The final component of magic proved to be Markal’s weakness. Because good orders of wizards didn’t have as much power as dark wizards—what was a withered hand to murder and torture?—they drew strength from their convictions. Wizards like Chantmer the Tall and Nathaliey Liltige believed so strongly in the precepts of Jethro the Martyr that it made them powerful indeed. Such passionate belief also blinded them, Markal believed, while a more practical man or woman might be ultimately more effective. Alas, at times like this, he wished he had more faith in the Martyr’s teachings.
He whispered in the old tongue, “A Manth Sever, nurjoro puissant urs anach aguil flok, me pasht veltra khah.” By the Wounded Hand, I draw the strength of the bear and the wings of an eagle to speed my journey.
Power flowed through his veins. He arched his back and groaned. At the last moment, a niggle of doubt crept into his mind and much of the power bled uselessly into the air. It had been this bleeding of power that had drawn wights in Balsalom. Markal’s hand burned with pain, then grew cold. It withered.
The wizard might have turned into a giant eagle, had his faith been greater, or even a bear, had he not been so weak. Still, his bones hardened, his heart surged and a shout came to his lips. He bounded up the hill. Raging with heat, he tore off his clothes and cast them behind him. Branches and rocks scraped at his body and tore at his feet, but he paid them no attention. Darkness didn’t bother him, for he felt the path beneath his feet.
Over the hills and mountains he ran. When cliffs blocked his path, he scrambled directly up their faces with his good hand and his toes. Startled deer bounded out of his way. He frightened a dozing rabbit, running it down and passing it on the trail. His skin burned with fire.
A griffin aerie loomed to his right. Even with his keen eyes, he might not have seen the old tower where it stood in a small clearing, if not for the cry of an owl in that direction. It occurred to him that he could travel even faster on the back of a griffin, and he veered toward the aerie.
The tower was like many in these hills. They predated the Tothian Way, when other roads snaked their way through treacherous valleys, avoiding giant country. The towers were short stone buildings, no more than a hundred feet high in most cases, to guard against bandits. But when Toth slew the giant king and drove the other giants north, then built the Tothian Way, the towers fell into disuse. During the wars, griffin riders adapted them into aeries.
Markal knew instantly that something was wrong. A jumble of clothing sat in front of the doors, which hung wide open. The contents of a broken chest lay scattered around the clearing. A fire still burned in the hearth. He listened but heard nothing, and crept forward to investigate.
The clothing was not clothing, or at least, not merely clothing. It was a young man lying face down on the ground. The wizard reached down a hand to his face, but the magic fever burned so strongly in him that he couldn’t tell whether or not the man was still warm. Markal smelled animal blood, and followed the scent to a dead griffin that dangled from the window of its aerie.
Inside, more destruction. Dragon wasps had come while the griffins slept, and while they’d killed at least one of the beasts, a dragon wasp lay dead in the room. A second wasp was alive but torn and dying fast. It let out a hiss when it saw Markal, but didn’t crawl its way to the doorway. Someone had ransacked the rooms below, then left. Cragyn, looking for Darik and the book.
A whisper caught his ears and he froze. He crept to the window and listened. Something or someone moved through the trees, silently hunting in the darkness. Dark magic flowed from the trees like blood from a wound, polluting the air around him and Markal fought the urge to flee. Instead, he crouched by the window, waiting. The magical force flowed past, searching, but not for him.
And Markal might have escaped detection had he not done something stupid. Instead of letting the enemy pass, he sent a tendril of thought, the barest query of magic.
The dark wizard, searching for the tome. Yes, it was him. Markal recognized his magic immediately.
He could hardly believe Cragyn had grown so powerful. Markal remembered when Cragyn had approached the Citadel as a boy seventy years ago. Young and earnest, much like Darik was now, his only follies were the kind that could be excused by youth. Cragyn was a studious boy, ahead in his reading and memorizing the ancient learnings with astonishing speed. If he had a fault, it was his overly keen interest in spells to bind wights. Such spells had brought the destruction of other wizards, but Cragyn swore he would be careful. Alas, years of proximity to wights took their toll and Chantmer had discovered him tinkering in the dark arts and cast him from the Order.
Afraid because the dark wizard had grown so powerful, Markal withdrew, but not in time. A rope of thought struck faster than a coiled snake. He staggered back from the window, clawing at Cragyn’s attack, but not before he was detected.
Markal turned toward the door in a panic, but the enemy burst into the bottom of the tower, speeding up the stairs. Markal returned to the window, eyeing the thirty foot drop to the ground. The door behind him opened.
Cragyn wore a dark cloak, and shadows wreathed his body so thick that they foiled Markal’s keen eyesight. He bared his teeth and smiled. “Markal. Whatever happened to your clothes?”
Markal jumped. He hung in the air for a long moment, flailing against the night air, the ground impossibly far below him. And then he hit, trying to roll. It knocked the wind from him. He regained his feet, magic still coursing through his veins. Cragyn landed beside him, light on his feet, hands grabbing for his shoulders. Markal leapt over the ground like a hunted deer, but the dark wizard stayed right behind, his power much stronger than Markal’s waning energy.
And then, impossibly, Cragyn stopped the chase. Markal raced ahead, leaving the man behind. He veered toward his goal—Flockheart’s aerie—and kept running.
An hour later, the magic faded, while he was still far from his goal. First he felt a burning in the lungs, then he began to stumble over the occasional tree root, and then his muscles trembled when he slowed to hurdle some obstacle. At last he collapsed to the ground with a gasp. The last of the magic fled. He couldn’t move, his muscles seizing up. If the dark wizard still hunted him, he would find Markal helpless. At last Markal struggled to his feet.
Why had Cragyn turned away? Markal could think of one possible reason, and it gave him hope. Perhaps as powerful as the dark wizard had become, he still bound his magic to a single site, some center of power.
King Toth had kept his magic in a box of souls, together with his strongest wights. Memnet the Great had kept his power in a glass sphere about the size of a fist. When the time came for him to pull from his reserves, Memnet would isolate himself, then draw what he needed.
Few wizards ever bound so much magic that they could store it, but the dark wizard might be one of them. He might have turned away, afraid that Markal’s flight was a ruse to draw him away from his power.
Yes, Markal thought. He might have stumbled onto Cragyn’s vulnerable spot.
Dawn crept over the mountains, and he still had three or four hours to go, barring another spell. But the way his heart thrashed about in his chest, using another spell might kill him. Now that he’d stopped burning with the magic fever, his naked body shivered in the cool night air. If only he was a greater wizard, he’d already be there. Markal continued by foot, gaining strength.
When he came upon Flockheart’s aerie, his heart pounded for a different reason. Two griffins lay dead in front of the tower, together with half a dozen dragon wasps. Cragyn had been here, too. One rider, face hidden, lay crushed beneath his mount. The battle had cost the dark wizard greatly, but he had won. The door to Flockheart’s tower hung from its hinges and debris lay strewn about in front of the building.
Sparrows chattered noisily from the branch of a tree, gossiping about the battle. “Yes, yes, yes,” one excitable fellow chattered. “Yes, the big people are going to war again. Yes, yes, lots of fighting. Big fighting. Yes.�
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Markal turned, irritated. “The chattering beak tempts the snake,” he told them.
Chittering in surprise, the birds flew away. The wizard grinned in spite of himself, pleased that he’d remembered the common bird proverb. Like most such adages, it was utter nonsense. A snake was stone deaf, as any creature smarter than a sparrow could tell you.
He made his way to the clearing, afraid of what he would find. Much to his relief, the dead rider was neither of his friends nor Flockheart or his daughter. He didn’t recognize the griffins either.
Markal made his way through the tower. Thankfully, no more bodies. Indeed, the saddlebags were gone, making him think that they’d already taken the griffins to Balsalom before the battle. Flockheart had some fledglings, and these too were gone, perhaps removed to some other location. Cragyn must have drawn griffins from towers he’d attacked along the way. So the question was, had Darik taken the book? Why would he? If Markal was any kind of wizard, he’d have never left the book with Whelan and the boy without knowing its true nature first.
He found a shirt and some trousers and a pair of Flockheart’s boots, but the latter didn’t fit. Ah, well, his feet were tough enough. The skin on his blackened right hand began to slough off. It would hurt like hell for the next two days. This had been no mean spell.
The sun rose, promising a glorious late-summer day. It belied the scene of death in front of him. Others would have to give peace to this scene; he hadn’t the time. He scanned the trees, pondering the best way to cross into the Free Kingdoms.
“Did you lose something, wizard?” a voice said behind him.
Startled, Markal turned around. An old man with an oak staff stood at the edge of the clearing. He had a beard that was so white that it had a bluish tint, and an ancient face as lined as the mountain crags. It alarmed Markal that he hadn’t heard the man approach. Only a wizard had the power to do that.
“Are you friend or enemy?” Markal demanded.
The man chuckled. “If I were with the dark wizard, you would no doubt be laying in a pool of your own blood. By the Harvester’s bones, I thought you’d fallen asleep. I’ve rarely seen a more careless fellow.”
Markal grinned and forced himself to relax. The old man didn’t look dangerous, and that fact alone alarmed him. “So what were you going to do, old man, thump me over the head?”
“Old man? And I suppose that among the Order of the Wounded Hand, a man old enough to remember the Tothian Wars is not reckoned as old?” He shrugged. “Such is the curious way of wizards, I suppose. Men and women powerful enough to petrify their bodies in eternal youth, but feeble in the mind.”
“And you are not a wizard?”
The old man shook his head. “Not a wizard, no.”
“Then what, then who are you?”
He lifted his oak staff to point at the sparrows still chattering in the trees. “I’m the friend of those poor creatures you frightened just now. The friend of all birds and trees and animals who live beneath the attention of man.”
Markal nodded. “So you hide your destiny, magical man who is not a wizard? Very well. Yet, you know much about me. Who am I that my ways concern you?”
The old man lowered his staff. “You concern me little, except that I have something of yours that you carelessly let slip from your hands.”
Markal stepped forward eagerly. “You have it?”
The old man lifted a hand. “No closer, please. Yes, I have it. Your young friend looked into its pages one too many times and attracted unwanted attention. I trust if I give the book to you, you will be more cautious next time?” He reached into his robe and removed the steel tome. The Tome of Prophesy.
“Yes, I promise.”
“Very well then. I will hold you to your promise, Markal of Aristonia.”
The old man dropped the book and stepped back a pace. By the time Markal picked it up and looked up to thank his benefactor, the man had gone. He stared for a moment, wondering. A surviving wizard from the Crimson Path, perhaps, who’d lived the last four hundred years perfecting his arcane crafts? He must be powerful indeed, to keep himself and the tome hidden from the dark wizard.
Markal would seek him out later, should he get the chance, and find out what he knew about the book and the rest of the Oracular Tomes. For now, he had to reach the Citadel and warn King Daniel.
A bird screamed from the sky and Markal looked up to see Whelan’s falcon. He held out his good left hand and Scree circled for a moment before coming to his wrist. He grimaced as the bird dug its talons into the skin.
“Left you alone, did they?” he asked. The bird cocked its head and watched him, perhaps surprised that he could speak to it. No, Whelan would never leave the bird alone. It must have been staying with the griffin rider laying outside Flockheart’s tower.
“We need an understanding, you and I,” Markal said. “I have none of your equipment. None. So you’ll be unhooded.” He nodded. “Fly away and I’ll leave you to the eagles. They’ll make short work of you. Do you understand me?”
“Fly!” the falcon said. “Fly west! Mountains!”
Markal clenched his eyes shut. Falcons, hawks, eagles: why was it they had to scream everything? “Yes, we’re going west. Settle down and we’ll be all right.”
The wizard made his way across the mountains over the next few days, making sandals from birch bark. The falcon hunted fowl and marmot, which they ate raw. While his companions battled Mol Khah in Balsalom, the wizard fought snowstorms atop Mount Rachis. He hadn’t planned to go so high, but had awakened one morning in the middle of a giant’s thrackmole. A thrackmole was a strange game where giants chopped down trees and stripped off their branches, then took turns casting these trees as far as they could.
Markal had been dreaming of pleasant days, rather than the curse of the Dark Citadel that overshadowed his sleep in lower elevations. He’d dreamt of walking through his mother’s herbal gardens, before the war turned his home into the Desolation. Mother pointed out foxglove, and fontinel, and groning berry, telling him the healing power of each.
Markal woke to something crashing through the trees. A trunk five feet in diameter smashed down near his head. He scrambled to his feet to see six naked, hairy stone giants pitching trees at each other across a ravine. If a tree sailed toward one of the giants, he wouldn’t step clear, but let the tree knock him to the ground. More giants squatted around a fire further up the ravine chewing on bones and making an awful ruckus. By the Brothers, he’d slept soundly!
He slipped back down the ravine and circled to the north, which led him higher, and toward Mount Rachis. Scree flew down to meet him a few minutes later. If autumn came early in the mountains, winter came early atop Rachis, the tallest of the Dragon’s Spine. They slept in a cave that night while a storm raged outside, snowing them completely in. The cold bothered Scree little, and the snow not at all; as for Markal, wizards have ways to keep warm.
The weather improved as they circled Rachis and dropped down the other side. Pine gave way to hardwood. He crested a hill and got his first view of the valley. Below lay Eriscoba, beautiful and green and prosperous. Towns and castles dotted the plains, and in the distance, he saw a gleam of gold cast by the setting sun. The Citadel, the greatest fortress in all of Mithyl. Its outer walls were lined with gold leaves brought by thousands of pilgrims. Since the destruction of Aristonia, nothing had been so beautiful.
His breathing tightened when he remembered how long it had been since he’d stood atop that tower. He’d left Eriscoba with Whelan. Had it really been three years?
He heard the winged horses before he saw them, a whisper of sound on the wind. Markal looked up to see a company of winged knights riding down from a cloud castle that had drifted overhead while he daydreamed about the Citadel.
Markal cursed his carelessness. He threw a hood over Scree and looked around for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere. The riders spotted him and shouted.
Chapter XV
THE PAL
ACE HAD SUSTAINED HEAVY damage in the fighting. Mol Khah had let it burn at his back while he fought his way through the palace gates. Only the rain had put it out. Kallia’s garden rooms and the throne room were completely destroyed, together with most of the servants’ quarters, and into the scholars’ corner, including the library. Books that had survived the burning of the library of Veyre during the Tothian Wars perished, a loss that pained Kallia greatly. The damage would have been worse but for a few Balsalomian scholars trapped inside the palace with the presence of mind to carry hundreds of volumes to safety.
Mol Khah had surrendered, but he remained unbowed. “Cragyn will turn your name into a curse,” he promised her again. “For a thousand years, children will wake in the night, screaming for their mothers after hearing tales of Kallia Saffa.”
“Maybe so,” she replied. “But nobody will remember Mol Khah, second-rate henchman of a second-rate wizard.”
They’d led him to the dungeons to join his men. Kallia ordered the dungeons cleaned of the filth Mol Khah’s men had carted in to rot with her men, refusing advice from her ministers to let them bathe in their own excrement.
Kallia flushed revenge from her mind and turned her thoughts to Balsalom. The people needed to believe that normalcy had been restored, that their queen was strong enough to fight the dark wizard. She set men to clear rubble from the palace, while Saldibar organized a second crowning ceremony. She took up residence in her tower rooms, catching needed sleep late that night.
There was a knock on her door the next morning. She sat next to a window overlooking the city signing decrees for Saldibar. Life returned slowly to the streets. Kallia nodded to her servant girl who opened the door. Whelan stood at the doorway, and she rose to greet him.
“Did you find your friends?” she asked.
Whelan shook his head, frowning. “I found Flockheart in the tombs, but we can’t find his daughter or Darik.”
“Killed?”
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 300