EXILED Wizard of Tizare

by Matthew J. Costello

  “A living specimen!” he had claimed.

  Except that it wasn’t hard to wet one’s hand and rub it over the gray fur—revealing a smudgy brown pelt beneath it.

  Still, it wasn’t hard to believe that the North held secrets, both wonderful and dangerous. Even Paralan, who had seen such lands before, became quiet and thoughtful, breathing hard as they climbed the hill.

  He looked over at Feila.

  If anything, she seemed more comfortable, almost relaxed. Every now and then she stooped down and picked up a stray flower sprouting, in an unlikely fashion, from the dry, hard soil of the highlands.

  It was midafternoon when his reverie was disturbed by other travelers on the narrow hill trail.

  At first, the small group of mrem, five of them, sitting by the road, looked as if they might be merchants taking a break from their wearying journey from village to village. But the closer Paralan came to them, the more alarmed he became.

  They wore heavy swords sheathed in thick leather, and their throat armor, while not fastened tight, dangled loose around their necks ... ready for quick action.

  And except for the uncorked jug that they were passing among them, Paralan would have said that they were soldiers.

  “Steady, Feila. Stay close to me. Say nothing.” He looked over at her, the low-lying sun casting her in shades of yellow and orange. “And pull the cowl of your cape up tight around your head.”

  “But I am so hot,” Feila whined, still not aware of the danger Paralan felt.

  Then Paralan adopted a cautious, but steady gait towards the sprawling soldiers. His hand rested on his own sword, not in any threatening way, but with obvious implications for any who should choose to look.

  They were almost upon them when one of the soldiers, the apparent leader, stood up.

  “Ho, there, friend. Why do you hurry so?” The soldier, a plump lout, planted himself right in the middle of the trail.

  Paralan’s hand closed around his sword, and he debated just drawing it out and taking the first swing. At least, he thought, he’d start the game with the advantage of having one less to deal with.

  But what of Feila? Could he guarantee that she would be kept safe, out of harm’s way?

  He decided to talk his way past the drunken party.

  Paralan stopped, and pulled Feila to rest just behind him.

  “We’re on our way to Pleir, to see King Yarrou. He expects us tomorrow.”

  The leader turned to his cronies. “Pleir, eh? King Yarrou.” He turned back to Paralan and spit into the ground. “King Yarrou. The liar king ... the thieving king ... slavemonger ... murderer.”

  The other four soldiers all stood up.

  Obviously, thought Paralan with painful hindsight, these soldiers were not from Pleir.

  The burly spokesmrem for the group took a few drunken steps closer. “And what are you bringing to ‘good’ King Yarrou?” He reached out a hand and flicked back Feila’s cowl.

  Paralan saw the others shift closer, straining to see the suddenly revealed treasure.

  “Oh,” the soldier said, “now don’t tell me that you’re going to bring this beauty, this—” he reached out to run his massive hand over her sleek fur.

  In an instant, Paralan reached out and grabbed the soldier’s wrist.

  “This prize,” the leader snarled in a whisper, turning to look at Paralan.

  Then, as if a carefully rehearsed routine, the soldiers all drew out their swords.

  “By the All-Mother!” Paralan yelled. He flung Feila backwards. She went flying into the dirt, rolling over and over.

  Well away from this little party, Paralan hoped.

  He didn’t get his own sword out in time to parry the first blow. But either their skill was wanting, or they had sampled too much sweet wine, for Paralan was able to dodge the first strike.

  “Paralan!” Feila screamed.

  He turned, and saw one of the soldiers about to drive his sword into his back.

  Paralan made a quick backwards swing, a neat arc that caught the attacker in his midsection. Paralan didn’t bother turning to see the damage. He pulled the sword sharply to the front, taking the telltale strings of red that dangled from the blade as proof positive that he was now down to four attackers.

  All four were then facing him, taking measured steps. Paralan turned his sword, letting its red coat glisten in the late afternoon light.

  “Yes? Which one of you is next?”

  The attackers seemed hesitant and unsure.

  “Give us the she-mrem, and you can pass on your way,” the leader said.

  “Leave now and I’ll let you live,” Paralan answered.

  “Now!” the leader yelled. Paralan watched the burly leader raise his sword, but it was the other three who charged forward, eyes flaring.

  Paralan drove his blade straight into one attacker and he fell forward, spitting blood onto Paralan’s kilt. Paralan tried to draw his sword out but now the skewered soldier’s weight pinned his blade to the ground.

  He looked to his right. A blade was coming right for his unprotected throat.

  Paralan leaped backwards, abandoning his own sword. One charging soldier stumbled forward onto his compatriot’s body. Then Paralan jumped onto him, pressing his foot down onto the back of his neck.

  It was an easy matter to relieve him of his weapon. Now there were just two, a younger mrem and the leader, who, with his puffy, bladder-shaped body, didn’t seem to pose any threat. Even he seemed to realize that.

  With a sick grin, he lowered his sword.

  But the other soldier yelled and came charging at Paralan.

  “Idiot,” Paralan whispered, neatly slicing a deadly opening in his attacker’s exposed chest. The soldier’s blade seemed to fly out of his hand, followed by a torrent of blood.

  The leader started backing away.

  “You ... you had best not go to Pleir. It is a nightmare city ... a death town.”

  Paralan just stood there, watching the fat oaf back away. He took his foot off the soldier’s neck, and the soldier scurried away like a sand weevil, running on all fours.

  “Believe me,” the leader continued to call out, nervously fingering his stumpy tail, hoping that Paralan wouldn’t bother chasing him, “Pleir is not a place for such a young and beautiful she-mrem.”

  Then the two survivors turned and ran as best they could, off the trail and down the rocky hill.

  And Feila was there, next to him.

  “What did he mean, a ‘death town’?” she asked. Paralan put an arm around her.

  “Just trying to scare us, Feila. He was just hoping to save his own skin. But come, we’ve lost some time dealing with the buffoons. I want to reach the next valley before dark. Then, we should be able to reach Pleir by midday tomorrow.”

  Once again, they started climbing, racing the light as the long shadow of the hill followed them up the trail.

  •

  That night, Paralan built a fire, just on the other side of the hill.

  It grew cold, and even sitting near the fire didn’t keep the chill away. Feila sat all tucked in tight, her heavy blanket wrapped around her.

  The wind whistled eerily around them. Paralan had built the fire in a small depression, but still the wind lashed at it, sending the sparks whirling around.

  “Not too close to the flames,” he cautioned. He sat down beside her. “Any closer to that fire and we’ll be having you for dinner.”

  She smiled, her face lost in the mesmerizing dance of the flames. “I’ve never felt so cold. Is this what it’s like to be a highlander, to always be shivering?”

  Paralan laughed. “No, the hills and mountains have their warm season, too. But nights are cold, and most highlanders retire to the warmth of their huts. A warm fire, some savory stew. Maybe a glass of ale or two. It ca
n be very pleasant to sleep like that, with the cold wind swirling outside your door.”

  “But not this way,” Feila laughed. “There’s nothing too cozy about this.”

  “I guess not,” Paralan said. And, without thinking, he sat closer to her, fussing with her blanket. He pulled it even tighter around her. “There, that should seal any crannies and keep the drafts away.” He let his hand rest on her shoulder. “I wish you weren’t shivering….”

  She turned to him. “Thank you … for today. With anyone else, I might have spent the night being passed around like a jug of wine.” She kept her eyes on him.

  “They were no problem.” He smiled. “I may be out of practice ... but I’m not that out of practice.”

  She kept looking at him. And he, much to his surprise, held her gaze. His hand left her shoulder and touched her cheek. “The fire makes your fur even more golden.”

  His hand traced the hollows of her face.

  Feila tilted her head, and gently kissed his hand. She reached up and brought his hand down to her breasts.

  For a moment Paralan froze. Perhaps this should not happen. This was one of Talwe’s consorts, and soon to be the adopted daughter of a friendly king. Perhaps this should not happen....

  But, as she pressed his hand against her body, he thought, She is between two worlds, between two lives. Her past life had been summarily ended. And the future was not of her own choice.

  His hand cupped a breast, and felt the nipple harden under the thin material of her kilt. He lowered his face and kissed her lips, then, he felt her reach down, grasping his erection, working it with a practiced urgency.

  She let the blanket slide away.

  And as the twin moons slowly crested the nearby mountains, he entered Feila, surprised and excited by the strength and power of her need.

  THE CAPTAIN of the Guard, a tough old soldier whose name was known throughout the city of Ar, stood uncomfortably before his king, Talwe.

  And Cwynid watched the scene that unfolded with disguised glee.

  First, Talwe accused the captain of a list of offenses, some slight—such as the appearance of certain sentries’ uniforms—and others involving the very safety of the city.

  Each time the captain tried to defend himself, Talwe snapped at him, his voice bellowing, the pitch rising.

  Yes, Cwynid concentrated, this fellow, this captain, is such a lout, so stupid, so clearly dangerous ...

  “But King Talwe,” the captain started, once again trying to defend himself.

  Cwynid pulled the strings tighter....

  “You will be quiet! Quiet, Captain!”

  The poor mrem just stood there, confused by the whole scene, while Cwynid exercised his growing power over the befuddled King of Ar.

  “Remove your sword!” Talwe ordered.

  “But sire, I—”

  “Your sword,” Talwe hissed.

  Some wine, Cwynid suggested.

  “I’d like some wine,” Talwe barked at a servant. Then, he directed his attention back to the captain.

  “Your weapon. Now.”

  And Cwynid watched, fascinated with his own power, as the captain unstrapped his heavy sword and let it clatter to the floor.

  “You are banished,” Talwe said, dismissing him, turning away.

  The captain seemed to hesitate a moment, and then he slowly shuffled out of the great chamber.

  “Some wine, Ambassador,” Talwe said, extending a goblet to Wydnic.

  “Why, certainly, sire,” Wydnic smiled. “Certainly.”

  •

  “That must be Pleir,” Paralan said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  Even with all his experience outside the great cities of the South, Paralan was unprepared for the grim sight before him.

  Oh, it was undoubtedly a city. It spread before them, from the bottom of the valley all the way to the foot of the Great Northern Mountains. A winding river, probably leading to the Western sea, meandered along its periphery.

  But just what kind of city was this?

  It resembled some barren fort or outpost, girded by an enormous wooden stockade. There were clusters of tents outside the city, gray, tattered things, while outside the stockade ragged groups wandered aimlessly about. The fence surrounding the city was dotted with soldiers, their bows clearly ready.

  And inside the city, just visible from this hill, what a strange assortment of buildings! They were all jumbled on top of each other, with dozens of smoky plumes leading to the slate gray sky.

  It looked, Paralan noted, about as uncivilized a place as he had ever seen.

  Feila held his hand tightly. “Paralan ... it looks ... so ...”

  “I know.” He nodded. Then turning to her, “unfriendly? But don’t worry. If everything isn’t to your liking inside Pleir you will not stay, no matter what Talwe has arranged.”

  “There’s no chance ... that you’ll—”

  He raised a hand. “Wait. Let us meet King Yarrou first. We can talk of other things later.”

  He led her quickly down the hill. And the closer they got to the tents, the more alarmed he became. Their inhabitants looked like troops of beggars, a poor and hungry army with tattered clothing. As soon as they neared the entrance, the tent-dwellers came running up to him, begging food or gold pieces. Some of the females brought their young, sick little creatures half near death.

  “Paralan,” Feila whispered. “It’s horrible.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  But the army of beggars pulled back when he and Feila - reached the gate. .

  With good reason.

  The guards had their swords out, and they stood close together, comparing blades and practicing feints.

  It was about as uninviting an entrance as Paralan could imagine. He stopped in front of them. And he waited until one of the guards paused in their play.

  “Eh, what do you want, stranger?”

  Paralan walked up to the guard. “I escort someone from King Talwe of Ar for your King Yarrou.”

  The guard looked over at Feila. Then he grinned. “Oh, you do. Then you’d best follow me. Pleir can be a bit confusing to the first-time visitor.”

  At this, the other guards laughed. But they cleared an opening, and Paralan, still holding Feila’s hand, followed the guard.

  If the city was dark and forbidding from the distance it was, if anything, worse seen up close. The buildings, houses, inns, and merchant’s shops were a ramshackle collection that leaned against each other like a crowd of drunks. The street was dirt, filled with the droppings of mrem and animal alike. The smell was all but unbearable.

  “Look,” Feila said quietly, giving his hand a squeeze. Paralan turned to see what she was staring at.

  They were mrem, tearing down the burned-out carcass of a building. Other mrem were piling new-cut wood beside the wreck.

  The mrem were chained together. Their fur bore distinctive hatch marks.

  “Slaves,” Paralan whispered.

  A few guards were laughing, occasionally yelling at a worker, kicking at another’s naked rump.

  “What is this place?” Feila asked.

  And Paralan just shook his head.

  The guards led them through a maze of streets and then up wooden stairs, to a pair of doors flanked by yet more guards. In Ar, such a building might be a charnel house or some bawdy inn. But here, it was the palace of King Yarrou.

  The guard led them through some dark hallways, and finally into a large room with a banquet table and a rough, stone floor. It smelled of sweat and ale and—am I imagining it? Paralan wondered—

  Blood.

  “King Yarrou will be with you presently,” their escort said, and he disappeared through a door off to the side.

  They were alone, and Feila threw herself onto him. “Paralan, I’m scared.”

/>   He caressed Feila’s cheek, and gently stroked her hand. “I told you that I would be here. I am. And from the looks of things, you’ll probably be leaving with—”

  The side door opened.

  “Well, don’t tell me that King Talwe is passing on damaged goods!”

  Paralan looked up, releasing Feila.

  “King Yarrou?” Paralan asked. The mrem in front of him was tall, dressed like one of his guards except for flashes of what Paralan took to be gold or silver. Paralan also noticed that he was followed into the room by guards, three on each side. It looked more like a small army than a welcoming party.

  “I bring King Talwe’s best wishes,” Paralan said. “He asks that—”

  Yarrou came closer, right next to him” “So this is to be my adopted daughter.” Yarrou brought his hand close to Feila and pushed away her kilt. “Yes, she looks wonderfully” he looked up to Paralan, and grinned—“fit.”

  Feila leaned against Paralan, squeezing his hand tightly.

  He squeezed back, reassuring her. “I have been sent as an escort and to—”

  “Oh, I know. To see that she is safe and content.” Yarrou turned, and walked back to his guards. “And who wouldn’t be, amidst all this ... luxury. Why, this vixen will be treated as well as all my other ... daughters.”

  The king turned to a guard and mumbled something.

  The guard came over to Feila, and grabbed her wrist to lead her away.

  Paralan reached out and gave the guard’s wrist a squeezing twist to the left. The guard fell to his knees, yelping in pain.

  “I said that I was sent to escort Feila, to guarantee that she would be treated properly. I would like—”

  Now Yarrou turned, his eyes fixed on Paralan. “You would what? Want to see her chambers, perhaps, or see the lovely gardens she can stroll in while the bastard kit grows in her belly?”