The Golden Griffin (Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  “I take it you found Chantmer?”

  “I did. He’s traveling with a powerful mage.”

  “The tattooed wizard from the sultanates you detected earlier?”

  “The same. He can conjure powerful spells—I watched him carve a safe passage through the Desolation. He’s following a line of ancient temples and shrines that eases the passage, but it’s still more magic than I could manage.” Markal rolled the glass orb on his palm, then put it away. “I need to master Memnet’s orb. The power is there, I know it, but it’s beyond my abilities. I’m like a child using his father’s battleax to chop firewood.”

  Darik had more immediate concerns. “How long until they arrive?”

  “One turn of the hourglass. Maybe less. If my guess is right, they’ll appear at this very spot.”

  “And then what? You can’t face them alone.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m not alone, then.”

  “Am I supposed to run them through with this thing?” Darik patted the slender blade he’d lifted from the abandoned griffin tower.

  “Chantmer is moving slowly. Whatever strength he regained since Narud first spotted him, the Desolation of Toth has sapped it. And this other wizard may be powerful, but he entered the wastelands covered in tattoos, and now his torso is mostly bare. His legs are still covered with runes, but these he must save to cross the Desolation to the south.”

  Darik didn’t fully understand what Markal meant about the tattoos, but he supposed it was another form of storing magic, like Memnet’s orb. Instead of burning one’s hand to a cinder, it seemed the wizards of the sultanates could sculpt their incantations in advance.

  “Then you think you can defeat this mystery wizard?” Darik asked.

  “Defeat him, no. But I can fight him to a standstill. He’s far from home, and he cannot risk being caught on the road. There are armies on the march, and for all he knows, I can summon other wizards.”

  “Hmm. You can’t even keep Narud from running off.”

  “Ah, but our enemy doesn’t know that. He’ll be forced to flee, and into the Desolation. Which means he has to hold back some of his strength.”

  “But what about Chantmer?”

  “That’s the trick. If Narud were here, he’d deal with this mystery wizard and I’d hold the Betrayer. We don’t have that luxury. I’ll face the mage. You’ll handle Chantmer the Tall.”

  “Last time I annoyed Chantmer, he twitched his little finger, and my mouth filled with broken glass. There’ s no way I can handle him.”

  “I told you, he’s weak. He’s not the same wizard who raised a gurgolet of mud and bones from the earth. All you need is one spell. Immobilize Chantmer, and his companion will be forced to abandon him. Then I’ll deal with the traitor at my leisure.”

  All of this sounded preposterous. Darik had as much chance of defeating the arrogant wizard as of sprouting wings and flying to the Cloud Kingdoms.

  But Markal appeared to take his silence as acquiescence. “Good. Now sit down. You have an incantation to memorize, and we don’t have much time.”

  #

  It was all Chantmer could do to keep up with Roghan as he set out from the Temple of the Sky Brother. The mage had called up a powerful spell that rumbled like the boom of distant thunder. A channel cut a swirling tunnel through the waste.

  As Roghan pulled ahead, the passage folded in on itself. If Chantmer delayed to rest his pounding heart, he’d be caught out in the Desolation. His breath wheezed, and a searing pain shot through his chest. The strain made his lungs burn. The worm woke and squirmed about, moving and feeding.

  “Faster!” Roghan urged.

  “Damn you, I’m trying.”

  Then, when Chantmer could barely take another step, the other wizard drew short. He snuffed his torch.

  “Slowly, then,” Roghan said in a low voice. “The road is dead ahead. And so are our enemies.”

  They moved cautiously for another minute or two before Roghan halted. They’d reached the very edge of the road, where the Tothian Way cut a safe passage through the Desolation.

  The howling grew in intensity behind them. Blue lights flickered across the plains and flowed toward the road. Thousands of wights, waking now that Roghan’s channel dissolved. It was all Chantmer could do not to throw himself onto the road and cower. He leaned heavily on his staff, his heart hammering.

  “Two enemies,” Roghan said. His voice was hollow, as if spoken through a tube. He’d used a simple spell to cast it directly into Chantmer’s mind. “One to the left, one to the right. Neither are trying to hide.”

  “I’m too weak, I can’t sense them.” Chantmer spoke the words, but could only hear them within his own head. Roghan’s spell must have encompassed him as well.

  “If they aren’t hiding, they must be confident.”

  “Or they know not to bother,” Chantmer said. “We detected their seeker spell. We know they’re waiting.”

  “I’ll confront the one to the left. He’s the wizard who cast the seeker.”

  “Markal.”

  “I know this name. Is he powerful?”

  “No, he’s an archivist. Knowledge, but little real power. But what of the other? If it’s Narud, he’ll destroy me. Even Edouard the Lesser would handle me in my present condition.”

  “Then I will hide you. When you reach the road, follow it two hundred yards east. Enter the Desolation. You will find my channel, a safe haven. Wait for me there.”

  Before Chantmer could offer additional objections to this plan (what if Narud followed them into the wasteland? what if the channel closed before Roghan arrived?), the mage was muttering a chant. He lifted his robe and rested his hand on his left thigh. The rune beneath glowed yellow, then white-hot. Then it faded.

  Suddenly, Chantmer could see in the dark. The Tothian Way glowed green, and he spotted two figures standing several hundred yards apart in the middle of the road. They made no effort to conceal themselves except for hoods drawn over their faces. Chantmer’s own body was invisible.

  Roghan had cast a remarkable spell, one unknown to Chantmer. It hadn’t brightened his surroundings so much as cast him into such blackness that everything around seemed to radiate greenish light as a result.

  Roghan reached the road and hurried toward the figure who waited to the left. As he did, the mage lifted his hands. A rune glowed through his robe.

  The howling sound was nearly upon them, and Chantmer glanced over his shoulder as he stepped toward the road. Behind, he saw the wights with a sudden, brilliant clarity. Instead of their features cast in blue, faded and washed out, every line and wrinkle was visible on their faces. There were men, women, and children. Soldiers in plate mail of curious workmanship, and others in simple shifts and tunics. Among them, the wights of horses and dogs. A ghostly giant strode across the land. All of them came toward him, drawn by the warmth of his breath. The last of Roghan’s protective barrier shimmered while the wights tore loose chunks as if it were the rotting flesh of a dead tree.

  It was such a strange, horrifying spectacle that Chantmer waited an instant too long before climbing onto the road. He had to watch.

  A woman broke a hole in the barrier. She thrust her arm through. Chantmer turned to flee, but her hand closed around his wrist before he could escape.

  Help us, wizard. Free our souls.

  Her eyes stared at him, begging. She wore fine clothing, and jewels in her finely coiffed hair. A gold snake bracelet entwined one forearm, mouth biting tail, with jewels for eyes. Her clothing was a strange, archaic cut, but fine silk with patterns.

  “Let go of me! I can’t help you.”

  The Harvester. Where is he? Why does he not come?

  Her skin writhed and pulsed. It was as if a thousand living things lived beneath it and tried to get out. This wight, this human soul, was made of thousands of other parts. Gathered by the Harvester, torn apart, and sown into the earth, it would spring forth in other living things: plants, birds, humans, insects.
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  Unbound from its body, a wight naturally tried to flee the Harvester, to remain ungathered. Even death couldn’t sever the survival instinct. Chantmer himself had suffered such a fate while waiting at the bottom of the Estmor swamp. But here, in the Desolation of Toth, an even grimmer fate awaited. These wights were not insane. They had kept their minds and would welcome the Harvester’s scythe. Except the Harvester had no power here and could not gather them. So they lived on in torment and misery.

  Other hands reached through the widening gap in Roghan’s barrier. Chantmer gave a terrified heave and pulled free. He fell to the ground, then scuttled backward onto the Tothian Way. At once, the howling faded, and he could see nothing beyond the road but a flat plain and ruins.

  Roghan faced a man a few dozen yards up the Way. “Stand aside,” Roghan said.

  “Turn over the Betrayer,” the other man said. It was Markal.

  The noxious, sanctimonious tone made Chantmer’s teeth hurt. Markal drew back his hood. He held a glowing object in his right hand.

  It was Memnet’s Orb, which Chantmer had recovered from the ruins of Syrmarria at great personal cost. Chantmer had dropped it in the Thorne Chamber, when the other wizards turned on him and drove him off. And now Markal had it.

  Thief. Usurper.

  Chantmer took two steps toward Markal before he remembered his enfeebled condition. With the orb in hand, the other wizard could crush him with a word.

  Roghan faced Markal, apparently unaware of the danger. The mage lifted his hand. A clap of thunder divided the sky. A fist of air slammed across the road. Chantmer staggered back. Markal dropped to one knee, but didn’t collapse. He lifted the orb and shouted a counter spell in the old tongue. Power boiled from the orb.

  “Fugum nell dessicum nast.”

  Chantmer had expected a fire spell, but not that particular one. A ball of flames rolled in from the desert, which Roghan countered. But he couldn’t counter the whirlwind of stinging sand that shrieked in its wake. It washed over the mage and drove him across the road. His robes billowed, and for an instant, it looked like he would fly away like a leaf on the wind. Then Roghan regained his balance. The wind died, and sand fell from the sky in a dry rain for several seconds.

  Chantmer sneered. Markal’s spell had collapsed on itself. He had the stored energy in the orb, he had the proper spell. But he was weak in the mind. His failure of will bled away most of the spell’s potency.

  Light glowed beneath Roghan’s robes. A chant grew on his lips. It was an unfamiliar conjuring, and Chantmer stared, enraptured.

  Then Roghan’s voice whispered into his head: Move, you fool.

  At last Chantmer collected himself. He turned and made his way toward the second figure, standing further east on the road. Another enemy, this one waiting for Chantmer.

  A glance at his own body told Chantmer he was still wreathed in shadow. Hidden. The second wizard remained motionless. Waiting and watching.

  It had to be Narud, Markal’s closest ally in the Order. Narud was a powerful, unstable force, capable of almost anything. If Narud saw him, if Markal had poisoned his mind, he would no doubt call upon some animalistic spell. Conjure a nest of vipers, or give himself the strength of a mammoth and tear Chantmer’s arms and legs from their sockets.

  Something exploded on the road behind, like the roar from the dark wizard’s bombard. A high pitched whine followed, then a flash of light without sound. Chantmer didn’t look. He only studied the motionless figure ahead of him. Just beyond this enemy, only feet away, lay the entrance to Roghan’s passageway into the Desolation. Chantmer had to somehow reach it.

  He was still twenty feet away from his opponent when he got a better look. Relief surged through him. It wasn’t Narud at all. It was a tall young man. Indeed, his posture wasn’t like a wizard’s at all. Rather more like a soldier, light on his feet. A young Knight Temperate who Markal had brought as a guard?

  Chantmer slipped past, still cloaked in Roghan’s hiding spell. He studied the young man’s face as he did. And laughed at what he saw.

  Chantmer drew back his hood. He waved his right hand and spoke a simple dismissal spell. Roghan’s protective shadows fell away like cobwebs. The young man let out a startled cry. He wore a slender blade but wasn’t so foolish as to draw it.

  “Darik of Balsalom, isn’t it?” Chantmer said. “Markal must find you amusing, but wouldn’t a warrior or a wizard have served him better?”

  “Your friend is losing his battle,” Darik said. He looked stronger than when Chantmer had seen him last, older.

  Chantmer didn’t turn to look at the wizard duel. He’d already seen a demonstration of Markal’s failure with the orb. His rival wouldn’t defeat Roghan. That much was certain.

  “Is this the day you die, or will you stand aside?” Chantmer asked.

  The boy smiled. “If you were capable, I would already be dead. But you look pale and sickly. There’s a tremor in your hand. You don’t have enough strength to push me aside, do you?”

  Chantmer lifted his hand. He would squeeze the boy’s heart until it stopped beating. But that spell would cost him. If he called it, he would never make it out of the Desolation of Toth alive.

  “Move aside, boy, or I shall kill you.”

  “Darik!” Markal shouted.

  The boy looked up, and much of his confidence vanished. Whatever was happening on the road, he didn’t like the looks of it.

  Then, to Chantmer’s astonishment, Darik lifted his hand with his fingers spread just so. Not perfectly held, but close enough. His lips moved.

  Another boom rolled down the road from the battle. Chantmer flinched. Between that and the sound, he didn’t see what spell the boy had cast. But he felt it.

  A weight settled on his shoulders. His limbs grew heavy. Sand filled his eyes, and when he shut them, he couldn’t get them open again. He staggered, about to fall. The boy had cast a sleeping spell on him.

  A rough hand grabbed him and dragged him forward. Someone shouted in his ear. Chantmer struggled for several seconds before he realized that it was Roghan calling to him, then he let himself be pulled along. The sleeping spell faded.

  When it did, he found himself off the Tothian Way, staggering through the darkness and the wasteland. Roghan dragged him along while calling up one of his rapidly diminishing stock of prepared spells to open the way before them.

  Chantmer struggled free. “Let me go back.”

  “No.”

  “By the Wounded Hand, let go of me.”

  “We must fly.”

  “I won’t be defeated by a boy.”

  “I have nothing left. The other wizard is only stunned. If we don’t run, he’ll drag me back into combat. Then I’m done. I won’t have enough magic left to get us across the Desolation.”

  Roghan said all this while he pushed the channel deeper into the wasteland. One by one the tattoos burned away from his flesh. Roghan drove them on for mile after mile until they came upon a single standing stone amidst a wasteland of rubble and bones. It was twice the height of a man, bone white and marked with red cartouches in a tongue so old that Chantmer couldn’t pick out more than a word or two. It seemed to honor some ancient goddess whose name he didn’t recognize.

  “Rest here,” Roghan said. “Three minutes, no more.”

  Chantmer doubled over, coughed and hacked. His lungs burned like he’d breathed in hot coals. Blood leaked down the corner of his mouth. Something had lodged in his throat, and he couldn’t draw a breath.

  He strained, and a cough rose from the depths of his chest. He hacked one more time, and something spewed out. He bent and plucked it from the sand. The worm.

  “What is it?” Roghan asked.

  Chantmer showed it to Roghan. The worm was as thick and long as his little finger, and now twitched and writhed. The horrid thing had been his constant companion since Roghan and Jark yanked him from the bottom of the Estmor pond. He crushed it in his fist. Blood—Chantmer’s blood—oozed between his fi
ngers.

  “You’ll feel better with that out, no doubt.”

  “Yes,” Chantmer said. He took a deep breath and straightened his back. “In fact, I think I already do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Daria was already exhausted from three days of trying to tame the wild griffin, but once Talon saw the sheep, all her hopes for a breakthrough fled.

  Her mother was miles away, flying through the mountains, gathering riders and griffins, while Daria remained near the aerie to work with this stubborn beast. All she did was hunt to fill his consuming appetite, then ride from dawn to dusk trying to teach what was turning into an unteachable beast.

  Talon let her mount him with little complaint, but once airborne, he ignored whatever training techniques she used and flew where he wanted. She tugged his tethers until her arms ached, dug in her knees, and coaxed, pleaded, and shouted. Still, he ignored her.

  Yes, he was by far the most powerful griffin she’d ever flown and still growing into his full size. Properly trained, he would be a terror against the enemy. But he was beyond her skill. She was almost to the point of releasing him and saying good riddance.

  Today, she’d spent the afternoon wrestling the beast back and forth over the mountains. Daria pulled right, the griffin flew left. When she urged him down, he flew higher. And finally, the sheep.

  They numbered almost twenty, a tight clump in a grassy clearing not too many miles from Montcrag. Daria thought them strays at first, from their matted, dirty coats, and wondered how they had escaped the wolves that infested the eastern side of the Spine. But then a boy with a shepherd’s crook emerged from the trees. He looked up at her in dismay.

  Talon cocked his head and dove from the sky.

  She jerked back on the tether. “No. No!”

  Talon ignored her and fell straight at the flock. The sheep scattered from the clearing, and the boy dropped his staff and fled after them, as terrified and mindless as his charges.

  Daria dropped the tether and wrapped her arm around Talon’s neck, as if she could wrestle a thousand pounds of muscle, claw, and talon from its purpose. He screamed and rolled onto his back to dislodge her. She was so surprised by the sudden treachery that she almost lost her grip. She held tight with her knees and clung to his neck. The tether lashed her in the face.