The man sat on a plain chair beneath the dais, facing the room, with Lord Corovant above him. “Stole from me, he did! Notch all my coppers, I do. Fancy mage like him can magic-up his own money, but it’s more fun to steal from old Manny. Just a fish peddler, me Lord. Simple as can be. But I’ll not soon forget the face of any man who robs old Manny. Take his hands, Lord! One less conjurer in the world would be no loss. Never got me coppers back, neither. Then he steals from me again, Lord! Me and the missus were having a time together, you see, and he breaks into me room, steals good coin from us both while we’re huddled in a corner, with naught but straw to keep us decent. Had it in for poor Manny since he first saw me, he did. Justice! Manny demands justice from his Lord!”
Lord Corovant held up his hand to keep the fish peddler from continuing. He wrinkled his nose. “Thank you. Next accuser.” With a slight nod from the throne, a Knight came from nowhere and led Manny, a bit roughly, out of the Hall.
Wyzle came forward. He looked at the chair that had been occupied by Manny and decided to stand instead. “He killed his own friend, a Ranger. The man has no conscience. Why he killed him I’ll never know, but he stole an incredibly valuable scroll from me, left a bloody corpse to rot on my marble floor, and then put all of us asleep to aid in his escape. It comes as no surprise to me when I heard his other travelling friend was found dead in the very inn that, uh, Manny was staying with his, uh, missus. Two horses mysteriously vanished from the stables of The Lazy Pour, and many awoke from the same magical sleep that he used to curse my own staff. He is a menace, my Lord. Taking his hands does not begin to atone for his crimes. Let him sit in boiling water until his flesh is purified. Then take his hands and let him beg for his bread and eat with his beak like the crow that he is.”
Shouts rang up as the popular Keeper of the Books in the Great Library stirred up the crowd in the Hall. Soon there was small mob waiting outside the Hall, having heard the commotion and the rumors of a salacious trial, pressing on the doors in an attempt to get inside to see this criminal.
Magi, still under the paralysis spells of the mage-guards, did nothing but shift his eyes around.
Lord Corovant held up a hand, straightening his cuff in the process. “Thank you. Next accuser.” Wyzle retreated to the back of the Hall.
A middle-aged man, thin but fit, came forward. Whispers seemed to follow him through the chamber. Nobody in the large crowd recognized him. Magi thought he looked vaguely familiar, but couldn’t place him. “Lord Corovant,” he began. “I am Phineas, a mage-guard at Rookwood. Long live the Queen!”
“Long live the Queen!” echoed throughout the hall. Magi noticed that Lord Corovant barely moved his lips.
“When I heard that you had captured this fiend, I had to teleport here. I can assure you that I saw with my own two eyes that this man assaulted a woman who was a guest of our Queen, and then used his magic to kill a man who rose to her defense. Her own brother, in fact. As it turns out, apparently this man was once his best friend. Loyalty and friendship are as lost to this creature as are civility and respect. Whatever your ruling, Lord Corovant, he is not to be killed until I take him back to Rookwood, where the Queen herself will pronounce final judgment on the crimes committed in her presence. You must leave more than a speck of his flesh intact that it may be flayed in the dungeons of our mighty castle.”
Lord Corovant stared at the mage-guard, trying not to look indignant. As if the East should dictate to us west of the mountains… “Thank you, Phineas.” He stood and stretched, straightening the deep blue sash he wore over his pale yellow tunic. He cleared his throat politely. “Is there anyone who would speak on behalf of the accused?”
“I will,” a velvety voice replied. Though Magi could not turn his head, he recognized the unmistakable voice of Elsa, the Ol’ Shakoor. He would have smiled if he could have moved his lips.
Xaro
Xaro surveyed his army, putting the disappointment of his last update with Veronica behind him. The pillafer had been the ingredient he needed, and his potion brewing had done wonders for the recovery of his army. Daily, he mixed with the men, praising Kuth-Cergor and encouraging their efforts as they began to regain strength. Their loyalty would not be won in a day—perhaps the islanders would never be loyal, given the manner of their conquest and the success of Herodius’s rebellion. Yet every day, Xaro trained them, fed them, healed them, encouraged them, and mostly preached to them. What Tar-tan had failed to do through fear, Xaro had achieved through generosity.
Upon his arrival at the disheveled camp outside the Dead Marshes, he went from slave to slave, using his magic to treat the basic injuries. He started with those who swore an oath of allegiance to him. He came last to those who were still defiant, those who had wished that they had left with Herodius. Many would have, had they been faster, braver, or healthier. Those he healed too…only to strengthen them for public torture. When it became clear that better food, cleaner water, and nicer quarters awaited those who had pledged their loyalty, while pain, deprivation, and suffering followed from continual defiance—the last few resistors caved. Soon all were bowing down to Xaro, worshipping this “new” God, Kuth-Cergor, and following General Tar-tan’s orders. The revitalized army, well-fed and better trained, aided with supplies from Misk, was ready to march again inside a month.
The human army for Xaro now approached 30,000, combining the volunteers from Misk and the restored men from the original “recruitment” of the Uncharted Isles. He was hoping for more, but it would be enough. He had some additional swords that he left behind at Sands End, from the initial group of mercenaries he raised from the fighting pits of Kekero. Once that fool of a cleric arrives with his undead army, we should have more than 50,000 bodies to throw against the Queen and her arrogant knights and allies. Soon, Xaro would have to decide whether to strike north first…or head back east to Rookwood itself.
Of immediate concern was the logistical challenge his half-ogre now struggled with: getting his army across the Ajax Mountains and then across the Thirsty Desert to his stronghold at Sands End. There was no spell he knew of that would teleport an entire army.
He headed outside his camp, looking for some fresh air. He walked past some flat land just outside the city walls that he had encouraged the young, new Lord Ethan to grant to loyal men for them to farm for all of Misk so that not everything would need to be imported. Past the flats, the terrain grew a little hillier, with more trees scattered about. Xaro found a patch of ground shaded by a few larger trees. He located a quiet spot, where he created a small ring of stones to build a modest campfire with a flick of his wrist and a few words of magic. It wasn’t so much that he was cold; but he found the flames soothing. Clearing his mind, he called upon Kuth-Cergor.
“Master, God of this Age, show your servant how I can lead your army across this harsh land. Guide my decisions, Lord of this World, and bless my efforts. Grant me wisdom and understanding, that I may march the men you have given into my hand to our new home, over the mountains and across the desert. Preserve my strength in numbers that I may do your bidding, my Master. Show favor to me in this, as you have shown favor to others who serve you.” He didn’t utter Malenec’s name, but he saw his face in his mind’s eye.
The flames flickered in silence.
Xaro was patient. He was all but a True Cleric, and few men could match his faith in his Master. He stared at the magical fire, watching the flames dance and flow. Patiently he whispered similar prayers, asking Kuth-Cergor for guidance, direction, protection, and blessing. The afternoon passed and night began to fall, painting the sky deep purple-blue, then black. Xaro waited, clearing his mind, just listening. He looked down on the ground and saw a small ant hill to one side of his fire pit. Several ants scurried about, heading toward the ring of stones. Mesmerized, he watched as these ants began to group themselves and came to the ring. How odd. It was fascinating to watch as one of the lead ants found a crack between the rocks and began walking toward the fire! Soon all
the ants were marching through the gap, right into the flames.
Suddenly, the fire went out, and Xaro was in the dark until he created a glow ball. Curiously, he looked at the ants and saw them march across the place where a second ago a fire had been raging. Soon the whole colony had crossed his fire pit.
Xaro smiled. “Thank you, my Master. In faith we will head toward the Ajax Mountains, and trust you to find us a path through and safe passage across the desert toward Sands End.”
A distant peal of thunder erupted to the north, as sheet lighting flashed across the night sky.
Phillip
Loaded up like a pack-mule, Phillip the Elder was miserable. His schemes could not have gone more sideways:
Gain favor with Rebecca, the Lady Ranger, an athletic beauty—not happening.
Gain favor with Kari, the striking illusionist who wants to be a True Cleric—not with Rebecca watching his every move.
Gain favor with the Queen herself for securing an alliance—not in a thousand lifetimes
He would have settled for any of those outcomes. Absent that, he would have contented himself to simply travel home to Brigg. Out some gold, but with a thrilling tale to spin. Instead he was faced with conscription into the Queen’s guard or travelling on this ridiculous quest to find remnants of some ancient God. And he had not even been given a choice!
Still, even this would have been tolerable if he had been treated with respect—a bit of dignity accorded to a man of his position. Alas, he had served on the boat essentially as a deck hand, and now was in charge of the pony that carried half their supplies on its back.
Seated uncomfortably atop one of the horses they’d brought, Phillip looked around at the stark land onto which they had disembarked. There were endless rolling hills with long grass and heather up to your legs in some parts, even when saddled. It was wide open, with hardly a tree in sight. The few they did see were short and wide, more like overgrown bushes. But mostly it was rolling hills, thick grass, and a cold wind that blew in from the coast, rippling across the heather in waves. Phillip was constantly checking the buckles on the pack pony that trudged alongside him, the grass whipping against his legs.
As they continued riding slowly overland, with Strongiron at the front, followed by Kari, then Rebecca, than Phillip, and last by Niku, Phillip couldn’t help but stare at his arms and legs to take his mind off his misery. At least he was getting fit. Gone was the soft belly of a politician. The rations he had eaten on all their travels had been for nourishment and nourishment alone—nothing in excess, no food for pleasure. The hard labor he had done since being forced into this trip had done his body good, he had to admit. He was stronger, of that he was sure. But more miserable than ever.
He came up beside Rebecca on her large horse, allowing some slack in the line for the pack pony to follow behind him. There was something that still gnawed at him. “Why did you insist on bringing me here?” It was the first time he had asked her that question.
The Lady Ranger didn’t immediately answer. She didn’t even look at him for a minute or so. Finally, she glanced at him and replied, “So I could keep my eye on you.”
The Elder raised an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me?”
Rebecca laughed at this, making Kari look over her shoulder inquisitively. “Should I? When have you shown yourself to be nothing more than a schemer, always looking for a benefit for yourself? I trust few men…and you barely qualify as that.”
“If given the chance, you would see what kind of man I am,” he said, resisting the urge to reach across his horse and slap her, knowing the others would just gut him right there and lead the pack pony themselves.
“Ha! Did you think to manipulate your way into my bed? You are a foul, little man. The schemer has been out-schemed. Still…you are of some use on our mission. For your sake, I would keep a closer eye on our pack pony. She is already wandering into the deep heather while you chatter away with me.”
Phillip bit his tongue and gave the rope tethered to their supply pony a stiff jerk before he dropped back in line behind Rebecca, smoldering.
Niku
Niku and Strongiron huddled with the others that night around the campfire. After some wandering through the sea of grass, they had found an old dirt road, roughly heading north-south. An old map that Niku had found before they left Rookwood held the promise of at least marking some sites. Very little was known of this ring-shaped island. Two cities were known to the travelers: Ilbindale—which they were not going to visit—and Shu-Tybor. That was their first goal. If the map was to be believed, there was an old road leading from the coast down toward the inland city.
“What is this city like?” Rebecca asked, pulling a piece of roasted boar off her knife, having felled one earlier with one shot from her great bow, to everyone’s delight.
Everyone turned toward Niku. “Well, nobody knows for sure. Remember, this land is hardly inhabited, and certainly not well mapped.” He smiled as the juice from a perfectly-roasted piece of meat ran down his sticky fingers. “Delicious. A marvelous shot, Ranger. But as I was saying, the details on Shu-Tybor are sparse. That said, I found this in our Great Hall of Books. The entry was ripped and incomplete, but some of the words can be made out:
—trees. A silver river cascaded over the falls and pooled at the bottom of the grotto, undoubtedly on its way toward the Holy Water. And in the distance rose the Tower at Dariez, where—
“What do you think that means?” Kari asked. “Who wrote that?” She looked at all of them in turn, but was speaking to Niku.
“Well, I did some further research. I found one other reference for this Tower at Dariez. It is the only writing I know that exists that was supposedly written by the True Cleric Windomere. It reads:
—I fear the Age of Wisdom draws to a close, my friend. Dymetra is not pleased with us, and I fear she will let men rule themselves apart from her love, her care, her guidance. The hubris! Had we just listened, had we just been content. Alas, Quixatalor, we were not patient, were we? The silver water shall flow, but the Tower shall empty. For who shall come study the Truth at Dariez in a Godless world? As Wisdom fades, Darkness must surely rise. As our light draws to a close, I fear that Tenebrae shall become a Dark World indeed.
Windomere
Niku tore off another piece of roasted boar, this one a little charred from its closeness to the fire. “A glass of wine now would top this off to perfection, but—to the letter. Putting them together, I think we can conclude, at the very least, that the Tower of Dariez was a place of great respect amongst the ancient clerics. If we are looking for remnants, runes, and knowledge of Dymetra, I think that would be a good place to start. And it appears to be visible ‘in the distance’ from Shu-Tybor.”
Rebecca fidgeted, then asked the obvious question. “Then why are we headed to Shu-Tybor?”
“Because Dariez is not on any map I’ve seen,” replied Niku with a half-smile.
Trevor
Trevor sat in the back of the courthouse, well-disguised in case any crewman from The Modest Mermaid stumbled in and recognized him.
A few days ago, he had been sitting in The Lazy Pour, waiting to see a familiar face, waiting for Marik to stop traipsing all over the continent on the wings of his Art, doing who knows what. Just waiting. And drinking. And waiting…but mostly drinking.
He couldn’t help but overhear all the buzz in the common room about a wanted mage being captured. To hear the gossip, this magic user was a ‘big catch.’ Placed under continual paralysis to keep him from so much as whispering, he was going to be rushed to trial, given the toll it was taking on the mage-guards to keep him in check. Trevor’s curiosity was piqued. When he found out the mage’s name was ‘M’ something, he was really curious. Surely Marik wasn’t caught doing something foolish…Xaro might just let him rot.
When he saw that it wasn’t Marik, but instead his former pupil from whom he’d nicked the ring months ago, he nearly fainted. If he had not been in a crowded courtr
oom in the middle of a trial, he would have used the special word to tell Xaro to contact him as soon as possible. But Trevor was in no place to receive a conjured image of his Master, and the courtroom was packed tighter than fish in a dragnet. He couldn’t make a move if he wanted.
But he could see…by standing on a bench. And the first thing, perhaps the only thing, that Trevor wanted to see were Magi’s hands. Much to his chagrin they were unadorned—the ring was still missing. So he sat in the back and waited…this time without the benefit of any ale. Which was a pity, because the spectacle was unlike anything he’d ever seen. From an entertainment value, hearing all these people shout their charges, accusations, and grievances up at Magi was beyond fascinating. The drama was thick—this man was surely going to be tortured or executed or both. Trevor didn’t know whether that was good or bad for his Master. He only knew Magi—and his ring—were of acute interest to Xaro. As soon as I get clear of court I’ve got to tell him what’s going on.
Soon his eyes began to wander across the crowd, looking for some easy, well-to-do victims that might provide enough coins for a bit of extra celebration after Lord Corovant pronounced his sentence, whatever the verdict was. A dandy, that Lord Corovant.
It was then that the most intoxicating woman Trevor had ever laid eyes on stepped forward, and offered to speak on behalf of the captive. Her eyes had a golden color to them, and her hair was the color of honey, like it was poured onto her shoulders. Her face was timeless. Trevor sensed everyone suck in their breath when she stood up and walked forward. He leaned forward and listened.
“I will,” she repeated, standing next to Magi.
“And you are?” Lord Corovant did not stand, but finally took his eyes off Magi and turned his attention to the woman.
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 54