Sorial almost smiled at the irony. The Rexall he had grown up with would have fled screaming rather than accept such a position. But circumstances had changed them all, even Rexall. Sorial was also well aware that, of the five men who would lead Vantok’s refugees into the mountains, four had been involved, directly or indirectly, in the conspiracy that had brought him face-to-face with the portal.
“Let’s get started then,” said Myselene. “The Lord of Fire’s ax approaches to fell Basingham and we have to be gone before the first wood chips fly.”
* * *
Worse for the wear and obviously drained from her ordeal, Ariel was back. After listening to her terse, unemotional account of her time spent in captivity, Justin had sent her to Vantok to rest and recuperate. She could rejoin him when she was ready. He certainly didn’t need her for what was to come at Basingham. He wasn’t sure what to expect when his army approached the walls but it wouldn’t be anything his forces, augmented by ten djinn and a dragon, couldn’t overcome with ease. Sorial almost certainly wouldn’t choose this location to make a stand; he would be long gone. If the city surrendered, Justin might be inclined to be merciful, at least up to a point. If there was a concerted resistance, he would instigate a bloodbath the likes of which would make Vantok look like a mild chastisement.
Ariel’s return had cheered him. She was burnt out but still useful and, more importantly, her arrival gave him a second element. It felt like progress. Now, instead of needing air, water, and earth, he needed only water and earth. Alicia and Sorial. Well, he would never have those two. The opportunity for an alliance, if there could have been one, was long past. They would have to die and he would have to ensure that those who replaced them were loyal to him. And that’s where Ferguson came in.
Justin wished there was another way. He disdained the necessity of being beholden to the wizened prelate. But time, long an ally, had turned traitor. Ariel’s weakness was just another reminder of how few seasons remained in this long, laborious campaign. He saw now that he had delayed too long, that his use of heat and drought to weaken Vantok had been unnecessary. But regrets were pointless. Now it was all about finding a way to accomplish what needed to be done before time ran out. That meant swift, brutal campaigns at Basingham, Earlford, and Syre, then a Winter war at Obis. The final city, isolated Andel, was irrelevant. If Obis fell, Queen Morgoth would kneel to Justin. If he lost at Obis, it wouldn’t matter. As Vantok had been the key to the South, so Obis was the key to the North. He had known that from the beginning.
After emerging from the portal, Justin thought himself done with his old master but fate, even in a universe where the gods no longer meddled, had a sense of humor. Ferguson had suddenly become the most important person in the world for Justin. And he had to win him over. Force would be useless. Men that old, if subjected to torture, typically died before saying anything useful. That wasn’t a risk Justin could take.
Ferguson wanted power but not of a conventional sort. He didn’t crave a throne of his own. In fact, if Justin offered one, it would be rejected with a sneer. For half a century, Ferguson had thrived as a silent, invisible force - the puppeteer always pulling strings. All four current wizards, himself included, owed their magical abilities to Ferguson.
There was one thing that mattered to Ferguson and Justin understood how that could be used to persuade him to change his allegiance. It was a gamble, but the prelate had been consistent in shifting alignments if they matched his overall goal. Justin wished he had insight into the man’s mind. He knew Ferguson was more clever than he was and wondered what the prelate’s end-game was. Regardless, Justin believed he understood the prelate well enough to provide a convincing argument. And, if he could compel Ferguson to turn away from his current alliance then not only would he have a spy behind enemy lines but he would be able to put into place the final pieces of the puzzle that would smooth his path to the Otherverse.
CHAPTER TEN: THE SERPENT’S VENOM
It was dark in the dungeon but Sorial didn’t need light to see. The motes of dust in the air were all he required for vision in a place where the torches and lanterns had all been extinguished. With no prisoners left to guard, this place had been abandoned. The hole through which the rock wyrm had taken him during his escape with Myselene gaped from the shattered remains of the cell’s floor. He had returned - no longer a half-drugged prisoner desperate to escape but a full-powered wizard seeking retribution.
With some satisfaction, he noted that his clothing was intact. It was simple garb - a loose-fitting cotton robe designed to resemble the garments favored by priests. His newly sculpted leg and arm were also undamaged. The trick had worked. There was some satisfaction in recognizing that every time he used magic to travel through the ground, he would no longer have to emerge naked. This at least was more dignified.
The chief problem Sorial faced in the stygian depths of Basingham’s palace was locating his quarry. Myselene had given him a primer of how the building was laid out but he couldn’t keep it all straight. After all, he had been brought up in a stable. The Wayfarer’s Comfort was tiny compared to this place; perhaps a half-dozen inns could be crammed inside the palace. Killing Uthgarb would be easy; finding him represented the challenge. There were two ways to proceed: he could start from the top and work his way down or start from the bottom and work his way up. According to Myselene, the likelihood of Uthgarb being on one of the lower floors was slim - that’s where servants, guards, and functionaries lived. So it made sense to find a way to the roof and begin the search there. Unfortunately, since the walls were too thin to facilitate travel and Sorial couldn’t fly, that meant he would have to creep around the palace incognito. That’s where the robes and cowl became useful. He might look out-of-place but no one was likely to question him since priests were still regarded with respect even in cities like Basingham where the gods’ demise was openly acknowledged.
Sorial moved as quickly and quietly as he could through the dungeon. It was a small, dank place with perhaps a half-dozen currently unused cells. At the end of the short corridor was a narrow flight of stairs that terminated at a huge stone door. Barred on the far side, it was designed to keep anything in the dungeon from entering the palace proper in the case of a jailbreak. A quick check revealed the door and hall beyond to be unguarded. Uthgarb and his minions had been wary enough to bar the door - not much of an impediment to a wizard - but if they had truly expected him to return this way, there would have been a squadron waiting here.
There were fewer inhabitants in the palace than Sorial had anticipated. Either the coup or the impending invasion had resulted in an almost complete evacuation. Sorial’s senses told him the places to avoid - those rooms on the first floor where people were congregated. The upper levels of the building were mostly deserted - mostly, but not completely. There were three individuals in close proximity to each other on the top floor. Sorial decided to begin his search there. According to Myselene, only men of great importance would be on the highest level. At the moment, the most exalted individual in all of Basingham was Uthgarb the Usurper.
Sorial felt like a ghost drifting through deserted and often unlit corridors. The tap of his artificial leg against the flagstones was unnaturally loud. He located a wide staircase with little difficulty and ascended to the second floor. This was where many of the semi-public rooms were located, including the dining hall in which Uthgarb had laid his trap. As he passed the door, Sorial looked for traces of the blood of the murdered guards who had accompanied the queen. There was none. The servants had done an excellent job expunging all evidence. Those men, with no reason to expect betrayal, had been put to the sword to prevent them from coming to the aid of their queen. Sorial wondered what had become of the bodies. They hadn’t been returned to the camp for interment or burning which meant that they had likely been disposed of in an undignified manner.
Once Sorial reached the third floor, he noticed a change in the décor. The floors, even those of the hallways
, were covered with plush rugs - extravagances only the obscenely rich could afford in such quantities. Elaborate tapestries adorned the walls. The doors to rooms reserved for distinguished guests were darkly stained and inlaid with intricate symbols and images. It was very different from Vantok’s comparatively plain palace. Such overt opulence was offensive to one who had spent a majority of his life in poverty. The sale of one tapestry would have fed all the visitors to The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s common room for a year.
The fourth floor was his destination. He ascended the final flight of stairs carefully, recognizing that the people whose presence he had sensed were near where the staircase opened into a large parlor. It was now apparent what awaited him: two guards outside a door with the other person inside. Uthgarb and his bodyguards? Sorial hoped so. He had never expected it to be so easy. That made him wary. “Easy” missions concerned him because that was how traps were often disguised.
The two men between him and his expected quarry stood at attention to either side of a grand door on the opposite side of the chamber. They were dressed in chain-linked mail with short swords sheathed at their hips. They looked like the typical soldiers who could be found in large numbers in any city. In his youth, Sorial had been close to a couple members of the Watch who hadn’t looked that different from these men. Their postures indicated watchfulness but Sorial couldn’t be sure. He knew that many soldiers routinely napped on guard duty while maintaining the fiction of being wide awake. All it took was practice.
Sorial would have preferred not to kill them but circumstances and a lack of time limited his options. Non-lethal means of attack were possible but they allowed for the possibility of one or both men crying out before succumbing, possibly summoning others as well as alerting his target. Eliminating them ensured silence. This time, he would be the one with the advantage of surprise.
Sorial concentrated, allowing his will to reach the two unsuspecting guards through the stone at his feet and the specks of dirt in the air. They became the focal point of twin impulses of power. In an instant, the two men collapsed like marionettes with their strings severed, their bones reduced to powder. Although neither made a sound as he died, the act wasn’t as silent as Sorial had hoped. The clanking of armor and weapons as the bodies struck the ground, although muted by the carpeting, was loud enough that it could have alerted the third man.
Sorial strode to the door as quickly as his artificial leg permitted. He used his senses to confirm that the man behind the door was still there; if he had moved, it wasn’t significantly. As he came abreast the two bodies, he felt a momentary surge of pity. A voice echoed from his memories: In war, the innocent pay the dearest price. Sorial couldn’t remember who had said it but the proverb was undeniably true.
Neither guard was fully dead, at least not yet, but their bodies were formless, gelatinous masses held in shape by the containment of the armor. He saw agony in their eyes as tears of blood oozed from them. Sorial was no monster; he couldn’t allow them to suffer like this. He opened the floor beneath them to receive their bodies, and then sealed all that they were, including their armor and clothing inside it. They died instantly, their remains pulverized by the power of rock reforming around them. For as long as the palace stood, those two guards would be part of its structure.
Using a wave of magic, Sorial threw open the door with a force so great that it nearly blew the mighty wooden barrier off its hinges. Behind it stood His Majesty King Durth of Basingham, his usual false smile replaced by an expression of genuine shock.
“Your Magus,” stammered Durth when he had recovered enough of his wits to speak. “I must confess that of all the people I might have expected to come knocking so loudly at my door, you weren’t among them. I expected to be rescued but not by you.” The smile returned, as cold and calculating as ever.
“I’ve come to return your city to you, Your Majesty.”
“Bah!” scoffed the king. “As long as that upstart Justin lives, it won’t be mine. What you have given me, however, is a chance to get out while my skin remains attached to my aging bones. That backstabber Uthgarb sought to make me a present to Justin and we both know how that gift-giving would have ended for me. I gather whatever plans he had for you didn’t come to fruition. Uthgarb may be good at making plans but he’s rather less adept at carrying them to their conclusion.”
“The ambassador underestimated the difficulty of holding a wizard.”
“One of the last mistakes he’ll make, I’ll warrant.”
“Where can I find him? I thought he might be in this room.”
“No, just me here, watched over by the two pox-scarred fellows who seem to have disappeared. Too bad - they weren’t a bad sort, really. As for Uthgarb, a sensible man in his position who promised something to The Lord of Fire he won’t be able to deliver would have fled for distant lands. But that lump of shit lost his sense with his balls. Plus, any sort of journey not in a carriage is impractical for a man of his size. He can’t sit astride a horse and walking from one side of a room to the other often leaves him sweaty and short of breath. No, he’s probably still here, scheming how to turn this toxic soup into something Justin might be willing to sample. Losing me is just going to make it that much more difficult for him. I’d love to see him face Justin with an empty purse.”
“If he’s still in the palace, where?”
“Try the throne room. Unless he’s co-opted someone’s quarters, that’s where he’ll be. Probably with a half-dozen guards at each entrance, if he can find that many men loyal to his cause, but odds like that shouldn’t matter to you.”
“I won’t be going in through a conventional entrance.”
“Taking him out might be doing Uthgarb a kindness.”
“You don’t know what I’ve got planned for him.”
“True, and if you don’t mind, I’m not going to stay to find out. I’m an old man but I can sit astride a horse and the sooner I get away from here, the better chance I have to eventually return wreathed in glory. Tell me, is Her Majesty safe?”
Sorial nodded.
“Good,” said Durth. “My eventual fate is entwined with hers so I have every reason to wish her the best of fortune. Remind her of our agreement and tell her I’ll see her at court once she’s secured the throne of Obis.” He spoke as if it was a foregone conclusion. Sorial wished he possessed that certainty.
The throne room was built atop the bedrock upon which the palace had been founded. Sorial intended to use that as his means of entry. While Durth packed up the few items he needed for his journey, Sorial left the royal suite and retraced his steps all the way to the dungeon. The halls and staircases remained empty; he encountered no one on his return journey. Once he was below ground, he allowed himself to melt into the earth.
He emerged into the throne room directly in front of the oversized gilt chair. Reclining there, with the soft padding cushioning his voluminous form, was Ambassador Uthgarb. As Sorial had ascertained, he was alone in the room although there were guards outside each of the two entrances. Their duty, of course, was to protect the acting ruler from external threats. Nevertheless, Uthgarb didn’t appear startled or concerned by the wizard’s unheralded appearance not more than five feet away from him. In fact, the only reaction he betrayed upon seeing Sorial rise up out of the floor was the mildly surprised elevation of one eyebrow.
“Your Magus,” he intoned politely, nodding his head in greeting. The fake smile he and Durth had in common was affixed to his bloated, waxy features. He was, however, not the least bit intimidated and that concerned Sorial.
“Let me guess - you’ve come to arrest me for the unlawful imprisonment of yourself and your pretender queen. You might be interested to know there are a dozen guards within reach of my voice who would violently dispute any action along those lines you might be inclined to take.”
Sorial shrugged, content to let this play out. He wanted to understand the reason for Uthgarb’s nonchalance. “If you call them in, the only re
sult would be twelve dead men who might otherwise survive this day.”
“You can kill a dozen expertly trained swordsmen? What a fascinating asset you’d make. By now, I assume you’ve released that old fool Durth. My reports indicated you were headed for his quarters. He’ll run, of course, but he won’t get far. The army as a whole has divided loyalties but there a plenty of officers who have thrown in their lot with me. Dead or alive, Durth will be here as an offering to The Lord of Fire. As will you be.”
“How do you plan to convince me to be a part of your scheme?” Sorial’s greatest vulnerability was Alicia, but he knew with certainty that his wife was beyond Uthgarb’s grasp. So what cards was he holding?
Uthgarb reached over the arm of the throne. Sorial tensed until he realized the man was picking up a full gold goblet. He paused in the act of lifting it to his lips, almost as if contemplating whether or not to drink. Sorial wondered whether it might be poisoned. That would make sense of the man’s unnatural calmness. If he was going to kill himself, he had little to be concerned about from Sorial.
“When you and Myselene escaped, I worried that I might be in a very bad position when The Lord of Fire arrived. Promising things and not delivering isn’t the best way to start a relationship. I’m sure that open gates and the delivery of the king would count for something, but you’re the true prize. Yet I suspected you’d come back. The sensible thing would have been for you and your queen to quit Basingham’s environs. Even considering all your power, returning wasn’t a wise move, Your Magus.”
Uthgarb raised the goblet as if in a toast but, instead of drinking from it, he flicked his wrist and flung the contents full in Sorial’s face. A moment’s irritation at the ambassador’s effrontery turned to panic as a burning, searing sensation erupted across the left side of his face. As the pain intensified, a childhood memory flared in the back of his mind. Occasionally, as part of his duties in the stable, he had been asked to etch markings into a horse’s shoes. This had been done using a caustic acid. One time, Sorial had dribbled a little on his apron - just a few drops, not enough to fill a tiny spoon. In seconds, it had eaten through the cloth and into the skin below. He would still bear the scar if Langashin’s ministrations hadn’t replaced it with a bigger one. The feeling of his skin being afire left him little doubt that the liquid in Uthgarb’s goblet wasn’t wine or poison. It was acid - more than enough to incapacitate or kill him.
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