by D. H. Aire
“Which means he’s likely trapped them for all eternity!” that same old mage exclaimed.
“Yes, father,” Regis replied. “And against all hope the city node has been fanned back to life, which is likely due to his doing just that.”
“It is impossible… You would credit him with having found a warder mage and there has not been one in over nine hundred years!”
Ofran gave Regis a sympathetic look. Regis’s father was head of one of the most prominent Houses in the Empire and was among those who would have voted Lord Senason Highmage had the elflord not been murdered. The old elflord was traditional in the extreme, but his long enmity with Grendel’s House planted him firmly among the Empress’s support of Je’orj, human though he be.
With a respectful nod to his father, Regis replied, “Or he found a text on magery to train one.”
“That could be worse for us all!”
“Which brings us back to the new order of the Scryer’s Guild, even now Lord Lyai and his wife dine with Her Majesty and Grendel’s ilk are clearly barred from the Scryer’s Network, leaving him blind to events in the city worse than anything a warding spell could manage.”
“We cannot assume that!”
Regis shook his head, “But we can… or has it escaped you that the Primus has actually been seen fleeing the city or that horses have been stolen by scores of scryers riding westward?”
“What?”
“Since scryers are notoriously the worst riders in the Empire since theirs is a rather sedentary life, the city guards and, ahem, friends of my House in particular with rather keen eyes saw the fellows unable to even raise a ward against scrying as they stole said mounts.”
“But that shouldn’t be possible.”
Regis’s father gasped, “My granddad once remarked… It was said the capital wards were so much more powerful long ago that no one who broke oath to the Empress could hide their misdeeds. The wards… rejected them.”
“And every scryer takes the most stringent oaths,” Ofran said. “And if these people had breached them…”
“They were in worse than in league with Lord Grendel, I dare say,” Regis’s father said. “They were in league with the Dark One.”
Archmage Regis nodded, “Which leaves us a dilemma. The city itself seems bent on aiding the Empress, who seems bent on leaving herself defenseless.”
Shaking his head, Ofran said, “But she’s not. She has Je’orj.”
“Who is not yet her consort.”
“But whom she has announced she intends to marry.”
“Bloody hell, the Court’s full of rumor and there are those demanding Lord Grendel be made Highmage, Conclave or no.”
Verny casually glanced back making sure no one was following him. It was becoming a rather busy day. Master Terhun was spending coin like water. Buy a tavern in the Sixth, take on a partner who could be trusted, and this.
He knocked at the black wreathed door.
An old servitor answer, “This is a house of mourning. We are taking no visitors.”
“Her Majesty understands, good Sir, but a loss shared might be more easily borne.”
The man’s eyes widened.
Verny presented the missive with the Imperial seal melted upon it. Only the recipient could open it without it turning to dust. “Please give this to this the lady. I’ll disturb you no further, good Sir.”
“I shall, immediately.”
Verny stepped away, wondering if his boss was going soft hearted or something.
Beneath the capital of the Empire the node thrummed. Rats and other vermin fled, things best left alone stirred. An old man walked long forgotten passages, which glowed with a wan but steady light given off by the lichen that coated the walls. He came to a dead end. He raised his cane and tapped on the wall. He waited for a time then tapped his cane again.
A brick moved high above his head.
“Down here.”
The brick moved back into place and another slid aside. A large eye warily gleamed at him. “Goh a… way!”
He hit his cane against the wall. “Would you rather have me poke this in your eye then tell the lady I’ve come?”
The brick hastily went back into place.
He smote the bricks again.
A sound echoed through the floor, something was pounding a sequence that held no meaning to him, but carried the message he, doubtless, wanted sent. For a time the vibration ceased, then he felt a faint reverberation.
A brick moved, then another and another until he faced the towering ogre, who shambled close and smelled him. “You really should do something about your breath.”
The ogre backed up and the old man descended into his own private hell.
Spiro blinked as the table was being set. He looked at the guests, Raven creeping in beast-form beneath the table and thought of the old bardic song called The Night Traitors should Beware.
The Empress’s Herald begged him come,
He who the Cathartans claimed,
Steeds of magery pure stabled without,
A legionnaire plain his oter guest,
Dwarves guarded his house,
Urchins claimed it kin,
The Empress’s Herald begged him come,
He who rode the stars with staff aflame,
Yet he who be Highmage schemed,
At two hours past midnight,
By means mundane and charm’ed,
Dwarven guards alone could not forestall,
The Empress’s Herald begged him come,
He destined to be mage most high,
Only by hoof, claw, axe, and legionnaire silver,
By magery illusion and power long lost,
Coulds’t harm be fouled,
By dwarf’s song sung, ne’r forgotten shall.
The Empress’s Herald begged him come,
He destined to overturn darkness’ master.
The words echoed in his mind and Spiro slipped out the back door to have a chat with a horse.
She remembered the moment it happened. She heard an explosion. The cries, the desperate cries, she grabbed a weapon from the table as the window shattered. Something that should not be was in the room with her. She fired. It cried in musical tones she could not quite hear and reality… pummeled her. She fell back writhing in pain and let out what might be best described as, perhaps, a howl.
Bleeding, the creature pointed at her, ordered her to rise and aid him. She rose, stumbled, broke furniture she no longer quite recognized. She picked up the wounded mageling, kicked the door, which sheared as she burst through it, carrying her master.
The people were screaming in rage firing arrow after arrow at those who had invaded not just their land but their world. The mageling cried out for healing and one of his ilk came running. The pointy eared figure passed his hand over the wound, singing out the spell.
“Put me down,” he ordered her, taking deep breaths as his wound vanished. He looked at her and smiled, then turned and yelled, “I can turn them!”
His brethren fled from before him as he sang out the spell. Men and women, no few simply older children fighting to defend loved ones were firing, driving them back, when the cursed spell took them. Each one it touched screamed writhing, their bodies bursting, deforming until they looked as she did. They rose and made the sounds that were closest to howls.
“Now, hunt down the humans! Kill the defilers!”
She screamed out and joined the hunt, while somewhere lost in her soul she was in nightmare, killing the colonists who had joined her in the valley. And that was only the beginning…
Then the mageling called, his hair had gone to silver, his shoulders stooped. “Come, I will not have you used at the will of a demon. You shall be bound to defend those who rail against evil… even if they be human as you once were.”
She and the others shambled after as their master bid.
Memory bubbled up from time to time, reminding them of lives they could not understand. She lived and died s
erving them, generation after generation until a manthing breached her territory. She growled, preparing to kill it.
“Now don’t be impolite.”
She knew that voice. Trembled as he stared. Saw stars, countless stars, knew their names or designations. “Mel… Melvyn?”
“Heaven above,” he gasped.
“Melvyn,” she rasped.
“Who are you?”
She frowned, staring at her hands, hands not her own. Huge course fingered hands, “Oh… lord… Melvyn,” she muttered. “I… am… a… ogre… an ogre.”
He blinked. “No one calls me Melvyn!”
Glaring back, “Melvyn! If you would have just bought those spare engine parts we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
“Mallory? But you can’t be.”
But she was for years, decades, at a time. Ogres were rather long lived and she gave birth to a daughter who, after she died, got a visit from Melvyn and awoke. But not this time, it was not old Melvyn who woke her, something else had.
The world had… snapped. She had been watching events ever since, hearing through the earth there was a new lord in Niota. The Lyai node had gone active soon thereafter, now Rian’s and the one beneath her feet was, too.
“Melvyn… what are you up to?” She felt the reverberation. “Ah, finally.”
She heard the telltale tapping as the old man entered with the hulking figure of the eight foot tall ogre. She sighed and said, “So old…”
He nodded, “But still spry.”
“Somehow I was hoping not to see you again.”
“Funny how you like saying that almost every time we meet.”
“Melvyn, my degree may not have been in history, but even I can see the Empire’s on the edge of insurrection.”
“Well, I prefer this to what I half remember was happening.”
“You remember the other reality, too?”
“Oh, good, there are at least two of us then… Mallory, the Empress has sent too many legionnaires north trusting the Imperial Guard to protect her and the city.”
Her laugh was bitter, “Grendel will plan for that.”
“She could use your help.”
“My help? I think not… my clan of ogres are not exactly welcome.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Yes, Her Majesty burning me at the stake twice… that was quite a mistake. The bounty set on ogres in the capital, which killed scores of us… that was another mistake. Melvyn, you need our help down here. Fine. But not up there, comprende?”
Varian was not sure of what to make of dinner at Lord Je’orj’s. On the positive side, the dwarves served an excellent meal. Sergeant Raymor was clearly uncomfortable seated beside Cle’or, whom Varian wasn’t. On the other hand, Lord Je’orj seemed bent on ignoring his appeals to accompany him that very night back to the palace. That seemed to please Lady Se’and, seated on his right, who kept asking pointed questions about rumors she had been hearing about legionnaires being sent north and calls for more of the Imperial Guard to be assigned to the lower Tiers of the city.
The urchin boy was huddled with his friends and the apprentices at the far end of the table, which left Varian with the nasty suspicion that they were scheming worse than Grendel’s lot wherever they were hiding.
Je’orj asked about what he had missed. Little Rachiel, who was cradled in Me’oh’s arms, burbed and everyone laughed. “Yes, little lady, I missed quite a bit, apparently.”
“Varian,” Se’and said, leaning close, “as a herald you must know a great deal about the elvin families in the Empire, particularly who supported the Highmage’s candidacy and who didn’t.”
He hesitated.
Balfour chimed in, “You might as well tell her. It’s not a state secret.”
The old sergeant glanced at him, pushing back his chair, “I should check on my men.”
Cle’or slammed her arm on his, “We haven’t even had dessert yet and you are our guest.”
Eyes wide, he realized the Cathartan had a rather firm grip. “Milady, I really should check on my men.”
Tett came up behind him and pushed back his chair. “You need not worry, Sergeant, we’re treating your friends well. We’re seeing to the care of your mounts as well.”
He didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “Perhaps,” Cle’or said, “you also have questions for us?”
He blinked, “That I might.” He had a great many regarding the legendary battle steeds in the stables. The question was how to ask. It made for a rather lengthy dinner. When it was over, Je’orj rose and said he planned to retire for the evening, his baby daughter asleep in his arms and her mother happily following him upstairs.
“It is growing late,” Varian said. “I best be off.”
Spiro moved before the front door as he and the sergeant rose. “Herald, please stay the night. We would appreciate it greatly.”
“Milord, please, you must excuse us.”
Je’orj glanced at Spiro, who sighed and said, “Herald, Sergeant, we would appreciate your staying the night since we will need your help to thwart an attack on the house the second hour after midnight.”
Chapter
25
“Spiro,” George said again, “are you sure about this?”
“As sure as the Song,” the bard replied as the dwarves hid, feigning having gone to sleep and leaving only a small guard on duty.
George continued to stare at him.
“Uh, fairly sure… It’ll only cost you some sleep, if I’m wrong.” The human mage nodded, which Spiro felt reassuring.
Fri’il came down in her livery, trying to strap on her sword as Se’and struggled to stop her. “You can’t!”
Juels was being ushered along behind them with Ri’ori asleep in her arms, followed by Andre, Clawd, and Me’oh clutching Rachiel all heading to the safety of the cellar. Juels cast an uncertain glance back sensing fate playing, whimsically, with her luck.
Se’and wrested the scaobard away from the younger Fri’il, who shouted, “Se’and, give that back!”
“Sister, guard your child if you want, but you will not put yourself deliberately in harm’s way tonight, of all nights.”
“Raven,” Juels whispered to the beast poised beside the base of the stairs, watching Se’and stare down Fri’il, “could you sniff out the cellar to make sure there are no hidden passageways?”
The beast blinked, then bounded away.
Spiro paused.
George shook his head, “Somehow I do not find myself reassured by the foretelling of this Song of yours.”
“The Song is true. I feel it…”
“But?” George said.
With a shrug, the dwarven bard replied, “I, uh, am just afraid I may have forgotten a stanza or two.”
:Oh, that is just great,: Staff said.
George laughed, “No that, my short friend, makes me feel a lot better… Fri’il, don’t just stand there, get down to the cellar and keep the children of this household safe.”
Fri’il straightened. “As my husband wishes.” She held out her hand and Se’and returned to her the scabard.
Grendel watched from a darkened upstairs room window with a good view of the human mage’s so-called embassy. The guard had changed with the midnight city bells. With the Scryer’s Network in disarray at least for this day, if no longer loyal to his desires any longer, this night provided his best opportunity to rid himself or at least harm the human in the eyes of both the populace and the Court.
“He still has those legionnaires,” Kolter said.
“They are few and he is but one mage.”
“Who bested you in every test.”
“I was but one. We are many and I will not countenance that man to serve as the Empress’s consort. She’s mine. All mine… and this time we’ve a plan.”
Kolter did not smile, “With him dead you will be Highmage and consort. So, be done with it, Grendel, for the good of the Empire and the Empress herself.”
Grendel s
miled, glancing down at the building across, knowing the men loyal to him had slipped past the small detachment of Imperial Guard through some of the adjourning tunnels. “So I shall.”
“Spiro, what’s wrong?” Tett asked as he surreptitiously looked out the window into the night.
“Hmm, I’m trying to remember if there was more to that Bloody Song.”
“Then sing it, but quietly.”
“Fine… ‘The Empress’s Herald begged him to come,
He who the Cathartans claimed,
Steeds of magery pure stabled without,
A legionnaire plain his oter guest,
Dwarves guarded his house,
Urchins claimed it kin,
The Empress’s Herald begged him to come,
He who rode the stars with staff aflame,
Yet he who be Highmage schemed,
At two hours past midnight,
By means mundane and charm’ed,
Dwarven guards alone could not forestall,
The Empress’s Herald begged him to come,
He destined to be mage most high,
Only by hoof, claw, axe, and legionnaire silver,
By magery illusion and power long lost,
Coulds’t harm be fouled,
By dwarf’s song sung, ne’r forgotten shall.
The Empress’s Herald begged him to come,
He destined to overturn the dark…”
Think, he told himself.
“‘Only when… the eye is woken above and below…
House shattered making way,
Houses scattered in play,
By dark hand ere light must blaze,
Ancient walks, hooves reign, the traitor betrayed.”
“See that helped didn’t it?” Tett said.
“Yes, I guess. It’s just, I wish I knew what it all meant.”
Chuckling his friend replied, “I’ve no doubt that things will be all too clear soon enough.” The city bells rang two. “All too soon.”
Aaprin and Gallen were not precisely visible. They sat in remains of the Je’orj former carriage. “At least the seat cushions are still soft,” Aaprin commented.