to leave his shop, I’m sure, if he still works there. Allow me to help him make preparations to receive you, at least?” The tone in Marik’s voice was somewhere between edgy and pleading.

  “No.” He started walking—briskly.

  Kyle turned to Marik and shrugged, falling in behind his brooding best friend. Marik fumed silently behind them. He began to take some sand out of an inner pouch, presumably to cast a sleep spell, when Magi suddenly turned around.

  “I would see him first, unannounced. We live in a Dark World, and I will see his situation unfiltered.” He stared hard at Marik. Is that sand? Would you cast a spell on your own student behind my back? Magi absently went to twist the ring on his finger, only to realize it was no longer there. He slowly turned his back on Marik again and kept walking, listening. Try it Marik. Just. Try. It.

  Marik fell in behind them, letting his pinch of sand fall harmlessly on the ground, cursing silently.

  Herodius

  Herodius looked down at his wrists. Bloody, but free. It had taken him weeks to figure out how to wrestle his wrists in and out of their shackles, but he became adept at slipping them, numb to the pain. He had seen so much pain over the last couple of months that he was almost oblivious to it.

  First came the day of reckoning, when he had been ripped away from his home on one of the small islands in the so-called Uncharted Isles. He had no way of knowing if his family was alive or dead, but he suspected they were dead. He knew they were tortured, and death was surely a better outcome than torture, separation, and slavery. Then came the weeks of sea travel. At the mocking news from Grull about his family, he had tried killing himself twice. He failed the first time and received a beating. He failed the second time and five other men received a beating, one of whom was a friend from his village. Next he had tried killing his guards and failed. Five women that were taken to help feed this “army” were beaten in front of him. Nobody blamed Herodius. But word spread, and the attempts dwindled.

  Their course evidently changed, for instead of landing in a dry, arid desert (which is where they were told they were heading) they instead landed in a swamp. Bugs the size of a finger were everywhere. There were some exotic plants, but they soon learned that they were as deadly as they were beautiful when some of his fellow islanders mistakenly sniffed them too closely. Already parched from backbreaking rowing, the humidity was a silent killer, and more men died within two days of landing. It was one of the most inhospitable lands he had ever seen. Even the mud itself would kill you if you didn’t watch your step, plunging into sinkholes and quicksand. It was literally like living in a bog. Hundreds fell ill and died, but they couldn’t really bury the bodies. So they burned their dead and tried to march on.

  They did not march long. The enormous general who led them, the cruel giant called “Tar-Tan,” made camp at the first sign of semi-solid ground. And so they camped, and began training. They were heavily watched, of course, and mostly armed with sticks for the moment, but train they did. After two weeks, the strong grew stronger an
d the weak grew weaker, more ill. Herodius was certainly in the former group.

  ‘Hope is a powerful thing, Herodius.’ The words of Captain Grull echoed inside Herodius while he took their training. It is a powerful thing, but not how you meant it: A lack of hope is the most powerful thing of all. Herodius was stronger than most, and had some skill as a fighter already, so he was merely refining his techniques, getting better with balance. Others were mostly farmers who wouldn’t know which end of a sword to use if their life depended on it. Still, they drilled, and improved, and mostly bought time: listening, learning, planning, waiting. But Herodius knew his secret weapon was that his life no longer held joy for him, which was terribly liberating. Of course, his captors knew that as well, so perhaps it was not-so-secret, which is why others were made to suffer, in graphic and demeaning ways, for his repeated insubordination. Eventually, he played the game to spare his friends.

  That did not stop him from planning his revolt. Nor did it discourage his fellow captives; everyone knew the stakes. All knew what would happen to themselves, their fellow slaves, and most assuredly their families back on the Isles (at least, those that still had families) should they fail. And yet, they follow me anyway.

  One night, as Herodius sat near a fire, rubbing a salve made from a healthy type of bog-plant on his daily cuts from training, he overheard the general speaking to his lieutenants from inside a nearby tent about a coming war. Judging from the laughter, they appeared to have been drinking for quite some time. “This bunch needs to be more fit and ready for battle with that Queen on Elvidor. I know Xaro will want to move against her, and I will not have a bunch of zombies lead the way. Men will do battle with other men—leave the spirits to fight other spirits, I say.”

  “We must soon form this group into ranks. How do you propose we do that, General?” Captain Grull’s voice carried outside the tent. He and the General were the only sober-sounding ones.