[Ergoth 01] - A Warrior's Journey

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Indeed he has, sire.”

  Nazramin’s brown eyes narrowed. “I am not my brother,” he said slowly. “Do not call me ‘sire.’ ”

  “Forgive me, Lord Prince. I am but lately come to Ergoth. My sojourn in the uncivilized wilds—”

  “You altered these dispatches, wizard. What parts did you change?”

  Sweat beaded on Mandes’s high forehead. “Only those portions that mentioned me, Lord Prince. Some I embellished to make more flattering; others I repaired because they were, ah, critical of my deeds in Hylo.”

  “I see.” After a moment’s thoughtful pause, Nazramin added, “You left Lord Mudfield’s description of his own successes. Those will have to go. In fact, I intend to change them all. I know several expert forgers—though for this lout’s handwriting, a pig with a pen would suffice. When I’m done, no one will care a whit about farmer Lord Tolandruth!”

  He drained a golden goblet in one toss. He did not offer his perspiring guest any refreshment.

  “Lord Prince, many soldiers were present at the battle of Three Rose Creek,” Mandes said carefully. “Lord Egrin himself is now in the city, and knows the truth. How can you take Lord Tolandruth’s acclaim away without arousing suspicion?”

  “First, Lord Urakan won the battle,” the prince said, refilling his goblet. “I’ll put those words in the upstart’s own mouth. That Urakan died is both poignant and useful. He was a military blockhead, but also a noble of the first blood. Let Urakan have the glory. He’ll bear it better than a peasant boy, no matter how high my brother elevates him!

  “Second, the situation in Hylo is delicate. Very delicate. Lord Mudfield will request permission to remain there, to keep an eye on the machinations of Tarsis. He will be granted permission. And stay there he will—until he rots!”

  Without warning, the prince flung his goblet on the stone floor. It rang loudly, and showered yellow nectar on Mandes’s feet. The wolfhounds, each one hundred fifty pounds of muscle, teeth, and fur, rose and stalked to the nervous wizard, sniffing the spilled wine. They began to lick the sticky droplets from the floor and Mandes’s boots.

  Mandes bowed his head. He would have bowed more deeply, but didn’t dare shift his feet. The hounds were still busily licking them.

  “An excellent stratagem, Lord Prince,” he said. “The frontier is a dangerous place. Lord Tolandruth may perish amidst its dangers.”

  Nazramin gave a disgusted snort and scrubbed strands of red hair from his face. “I doubt it. Peasants are like cockroaches: Try to stamp on them, and they survive.” Slightly drunk, he mimed his own words, lifting one foot unsteadily off the floor. Letting it fall heavily, he added, “I prefer he survives anyway. I’ll savor it more if he wastes his life away on a distant frontier.”

  “Alive, Lord Tolandruth is a threat,” Mandes offered.

  “Perhaps to you, wizard. Not to me.”

  Gauging his words carefully, Mandes said, “May I ask, gracious prince, why you loathe Lord Tolandruth so?”

  Nazramin seized the front of Mandes’s robe, dragging him close. Nose to nose he whispered, “He offends me, wizard. Because he’s not in his proper place. Because he does the deeds of a hero, even though he was born to grow turnips. A proper order must he maintained if the world is to turn as it should. Don’t you agree?” A dangerous glint came to the prince’s eyes. “Most of all, he gives me a convenient way to torment my brother.”

  He shoved Mandes away, swept a hand through the scattered scrolls, and came up with the one Tol had addressed to Valaran. He smiled at it—and Mandes suppressed a shudder at the singularly unpleasant expression.

  “And this,” Nazramin murmured, caressing the scroll. “This gives me a chain I can bind around Valaran’s slender throat. I pull, she comes. I let the chain go slack, she flees—but never very far. She is privy to my brother’s doings, which I otherwise would not hear of. By making certain alterations to this”—he tapped the scroll against his palm—”I can twist the chain, convincing the princess to give voice to the words I want said.”

  “Your vision far exceeds mine, Lord Prince,” said the sorcerer. “I confess it is beyond me.”

  The prince gave a dismissive wave. “Get out. Do not approach me again unless I send for you.”

  The dogs had gone to sleep, forsaking Mandes’s boots, so he stepped back and bowed deeply.

  “As you command, Lord Prince.” Necessity required Mandes to add, “A reward was mentioned for what I placed in your hands…”

  Nazramin took a weighty purse from the folds of his dressing gown and tossed it to Mandes. The sorcerer was not yet adept at catching with one hand, and the bag of coins thumped into his belly and fell to the floor. The clatter of heavy coins woke the dogs. In a flash the wolfhounds were on their feet, barking and snarling. Mandes paled and drew back.

  The prince rocked with laughter. “Take your reward, wizard! Buy yourself a new arm!”

  Mandes scooped up the purse and backed out of the sweltering room. As he was about to close the door, Nazramin said a word to the dogs, and they leaped for him.

  Mandes shut the door just in time. The savage beasts hurled themselves against the oak panels time and again, howling like the cursed hounds of H’rar. Sweating and shaking, he beat a quick retreat. Out in the snowy streets, he clenched his fingers tightly around the prince’s gold.

  Buy yourself a new arm. Nazramin had meant it as a cruel joke, but that’s exactly what Mandes planned to do. With a new arm, his campaign would start. Not for him the petty plans of Prince Nazramin.

  His goal was nothing less than the magical conquest of Daltigoth.

  * * * * *

  Valaran let Tol’s letter fall from her hands.

  On the sunny battlements of the Imperial Palace, she looked over the silent, gray city. Snow always stole the color from everything. All the poets said so, and for once, she saw the truth in their fanciful words.

  “Duty demands that I remain here, to guard the borders of the empire,” Tol had written. “I cannot say when I will see you again. Our lives mean little compared to the glory of our nation… here I can serve the empire best, instead of rotting away as the crown prince’s lackey.”

  She could hardly believe it. He had promised to come back—and now seemed in little hurry. The realization stung like a slap in the face. If he’d been ordered to stay, she might have accepted it—they both had their duties—but he didn’t want to come back! At first she couldn’t fathom it, then her eyes found the letter’s final sentence, and all was made dreadfully clear. That cheery postscript had stolen the breath from Valaran’s lungs and driven her, pale as a wraith, to this great height.

  “The Dom-shu sisters have been of great worth to me. Kiya is an excellent warrior, though she still cannot cook. Miya has proven herself in other ways. Our child will be born in the spring.”

  Valaran looked down in despair. It was a long way to the plaza. Unblemished by winter’s snow, the heroic mosaics sparkling in the sunlight seemed to mock her, ridiculing her pain. She could see every one of the thousands of stones in them. In a moment she would see them closer still.

  Two women crossed the plaza slowly. From this height Valaran couldn’t recognize their faces, but their elaborate gowns and deliberate, stately tread marked them as imperial wives. How they and the rest of the Consorts’ Circle would coo and jabber over her fate! Poor Valaran the Wisp, the skinny, unfeminine scholar who had somehow caught the eye of the hero Tolandruth, and killed herself when he was unfaithful. Silly girl! Didn’t she know all men are unfaithful at some point in their lives?

  Anger flooded her, sending hot blood to her face. No! Not for any man would she throw away her life—certainly not for an upstart, arrogant peasant who imagined himself a noble!

  Upstart, arrogant, lying peasant! What a fool she had been to believe him!

  The wind dried her tears. Valaran turned away from the parapet and made her way with firm steps down the winding stone stair into the palace. She went directly
to the imperial library and filled her arms with books. Ignoring courtiers and servants, she moved purposefully through the halls, back to the corridor between the kitchens and the Consort Circle’s salon. She wanted nothing now but to seclude herself in her old hiding place, where she’d first met Tol.

  She shook her head savagely, excising that event from her memory. It hadn’t happened. He hadn’t happened. How stupid she had been to order her life around such a ignorant, unfeeling farm boy!

  Valaran closed the curtain and sat down to read.

  * * * * *

  Through the cold and achingly dull winter, rumors began to circulate among Daltigoth’s elite. People having problems with health, love, or business dealings could seek help from a man who could solve any problem, a wise and discreet man, said to be unknown to the college of sorcerers. Skilled in many magical arts, he was new to the city. For gold, or the right sort of favor, this clever wizard would unravel even the most difficult problems, no questions asked. Fortunes changed hands. Enemies disappeared, or succumbed to the worst “luck” imaginable.

  When word of this dangerous freelancer reached Yoralyn’s ears, she attempted to find out more about him, but she had foresworn spies, and could find out little with her own resources. By the time the name of Mandes became better-known to the college, the rogue wizard was too entrenched, too popular, too protected by powerful patrons, for the White Robes or Red Robes to move against him. It was said that even Prince Amaltar consulted Mandes—most discreetly.

  Emperor Pakin III took ill that winter and never left his bed again. Tough and stubborn still, Pakin III clung to life but gave up his power. No longer simply co-ruler, Prince Amaltar was proclaimed Imperial Regent by a conclave of warlords. Formerly a penniless outcast, Mandes now moved closer to the most powerful man in the empire.

  The sorcerer settled into a sumptuous house only a short distance from the entrance to the Inner City, living there alone. The day Prince Amaltar was made Imperial Regent, Mandes stood in the center of his beautifully appointed, scroll-filled study and rubbed his hands thoughtfully. One hand was pale and soft, like the rest of Mandes’s flesh. The other was muscular and brown. Unable to grow a new arm, he’d found a suitable replacement. Its former owner had not given his limb willingly, but he was past protesting. His lifeless body had been consigned to the Dalti River before it froze over for the winter.

  Too easy, too easy, some part of Mandes’s mind told him. His goals may have been too modest, for everything he wanted had seemed to fall into his hands within six months of his arrival in Daltigoth. Only two things still vexed him, in minor ways. Prince Nazramin, whose power behind the scenes had grown enormously, remained indifferent to Mandes and rarely sought his counsel. The other niggling problem was Lord Tolandruth. Consigned to the distant reaches of Hylo, the young warlord still lived. Even with half the nobles of Daltigoth on his side, the other half under his thumb (for he knew too much about their indiscretions), even with the patronage of the regent himself, Mandes could not contemplate Tolandruth without foreboding.

  * * * * *

  Days passed into months. New hordes arrived to bolster Tol’s army, but no word came with them—not from Prince Amaltar, Egrin, or Valaran. The silence was so troubling that Tol wrote new letters to Valaran and Egrin.

  When the sun broke through on the first day of spring, sixteen new hordes arrived under the command of Lord Regobart. Many years Tol’s senior, Regobart bore orders from Regent Amaltar which named him commander of the northern army. Regobart had been charged to convey the prince’s appreciation to Tolandruth for keeping station through the winter, and his continued affection for his champion. That was all. No words of praise or gratitude for last autumn’s victories. No personal missive came from Valaran.

  When a private message finally did arrive, it came in the form of Sanksa, one of Tol’s chosen retainers. The Karad-shu man had gone to Daltigoth with Egrin. He returned looking haggard and grave, and Tol’s heart fell. He feared the worst.

  Muddy and trailworn, Sanksa gratefully accepted a flagon of warm grog.

  “Egrin’s at the Bay of Ergoth. Been there since before the first snowfall,” he told Tol. Upon their arrival in Caergoth, Sanksa went on to say, they had been ordered to the south coast to train six hordes to fight the Kharland pirates, who plundered the empire’s coasts at the behest of Tarsis. The rest of the caravan, including Mandes, went on to Daltigoth.

  Tol had heard about the depredations of the pirates from other new arrivals and wondered why Egrin hadn’t written him before this. Sanksa’s response caused fresh worry.

  “From then until now he couldn’t write because our raising of seaborne hordes was counted a secret,” the Karad-shu said. He lowered his voice. “To bring you this word, I left our camp on the bay and stole my way to you!”

  “Desertion? What could possibly make you, a loyal warrior, do such a thing?” Tol asked.

  “I will not water the wine, my lord, but pour it straight: That faithless villain Mandes has set himself up in the capital as a free sorcerer, taking on clients for gold and defying the edicts of the colleges. The Red and White Robes would have moved against him, but he has made powerful allies, chiefly Prince Amaltar. The colleges dare not provoke the prince, as he now rules the empire in his father’s stead. Worse to tell, Mandes must have altered or destroyed your reports, offering instead to the prince his own lies. He claims to have bested XimXim alone, and gave sole credit for the defeat of Tylocost to Lord Urakan, who he said died of his wounds on the very doorstep of victory!”

  Sanksa clawed dirty blonde hair from his face and drained the flagon. “The final clod of dirt on your grave was a letter claiming, in your name, that ah you wanted from life was to remain in Hylo with the army until Tarsis was defeated. With Mandes performing wonders for him, Prince Amaltar’s fears for his own safety have been greatly eased, and he does not feel so strongly the need of a champion. So, my lord, you, Egrin, and the good men of Juramona are condemned by lies and villainy to exile at opposite ends of the empire!”

  Stunned and silent, Tol wandered to the tent flap. Outside, the imperial camp was alive with activity as Lord Regobart’s new arrivals sought their billets.

  “And Regobart?” Tol said, casting an ugly look over his shoulder at Sanksa. “Is he also a part of this web of deceit?”

  “Egrin says Lord Regobart is not to blame for your predicament, being an honorable soldier and a loyal vassal of the emperor. ‘Serve him well, as you did Lord Urakan,’ Egrin told me to tell you,” the lanky warrior said.

  Tol turned away, his shoulders hunching slightly in defeat. Rising to his feet Sanksa exclaimed, “Do not despair, my lord! The gods know virtue and will punish evil. You will best your enemies as you did XimXim and Tylocost, two mighty foes!”

  Tol thanked the earnest warrior for his efforts and bade him stay in Tol’s own tent to rest and eat. He promised to make right Sanksa’s desertion.

  Stepping outside the modest tent (he had ceded the larger one to Lord Regobart), Tol inhaled the cold air of early spring. It had been a morning like this, many years ago, when he’d gone to the onion field to work, and instead ended up saving the life of Lord Odovar. What would he be doing now if he had run away and left Odovar to the Pakin rebels? Still hoeing onions on a frosty morn? He banished such thoughts. There was no going back. Whatever destiny the gods intended for him, it was not on a hardscrabble farm in the wilds of the Eastern Hundred.

  He looked south at the greening sward of forest between the camp and the plains of Ergoth. Juramona lay that way, and beyond, Daltigoth. Valaran was there. Had Mandes altered his letter to her, too? Loneliness like a fist gripped his heart. Had she been told he was staying away by his own choice? Would she believe that of him?

  “My lord!”

  The call did not penetrate Tol’s troubled thoughts. Fellen approached, saying, “The new infantry spears are ready for your inspection. Will you see them now?”

  Tol’s gaze was still fixed s
outhward.

  After a moment, Fellen asked, “My lord?”

  “Take it back!” Confused, Fellen asked him what he meant.

  Tol looked at the engineer and proclaimed, “I will crush my enemies, and when they are dust, I shall take back what is mine!”

  Fellen took him to mean the Tarsans. Later he would remember Tol’s words, and know the truth.

  Scanning, formatting and basic

  proofing by Undead.