Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3)

by Berardinelli, James

  “Since you choose to present it in those terms, I guess I don’t have a choice. Is this how you fulfill your oath of obedience to The Crown?”

  “My oath was to protect Vantok - a duty at which I failed. It was never an oath of personal service to Azarak or you. At this point, my intention is to restore you to your throne. Once that’s been accomplished, we can discuss the nature of my future service.”

  The day passed slowly as the rock wyrm bore them deeper into the mountains. Myselene was wrapped in a cloak of uncommunicative silence, although conversation while riding the creature was difficult because of the noise it made slithering snake-like along the ground, sometimes dislodging enough boulders to cause small avalanches. Occasional questions to her were met with one-word answers or icy glares. Sorial discovered another common trait shared by the queen and Alicia: they nursed grudges instead of letting them go.

  That evening, as they huddled around warm stones on a sheltered ledge, Sorial learned that anger wasn’t a barrier to Myselene’s expectations of his continuing to work to provide her with a child. In fact, her ire seemed to fuel her desire; their coupling was the most energetic since they had escaped from Basingham’s dungeon. Still, as physically satisfying as it was, it left Sorial feeling more empty than usual. He missed Alicia and the gnawing worry that something bad had happened to her continued to haunt his waking moments. More than anything, he wanted her to be sharing his bedroll instead of the queen.

  The summoning force was waiting for him when he slipped into slumber. Perhaps because of the decreased proximity, it was more insistent than it had thus far been. When Sorial awoke, his head ached. He tried without success to go back to sleep. By the time dawn arrived, he looked like he felt: exhausted.

  Myselene awakened, stretched, and took a long look at her companion. Although she couldn’t read his features, hidden as they were behind the mask, his posture spoke of his lack of energy.

  “All right,” she said. “We’ll go to Ibitsal.” Those were the only words she uttered the entire day.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: A DELICATE TREASON

  Even if he’d had the imagination of a troubadour, Rexall didn’t think he could have come up with a more unlikely narrative for the trajectory of his life. Not that many years ago, when he and Sorial were bosom mates, he had somehow assumed his day-to-day existence wouldn’t change much until he passed away quietly in bed, hopefully at a ripe old age with a ripe young girl by his side. Although he and Sorial frequently had mentioned the possibility of leaving Vantok for the great, wide world, Rexall had taken it as idle talk - a bit of foolishness to pass the time. After all, the average stableboy was born in Vantok, married a Vantok girl, had Vantok kids, and then died in Vantok. That was the way of things. As for joining the militia, Rexall couldn’t think of a less likely occupation for one such as him, who was more fond of breaking the law than upholding it. The former was frequently fun; the latter was an exercise in tedium. Yet here he was, older but not necessarily wiser, having improbably survived the destruction of his city, on his way back to the North, and second-in-command of what remained of Vantok’s army. He didn’t know whether to consider himself charmed or cursed. Perhaps a little of both.

  Thus far, thankfully, it had been a mostly uneventful pilgrimage. The number of dead was still in the single numbers, with four of those resulting from the ineptitude of a group of men who had somehow managed to get run over by a fully loaded wagon. In Rexall’s view, people that stupid didn’t deserve to survive. No bandits had attempted a raid and the weather, while not ideal, had avoided the extremes that kept Gorton awake at night. Two weeks out of Basingham, they had made good time, or at least as good as could be expected with dozens of slow moving wagons and slower moving pedestrians. They had covered more than two-hundred miles and were about a third of the way to Widow’s Pass. With luck they would be in the mountains in another four weeks, only three weeks past the first of Harvest and well before the worst weather hit even that far north.

  There was no sign of pursuit, which was fortunate since Rexall’s post was at the rear. He and Warburm were holding things down behind the slowest of slow wagons while, some two miles ahead, Overcommander Carannan and Chancellor Gorton were at the fore. Somewhere in between was Prelate/Vice Chancellor Ferguson, out-of-sight riding in a wagon. The most important members of the Vantok contingent weren’t with this ragtag convoy of refugees. By now, Rexall assumed Sorial and the queen had reached Obis. And who knew where Alicia was or whether she was still alive?

  As darkness crept over the world, spreading its all-enveloping cloak across the Southern Plains, the column stopped and people went about their assigned duties for making camp: lighting fires, cooking what was euphemistically referred to as “supper” - a thin stew of roots and berries, and locating the nearest source of freshwater for drinking and bathing. Rexall turned over command of the rear to one of his underlings and, along with Warburm, urged his horse forward so as not to be late for Gorton’s nightly council meeting. The tedium of those gatherings made him long for the simple existence of a regular soldier: sitting around a cook fire trading bawdy stories and maybe sneaking off into the brush with a willing girl. There were more than a few of those around but his position disallowed him such basic pleasures he might have once taken for granted.

  As usual, Gorton and Carannan were waiting for them in the cramped quarters of the chancellor’s traveling tent, which had none of the amenities of the more permanent one he had used outside Basingham. This utilitarian one offered two things: some degree of privacy, which was desirable when discussing logistics and tactics, and protection from the weather. For Gorton, who had developed a chronic, persistent cough that showed no signs of getting better, this was the more important characteristic.

  Ferguson wasn’t present but that was usual; the prelate typically only appeared at Gorton’s meetings when he had a request to make or when his presence had been specifically ordered. For the most part, he allowed others to cope with the minutia of leading the refugees north while he secreted himself away from his fellow citizens to read, study, and meditate. When Gorton raised the matter with Ferguson that it might be more appropriate for him to keep a higher profile, the older man merely noted that he hadn’t asked to be named vice chancellor and the “needs of men” would be better served by his continuing to do his divinely assigned task. The attitude didn’t surprise Rexall, nor was it unexpected to Carannan or Warburm, but it was a source of irritation for Gorton, who hadn’t known the prelate of old. In terms of dealing with others, Ferguson was nothing if not consistent.

  The most momentous item on the evening’s agenda was a change in course. Tomorrow, Gorton intended for the column to leave the narrow road upon which they were currently traversing and go across country. This would lead to several days’ unpleasant travel but would eventually be worth it. The course would take them to the North-South Road which was designed to handle high volumes of traffic. It would speed the trip and reduce the likelihood that a Harvest rainstorm, not uncommon in this part of the world, would cause half the wagons to get stuck in the mud. Having traveled the road twice in the last year, Rexall was of the opinion that Gorton’s faith was misplaced. Although it was true that the road was wide and well-maintained in these parts, it became narrow and rough past the eastbound cutoff leading to Earlford.

  “Now, since he has again elected to absent himself from our discussions, I’d like to broach the subject of what to do about Ferguson,” said Gorton. He appeared ready to say more but a violent bout of coughing put an end to his statement. The handkerchief he raised to his mouth came away spotted with blood.

  “What to do?” asked Carannan. “Is there something to be done?”

  “He be a strange one, to be sure,” said Warburm. “But I done think we all prefer it if he keeps ta himself rather than bothering us.”

  Rexall didn’t venture an opinion. He had learned through experience that unless he had a truly valuable comment to make, it was better to
keep his mouth shut than come across as an ignoramus. When it came to providing input into conversations like this, he felt about as informed as Old Tugg the washerwoman, who used to shoo him away with monosyllabic grunts when, as a child, he had played too close to her domain.

  “There’s something predatory about the man I don’t trust - a core of arrogance that not even Sorial’s chastisement has broken. Her Majesty shared some of my misgivings but believed him important enough to warrant not only his freedom but an official appointment. The question we need to ask is whether I should revoke it. Master Warburm, you know him better than any of us. What say you?”

  “There be little doubt that Ferguson’s high-handedness makes him as distant a person as you’re like to find in this company. He can be a right bastard and keeps his own counsel. In all my years working with him, I done never heard him ask a question he didn’t know the answer to. But at heart, I believe him ta be a good man. Or, if not ‘good’ then at least ‘righteous.’ I’ve never known him to act purely out of self-interest. Everything he does, he does because he believes in his divine calling. He be devout and’ll sacrifice everything in service of his mission. Sometimes it ain’t the most comforting consideration but it makes him more predictable than some find him ta be.”

  “What of Lord Sorial’s misgivings?”

  “The way Ferguson approached Sorial’s transformation were ill-advised and clumsy,” admitted Warburm. “There was mistakes aplenty, some of which done fall on my shoulders. Looking back, there was a lot of things that shoulda been done differently, especially how Annie was handled. That were a bad business all around. There shoulda been a way to keep the lass alive but I didn’t fight hard enough and Ferguson weren’t interested in examining alternatives when killing her were the cleanest and simplest way to remove her. None of us recognized how deeply that would poison Sorial against Ferguson. But what’s done be done. Ain’t nothing none of us can do about it now.

  “To understand Ferguson, you got to see the world through his eyes. The life of one girl be of no consequence to him. In fact, no single life means anything to him if it impedes his work. He done have a higher calling - the salvation of all men in the wake of the gods’ passing - and he’ll pursue that with the whole of his being. I don’t see that as being a danger to this company but we should also be careful about trusting too much in his goodwill. If our aims diverge from his, a break wouldn’t just be likely, it would be ordained.”

  “Do you believe in this ‘calling’?” asked Gorton. The tone of his voice indicated skepticism.

  “Not sure that matters,” replied the innkeeper. “I can assure you he believes it. It done motivated him for longer than I’ve known him. For longer than I’ve been alive. He once told me the gods approached him when he were barely past his maturity. That would be eighty years ago. As for whether I believe him… yes, I do. I wouldn’t have followed him if I didn’t. I think the gods entrusted things to him and gave him the long life to pursue them. Now that they’ve been gone for twenty-five years, maybe he be irrelevant but that ain’t how he sees it. And, ’less someone sticks a sword in his gut, he’ll live long enough to see his work complete.”

  “Much as I admire Sorial, he has a blind spot where Ferguson is concerned,” said Carannan. “I can’t say I blame him. He’s manipulated and abused Sorial for his entire life but Ferguson has sacrificed more than most to this cause. If I was in Sorial’s position, I think I’d hate him, but I’m not Sorial and I can see a little more clearly. When I first met Ferguson, he said something to me that I’ve never forgotten: ‘My son, in order for mankind to continue, those of us who have been gifted with knowledge, power, and foresight must give all that we have to give, then dig deep and find more. That’s the creed by which I live and which all who follow me must adopt.’ I think he was sincere when he spoke those words to me and I think that remains his doctrine to this day. The prism through which he sees the world is one of men and women sacrificing for the greater good.”

  “Very well,” said Gorton. “We’ll leave Ferguson in his current position and continue to watch him carefully. I wish I could say this discussion has lessened my concerns but it hasn’t. When I look into Ferguson’s eyes, I don’t see the zeal of a fanatic. I see the cold, steely determination of one who acknowledges laws and allegiances only for as long as they suit him. Mark my word: before all this is done, we may regret having elevated him to a position where he once again wields power and influence.”

  * * *

  A week later, Rexall found himself entering one of the many simple buildings dotting the North-South Road that functioned as taverns and places where travelers could spend a night. He thought he had perhaps stayed in this one with Alicia, Kara, and Vagrum but he couldn’t be certain. There was a disconcerting sameness to all these structures that defied differentiation. As Rexall passed through the front door, the refugee column continued its slow, steady progress forward, hampered only slightly by the persistent drizzle that had been falling since the predawn hours.

  He was here in response to an urgent summons from Carannan. Apparently, Gorton’s steadily worsening condition had taken an alarming turn. The Overcommander had ordered him to make haste to this “inn” where Gorton was being attended by the best available healers. It was bad news. Last night, Gorton had been barely able to talk, the cough having left him horse and out-of-breath. His normally impeccable appearance hadn’t been kept up; he had looked haggard and disheveled. For the past few days, he had been riding in a wagon. All attempts to alleviate the condition had failed. The healers were baffled, never having seen a cough so persistent and malicious. Their best poultices and nostrums had been ineffectual.

  Rexall knew the situation was grave before crossing the room’s threshold. The whiff of corruption, overlaid with the stench of voided bowels, assaulted his senses. Three men were gathered around the single bed in the cramped room: Vice Chancellor Ferguson, Overcommander Carannan, and Warburm. The leadership hierarchy had gathered to pay final respects to one of their own. Rexall, however, had arrived too late. The waxy, bloodless flesh of Gorton’s face greeted him when he looked down at the form lying on the bed.

  Carannan cleared his throat. “Lieutenant, thank you for coming. As you can see, we’ve lost Chancellor Gorton, a blow none of us saw coming even yesterday. We now follow the command of Chancellor Ferguson.”

  Rexall looked from face to face and was struck by a strange realization. All of them, himself included, had been accountable to Ferguson not that many seasons ago. The circumstances were different but the names were the same. Rexall’s eyes strayed to the pale form lying on the bed and a chill ran down his spine. No single life means anything to him if it impedes his work. Had Gorton become an impediment? Was this all a twisted attempt by Ferguson to create a power structure populated by old allies with himself at the pinnacle? Carannan’s face betrayed sadness but no misgivings, but Warburm’s expression revealed that he was thinking similar thoughts. It was too much of a coincidence that the one “outsider” standing between Ferguson and command should die so suddenly and mysteriously for it to be accepted as a natural occurrence.

  “It doesn’t appear to be contagious, whatever killed him,” said Carannan, pulling a threadbare blanket up to cover the chancellor’s face. “No one else has reported similar symptoms.” Poison, of course, was not contagious.

  “Some sort of wasting sickness, I imagine,” said Ferguson. “Started in the lungs and worked its way through his insides. Still, we should exhibit care when consigning the chancellor to his final resting place. I’ll see to it that some of my priests execute the task and treat the body with the proper dignity. As Gorton has no family in this company, it can be done in seclusion without creating a spectacle. He is a man who would prefer burning to burial, I think.”

  “You be in charge, Your Eminence. What now?”

  “I see no need for a change. Chancellor Gorton mapped out a viable route to Sussaman and the column is moving as best one migh
t expect from such a large contingent. We must spread the word of the chancellor’s death and I’ll take his place at the head of the column as befits a leader. My many hours of contemplation during the first portion of this journey have convinced me that the time has come for me to minister more tangibly to the needs of these poor souls.

  “Gorton’s death also puts us at a tangible disadvantage beyond the obvious. Of all our company, he was the only one versed in the ways and customs of the North in general and Obis in particular. Without his guidance, I fear the trip ahead has become more difficult, and should we reach the city walls and find someone other than Queen Myselene in control, the advantage of having Gorton’s familiar face among us is gone.”

  It was a cold appraisal of the situation, thought Rexall. How like Ferguson - always practical, never emotional.

  “You need to name a successor, Your Eminence,” said Carannan. It was a reasonable concern considering Ferguson’s age, although Rexall suspected the new chancellor’s long-term prospects might be better than those of anyone else in the room.

  “Worried that my years might catch up with me, Overcommander? Your disquiet is justified but I’d think my successor is obvious. Who among this company is better suited than Master Warburm, who’s acted as my aide off-and-on for more than thirty years?”

  It took an effort of will for Rexall not to laugh but Ferguson, not known for a sense of humor, didn’t appear to be joking. Warburm the innkeeper as vice chancellor? The idea was ludicrous, although perhaps not more ludicrous than a stableboy with a rogue’s tendencies being a heartbeat away from leading Vantok’s army, or what was left of it.

  The innkeeper was openly scowling but he didn’t say anything, perhaps because, like Rexall, he knew his elevation to chancellor would never come to pass. As Ferguson had indicated, his role would be the same in the near future as it had been in the past: the prelate’s lackey.