[Ergoth 01] - A Warrior's Journey

by Paul B. Thompson

  Yoralyn addressed the assembled wizards. “Go back to your studies. I will see to the stranger. The source of his immunity to magic will be found, I promise you.”

  “I will assist,” Oropash offered, with a gracious bow.

  “As will I,” put in Helbin. He regarded Tol with open hostility.

  The other mages slowly dispersed. When only Yoralyn, Helbin, and Oropash remained, Tol asked the woman where he could find the fountain of the centaurs.

  “Centaurs? Oh, you mean the Font of the Blue Phoenix,” she said. “It faces the end of the west wing, yonder. Why do you seek it? Are you a devotee of the god?”

  Tol colored a little. “I was told to meet a friend there.”

  Yoralyn’s wrinkled face showed amusement for the first time. “Oh, you seek Valaran.”

  “You know her?”

  “No one else from outside comes to the Font of the Blue Phoenix.” She folded her arms. “But it is a sacred site, not a trysting place for young lovers.”

  “We just met,” Tol protested. “She wants me to tell her about life in the provinces!”

  “And what do you want from her, Master Tol?”

  Her pale blue, almost white, eyes bored into his own, forcing him to give serious consideration to her question. Valaran was a strange girl, educated and observant, hot like his hearty companions Kiya and Miya. Although they had met only once, she had made a strong impression. Her openness and cleverness in saving him from discovery intrigued him. But what did they really have in common? Why should he seek her out?

  “I want to know her better,” he decided aloud.

  “I suppose you do,” Yoralyn said cryptically. “Very well. It’s not as though we can keep you out. In the future, please enter the garden Valaran’s way: Keep to the path along the wall of the Inner City; it will lead you without fail to the Font of the Blue Phoenix. For a few hours each day we leave an open passage in the Wall of Sleep there, just for her.”

  Tol thanked her. Before leaving, he said, “I lodge in the Riders’ Hall. Summon me, and when duty permits I will come.” He bowed awkwardly and hurried off to the fountain.

  Helbin clenched his hand around Morthur’s signet. “I will purge the ring,” he said.

  Yoralyn nodded, and he departed. She turned to Oropash.

  “Have the boy watched,” she ordered. “I would know what Master Tol does, and with whom. Use your best spy.”

  Oropash’s round face showed alarm. “Is he dangerous?”

  “I cannot tell,” Yoralyn said. “If his immunity to magic is a wild talent, then he’s an aberration, nothing more. But if he’s an agent of a rogue mage, even an unwitting one, he may be the most dangerous person in Daltigoth. In either case, we must know the truth. See to it at once.”

  “It shall be done.”

  * * * * *

  The Font of the Blue Phoenix proved to be a beautiful shrine to the god of nature. A veritable mountain of jade rose up from a shallow pool forty paces wide. A golden disk hovered over the gemstone island, fixed in place by no visible means. All around the circumference of the basin, droplets of water fell from open air, an endless rain from a cloudless sky.

  Surrounding the central isle of jade were life-sized figures of animals—horses, dogs, rabbits, deer, ancient elk, wild oxen, a crouching panther, wolves, eagles, crows, vultures, and doves. All were rendered in a startlingly lifelike fashion. Had they not been in various colors of marble, Tol might have taken them for living creatures.

  Also clustered around the jade pinnacle were representations of the world’s sentient inhabitants. Although elves, men, ogres, dwarves, gnomes, and kender were all present, a trio of rearing centaurs stood higher than the rest, providing the inspiration for Valaran’s name for the fountain.

  Tol circled the pool and saw other, more legendary beings: bakali, the lizard-like minions of the Dragonqueen; bull-headed minotaurs; and other strange creatures for which he had no names.

  It was still too early to expect to see Valaran. Tol sat to wait for her on the sculpted marble rim of the fountain and pondered his meeting with the mages. Did they think him immune to magic? Grane’s spell had put him to sleep quickly enough in his family’s hut years ago. Of course, the fellow’s conjurations had failed in the Great Green and on the road to Daltigoth. Although he pondered these contradictions long and hard, he couldn’t find any answers. Growing bored finally, he reclined. The patter of falling water, the stillness of the clearing lulled him, and he dozed, one arm laid across his eyes.

  He dreamed, and his dreams were strange indeed. In one of them he was ranging over the hills of his homeland, hunting with a bow in his hand. Far ahead, Kiya and Miya called to him to hurry. Suddenly, a plump brown rabbit broke cover and dashed in front of him. He loosed an arrow that found its mark. Running forward in triumph, he found a marble statue of a rabbit, pierced by his arrow. Blood trickled from the wound, staining the white stone.

  A cold wind gusted over him. With dreamtime swiftness, the landscape changed from green hills to an unfamiliar bleak winter clime. He was alone. Kiya and Miya were nowhere to be seen. Mountains filled the horizon.

  Suddenly, Tol knew a menace was behind him. He spun about, sword instantly in his hand. All he could see was a figure silhouetted against the sky, far away. It was a man—a man who meant to kill him.

  Something cold touched his face. Tol flinched and struck out. He rolled off the fountain ledge and awoke when he hit the grass. In a flash he was up, ready to fight.

  Valaran regarded him quizzically. In one hand she held his sheathed dagger. Slung over her shoulder was his saber and sword belt. The weight of it dragged down her pale yellow gown, exposing a smooth and slender shoulder.

  “That’s a fine greeting,” she said. “I bring your stupid heavy knife and sword, and you throw a punch at me.”

  Breathing hard, Tol lowered his fists. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me.”

  She dropped his dagger and shrugged off his saber, letting it fall heavily to the grass. In her other hand she carried a canvas satchel. Tol bent over the pool, scooping cool water to his feverish face. Valaran seated herself on the edge of the fountain and watched him.

  “I’ve already learned one thing about country people,” she said. “They don’t have any manners. Do you know how hard it was to sneak out of the palace carrying that big sword? And I wasn’t even certain you’d be here.”

  He took her hand and bowed low, as he’d seen noblemen do. “Thank you, my lady,” he said fervently. “How can I repay you?”

  She jerked her hand free, but he saw a touch of color come to her cheeks. “Now you’re being silly.”

  Valaran opened her satchel. It was full of books. She read aloud the wooden tags affixed to the ends of the scrolls. “A History of Sancrist Isle, Customs and Practices of Balifor, Genealogy of the House of Pakin.” She looked up at him—her green eyes were striking—and added, “But I’m glad you came today.”

  Tol smiled. “Really?”

  She looked down at the scrolls. “Really. I’ve read all these before”—his smile froze into a frown—“and I hate being idle when I can learn something. Please tell me absolutely everything about yourself.”

  Tol was charmed anew. Despite the plain appearance she cultivated, and her sharp tongue, there was something very winning about Valaran. She didn’t seem quite so young today. Her shape beneath the fine yellow linen was proof of that.

  Tol did as she bade. He told her of his early life, his family, of farming, and, as modestly as possible, how he’d saved Lord Odovar from Pakin rebels. She listened, silent and attentive, until he described the capture of Vakka Zan.

  “I’m a Pakin, you know,” she told him calmly, then smiled at his astonishment. “Much removed, of course. My great-great-grandfather, Ersteddin Valdid, married the youngest sister of Pakin Zan. My great-aunt, Darali, was set to marry the Pakin emperor Ergothas III, but he died before the arrangements were complete.”

  “Is being a Pakin held agai
nst you here?”

  “Not really. My father has always been loyal to Prince Amaltar. He was the prince’s tutor for many years, and now he’s his chamberlain.”

  It was Tol’s turn to listen. Valaran spun a fantastic story of dynastic marriages, palace politics, suicide, murder, and madness. Tol found it appalling, but Val recounted it with great verve, even pride. She spoke of the assassination of Emperor Pakin II, providing much more detailed insight than Tol had previously heard.

  “A courtier, Lord Bathastan, and three subverted servants slew Pakin II in front of the entire court. They stabbed him with daggers.”

  “What happened to the assassins?”

  “Tortured. Killed.” She said it as calmly as Tol might have said, “Hungry. Ate dinner.”

  Conversation lagged. Valaran leaned down to close the satchel at her feet. Her long hair fell forward, sunlight giving the brown mass a red sheen. Sitting up, she regarded him thoughtfully.

  “What do you want—?” they both began in unison. Laughing, Valaran gestured for Tol to speak first.

  “What would you most like to do?” he asked.

  “See the city,” she replied immediately.

  That puzzled him. “But you live here.”

  “I’m never allowed outside the palace grounds. Oh, when I was two my mother took me to a healer in the Old City, but I don’t remember it.”

  Tol was astonished. “You’ve left the Inner City only once? How old are you?”

  She feigned offense. “Rude question! Or it would be if I were one of the empty-headed lackwits in the Consorts’ Circle. They’d faint at such impertinence. I’m seventeen years and two months old. What about you?”

  “Country folk don’t reckon time as closely as city people do, but I think I’m over eighteen now—maybe nineteen.”

  An idea came to him of a sudden, and he jumped to his feet. “Valaran, let me take you outside! I’ve been wanting to see some of the city myself.”

  She regarded him skeptically. “You don’t know your way about. We’ll be like two blind kender with our hands in each other’s pockets.”

  “My men, the Juramona foot guards, are quartered by the canal somewhere. I’ll tell Lord Enkian I’m going down there to visit them.”

  Valaran stood slowly, green eyes shining. “Aren’t you afraid? I’m forbidden to go out without my father’s permission. We’ll be punished if we’re caught.”

  “A warrior does not fear reprisals, only failure,” he said gravely. This made her chuckle, the rich sound bringing a grin to his face.

  They concocted a plan. Although prohibited from leaving the Inner City, Valaran had a fair amount of freedom otherwise. Her father would not miss her if she went out after supper. Tol would meet her at sunset, by the palace kitchens. He was sure Kiya and Miya would help him smuggle her out.

  Valaran shook his hand like a comrade, then hurried back to the palace to prepare for her illicit foray. Tol waited a bit, then left the Font of the Blue Phoenix, nightmares and magical immunity forgotten.

  * * * * *

  The Dom-shu sisters were not disposed to be helpful.

  When Tol arrived at the kitchens after making excuses to Lord Enkian—who, frankly, cared not a whit if he left—he found Miya and Kiya chafing to get out in the city themselves. The idea that one sister should stay behind so Valaran could masquerade as her was flatly rejected.

  “Why should we do this for a stranger?” grumbled Miya.

  “You’d be doing it for me,” Tol said, annoyed. “I ask little of you. Can’t one of you oblige me in this?”

  They wrangled awhile, then the sisters agreed to gamble for the right to go with Tol and Valaran. He imagined they would match for it, or do evens-odd, but instead Kiya found four big butcher knives and leaned a chopping block against the wall as a target.

  “Nearest each corner wins,” said Kiya. Miya agreed with a grunt.

  Holding the iron point between her thumb and forefinger, Kiya hurled one knife after another at the block. Her throws were formidable; each knife came within a finger’s width of its intended corner. Miya frowned and worked the big blades free. Standing beside her sister, she gripped the knives by their oily wooden handles rather than the blades. Her first three throws were no better than Kiya’s, but the last imbedded in the very peak of the chopping block’s upper right corner. Miya whooped in triumph.

  “Don’t fret, sister,” she said. “While you’re here, get the palace cooks to teach you how to make real food instead of dragon-bait!”

  Kiya responded with a pungent metaphor, so Tol stepped between them. “My thanks, Kiya,” he said, giving her a brotherly hug. “I owe you a favor.”

  The Dom-shu slipped on the sandals Tol had insisted they wear in the capital, then stole outside. In moments Valaran arrived. She wore a dark blue hooded cloak that covered her from head to toe.

  Immediately, Kiya noted a snag in their plans, saying, “She’s tiny; she’ll never pass for me.”

  Valaran was more than a head shorter than the lofty tribal women.

  “I have it!” Miya said, smacking a fist into her palm. “Husband, get on the other side of her!”

  Tol winced at being labeled the mate of the Dom-shu, but he stood on Val’s right while Miya flanked her left. At Miya’s command, they grasped Valaran’s elbows and hoisted her up.

  “Light as a bird,” declared Miya.

  Valaran vowed they were crushing her arms, but Tol said, “Be easy. We just have to get past the guards.”

  “But I have no feet!”

  It was true. The hem of Valaran’s cloak now floated above the ground, and no legs or feet were visible below it.

  “The dark will hide that,” Tol said, and the three of them bid farewell to Kiya.

  They headed down the lane to the south gate. As it was used only by victualers and tradesfolk, the guards there were surprised when the trio appeared before them. The guards’ poleaxes clashed together, barring the way.

  “Who goes there?” snapped the sergeant of the guard.

  “Tol of Juramona and his wives.”

  The soldier held up a shielded candle. Yellow light fell on their three faces. Valaran did not arouse suspicion by trying to avert her face.

  “I know you, sir,” said the guard. “You command the footmen of Lord Enkian, do you not?”

  “That’s right,” said Tol. Valaran didn’t weigh much, hut the burden was starting to tell. His arm quivered with the strain and he fought to keep his voice normal. “I’m heading down to the canal district to visit my men. I have Lord Enkian’s permission.”

  “Ah, you’re a Rider of the Horde, sir, you don’t need to prove anything to us!” They withdrew their arms, and let Tol and the women pass. “But tell us some time how you bested Lord Morthur, will you, sir?”

  “Surely,” Tol said, flattered. “I shall.”

  They moved away from the gate, careful not to seem too eager. Out of sight of the friendly guards, they set Valaran on her feet.

  “You’re becoming known,” said Miya. She looked back in the direction of the gate. “I should have asked them for money.”

  Tol opened his mouth to protest such dishonorable behavior, but Valaran pulled at his hand. “Let’s go! I want to see everything!”

  The road descended a steep hill, curving slightly to the right. Valaran threw back her cloak to free her arms. She started to lower her hood, but Tol stopped her.

  “No sense announcing who you are,” he warned. He cautioned Miya to refer to their companion only as Val.

  Valaran had studied a map of the city and she announced this avenue was called Bran’s Way. It was lined on both sides by two-story warehouses—brick at ground level, timber above. Here were kept all the stores for the Inner City, as well as tribute and trade from every corner of the empire. Torches burned on iron stanchions outside the door of each warehouse, and well-armed watchmen stood guard, each with a halberd on one shoulder and a brass alarm bell in his hand.

  Not until t
hey reached the first crossing street, called Saddler’s Row, did they encounter traffic. Carts and wagons, single riders on horseback, and a modest crowd of pedestrians moved in either direction. Far down Saddler’s Row the lighted doorways of taverns and theaters beckoned. Miya and Valaran were ready to go that way, but Tol insisted they at least try to find Narren and the Juramona soldiers.

  The closer they came to the canal, the brighter the lamplight and the thicker the crowds. Valaran was enchanted. She stopped to listen to a slanging match between a pushcart vender and a woman who apparently didn’t have the price of a grilled sausage. Words were getting quite heated as Tol dragged her away.

  “Wait!” she pleaded. “She just called him the three-fathered son of a pox-riddled goatherd. I want to hear his response.”

  “Keep moving! We’ll end up in the middle of a knife-fight,” Tol said.

  Farther along, they came across two gnomes, pink-pated fellows with silky white beards, who had set up a table at the edge of the street. They were demonstrating an apparatus of their own design. Four flattened glass globes turned on spindles, while a rack and pinion allowed them to move backward or forward, up or down.

  “With the new Solar-Optical Domestic Stove Lighter, you’ll never have to buy fire again!” proclaimed the green-clad gnome. They were so alike only their clothes set them apart.

  “My estimable colleague is correct,” said the other gnome, who wore brown clothing spotted with gray patches. “The Solar-Optical Domestic Stove Lighter is clean, dependable, reliable, safe—”

  “Sounds like the perfect husband,” said Miya.

  The small crowd chuckled appreciatively. Ignoring the interruption, the gnome in green resumed his spiel. “Throw away your flint and steel! Forsake dangerous and smelly tinder boxes! The Solar-Optical Domestic Stove Lighter makes all those old-fashioned items obsolete!”

  “Excuse me,” said Valaran, stepping up to the table. “Do I understand from the name this device uses sunlight to ignite fires?”

  Both little men first looked surprised, then immensely pleased. “Just so, lady, just so!” said the brown-shirted gnome. “It’s so nice to meet an educated person so far from home.”