by RW Krpoun
By pushing the horses hard, they reached their quarry where their own mounts were hidden with an hour of daylight to spare.
Bridget swung off her sweating mount and surveyed the quarry. “Maxmillian, unsaddle these horses and turn them loose, then go about transferring the captured supplies and loot to our saddles. I’ll give our mounts a measure of grain and build a good fire; Elonia, Henri, you can bathe and wash your clothes. We’ll get cleaned up, take an hour’s rest, and then push on.” She eyed the wizard and Seeress, both of whom were in poor shape. “I know it’ll be hard, but if any one under-liche can seize power quickly, we may find ourselves with Dayar in pursuit, and Dayar can march around the clock. Any questions? Good, let’s get to work.”
There was a full blanket of stars in the summer sky as the raiders left the quarry; their horses were refreshed after their rest, but the Badgers were far from rested themselves. Bridget set the pace: ride at a walk for an hour, rest for ten minutes, lead the horse for an hour, rest for ten minutes. An hour past midnight, and a good eight miles from the quarry the raiders made an exhausted camp.
Dawn came far too soon, and it saw the Badgers in the saddle before it cleared the horizon. They rode their normal pace, confident that thirty miles would be between where they awoke in the morning and where they would fall asleep that night. As the miles slipped past, so did their fears of pursuit; apparently the confusion created by the White Necromancer’s demise was sufficient for their purposes.
At the end of their noon meal break Bridget called them together. “We broke the key ring when we raided the liche’s vaults, to speed things up,” she began. “It took four keys to get into that vault complex, each key different from the others.” She held up four heavy brass keys. “I saved them as souvenirs for us, one key apiece. Four different people, but we all were essential to getting the job done. We’re through here, we’ve walked a dark path and travelled it to its end.” She paused and studied the battered, weary faces before her.
“Mount up; it’s time to go home.”
Chapter Twenty
Dooaun slid the amber plate back into its place and leaned back, thoughtfully tending his pipe. She was all right, clear of the city of the Undead, and riding hard for Human lands, so that was good. She had taken a lover, but he did not begrudge her that in any way; the fellow seemed like a steady chap, a man of mature years rather than an impetuous youth, a scholar. A wise old bee tended his hive and worried not at all about small matters and petty incidents.
The dark flower was gone, however; even Dooaun couldn’t pierce the aura that polluted Tiria, but he could absorb trace readings off of the raiders, and he had a very good idea of how things had gone. A true pity; there was no sweetness in that flower, no, none, but there had been a pride in her walk and an arrogance in the movement of her hips that Dooaun would have liked to have tasted. Another flower lost, it was hard on an old bee to see the blossoms fade, all the more so when he had the wisdom to save them, if only they would listen.
The White Necromancer was no more, and Tiria boiled like a tumbled beehive as its servitors struggled to see who would rule in its stead. Dooaun was pleased to see that ancient horror fall: the world had too many such burdens dragging it down. It pleased him to know that he could have saved the liche, and hadn’t. Even old bees have their stings, he reflected, and was surprised at himself. It was her, he realized, her bloody past fraught with defiance of a Direthrell empire, defiance coupled with subterfuge, murder, and subversion, leaving her alive and well while an entire nation licked its wounds. It was changing the way he looked at things, changing everything. Love does that, he knew, and wondered with interest where these changes would lead him.
Absently he drew a leather wallet forth from the folds of his robe and extracted his pipe-cleaning tools. As he worked on the bowl of his pipe he pondered his reports, weighed his words, sorted his approaches. Further options and considerations were reviewed as he cleaned the bore of the pipe. Finished, he inspected the instrument critically before placing it in the rack and chose the pipe he used for official business, a rather severe one with an oval bowl of good Arturian gray clay, and a short, slightly curved stem of bull’s horn.
As he packed it with mixture number twenty-one, he caught the knot on a thin cord hanging against the wall with the first and second toes of his left foot and tugged gently. It always amused him to do thus, and harmless amusement was a worthy goal in anyone’s life. The pipe was going well when he heard the bars on the door lift and the portal open. He did not have to remain in this place except when either the Gate or message mirror needed tending, but he liked it for its privacy and for the separation of work-place and living quarters.
A young Human girl, hardly eighteen, dressed in a shapeless hooded dress padded to where he could see her without moving his head. He smiled at her. “Please inform the commander that I would report events both tragic and decisive to him at his convenience.”
She bobbed her head in acknowledgement, returning his smile as she trotted out. A pretty little flower whose life had much improved because she had been clever enough to listen to a wise old bee, clever enough to realize that a little sweet pollen was a pittance when exchanged for the wisdom that cleared away so many unfortunate events. Buzz buzz.
He wasn’t surprised when the door opened a short while later and Vargrat, the station commander himself, stepped into his field of vision. The Pargaie officer did not like him, and did not want the Watcher coming into his offices or near his personal quarters lest Dooaun derive readings from such places. It amused Dooaun to no end, because even without his plate or pipe he could read the Chorapel like a book whenever he wished. Vargrat was a fool who used an enchanted broadsword to chop his kindling.
“What is it?” the station commander snapped. Looking at him through the smoke of his pipe, Dooaun could see that the young messenger girl had caught the officer’s attention, and that Vargrat was considering which of his brutal games would be appropriate for that evening.
“Much to report, Orbi, much to report,” he used the verbal salute appropriate from a slave to any non-slave. “Much occurs upon the Wastes, much indeed; history itself unfolds, lives are changed, the futures of nations affected, the courses of the birds in flight diverted, the feet of Badgers sent scrambling for their homes.”
“Be brief,” The tall Direthrell snapped. “I’ve no time for your drivel. Tell me quickly, and in order of importance.”
“By your command, Orbi, by your command,” Dooaun murmured, none of his pleasure reaching his face. “The White Necromancer is no more, no more, its Unlife now death, full and unending, sending Tiria rocking to its foundations. Many flee that dead city’s environs, loaded with loot and heady dreams, bloody deeds heavy upon their consciences and daring the byword of their hearts.”
“The liche dead, gone? How?”
The pipe described a short arc in the air. “Of that, I am unclear; as you know, the land there is wrapped in the gauze and webs of a very old spider, barring it from a wise old bee such as myself. My skills are not such as would allow me to Watch exactly.”
“Was it natural or violent, treachery or external assassins? Damn it, slave, I need facts to report!”
“As you wish, Orbi, so shall you have. I plan to remain here all night, to probe and to pick until I have learned all that my skill will allow. For now, and in the main, I can say that it was a most violent ending to an unnatural span, a termination of an old terror by a young hope. Treachery, deception, deceit, and betrayal were all involved, as was much ordinary courage and skill. Four different elements were involved, four paths that made a road, with assistance from a fifth source, rather unwillingly, I believe. Much is unclear, much always will be.”
“Treachery, eh? Betrayal: well, it was weakening, that we have known for decades. No doubt one of the lechtor made its move. Watch the place closely, and yes, I know it’s difficult, but I want to know who replaces the White Necromancer as ruler of Tiria, and whether a r
aid could be mounted by our forces with a good chance of success. There’s loot aplenty in those ruins.”
“I will work without rest, Orbi,” Dooaun murmured. “I will need a servant to tend to my needs, as is usual. The girl who carried my message to you has proved capable in the past. Might I have her assistance?”
The Dark Threll shrugged indifferently. “Of course; I want that information.”
“As you wish, Orbi. I will apply myself diligently.”
“Stop that damned buzzing, you withered fool. Have you anything else to report?”
“The lovely dark flower, she who wore her breasts like badges of rank and her beauty like a sword, Chora Pravas, lies still and cold far afield from this humble garden, Orbi,” Dooaun applied a medium-sized packer to the ember in his pipe before adding one and a half pinches of tabba leaf.
“Pravas is dead? When and how? What of the others?”
“Time flies on the wings of Death, have you ever noticed, Orbi? Well, perhaps not always, but so it often seems to me. She is dead, as are Petor, the guards, and the clerk she brought with her, all dead, all beyond us now. Slain ... yes Orbi, yes, the details are imprecise, but the facts I present to you are thus: they all died of violence, and their bodies now are in the possession of whomever controls Tiria. They died before the White Necromancer expired, and some of their possessions and mounts are scattered across the Wastes, either abandoned or in the hands of others. I know not what you will make of this, Orbi.”
“Damn you, slave, can you never look beyond the scraps you See? They were waylaid by Goblins, most likely, and their corpses sold to the liche’s servants, who are ever willing to pay for such things. Damn the luck, Petor was a good Thane, and they took two mounts apiece plus pack animals; I won’t be seeing those horses again. Blast them, the Alantarn office will have to compensate me for those, I can’t be expected to maintain this station on the gold they give me when they throw assets away.” The Direthrell strode about the chamber, scowling. Finally he stopped, glowering, and dug a wax-covered tablet and a stylus from his pouch. “So the White Necromancer is dead, cause being treachery, and betrayal. Now, to be clear: Pravas and the rest were dead and in Tiria before the liche fell?”
“Oh, yes, Orbi, of that I am very clear.”
“Good. Now, I’ll have a report for you to send within the hour. Since Pravas’ death had nothing to do with the White Necromancer, reporting it can wait a day or so; I’ve got to get some scouts to Tiria. I’ll advise the Master of Slaves to assign the girl to you for this week, and to give you whatever you need; you are to seek out all you can.”
“I will be at it all night, Orbi, or at least so long as my strength will allow,” Dooaun murmured.
“And stop that damned buzzing, you daft old snake. To work, to work.”
The Chora wearing Temple insignia stood patiently in the small audience chamber, feet spread to a shoulder’s width, legs straight but the knees unlocked, right fist closed and resting on his belt buckle, left hand gripping the right wrist, head erect, eyes fixed on the wall, unmoving. He had stood like this for thousands of hours since entering the service of the Temple as a common soldier so many decades before. Now he commanded the internal security apparatus for the Temple at Alantarn, and seldom had to wait, but when reporting to the Temple Master one was wise to observe all the formalities. He had been waiting for nearly twenty minutes, but the Master was a very busy Threll, and would get to him when opportunity presented itself; until then he would wait.
He stiffened slightly when the door opened and the Temple Master, a tall, lean Direthrell of advanced years swept in, the latter’s elaborate eight-foot staff (and badge of office) tapping a brisk beat on the inlaid tile floor. “Sit, Chora, sit,” the Master waved to a chair as he seated himself. “Pour us both a glass of wine and cut to the meat of the matter, it is nearly noon and my secretaries still clamor that I have much to do.”
“Agyra the Axe is dead, Curion,” the Temple officer laid a map on the small, highly polished table between them. “The Watchers have informed me of this. He died in this area here, along with his personal wizard, twenty of his Talon, and an unknown number of Cave Goblin mercenaries.”
“And how exactly did he die?”
“Apparently in a fight with one or more Anointed of the Night King, likely a very old one. It is also possible that the Goblins in his pay mutinied. Exact details are not forthcoming, as it would seem that the vampire in question was also a spellcaster, a necromancer, in fact. The magic use at the site has badly disrupted the Watcher’s ability to explain the matter fully. I have placed a scout team on alert should you wish for us to investigate the matter to a finer degree.”
“Were there any survivors of the fight?”
“Only from amongst the Goblins, Curion. The Anointed was slain as well.”
“A necromancy-wielding vampire,” the Temple Master mused. “You don’t see one of those very often; in fact, I’ve only heard of one or two in my entire life. Still, what was Agyra doing in the middle of nowhere picking a fight with such a creature?”
“Apparently he was seeking to recruit or enslave a Goblin seer which possesses a high degree of skill; perhaps the vampire sought the same prey.”
“Did the Seer survive the battle?”
“We have no specific information on the Seer at all, Curion. However Agyra heard of it, he shared with no one.”
“A pity, good Seers are hard to come by. Did he leave his affairs in order?”
“Yes, Curion; an officer of his Talon disposed of all his prisoners, burned whatever paperwork the Anlarc left behind, and then killed himself.”
“A tidy one, Agyra,” the Temple Master nodded. He sipped his wine thoughtfully, absently tapping the polished teak table. “Still, such things do happen. Have you investigated the matter as well as you can, given the circumstances?”
“Yes, Curion.”
“And have you found anything that suggests that there is anything more to it than a simple misadventure?”
“No, Curion, I have not. At first I wondered why Agyra took only a portion of his Talon, albeit the best, but upon closer examination it would seem that he sent the detachment on ahead and then joined them by magical means to maintain the secrecy of his venture, which would preclude taking the entire Talon.”
“Very good. I see no reason why we should send a scout team out, then: Void knows we have more needs than scouts, and Agyra had a tendency to push his luck too far.” As well as a tendency to push his views upon his superiors, which was why an Anlarc of his age and expertise was in an outpost like Alantarn instead of being in Arbmante proper, the Master added mentally. Good riddance to the pushy bastard. “Write it up and give the report to my senior clerk; I’ll approve it and close the matter. Now I must go, it seems that the White Necromancer had met an untimely end and the head of the Pargaie is excited about the possibility of grabbing some of the liche’s agents to use as our own. I’ve got to meet with her and discuss how the Temple can assist those self-important bastards in furthering their own ambitions. Oh, see to it that the remaining members of Agyra’s Talon report to the personnel officer for reassignment; it won’t do for them to loiter about too much. These days we need every hand busy. Fine work, Chora.”
“Thank you, Curion.”
Peria, Hold Master of Alantarn, looked up from the document he had been reading when the door opened to admit Choralon Miara of his personal staff. “Ah, Miara, good of you to come so quickly, I know you’re busy. Sit down, please, help yourself to the wine if you wish. I’ll cut to the point, as this business with the White Necromancer dying has gotten the Pargaie in an uproar, and the meetings have been flying thick and fast.”
“They consider it a great opportunity, Curion,” Miara shrugged.
“They consider everything to be either a great opportunity, a crisis, or ominous,” the Hold Master shook his head. “Just once I would like for something to happen and the Intelligence types to shrug and say ‘Interest
ing, but it doesn't mean a thing’.”
“It will never happen, Lord Peria,” the short Threll smiled. “Significance is their trade.”
“Implied significance or past significance, never practical significance. Instead of thirty pounds of reports on the sexual misconduct of Human nobles, I would like one brief missive covering the Felher plans for the next raid on this fortress.”
“Sexual misconduct is much more entertaining to research, Curion,” the Direthrell female winked.
“And easier to come by. But we digress, and all this impinging of the glorious agents of the Pargaie by a superior officer may adversely affect your morale. To the point, then, as I said some time ago: the investigation into the raid in general, and the death of Chora Pravas in specific, how do things stand?”
Miara tapped her chin. “To be frank, Curion, not well at all. Today a second investigator admitted defeat and closed his files, leaving only two on the subject. To be honest, I had placed the most hope on Pravas; she was the best of the lot, Nepas notwithstanding, and seemed to have the most genuine confidence. I communicated at length with the commander of the station she had been operating out of just before her death, and he assures me that he has researched the matter as best he could. Apparently she was guarded by one of his best Thanes and a competent section of guards at the time.”
“Goblins, wasn’t it?”
“Apparently so, Curion; whoever did it sold the corpses to the servitors of the White Necromancer, they have a steady demand for such, as you might well imagine. Losing her was a serious blow to our hopes of uncovering the culprits, I’m afraid; naturally, she left a report with me when she left, which suggested that a slave conspiracy made up of slaves from the region she was killed in, leading ultimately to the Dark Star cult-nation, a plausible enough direction to take, I admit.”
“But you do not believe it.”
“No, Curion, I do not. She was too seasoned an operative to give away the slightest advantage before she was ready.”