The Golden Griffin (Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  “How is it that you have a Veyrian in your employ?”

  “The survivors of the battle have few friends in this land. They are outlaws and refugees.”

  “So let him return to his own kind.”

  Jark snorted.

  “I found him huddled in the ruins of an Estmor shrine,” Roghan said. “Hiding. He was more than willing to obey me for food and a few shekels.”

  Jark turned from the fire. “You didn’t say anything about wights, and you said nothing about the Harvester. Listen.”

  Baying hounds and a huntsman’s horn sounded to the south. The sound didn’t concern Chantmer. The Harvester would find plenty of souls to gather in Estmor without worrying about those still bound to the living.

  Jark nodded at Roghan. “See, wizard. You’ve drawn the dark gatherer with your sorcery.” He turned a sharp gaze to Chantmer. “He’ll come to reclaim his own.”

  “Tell me, Veyrian,” Chantmer said. “If it troubles you so much to see me brought back to life, why did you follow King Toth to Eriscoba? He has cheated death for centuries.”

  “I didn’t follow Toth,” Jark said irritably.

  “But you did,” Chantmer insisted. “You wear the crimson and gold. And you carry a Veyrian blade. You fought with Toth at Arvada. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t answer that.”

  Roghan thumbed the amulet around his neck. “I found dozens of Veyrians in the swamps of Estmor. Hiding from the dark wizard. If they cross into the khalifates, their feet will march to Veyre of their own accord to rejoin Toth’s army.”

  “Interesting,” Chantmer said. “Then the dark wizard compels their obedience.”

  He climbed to his feet with a groan. Every muscle protested. He was burning even more fiercely now, and wisps of smoke rose from his clothing, so he stripped it off. Then he made his way naked to the fire. He reached directly into the flames and pulled out one of the quail. It was crispy and sizzling, but cool to his touch. Jark watched, wide-eyed.

  Chantmer pulled off the wings and ate them, his hunger so fierce that he chewed through meat, bones, and sinew. He started in on the body. Grease sizzled and ran down his arms. Both Jark and Roghan watched now, the latter narrowing his eyes and stroking thoughtfully at his cheek.

  “Do you have any water?” Chantmer asked when he finished. “I have a raging thirst.”

  Jark retrieved a waterskin from the bags where they sat next to the horses. He held it out to Chantmer, but the wizard shook his head. “Pour it on my hands, first.”

  The first few drops boiled away, but as Jark poured, it cooled his flesh until it only steamed as it ran to the ground. At last his hands were cool enough to take the skin without destroying it. He drank until the water was gone.

  “What a strange sensation,” he said, and handed back the empty skin. “My body is trying to heal too quickly, I believe.”

  He retrieved the robe and slipped back into it. It was marked with cartouches in the old tongue. He waited for a moment to see if the robe would begin to smoke, but the worst of the fever had passed.

  “I see no reason to linger,” Chantmer told Roghan. “You can eat while we ride. You live under Sultan Mufashe, if I read your tattoos correctly. He has ordered you to bring me to him, yes?”

  “Very good,” Roghan said.

  Chantmer held no love for the decadent desert lords, and had no wish to flee from Eriscoba like a criminal. But in his weakened state, he couldn’t challenge this wizard openly. And he didn’t dare wait for Markal and the other meddlers to find him.

  Roghan rose. He mumbled a spell under his breath and then reached into the fire to grab his own quail from the flames. Jark’s eyes widened again.

  “Well?” Chantmer said. “Shall we travel?”

  “Why not? We’ll put in a few hours. Then you’ll be flat on your back again.”

  “No, I’m feeling much better.”

  “The easy part is done. Ahead of you lies many weeks before you recover your strength.”

  Chantmer snorted in disbelief. In two days, he thought, he’d be riding these two into the ground.

  “What about me?” Jark asked. “Am I supposed to return to Estmor? Or am I coming with you to the sultanates?”

  “I’m sorry, Chantmer,” Roghan said. “I’d forgotten about our friend.” He started to mumble under his breath and held out his hands toward the Veyrian, who backed away, alarmed.

  “No need for that,” Chantmer said. He snapped his fingers to disperse the other wizard’s spell. But he had no power, and his effort failed.

  “He knows too much,” Roghan said. “We can’t let him go.”

  “Then let me come with you,” Jark said, his breathing coming fast now. “I don’t want to stay here, and Toth will call me back to Veyre if I leave the swamps.” There was no more of the superstitious nonsense, now that he realized his life hung in the balance.

  “It’s your decision,” Roghan said to Chantmer.

  Chantmer considered. If Roghan turned nasty, Jark might prove a useful ally. “Very well. Come with us. But keep your mouth shut.”

  There were only two horses; Roghan hadn’t counted on bringing anyone but Chantmer from the swamps. The two wizards rode. Jark trotted to keep up. He cursed and stumbled in the dark behind them.

  Chantmer smelled smoke a few hours before dawn. The smell came from directly in front of them, the embers of a small cookfire, so faint on the wind that he’d almost missed it. The odor of horses hung in the air, and men spoke in low voices. His senses were not as sharp as Narud’s, but he thought them stronger than Roghan’s. The other wizard wrapped his fingers through his horse’s mane, eyes half-closed. Chantmer didn’t think he could hear or smell the camp yet.

  “I can’t ride any further,” Chantmer said. “The fever is returning.” He stopped his horse and slipped to the ground, where he let his legs buckle.

  “I thought it would,” Roghan said.

  Jark staggered up, gasping for air. Chantmer sank to the ground and lay on his back. He fought a wave of nausea and ignored the rocks that pressed into his back. It wasn’t difficult to show exhaustion.

  “Are we heading for the Old Road?”

  “That’s right,” Roghan said. “But I should warn you, the captain of the Brotherhood is lurking in the north country, searching for bandits.”

  Chantmer remained on his back. “I most certainly do not want to see Knights Temperate in this condition. Give me two hours’ sleep, and I can ride again. We’ll travel as much as we can before dawn.”

  Roghan dismounted. He nodded to Jark, who took the two horses and tied them to an oak tree. They’d climbed from the thinly wooded foothills surrounding the swamps into the hardwood forests at the base of the mountains.

  Jark spread a bedroll and wrapped himself in a blanket. Chantmer was still hot from the fever, but grateful when Roghan brought him a bedroll. The mage sat with his back against a tree. Hard to tell if he slept or not; it was too dark to see Roghan’s eyes. Chantmer let his breath come in slow, even intervals.

  He could still smell smoke and hear low voices, perhaps a mile distant. An owl hooted somewhere higher on the mountain, and closer, a porcupine snuffled through the brush. Bats circled overhead, clicking for insects.

  He listened, not for Roghan’s breathing, but for the man’s heartbeat. It took several minutes to pick it out. It came as a low thump, a wizard’s slow, powerful rhythm, with a beat every ten seconds. Chantmer sat up slowly, still listening.

  There was no change in Roghan’s heartbeat. The man was asleep.

  But that would change the instant Chantmer stepped from his bedroll, if he didn’t deepen the man’s sleep. He whispered a spell underneath his breath.

  The spell was a simple one, just enough to dull the wizard’s senses, to ensure that he slept longer than he’d intended. It should have cost Chantmer nothing.

  But as soon as the spell drifted toward the two sleeping men, an invisible hand reached into his chest and squeezed
his newly awakened heart, closed his windpipe, and made him swoon, lightheaded. He collapsed back to his bedroll where he lay gasping for several minutes.

  It was the fault of the Order. Why had they done this to him? Couldn’t they see what he meant to accomplish?

  At last he regained enough strength to rise to his feet. He walked barefoot from the camp, his feet adjusting to the leaves and rocks so as not to make noise. He crept through the brush toward the distant campfire. He hadn’t enough strength to walk there directly, but had to stop periodically to catch his breath and steady his muscles.

  The voices grew louder as he drew closer, and he picked out words, mentions of the Brotherhood, of the Citadel, and Captain Roderick. No doubt the sentries thought themselves discrete as they conversed over the dying embers in hushed voices. But any fool could have walked up to them without notice.

  “Chantmer the Betrayer,” a voice said to his left.

  Chantmer spun in the direction of the sound. He drew back at the figure who watched him from the deep shadow of a tree.

  “Who are you? Reveal yourself.”

  A man stepped from the shadows. He pulled back his cowl.

  “Narud,” Chantmer said. Relief touched his voice. “How did you know it was me? I smell like swamp water and rot.”

  “Your knees,” Narud answered. “They have a distinctive creak to the joints.”

  Chantmer shook his head at the man’s amazing senses. “Please, help me. A strange wizard revived me in Estmor. He is an enemy of the Order and doesn’t walk the crooked path.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “How dare you?”

  “It is true,” Narud said with a sad shake of the head. “Your path is straight and evil.”

  “Markal poisoned your ear. Let me speak to the Order.”

  “So you can beg forgiveness?” Narud crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, eyes narrowed.

  “No, to explain.”

  “Ah, yes. To explain why you corrupted our magic and killed our own men, why you tried to murder King Daniel, a man who honored you like a father.”

  “Mistakes were made,” Chantmer said. Even conceding that much left a sour taste in his mouth. “But I would like to beg readmittance to the Order. Will you take me to the Citadel and present my petition?”

  Narud considered. “Yes, why not? If you are truly repentant, I will present you.”

  “You are wise, my friend.”

  “And the Order may forgive you if you are willing to purge yourself. Perhaps ten years penance among the poor would be sufficient.”

  “Ten years? Surely you jest.”

  “You’re right. Ten years is not long enough. Markal will know best.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Toth will rise from the Dark Citadel by spring. If I’m not by your side, my powers restored, he will crush you.”

  “Perhaps,” Narud said. “But let me ask you a question. If a bear attacked your tent, would you then let a viper into your bedding, even if the snake promised to help you fight the bear?”

  “This is preposterous. I’m no snake.”

  “No, Betrayer, you’re worse than the viper, for I know a poisonous snake when I see one. You, on the other hand, deceived me.”

  “You are a fool.” Disgust and anger rose with every abuse Narud heaped on him. “Disagree with my methods if you must, but there can be no doubt that I fought the dark wizard, and the dark wizard alone. I would have shared my plans, but you didn’t understand the threat. You would have denied my methods.”

  “We defeated Toth in spite of your help.”

  “Did you? Did you really defeat him? No, I think not. I can feel him from here, slumbering in the Dark Citadel, rebuilding his power.”

  Narud waved his hand. “I tire of this argument. Will you accept the judgment of the Order, or will you depart and never bother us again?”

  Chantmer said, “I don’t accept your judgment. It is an outrage. And I won’t leave, either.”

  “Do you plan to attack me, then? Try to kill me and force your way into the Citadel?”

  “Even if I had that intention,” Chantmer said, “you’ve left me so crippled that Markal’s apprentice would best me. No, I will not fight.”

  “Then begone,” Narud said. “If Captain Roderick wakes and finds you here, he will kill you. He hates traitors.”

  “Please,” Chantmer said, ashamed and humiliated to be forced to beg. “Won’t you reconsider?”

  Narud raised his hand and shoved his palm in Chantmer’s face. “By the Thorne, I command you to depart.”

  The curse hit Chantmer like a blow. He staggered back, first from the clearing, then into the brush. And still the spell kept shoving him away. He was powerless to resist it.

  It took him twenty minutes to reach the spot where he’d left Roghan and Jark sleeping. The Veyrian still lay on the ground, snoring, but Roghan sat with his legs crossed and his tattooed hands on his lap. The stone at the heart of his amulet caught the starlight and winked at Chantmer.

  “Your friends will not have you?” Roghan asked.

  “No,” Chantmer said bitterly. He lay on his back and stared at the sky.

  “Then you see, you have no choice. Come, you’ve had your rest. Let’s go.”

  “What about the Veyrian?”

  “Your wizard friend is not very bright, but he’s powerful. He’ll search out others of your order to warn them of your passing. Some won’t be so forgiving. When they come, I need a distraction.”

  It spoke to Chantmer’s weakness that he hadn’t detected the spell resting over Jark as he slept, or noticed that one of the curling tattoos had vanished from around Roghan’s neck.

  “Jark carries the scent of our magic,” Chantmer said.

  “Yes. When he wakes and sees that we’re gone, he’ll grab the horses and flee. I left the impression of Estmor in his mind. He’ll run to the swamps and hide. Your friends will track him there. By the time they realize they’ve been following a false trail, we’ll be over the road and through the mountains.”

  Chantmer hesitated. For a moment he weighed Narud’s offer. Could he bow his head and accept whatever judgment Markal offered? The old wizard was weak and jealous; he would make Chantmer pay. If not the ten years of penance Narud suggested, maybe twenty. Maybe thirty.

  No, Chantmer would never bow to those fools. His rightful place was at the head of the Order and until that time came, he would take his chances with these southern wizards.

  And so Chantmer followed Roghan into the darkness. For the next few weeks they’d struggled north to the Old Road, stopping sometimes for a day or two while one fever after another wracked Chantmer’s slowly healing body. They hid from griffins in the air and knights and ravagers on the road.

  It was slow progress, but steady, and nobody challenged them as they crossed the mountains. They had entered the Desolation protected by Roghan’s most powerful spells, and reached the Temple of the Sky Brother just as Chantmer reached the limits of his stamina.

  Roghan’s warning that enemies waited on the Tothian Way did not come as a welcome surprise. But in his heart, Chantmer knew who he would find.

  His old rivals from the Order of the Thorne. And he wasn’t yet strong enough to face them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Darik and Kellum flew in complete silence through the night sky. They soared over the eastern foothills by the light of the waning moon.

  The Desolation of Toth held a brooding, malignant vigil to their left. When the wind picked up, and the rugged landscape forced Kellum closer to the wasteland, Darik saw ghostly blue lights flicker across the plains. Soon they were soaring over ruined villages and gaunt, skeletal towers. Galsi began to struggle in the oppressive air. She sank closer and closer to the ground until her rider pulled her into higher elevations.

  They reached the broad Tothian Way east of Montcrag on the edge of the Desolation. Galsi swooped over the road for another half hour, flying east, before her sharp eyes picked out the w
izard. Then she coasted in for a landing, her wings beating up the fine sand that had drifted across the road. Darik climbed down and patted the tired griffin’s trembling haunches. Markal drew back his cowl as he approached from the shadows.

  “Thank you,” Darik told the griffin. “And thank you, too, Kellum.”

  “Yes, well.”

  “If we see each other again—”

  “With any luck, we won’t,” Kellum interrupted. “If we do, it means that misfortune continues to stalk my people.”

  Darik closed his mouth. He’d met several griffin riders, but this man was by far the most dour. Since there was nothing he could say to soften Kellum, he stepped back and nodded.

  “Fly safely.”

  Kellum dug his heels into the griffin’s ribs. They disappeared into the darkness.

  Markal put a hand on Darik’s shoulder. “Never mind him.”

  “Are we in time?”

  “Yes. I sent a seeker into the Desolation. You know what that is, right?”

  “Like an invisible eye.”

  “I can only send it so far. It leaves a trail, and it’s a costly spell. At least for me.”

  “Your hands aren’t injured, so it couldn’t have been too costly,” Darik said.

  “In fact, it would have blackened both of my hands to send the seeker.” Markal retrieved Memnet’s Orb from his robes. “I’ve been storing my excess power here. This single spell took half of it. But I needed to know.”

  They picked their way along the side of the road as they talked. Whispering voices came in from the waste. Darik had passed this way in the summer when he’d fled Balsalom with Markal, Whelan, and Sofiana. They’d come across a party of Veyrian soldiers on the Tothian Way, and Darik had fallen from the road. He shuddered at the memory of a wall of bones and a flat, dead landscape covered with brackish puddles of water. It was out there, only a few feet away.

  “I’m not sure why a seeker is so difficult to manage,” Markal said. “Nathaliey Liltige could do it with barely a tingle. Unfortunately, we don’t have her. Or Narud, for that matter. In any event, costly or no, there’s no way to hide a seeker from a powerful wizard. They know we’re here.”