Marik smiled and shook Thomas’s hand. “Well. Every day is a new adventure. I need a word with Master Wyzle, if he’s available. Surely our Keeper of the Books would have a few minutes to speak with me?” Marik had a way of implying commands even in his questions.
Thomas nodded, a bit hastily. “Oh yes. I’m sure Master Wyzle can make some time. Please, follow me.”
They passed through some doors until they reached a massive door that was bolted shut. His sweat reflecting the torchlight off his shorn head, Thomas grunted as he slid the bolt aside and opened the massive door. A large man was seated in the back, working at a table that held parchment, several books, and an oil lamp. Two torches on either side of the room provided the only light. Several floor-to-ceiling bookshelves jutted out from the walls, creating rows with books on three sides. The only other remarkable thing about Master Wyzle’s office was an odd stain on the otherwise pristine white marble floor near the center of the room, right over the insignia of a scale balancing a trident and a war hammer—the sigil of Lord Corovant. So this is where Lionel was killed. Pity—I always liked that Ranger.
Thomas opened his mouth to announce Marik, but was cut off.
“Have you come to make amends?” Master Wyzle stood up when Marik entered. He walked over to Marik to emphasize his displeasure. Thomas, surprised at the lack of greeting, hastily bowed and left, mopping his forehead as he went.
“It’s good to see you too, old friend,” Marik replied. “What amends? I have come for information.”
“Information? You have some gall. True Mage or no, you have some nerve coming here.” The Keeper of the Books shook a finger at Marik, causing his jowls to jiggle. It was not a very menacing look.
“What are you talking about, Wyzle? Speak plainly—we’ve known each other far too long.” Marik strolled over to the table and sat on it, not waiting for the Keeper’s hospitality.
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. I tipped you off years ago that we had come into possession of the fabled Scroll of Tralatus. It was less than a year ago when you sent your students to copy the scroll. That was our agreement. Instead of copying it, they steal it, and kill the bodyguards that you sent to protect them in the first place! I won’t even bother mentioning the fact that they had the nerve to put my staff asleep to help ease their escape. So I am left without a scroll in my library, a bloody mess in my office, and a groggy staff. I say to myself, ‘Wyzle, surely your good friend Marik will make amends for such a travesty. After all, they were his students.’ A week passes without word. Then two. Finally I send one of my staff to your village to speak with you about this, only to find that you’ve left with the same two criminals on some prophetic expedition with no word on your return. That young lady you left in charge had no knowledge of a scroll, and I daren’t mention it further. But I am the Keeper of the Books. I am the Guardian of Knowledge for this age and ages long past. Your students stole a priceless artifact and committed murder in my office! I demand amends!” He huffed, trying his best not to shake as he stared into the True Mage’s pure white eyes.
Marik laughed. A slow, developing laugh that quickly reached booming levels. “Amends, you say?” He paused and collected himself, standing up abruptly and walking over to the Keeper. “Very well. I shall make amends. But first, some information I need. I am looking for a book on magical artifacts. Rings, to be specific.”
“So, you do not deny that these boys are criminals? I happen to have a picture of one. His name is Magi Blacksmooth. I remember the day he came here—it is hard to forget when you are left with a large pool of blood in your office.” He unrolled a piece of parchment with an unmistakable magical image of Magi’s face, with long auburn hair to his shoulders. And white eyes.
Marik’s own white eyes widened into round circles. He snatched the parchment out of Wyzle’s hand. “Where did you get this?”
Master Wyzle’s boldness had finally reached its limits as he began to shrink away from his ‘old friend’ Marik. “Lord Corovant received this from the Queen. As you can see, the boy is wanted for murder. But I could have told you he was a murderer months ago when he turned on his own travelling mate and killed the Ranger right here in my office. In my Library! He was a thief and a murderer from the very beginning. It’s no small wonder why you wanted a copy of the Scroll. If anyone needed, shall we say, a behavioral adjustment, it was that young man.”
Wyzle was also sweating now, and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his dazzling white robe. “A bad apple, Marik.” He walked to a bookshelf and pulled down a slim tome without hesitation, knowing (it would seem) where every book should be. He slid it across the table gently to Marik: Ancient Artifacts. “Please return it this time, thank you.” He quickly added, “And just in case, where might I find you if you disappear on me again?”
Marik’s head spun with the implications. Magi was a True Mage already…and could now likely teleport. Marik refocused on Wyzle distractedly. “Sands End, across the seas, but I have some unfinished business here. You’ll get your precious book back, Keeper.”
Wyzle’s eyes grew wide.
He kept the wanted flyer and picked up the book, and started to leave. He stopped, turned around, and cast a spell on the floor of the library where the stain marred the beautiful crest. The brownish mark began lifting right off the marble, and a gentle wind, blowing out from the back of the room toward the lone doorway, carried the stain like pollen or dust out of the room, fanning the two torches as it breezed through.
Marik smiled at Wyzle and tossed him a small bag of gold. “Amends,” he said, teleporting away without another word.
Xaro
Poor timing, my dear. Xaro put Veronica’s pending update out of his mind for the moment and focused on the room, keeping his defenses in full force. This is the moment of truth.
“So. As I was saying, I would like to have a civilized discussion, now that Lord Pompous has…relinquished…his control of the city. I believe he had a son, no? Rest assured that I have no interest in destroying your city needlessly. My desire is the same that it was earlier this morning: I wish to gather up your current supply of pillafer, and some fresh water. It is not an unreasonable request.”
A knight stepped forward, in shiny mail and a sword encrusted with several ridiculous gems in the handle at his side. Probably never been drawn, thought Xaro. The knight cleared his throat loudly. “Give us one reason why we should not cut you down this very instant, murderer!”
A few others in the room started rumbling, but most just stood there. Several mages were slowly starting to encircle Xaro. Protect your servant, Kuth-Cergor, from these ignorant mages.
“You should not ‘cut me down’ because you can’t, but even if you could, may I ask whether you would be better off by doing so? Consider: I sit on your throne as a man who called forth the power of God to open a hole in your precious stoneworks. I slipped invisible to all into your very midst, and with the slightest of efforts poisoned and killed your Lord. I am True Mage, a Cleric of Old, and a True Warrior as well.” Xaro pulled up his sleeve and showed them his mark. “If you so much as reach for your sword or your spell pouches, I will bring lightning down on all of your heads, and still walk out with the herbs I need. But I offer you such a better choice. Will you not at least listen?”
A young man, finely dressed in comfortable white robes, cinched at the waist in red, stepped forward. “You just killed my father. He was an arrogant man, but he was Lord of Misk. You are treachery on legs. The day we listen to you will be the day your disembodied head speaks. ATTACK!”
Four mage-guards, each at different points around the room, hit Xaro with their best binding spell in an attempt to neutralize his spellcasting. Even Xaro’s impressive well of magic would be hard pressed to overpower the combined force of four True Mages, all at once.
Of course Xaro wasn’t relying on his power. He was relying on Kuth-Cergor’s power…and his own faith. The binding spells rushed past him, like a blast of w
ater being diverted around a large boulder. Xaro was in a protected cocoon. The mage-guards kept raising the intensity level, moving forward toward him as if proximity somehow increased the ‘pressure’. But they could not break his protection.
The knight who spoke earlier gave a scream and charged forward, his bejeweled pommel glinting in the glare of magic that filled the room. He swung a mighty two-handed stroke at Xaro’s invisible shell.
The blade shattered, and the force of the blow caused him to cut his hand on several gems that had been dislodged from the hilt of his sword.
“Enough.” Xaro held out his hand, and brought forth an air hammer. He brought it down with a mighty force into the center of the room. The floor shook and everyone fell over. “This is pointless. If I wanted to kill all of you, how hard would it be for me? I grow tired of this.
“Young prince,” Xaro said, standing up from the throne to address the man in the white robes. “I regret that your father is dead. But such is life in this Dark World, and so now you must lead. And your first order was most unwise. I am showing you more patience then you deserve, but it is only because you are not used to leading, and I am trying to be merciful. You would do well to listen to what I now have to say. But just so there is no further misunderstanding, know this: the next person who raises their hand against me, of their own will or in following orders, will be utterly and painfully destroyed. I have had enough.
“I will take the pillafer now, and good water. But I am offering you something in return: I am offering your people hope. This palace reeks of excess. It reeks of the spoils of trade withheld from the people who make it possible. It reeks of a lazy landlord who reaped what he did not sow. Your people have no land! They live in tiny homes transporting goods along dirt roads to pay taxes for this ridiculous estate. Your guards and military see this—and I can see it in their face.” Xaro turned and looked at the young man’s knights and even the mage guards, who had regained their wits after the room stopped shaking from the force of the air hammer.
He turned to the young man. “What is your name?”
“Ethan. Ethan Bollinger.”
“You will lead, Lord Ethan Bollinger. All will still pay homage to you…but you will report to me. And my orders to you will be to expand the city! I wish that you see that the main roads are paved, so that it is easier for your subjects to transport the goods to the East and to the North…those same goods on which you will still collect generous taxes. I shall introduce you to the power of Kuth-Cergor, our god. You have seen his destructive power, and you have seen his protective power. Now witness his restorative power. My God, it is my prayer that you honor your faithful servant and repair their outer wall—build it stronger and higher than it was before!”
Nothing happened. Xaro sat back down.
“Your God does nothing,” said one of the mage-guards, still exhausted.
“You have little faith. But I do not hold it against you. Soon, you will believe.” Xaro smiled, and continued. “When you see fully the power I wield, you will judge wisely that your choice is between serving under my benevolent guidance or utter destruction. There is no other option.”
A man in armor came bursting through the doors, “My Lord! The wall—it is rebuilt! You should see it! The stone rose from the ground and joined more stone that fell from the whirling black cloud above, adding many more feet! We are safe—” he stopped, noticing for the first time that Lord Bollinger was not seated on his throne.
His Lord was instead face down on the ground, with the man who called forth the lightning bolt that morning seated on his Lord’s chair. The man in armor looked around the room, and saw Ethan still seated on the cold marble floor. “My lord?”
Xaro did not give the young prince a chance to speak. “And one more thing, Lord Ethan. For any of your soldiers who are tired of the mundane drudgery of protecting your late father’s imperial palace, they shall be welcomed into my army. We eat well, and our cause is just. They will learn our ways, and be better fighters for it. Your city is now even better fortified than it was before I came, and I will teach you how to contact me anywhere in all of Tenebrae should you need my support. No one else needs get hurt, and my only order to you is to rule justly, and give your people more than what your father chose to share with them. Do this—and you will prosper. Your city will prosper. You have seen the power of my God. You will want to be on our side when he re-enters our realm.”
He stepped down from the throne and motioned for young Ethan to take it. He reached down at the knight that had cut his hand on his own sword and helped him up. “Join me. Your wounds shall be healed, your coffers enriched, and your life given purpose. All who are willing are welcome!” Xaro spread his hands wide.
Twenty-four hours later, more than 9,000 men and mages joined Xaro’s camp, helping him transport several bushels of pillafer out of Misk to his campsite, where he wove a powerful healing spell to stave off the spread of swamp disease within his troops.
It wasn’t until the end of a very long day, as he collapsed into his makeshift bed, that he remembered Veronica’s efforts to reach him. The good news can wait a day. Xaro finally rested, having conquered Misk singlehandedly, with only one casualty, and nearly doubling his able-bodied fighting force in the process. Within a few weeks, he should be back closer to 30,000 men. Let us see how the “House of Tuitio” and the rest of the Queen’s favored Lords and her arrogant Knights deal with a force of this magnitude on one side with a nearly equal number of undead from the other!
Xaro fell asleep with a smile still on his face.
CHAPTER 22: REJECTION, DOUBT, FAILURE, AND LIES
Strongiron
The waves crashed over the bow while Strongiron stood, looking out over the open water. It was a beautiful day for sailing, and in general he liked the sea. It is the salty smell, he thought with a grim smile.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be here. It wasn’t that he thought finding evidence of the True Clerics wasn’t important. To his mind, it just wasn’t the most important thing.
No, that’s not it either, he mused. It’s an improper allocation of resources. Always the strategist, he couldn’t fathom needing two of the realm’s top leaders to babysit a well-trained illusionist who already had a personal bodyguard in the form of a seasoned Ranger. On what amounted to what—a camping trip? What were they even looking for in the woods? The General just shook his head, scratching his two-day stubble, already the makings of a fine beard.
Surely Queen Najalas didn’t make a decision such as this personal? He thought back to a dinner he shared with his Queen, many months ago….
***
“Elvidor needs a King, Strongiron.”
He looked up from the juicy pheasant breast that he was cutting into. “My Queen—”
“Do not tell me we have discussed this before. We shall discuss it again. The realm needs an heir.” The Queen looked squarely into his ice-blue eyes.
Strongiron shifted uncomfortably. He looked down, couldn’t stand looking into the piercing stare of his Queen for long. His tone was soft and informal. “Najalas, I…” he began. “I am flattered. You know I loved King Alomar. I would have traded places with him without hesitation. Knowing how he suffered, I would have taken that on to keep him as King. A wiser man I’ve never met.”
“Nor have I, my friend. But come—let us speak plainly. Surely had our fortunes been reversed, and it was I who contracted the illness, and it was I who had suffered and withered and died—how long would our realm have been without a Queen? Six months? You and I, who knew him best, know it would be months, if not weeks before a new Queen was announced to great fanfare. As it should—Elvidor needs an heir. With your tale of Xaro and all we’ve learned of the coming war—we need an heir now more than ever.”
Queen Najalas walked around the table to sit next to her General. “He has been dead now for over a year. It is time that I accept a King.” She spoke softly.
“Najalas,” Strongiron strugg
led. “As I have said on occasion before—”
“Reconsider.” It was not a command, more a plea.
“Must I say it? My Queen, command me to go anywhere and do anything, but not this. I do not love you in that way.” Strongiron forced himself to look at his Queen when he said it.
She laughed. “Love? When have I ever said a word about love? This is a matter of State, General. Your Kingdom—”
Now Strongiron interrupted, “If it is a matter of State, then may I suggest an alternative alliance? Perhaps Lord Kensington from Kekero? He is a widower, and would be manageable. He does have a bastard son, Vincent, but he would have no claim. Or look to West, to Adimand. The Lord of Whilure is said to be a good man from our coastal cities of the Three Fingers who trade with him. Lord Hamath, I believe is his name. An unmarried man of means and a potential ally—”
It was the Queen’s turn to cut him off with a wave of her hand. “A weakling and a merchant. I said Elvidor needed a King. I did not say I needed a husband. As I have said, this is not a matter of love.”
Strongiron pushed his plate to one side to look at his Queen. “It is a matter of love. I cannot dishonor myself or the memory of my King by taking his wife under the pretense of merely ‘providing an heir.’ I will not do it.”
The Queen’s eyes flashed. “What pretense? There is no pretense. Think rationally. I am offering you a Kingship. You would not run just an army, you would rule a continent. All would be subject to your laws. There would be no voice higher. I—” her voice cracked, “—even I would place myself beneath the King. Your word will govern all conflict. You alone shall make peace, and you alone shall declare war. All shall kneel before you, and your heirs would be princes over the world. All I ask of you is to share this burden with me—there is no finer leader in the land.” The Queen’s voice took a harder edge as she finished, “You can afford to choose your women by looks or love. I cannot. I do not have the luxury of waiting for ‘love’ to find me. Elvidor needs an heir now!”
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 51