Trevan’s eyes narrowed. “Which part of insist was not clear to you?”
“Probably the part where you try to take a cursed sword from the only man, so far, who has been able to touch it,” Aren replied. “Trust me; this is a really bad idea.”
Trevan grimaced, reaching down with his right hand to the grip of the sword.
“No!” the loremaster cried out as he turned from closing the doors.
Trevan’s fingers closed around the grip of Aren’s sword.
The commander’s eyes went suddenly wide. They shifted in an instant to focus on Aren’s face. Trevan’s mouth opened as though he wanted to speak, but all he managed was to draw in a long shuddering breath. His right hand started to shake so violently that the blade rattled loudly inside the scabbard.
Aren gazed back into the eyes of the commander as he held as still as possible.
Suddenly Trevan released his grip on both the sword and Aren’s arm. The commander staggered backward several steps before he regained his footing. He stood there for a moment, considering Aren before, at last, he blew out a long breath and then nodded to himself as though he had just answered his own question.
“Commander!” said Zhal as he rushed toward Trevan. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I … I am quite myself,” Trevan answered, although his words were more confident than the sound of his voice.
“What happened to you, Commander?” Zhal asked, his words coming in a rush. “Please, tell me: what did you experience when you—”
“Not now, Zhal,” Trevan said to the loremaster, though his eyes remained fixed on Aren. “We will talk about this later.”
“I did try to warn you,” said Aren as he held both his hands up, his palms open as a sign of submission.
Trevan drew in another breath and then nodded. “Yes, you did, Captain. May I ask you, what were your intentions in coming to Opalis?”
Aren shook his head, and gave a wry smile. “Believe me, Commander, I had no intentions whatsoever in coming to Opalis. The loremaster and Syenna, however, both seem to have had a large number of intentions in bringing the sword here. I believe that if they did not need me to be the pack animal for this prize, they would have been just as happy to have tossed me into the Bay of Storms.”
“Will you give me your word that you will do no harm to my city?” Trevan asked.
“Trevan, what are you thinking?” the loremaster spoke quietly to the commander. “Can you seriously trust a warrior of the Obsidians cause?”
“He will honor his word,” Trevan responded, and then turned back toward Aren. “Well, Captain? Will you promise not to harm Opalis or its citizens?”
Aren considered the question for a moment before answering. “Commander, you know that is a promise I cannot keep forever. The Obsidian Cause is a force of order and destiny that will not be denied. There may come a time when its armies may be at your gates, and I may be among its ranks. However, there may be an oath I can take that will satisfy both of our honors. Loremaster, how long do you expect your investigations will take into this apparently useless weapon?”
“It is difficult to say,” Zhal replied, stroking his mustache in thought. “There’s getting access to the texts in the Titans’ library, the research itself and, perhaps, some experimentation with the blade. We could, of course, stumble upon the answer in a matter of days, but it is more likely that the answer—if there is one—will be known in three to five weeks. That is also assuming your cooperation.”
Aren nodded and turned back toward Trevan. “Then I may offer my word that I will do no intentional harm to Opalis or its citizens for a period of, say—”
“Three months,” Trevan said.
“One,” Aren countered.
“Two,” Trevan offered. “I need at least two months.”
Aren smiled and shrugged. “Two months, then. You have my word.”
“Two months?” The loremaster looked at Trevan in disbelief. “And just what are you going to do with those two months?”
“Well, to begin with,” Trevan said as he moved to the outer doors and threw them open wide. “I believe I will introduce this Obsidian captain to our city—since he will enjoy our hospitality from inside the city walls for quite some time.”
“You’re inviting me to stay?”
“Oh, I absolutely insist.” Trevan bowed slightly as he spoke. “As will every guard of the Legion on every wall and at every gate.”
* * *
Aren stepped out of the main doors of the Athenaeum and onto the colonnade that made up the front porch, and stopped at the top of the broad stairs.
The avenue curved before him, bending on his right around the wide base of the citadel’s outer wall. Its battlements were sheer and smooth, standing straight up out of the ground and rising thirty feet up to an overhang. The masonwork of the stones that made up the outer wall was so expertly set that, even with Aren’s keen eyes, it was nearly impossible to distinguish the seams between the stones. The citadel rose another sixty feet above the top of the outer wall, the curve of its tower sweeping around a central dome that gleamed in the morning light.
Aren turned and looked to his left. There, the avenue continued its gentle curve to the right, between an amazing variety of small, independent buildings, crammed uncomfortably close to one another. The majority of the buildings were of wattle and daub construction: dark, wooden frameworks filled in with a combination of wood strips, mud, clay, and straw. The others were of wood or stone construction. Most had flat walls and squared corners, but there were a number of others whose curved lines were far more organic and that tried, in their small way, to emulate the citadel that towered above them. Of those that were set at the edge of the street, however, they all appeared to have one feature in common: the main floor represented a shop, craft room, or other place of business, with the living quarters situated on the floors above it. Above the doors of each of these establishments, Aren could easily see the ornate signs depicting the various services or goods being offered at each shop. He realized at once why each sign was situated high above the street: for the avenue was so filled with people, they would easily block the view of any advertisement situated any lower.
The ebb and flow of the people in the street seemed to be at its greatest, however, directly across from the Athenaeum. There, the citizens of Opalis moved like a river into the opening between the walls of the citadel to the right and the end of the line of shops on the left. Beyond them lay their great open market. Aren could see the stalls and small tents set up in a sprawling hodgepodge. Toward the leftmost edge of the market, Aren could make out the great fountain that formed the central supply of water into the city.
Opalis was indeed a city far more opulent and beautiful than Aren had ever seen. He remembered that there had been a number of discussions among the command staff of General Karpasic regarding this mysterious city located at the farthest reaches of their maps. Stories from some of the trade caravans coming out of South Paladis told of a city filled with unspeakable wealth and treasure. Given the extraordinary and magnificent citadel of the Titans, it was obvious to him that the city lived up to the legends told about it. Yet, the city was defended by an inadequate number of warriors along a single wall of defense. Once that single wall was breached at any point, there was only the outer wall of the citadel remaining, with the surrounding city lost. To the captain’s trained eye, this was indeed a juicy and incomparable fruit, ripe for the picking.
Aren had given his word that he would not act against the city for two months. However long he had in the city, he could occupy himself with learning more about this place, its so-called Titans, and, more important for him, more about this strange, cursed sword that seemed to be more trouble for him with every passing day.
“Do you know where you will be staying, Loremaster?” The commander was speaking to Zhal as they, too, stepped onto the porch.
“The last time I was here,” the loremaster said, a slight wistfulness
in his voice, “there was a charming little inn under the Westwall near Elders Hall. I thought I might try there. Then I believe we should begin our investigations in earnest later this afternoon. Will the captain be in your charge?”
“He will be with me,” Trevan replied.
“Then perhaps you might bring him back here to the Athenaeum about the second hour after noon,” the loremaster said.
“We shall both be here,” Trevan replied as he stepped forward to stand next to Aren. The commander gestured toward the street with his left hand. “May I show you to your quarters, Captain?”
“I would be grateful to you, Commander,” Aren replied with a slight nod.
Aren followed Trevan down the steps and into the teeming street, a smile on his lips. He had promised to do no intentional harm to Opalis or its citizens for two months, but he had not promised to remain here. Evard would find him and free him of the city in eight days’ time, and he could then proceed northward and deal with the ridiculous command of General Karpasic.
Evard’s last communication through the homunculus had been most illuminating. General Karpasic had been ordered to move his replenished army out of Hilt and march northward up the broken road into North Paladis. There was something in the region that was vital to the Obsidians. Although Evard was not clear as to what the objective was, nevertheless it was good news so far as Aren was concerned. It meant that the general and his army would be marching as far from Opalis as possible.
The last thing he needed was for an invading army to complicate his escape.
* * *
General Milos Karpasic sat astride his heavy destrier war-horse, contemplating the crossroads directly before him.
To either side of him sat the captains of his staff, each one astride their own courser war-horses and, as per his orders, resplendent in their battle armor despite the vast plain before them being completely devoid of any enemy. Each of these captains held with dogged determination to a strained silence as they waited upon the general.
Behind the general and his captains, the mighty Westreach Army of the Obsidian Empire stretched backward along the ancient road toward the pass through the Blackblade Mountains from which they had marched only the day before. They had broken the encampment early, formed into their ranks and files, and ordered into their columns along the road. The army had been less than an hour into their planned march when the scouts had returned with news of the crossroads just ahead. This discovery had brought all progress to a complete halt as the general had ridden forward with his captains to contemplate the crossroads.
Now the archers, foot soldiers, sappers, mounted knights, wagon teamsters, cooks, coopers, weaponsmiths, armorers, pikemen, lancers, and a train of assorted siege engines all waited anxiously in the rising heat of the morning to learn if the column would be turning right or left at the crossroads. The special units—elves, satyrs, fauns, and the newly delivered trolls—felt little interest in which direction was chosen, as they were a vast minority in the army. The humans of the Westreach Army, however, were invested very keenly in the decision.
So everyone looked to the captains.
And the captains looked to the general.
“My lord general,” Captain Halik said quietly, although in the silence, his voice sounded like thunder.
“Captain Halik,” the general said. “You are disturbing my deliberations.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Halik said, clearing his throat but determined to press on. “I do not understand the need for deliberation.”
“Captain Halik seems to forget himself,” offered Captain Gorn.
“May I remind Captain Gorn that our orders from the Cabal of the Obsidians was specific and explicit,” Halik said, frustration creeping into his voice. “We were directed to march from Hilt, follow the old road north through the Dragonspur, and follow the Sanctus River into North Paladis to the place where it joins the Fortus River.”
“Yes, Halik, and once there, we are to encamp and hold that location until we receive further instructions from the cabal,” sneered Captain Odman. “We are all perfectly aware of our orders.”
General Karpasic was barely listening to the argument raging around him from his captains. He was aware that they were talking about orders and plans and duty, but he was concentrating on his own problem and how he might deal with an unfortunately messy mistake.
The general believed he was magnanimous enough to admit he did have some faults. However, he would never admit that to anyone else; doing so, he convinced himself, would be a terrible blow to the troops who so adored him. To himself, however, he would from time to time revel in the humility of admitting he was not perfect. Oh yes, he had faults.
Yet if there was one thing he was good at, it was self-preservation.
Captain Aren Bennis had served him well but, on reflection, perhaps too well. The captain was always overstepping his authority, showing off by appearing more competent than his superiors, and consistently calling attention to himself through public displays of victory, conquest, and achievement without sharing credit with those who had supported him in spirit.
After all, thought the general, if it had not been for Milos Karpasic, Captain Bennis would never have had the opportunity to lead his warriors in the first place.
So the time had come to be rid of the ambitious Captain Bennis, and the scout Syenna had provided him the perfect opportunity to do so without incurring the ire of the captain’s deadly and powerful friend among the Obsidian sorcerers.
But something had gone wrong with the plan.
Karpasic had his own sources among the Obsidians. It was through them that he had learned that the ever disobedient Aren Bennis had refused to disappear quietly, which would have so easily cleaned up the whole mess. Now he was on his own, it seemed, which was certainly far worse. But fate had provided the general with an unexpected opportunity, as the troublesome captain was even now being moved to a place that was just barely within the reach of the general’s forces.
A lot of unfortunate things can happen in the confusion of battle, the general thought, especially when you’re on the wrong side of the battle line.
“In the field of battle, situations often become fluid,” General Karpasic said at last. “A commander’s prerogative is an important asset.”
“But we’re not in battle,” Halik said. “We’re stopped on a road in the middle of nowhere, debating a junction!”
“No, Captain Halik, we are not debating a junction.” The general smiled. “We are considering an opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” Halik was stunned.
“Yes, Captain, an opportunity!” General Karpasic urged his horse forward and then turned it to face his captains. “An opportunity that comes seldom to any true warrior. An opportunity to take the initiative, to obtain a prize before it can be claimed by anyone else and all in the name of the Obsidian Cause. In one move—one bold move—we will be able to pay our army in inestimable plunder, secure our flank, and resupply our forces. What greater service can we do on behalf of the Obsidian Cause?”
“Where are you taking us, General?” Halik asked with dread.
“Why, north to the Sanctus River”—the general grinned—“as we have been ordered.”
Halik let out the breath he had been holding.
“And we will get there,” the general finished, “by way of Opalis.”
CHAPTER
18
Innocents
“Six days I’ve been here.” Aren frowned. “Six of the most miserable days of my life.”
The late afternoon sun had just dropped below the western horizon, casting beautiful, soft shadows among the buildings of Opalis under its afterglow. Laughter sparkled through the air as groups of shop owners and craftsmen, some with the lamps already lit in the windows of their homes above, went about the work of closing for the day. Vendors, whose business time was only just beginning, were wheeling their carts to and fro along the great curve of the Muse Way�
��that great circular avenue that carried the carts and citizens around the outer ring of the city—each looking for their favorite place from which to sell their prepared foods and art.
“The most miserable days of your life?” Syenna rolled her eyes as she popped another small, steamed dumpling into her mouth from the greenleaf basket in her hand. She managed to talk around it as they strolled past the Fields Gate in the direction of Elders Hall. “I’ve watched you march through the mud in the rain, try to set up your tent in the midst of a blizzard so strong that it might have blown your horse away, and even watched you make your way across parched land where the only standing water would kill you from the smell alone. Now you’re trying to tell me that you’re miserable here?”
Aren looked balefully about at the gentle evening settling over the streets of Opalis.
“Very well then, Captain Bennis,” Syenna said, turning angrily toward her charge. “What is so terrible about your life here in Opalis?”
“Why don’t you call me Aren anymore?” The captain folded his arms across his chest, considering her thoughtfully. “You used to call me Aren.”
“I’ve called you a great many things in my time,” Syenna continued to press her argument. “And don’t try changing the subject. Tell me what is so terrible about spending an evening under pleasant skies in a peaceful city filled with art, music, and good company—yours exempted, of course.”
“Don’t you see it?”
“No! I don’t!”
Aren placed his fists on his hips in frustration, gazing down and to the right as he considered how he might explain what he was feeling.
“It’s all that Trevan’s fault,” Aren exclaimed.
“The commander of the Opalis Legion?” Syenna laughed in disbelief. “He’s the one who gave you permission to wander the city streets on your own, over my rather strenuous objections, might I add.”
“All part of his nefarious, diabolical plan,” Aren insisted.
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