“You what?” Xaro did not raise his voice in the slightest, which somehow made it sound more threatening to Veronica.
“The ring. I was beaten, stripped, searched, and they found it. I barely escaped, Master.” Trevor was still having trouble looking at Xaro. At least the ogre had the stones to look him in the eye.
“Explain.”
Trevor took a deep breath. “As I said, I was beaten—”
“Explain why you were beaten, and do not drag this update out any further or you will find yourself craving a beating when I set my eyes on you.”
“They accused me of…stealing. When they searched me, they found the ring. I escaped the holding cell by picking a lock, and I went to try and steal the ring back. I swear to you, Master, I did. It was on the hand of the first mate of the boat, who was at the wheel during a wicked winter storm about a week ago. I could have killed him, but I would be dead and at best your ring would be on some random sailor somewhere out of your reach, and at worst it would be on my body at the bottom of the sea, nothing more than fish food. I judged that the best chance I have of getting it back is stealing it from him when he’s back on land. Fortunately, I know where he likes to go when he’s in Gaust, and I am not far, if I’ve read the stars correctly the last few nights. He will be back eventually in port…and I will be waiting.” He finally looked Xaro in the eyes. “I too, have failed you, but I will make it right.”
Xaro was dumbfounded. “Let me see if I understand this. You are a Master Thief—a True Thief, and top of your Guild, correct?”
“Yes, Master.” Trevor replied, a little timidly.
“And yet you let some sea-stuffed fool of a sailor steal my ring from you, disrobe you, and throw you in the ship’s dungeon, because they caught you stealing? At which time, you—being a True Thief—a Master—you decide to escape. So you leave the ship and my ring to sail God knows where? Is this your update?” The image of Xaro was now pacing around the campfire. If he could spew contempt, he would be vomiting it.
“Not quite, Master. I—I believe I know where their ship was headed. It is carrying ore to be unloaded on the Great Isle.” Trevor said in a small voice.
“And you’ve been paddling for a week now?” Xaro fumed.
“Yes. Master.” He hastily added. “I don’t believe I’m far from Gaust, actually.”
“So for all you know, the Modest Mermaid could have sank in the Great Whirlpool between the Sea of Love and the Sea of Hate in route to the Great Isle. You have no idea where that ring is right now, do you? And you can’t possibly have an accurate idea of where you are, either. You’re completely lost at sea.”
Veronica stared at the True Thief. She liked Trevor, in the way that she liked most members of their closely related Guild. Many of their skills overlap, although any Thief caught in an honest moment would likely admit that the requirements to be a True Assassin exceeded that of a True Thief. Of course, Thieves were rarely caught in honest moments. This, however, was one of those times.
“You are right, Master. I do not know for sure the location of your ring…I only know that it is on the right hand of a man whose face and name I will never forget. My hope is to see that ship make port again in Gaust. Navigating by the stars is not foreign to me; I am confident that I will reach Gaust in another week or so, with favorable weather. I have enough food and water in the boat for such a journey.
“Master, I will find your ring and regain it for you. It shall be my life’s quest.” Trevor tried to kneel and bow his head in the small boat, which just caused it to rock from side to side. Of course it was just his image, but Veronica found the gesture nearly comical.
“Pray to Kuth-Cergor it doesn’t take your life to find it, for you may find that is a short amount of time indeed. Malenec—surely your update is better?” Although as he turned to face his True Cleric and saw the state of his face, Veronica could see Xaro’s shoulders almost slump.
“Xaro, my update is hardly better, but I hope you will be encouraged by my ending. I have indeed built an army of 25,000 undead warriors—men, women, and children who will obey my commands. They feel no pain, they suffer no injuries, and they spread fear, disease, and death in their wake. I rest outside of Ilbindale, with most of the town under my control.”
“At least one of my people has been productive so far. What is your concern?” Xaro asked.
“It is regrettable that I was captured, beaten, and taken directly to a woman who I assume was the Queen of Elvidor herself, in the heart of her castle, Rookwood. It was only my prayer to Kuth-Cergor that saved me from certain death. However, she must know by now that True Clerics exist. Our God showed mercy on me by teleporting me across the sea, back to Ilbindale and my great host. No spell can teleport over water—it was my prayer. If the Queen knows that True Clerics exist…” He did not bother to finish his thought.
“YOU FOOL! Of all the careless acts! How could you reveal to the Queen who you are? Surely in her midst you could have prayed for anything—why not pray for her death, or the fall of her precious castle, or at least the strength of mind and body to still your tongue? You selfish, careless, fool-of-a-cleric! We do not need Her getting involved!” Malenec, at least, knew which Her he meant.
Malenec stood impassive under the tirade, letting the words roll off him like water running down a broad leaf after a lazy afternoon drizzle. He fixed Xaro with an even stare. “Kuth-Cergor willed that I live. I am in Ilbindale now. Soon I will be ready to travel. My few men who still breathe will follow me by sea and we will make our way west towards Sands End, if that is where you wish us. My army will follow under the sea.”
Xaro just shook his head. He finally looked up and said, “It will be months at least by the time you reach the other side of the world. Marik—surely your update will be better?” He almost sounded hopeful.
Marik began with a sigh. “Master…it has been…challenging.” He looked up at Xaro, True Mage to True Mage. For the first time that Veronica could remember, Xaro’s spell that camouflaged his eyes seemed to falter, and you saw two sets of white eyes staring at one another. The affect was striking. He is a True Mage indeed. I wonder if he let his spell covering his eyes fade strictly for Marik’s benefit. For what? Camaraderie? A reminder? Veronica shuddered—one man looked menacing, the other looked—smaller. Craftier. As she had learned more of Marik’s role in her Master’s plans, she could not help but respect the utter devotion it took to commit twenty years of your life to the raising of a boy…even if you only intended to use him. It was a level of loyalty that she couldn’t fathom—she was loyal only to her contract.
Marik continued. “We are just outside Paragatha. I have been unable to find the boy’s father in advance of him. I could kill him, I suppose, but that would make the last 18 years of my life seem—well, pointless.” He took a deep breath. “He may not find the old man. I still find it impossible to fathom how a man could live through that. But it is apparently so.
“If I may make a suggestion—the time has come for me to throw off this school teacher charade. I am near Rookwood as we speak. Perhaps Malenec could bring his forces north—he is not far. With our combined efforts and the element of surprise—”
“You would be slaughtered and our zombies burned. You have no element of surprise, our fool of a cleric has seen to that. No—when we take Elvidor, it will be with our combined might and the strength of our God with us. Judging from what I’ve heard so far, we would struggle to take down a village of widows, let alone a stronghold. Kuth-Cergor, I need not remind you, has set his sights on this realm. He would rule all of Tenebrae as Warlord, as King—as God. A True God. That is his plan, and we shall not sabotage it by moving without his blessing. No, I have a new task for you. One I pray—for your sake—that you do not fail. I agree that the school teacher charade has reached its climax. If you cannot kill his father in advance, then it is counterproductive to kill him in his presence. I think the time has come for you to leave Magi; I will assign someone else the
task of eliminating his father before they can speak. You are to join Trevor and use your talents to track down my ring—the one the boy used to wear.”
“May I ask what is so important about this ring, Master?” Marik asked. “It has always been a curious object, but not one that seemed to be a source of his unusual power.”
“No. You may not.” Xaro turned, white eyes beaming, and focused his gaze upon Veronica. “Now then. My deadly Assassin. Please tell me something positive. I have heard nothing fair yet from your colleagues, and frankly would like to kill each of them at the moment. And it would be less than they deserve for this unfathomable incompetence. So I beseech you, my dear Veronica, give me no reason to contemplate how I might end your murderous ways. I hold your singular talents in such high regard; it would make me ill to think of replacing you.”
Veronica was somewhat taken aback by his choice of words. He really was such a commanding figure. She rubbed her hands next to the fire and blew into them before answering. “Master—I am through the mountains and near the edge of Lake Calm. If I was closer, I would gladly take care of the boy’s father for you, but I am a day’s sail away from Paragatha, at least. I have my plans in place to deal with Strongiron, but I am, of course, flexible.” She smiled at Xaro, almost wickedly.
And Xaro smiled back upon hearing his first positive update. “Good. You have guessed my intentions well. Go to Paragatha immediately and eliminate his father, preferably before the boy talks to him, but do it regardless. I trusted Marik eighteen years ago to eliminate them both, but apparently only his mother was removed, leaving us this unfortunate loose end. Your standard contract will apply.”
At this Marik scowled. “You were there, too. You saw the fire! Don’t try and pin this solely on me, Master.”
Xaro ignored Marik and turned to Tar-Tan. “My presence is most needed with you. I shall teleport there and be in your camp within the hour. Prepare for my arrival. We shall take Misk and heal as many of our captives as we can, hopefully taking more slaves in the process. See that the rest of you follow our Assassin’s lead and do not fail me going forward.”
Xaro’s image flickered one more time and then faded, along with the three others. Everything was calm once more as Veronica continued to warm herself, giddy at the thought of another contract.
Queen Najalas
“Tell me, Niku. Tell me what the legends say about the True Clerics.” The Queen stared at her True Mage, the oldest of her small council, across a dinner table that held a platter of roasted meat and a smattering of imported vegetables, as the winter had now set in. More hungry than usual, the Queen had ordered a large meal prepared, and invited her council to dine with her. She enjoyed the company of these loyal men. It made her think of King Alomar. He loved to eat well, and to laugh in the company of good friends that he trusted. Always in the back of her mind was the constant pressure—more acute now than ever before, given the warnings from Strongiron, Chocktaw, and Pilanthas—to make an heir for Elvidor.
She found herself daydreaming a bit, looking across the table at the five members of her small council. None of them would do as a suitor, however. Well, one would have if he wasn’t so… stubborn. The King of Elvidor and the Master of Rookwood must be a special man indeed. She met so few men that she considered her equal, and she was torn by the idea anyhow—torn between her reluctance to share power and a longing to ensure the kingdom had an heir. But that was a problem for a different day. She came out of her reverie. “Educate us all, Niku.”
“Well, my Queen, as I have already said—the True Clerics were thought to have died out hundreds of years ago. It is said that the greatest of my Order, the famed Archmage Quixatalor, had a close friend who was a True Cleric. Some histories refer to him as Windomere. He may be the most famous True Cleric of them all.”
“That name…Windomere…I have heard of him. He comes from Paragatha, correct?” The Queen asked.
“Indeed. As I have been studying the True Clerics, I found it interesting that ages ago, Paragatha was a devout city. It is close to Rookwood, and thus the seats of both Faith and Royalty were always close.” Niku picked at some buttered squash as he spoke.
“Bah! Paragatha devout? You cannot walk through that city without being accosted by street urchins. Every two-bit charlatan on the continent roams that city. We have to expend far too many knights on Paragatha just to keep it passable. Devout! The people worship a hundred different gods and steal from their grandparents.” Simon just shook his head at Niku and helped himself to another slice of roasted lamb.
“Yes, the city has become a haven for thieves and a breeding ground for all sorts of mischief. But I tell you that it was much different centuries ago. Once Windomere died, all sorts of paganism seemed to rush into the void. But there was a time when Paragatha was crawling with True Clerics—perhaps as many or more than were on Urthrax. I believe most travelled to Urthrax to learn how to worship Dymetra, but they spread out across all the continents, as you would expect from any missionary proclaiming their faith. And at one time there was not a city in all of Elvidor—including Rookwood, mind you—more faithful to Dymetra than Paragatha.” He raised a single eyebrow and smiled at Simon, offering his friend a mock toast before sipping his wine.
Simon just shrugged, tearing a juicy piece of succulent lamb from the bone. “If you say so.”
“What is so special about a True Cleric? Where did they go?” Jonathon, the Queen’s steward, changed the subject.
“Nobody knows for sure. When Quixatalor finally passed away, it would appear that all the warring races tried to advance their power. Legend tells of a powerful artifact that he carried—a Staff. They called it the Staff of Insight, and it is said that no man could lie or deceive another in Quixatalor’s presence. When he vanished, so did his staff. It is at about this time that Windomere and the other True Clerics began to decline in number. Men blamed Elves, Elves blamed Dwarves, Dwarves blamed men—and all blamed Dymetra. Up until that time, history records great temples and shrines and paintings and statues—all in worship of Dymetra, who was worshipped as the God above all Gods. And it was the True Clerics who knew Her, studied Her teachings, taught the other races about Her, and sought Her favor, blessing, and support. Until recently, I seriously doubted the power of a True Cleric. My Guild has scoffed at such nonsense over the years, preferring to ground our beliefs firmly in the science of our Art. Our magic is real—it is tangible. We’ve seen no evidence, of course, that True Clerics even existed. Just stories.”
“Until now.” The Queen plucked an enormous grape and bit it in half, causing some juice to squirt onto the table and dribble down her chin. Most unladylike, she thought, amused.
“Until now,” Niku repeated, trying not to stare at his Queen. “Yes. I think we can all agree that this Malenec is indeed a True Cleric. What we might call a Dark Cleric, preferring to worship this demon instead of Dymetra.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Niku. What makes Malenec so special?” Jonathon repeated his question patiently. Such a good choice for Steward, the Queen thought.
“I believe we have already seen just what makes a True Cleric a terrible adversary. This one man has slaughtered an entire city and enslaved more than 25,000 souls, tethering them to their bodies without the benefit of free will. He has transported himself out of harm’s way—perhaps across the sea for all I know. This I could not do in my dreams, and I am one of the strongest mages you will find on this continent or any other. Over the years, countless mages have tried to design a teleport spell that would cross the seas, only to end up as tiny particles floating in the sea, fit for little else besides the feeding of the ocean’s smallest of creatures. Alas, I am bound by my Art. Oh, I can create new spells. But I am limited to the science of magic. What limits are there on prayer? Only the limits of a God—take comfort in that if you can!” Niku reached for a jug of wine and refilled his glass yet again.
Strongiron ate quietly, listening. He is reflecting on something
, the Queen thought. Finally, her General spoke. “If we know True Clerics exist, why don’t we just pray to this Dymetra? If she’s really a God or Goddess or whatever, why not put her to the test?”
Simon, the Captain of her guard, cleared his throat. “General, I don’t think that would work. The Elf seemed to imply that these Clerics don’t grow on trees. I don’t think a few prayers from us would qualify.”
“But it probably wouldn’t hurt.” Peter, her Admiral, chimed in, grabbing the jug from Niku and winking at Strongiron. Of course, a man who earns his keep on the Sea would be quick to embrace faith. How fitting.
“No, probably not,” The Queen agreed with a smile. She passed on the wine, instead pouring some ale to wash down her meal. “Still, it is clear to me that we will need a True Cleric to counterbalance the evil that shrouds this Malenec. We found one on Urthrax—albeit one clothed in darkness. I believe we need to expand our search. It can be no coincidence that this Malenec was on Urthrax. Niku, didn’t you say that this land to the south of us was historically an ancient home for the Clerics of old?”
“So the legends say, my Queen.” Niku answered, stroking the oiled, graying beard on his chin.
“Then I suggest this. I would like Niku and some men to return to Urthrax—but avoid Ilbindale this time. That city is lost. Make port somewhere else and search for old temples, relics, scrolls—anything that we can use to help convince our people that the old stories are true. Plan for a lengthier stay. We need evidence that the Goddess Dymetra existed and still exists. Perhaps we can find the tools that would train new True Clerics. We cannot expect one to stumble into our midst.”
“It will take some weeks for me to prepare, but it will be done, my Queen.” Niku bowed his head.
“And what of the rest of us, my Queen?” Jonathon asked.
“Peter will need to oversee the building of our new ships, and you and Simon have duties here that are not easily delegated. Strongiron—”
“My Queen,” he interrupted, a bit uncharacteristically. “Let me go north to Paragatha. If the city was once as devout as Niku claims—and I do not doubt his research—then perhaps there are remnants of this faith right in our backyard. Simon is right in that we have a great number of men there, and it is past time I personally check on their preparedness as well. The city is too close to Rookwood not to have our defenses shored up.”
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 37