Sorial fought back a wave of frustration. Even as a shade, she refused to speak plainly. The habits of a lifetime had pursued her beyond the grave. “How did The Lord of Chaos and The Lord of Order get there?”
Kara opened her mouth to respond but the only sound to emerge was a thin wail. The image of her face distorted in a scream then began to break apart. The same was true of Braddock, disintegrating next to her.
A loud voice thundered across Kara’s fragile bridge, exploding with force into the natural world, shaking the portal column and threatening to bring the entire tower down on Sorial and Myselene’s heads. Sorial felt its force against his chest like a physical blow. It reverberated inside his head as well as all around him. “WE CAME IN THE ONLY WAY POSSIBLE! THE SAME WAY THESE WORMS DID BUT WE DID IT WITH VIGOR!”
Only Sorial’s intimacy with the rock upon which he stood allowed him to maintain his footing. Myselene lost her balance and had to wrap Sorial’s rock leg in a hug to keep from tumbling over the edge.
By the time the echoes of the voice died and the trembling ceased, Sorial found himself alone with the queen. His mother and brother - or their doppelgangers - were gone along with the compulsion that had drawn Sorial to this place. Apparently, the encounter was ended although Sorial was at a loss to speculate what had ended it. Had he heard the voice of The Lord of Chaos or The Lord of Order? Or was he merely meant to think that?
“Charming family you have,” muttered Myselene, rising to her feet.
Sorial said nothing, even though he knew her flippancy was just an attempt to lighten a situation that had become more complicated and dangerous than either of them had anticipated. Sorial had always suspected that defeating Justin wouldn’t be enough. Now, if the information conveyed during this encounter was to be believed, it would only be the beginning.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE CITY ON THE PROMONTORY
Rather than departing immediately for Obis, Sorial and Myselene spent the night together on the floor of the portal tower, the colossus of the column towering above them. They huddled together for warmth but, taking Kara at her word, Myselene didn’t initiate any form of intimacy. Her body would inform her soon enough if she was indeed carrying Sorial’s child.
Although there was sufficient daylight following their encounter at the portal to begin the trip, Sorial wanted to wait for a while in case another contact was initiated by whatever forces had drawn him here. Myselene didn’t protest his decision. The experience with Sorial’s dead family had shaken her. Beneath the darkening canopy of Ibitsal’s gray sky, they talked about what had happened but the discussion came back to the same basic concerns and questions. Sorial was undecided what to believe about the ghosts, and their credibility - or lack thereof - was critical to how accepting he could be of their words. Still, one thing seemed certain: all was not right within the Otherverse.
“Was that your mother?”
“I wish I knew. As best I could tell through the distortion, it looked like her. The explanation makes a kind of crazy sense. But I don’t know… She didn’t offer proof.” He paused before conceding, “Although, to be honest, I ain’t sure what could be ‘proof’ in a situation like this. I ain’t comfortable with magic and now I’m being asked to accept mysticism!”
“Could she have been an agent of this Lord of Order, warning you to stop Justin and using a familiar face so you might readily accept the danger of what a destabilizing force he could be if he tries to enter the Otherverse?”
“Or perhaps an agent of The Lord of Chaos trying to prod me into doing the very thing I’ve been warned against. Maybe the destruction of the remaining four portals would endanger us rather than make us safe. And are there even a Lord of Chaos and Lord of Order? Or is this all part of a grand illusion?” The truth was that Sorial felt hopelessly out of his depth. He needed Alicia. If Kara was to be believed, his wife was fine although beyond his ability to see her or communicate with her. That, at least, was a relief…if it was true.
“In the short term, we need to concentrate on things we’re sure of,” decided Myselene. “We go to Obis as planned, get me installed as queen, and meet Justin in battle. After that, if we win, we can decide how to handle this… new information. If we lose, we won’t have to worry about it anyway. Justin won’t let us live long enough for it to matter who or what spoke to us today and whether their words have merit.”
Sorial agreed, although he wasn’t happy about it. He hated the feeling of something crucial left unresolved, and the side-trip to Ibitsal had served only to amplify an already uncertain situation. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed to have a conversation with Ferguson. That would have to wait until they were all together in Obis.
That night, sleep was as elusive for the queen as for the wizard. Sex, which might have once provided at least a distraction and an outlet for physical restlessness, was no longer an option. With the objective of their coupling potentially achieved, Sorial returned to a state of faithfulness. What had been a necessity last night would be infidelity now. Myselene understood. So, like her companion, she lay on her back and stared into the darkness above.
They departed for Obis just before dawn on the back of the rock wyrm, their course roughly paralleling the Obis-Syre road, although far enough to the north to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Their destination was a full day’s journey away and Myselene suggested that it would be better to camp some distance from the city rather than to approach it near last light. She explained that the people of Obis had suspicion bred into their nature and they would scrutinize newcomers more closely if they arrived at dusk rather than dawn. The cloudy sky resulted in a premature twilight; they dismounted about five miles east of the city and made camp nearly a mile north of the road.
Suspecting he would have little need of the rock wyrm while in and around Obis, Sorial sent it on a search mission for Alicia. It was difficult communicating his need; the creature’s mind worked differently than a human’s and was incapable of grasping abstract concepts. The rock wyrm understood the idea of a “mate” - in the future, it intended to find one - and it remembered Alicia’s smell. Sorial was able to convey a general sense of where she might be and what should be done if she was found. Under no circumstances was she to be injured and, if she was in danger, the rock wyrm was to fight for her as it would for Sorial. It might only take the creature a few days to reach Alicia’s general location but the overall search would take longer and might not be successful.
It rained during the night but Sorial hardly noticed. He was deep in thought and physical discomfort was little more than an annoyance. The cold precipitation, which varied in intensity from a drizzle to a downpour, soaked everything through. Despite that, Sorial snatched several hours’ sleep, which was more than a restless and uncomfortable Myselene could claim.
The next morning, they packed their sodden, meager belongings, hiked to the quagmire of a road, and merged with the stream of traffic headed for the city - mostly merchants and farmers with goods and food to sell. With the cold winds of Winter starting to blow, it was the height of the harvest in the North and there was an abundance of grains, melons, and gourds. The scent of war might be wafting up from the South, but there was a false sense of security this side of The Broken Crags. Those under the protection of Obis felt they had nothing to fear. After all, no army would be foolish enough to go against The Great Fortress, even if the throne was currently vacant.
Myselene’s plan called for them to avoid the city proper, at least initially, and instead find lodgings in the small farming community that had grown up just outside Obis’ main gate. Although her face was known within the city, those who inhabited the village, mainly peasants with minimal interaction with the nobility and royal family, would be unlikely to recognize her. At least that was her hope. Before taking any action, she needed to understand the climate and imbibe the latest rumors and gossip. Gorton had cautioned her about the need to be fully informed before making her move. She had to take everyone - potential allies as
well as likely adversaries - unawares. The foundation of a successful campaign was built on information and there was no better way to get it than from gossipy peasants and men in taverns whose lips were loosened by drink.
The terrain surrounding Obis was hilly, rocky ground, and the road, which was wide and straight for most of its east-west run, snaked in a way that made travel difficult for the larger wagons, especially with the ground as soft as it was. Sorial’s first view of the city, when it became visible over a rise, caused his jaw to drop like that of a rural simpleton catching his first sight of civilization. Obis made Vantok look like a country village. Situated on a promontory, it was approachable from only one direction (unless one was able to scale the five-hundred foot high cliffs surrounding its perimeter on the north, west, and south). Its walls, made of gigantic blocks of hardstone, soared sixty feet into the air. Many of the buildings within rose higher than the walls, providing glimpses of towers and turrets even this far away.
Somehow, however, as impressive as the view was from a structural perspective, it was aesthetically displeasing. Everything was gray and brown. The morning sunlight didn’t reflect off polished surfaces. There was no color. And the lines were all straight. There was no sign of whimsy or playfulness in the way things had been designed. This was a city built entirely for functionality. Its goal was to provide shelter. Sorial could understand why no conventional army had taken Obis, although more than a few had made the attempt. But the city had never encountered an enemy like the one it was about to face.
“Not like Vantok, is it?” commented Myselene, knowing this was the first time he had seen the city of her birth.
“Imposing but ugly.”
“Growing up, I thought it was beautiful, but that was when I equated beauty with strength and durability. Then I saw Vantok with its marble facades, stained glass windows, tiled roofs, and lush gardens. The clothing I wore there - light and colorful and frilly. I felt so decadent in those gowns. Such vastly different places with opposite philosophies of life. Simple and relaxed in the South. Warlike and rigid in the North. The cities reflect the cultures. Most in Obis think it a story that Vantok has no walls. They cannot imagine a city without mammoth barriers to the outside. I wonder if walls would have helped in the Battle of Vantok. I wonder whether they’ll help here when the time comes.”
They both knew that djinn and dragons could fly. Walls might stop human armies - or at least slow them down - but no defense would hold against blasts of fire from the sky. The greatest advantage Obis might have over Vantok was that it didn’t look like there was a lot that would burn.
Even this far away, Sorial could tell that Obis was huge - at least two or three times the size of Vantok, with a population to match.
“It’s likely to be crowded. Think Vantok on a holiday, although the people won’t be celebrating. The streets are narrower and there are a lot more of them. Unlike Vantok, which stays up all night, there’s a strict curfew at dusk. Anyone roaming outside after dark is subject to detainment and search. If you can’t produce a writ from the palace certifying your allowance to break curfew, you’ll be thrown in a gaol. Non-citizens within the walls have to be in designated inns or boarding houses. The main gates are opened at morning twilight and closed at the last rays of the evening. At night, not even the king can order them open. Obis takes its security very seriously.”
“You expect me to find my way around alone?”
“You’re resourceful.” She looked ready to say more but a strange expression contorted her face. “Excuse me,” she said, then took two steps toward the side of the road, bent over, and threw up her morning meal. After wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she noted, “I feel better now. I guess your mother’s ghost was right about one thing.”
The farming village, a small hamlet nestled comfortably against the city’s eastern wall to the north of the road, was a quaint but spartan place, not unlike many of the towns dotting the plains in the South. The fields stretched off to the north and east, away from the promontory. The soil was poor for growing; it was no surprise the crops were so unpromising. In the past, it had likely been more fertile but overplanting and improper conditioning had reduced its efficacy. In another few years, it might be unable to support more than the heartiest weeds, although Sorial doubted this village would exist past this Winter. Regardless of how the Battle of Obis went, this community would bear the brunt of the attack.
The crudely built structures were constructed out of stone and hardened clay - understandable considering the abundance of those resources in this area and the lack of available timber. The nearest forest was at least forty miles away. The roofs were exclusively thatch. At this time of day, the village proper was mostly deserted, with more chickens, goats, and cows in evidence than people. Sorial could see the human inhabitants in the distance, working the fields, rushing to beat the first killing frost. Most of the people on the road passed by the village without a glance on their way toward Obis’ main gates. Only a few went the way Sorial and Myselene did and entered the hamlet. Those with wares to sell would find few buyers here.
“Let’s find a place to stay. Then we can start planning,” said Myselene. She ran a hand through unkempt raven hair; she didn’t look like a queen. Before leaving their camp in the morning, she had used a knife to unevenly hack off a few inches of hair and had liberally smeared mud on her face, making sure some got under her fingernails in the process. Sorial, meanwhile, would be mistaken for a priest, which was the intention. Going forward, he would answer to the name of “Brother Sor.”
The “inn” Myselene led them to was as rudimentary an establishment as Sorial could imagine, consisting of a small taproom with a few rickety tables and chairs and three rooms for rent to those who weren’t picky about their accommodations. The guest quarters had beds, four walls, and a partially intact roof, but offered little else. In order to find the proprietor, it was necessary to go out back; the man was feeing his chickens and collecting eggs. A few studs changed hands and Myselene led Sorial back inside. “By the amount I paid him, he’ll assume I’m a whore and you’re my client. We won’t be disturbed.”
* * *
The thing that stood out to Sorial about Obis was how loud and chaotic everything was. The whole of the city wasn’t like this. Things were more orderly and peaceable in the pristine southern district, where the stark palace dominated the geography and passersby greeted one another. But that might as well have been another city. Sorial was in the northern section, squeezing his way through the crowd on an unnamed ally off Caravan Street. Even the narrow streets carried a large volume of traffic but one thing Sorial had noticed about his fellow pedestrians was that no one was smiling.
His wizard’s abilities guaranteed he’d never become lost - he could always exit the way he had entered: through the ground. It was more ostentatious than strolling through the main gate but, as long as he was careful about where he emerged, it was safer. The guards didn’t stop many visitors but they made occasional spot-checks and, if ill-luck favored him as a recipient of one of those, he would have difficulty explaining his stone arm, leg, and acid-scarred face. Those characteristics would earn him an interview with a more senior officer than he wanted to meet.
His goal for this initial foray was simple: listen and observe. Myselene needed to know how calm the city was, whether anyone was nominally in charge, and who the favorites were for the succession. She had given him the names of two taverns to seek out: The Flayed Courtesan near the Horse Market and The Full Gullet in a place called The Maze. The latter establishment sounded more promising but Sorial hadn’t been able to locate it. The Maze was aptly named, with dozens of tiny streets crisscrossing and many coming to abrupt stops in dead-ends. The Flayed Courtesan was in one of the rougher sections of the city but it was large and not difficult to find.
The Wayfarer’s Comfort had always been relatively empty in the afternoons, with trade generally picking up with the approach of dinnertime. It was different
in Obis, or at least in The Flayed Courtesan. When he arrived in the early afternoon, every table was occupied; Sorial had to settle for sharing with a man who was so deep in his cups that he didn’t care. The room was thick with smoke from a poorly ventilated cook fire. The heat was stifling. Sorial was glad he no longer had a sense of smell - he could only imagine the rancid cocktail of odors that would have assaulted his nostrils.
The serving woman who approached his table was ripe in every way imaginable and left no doubt that, for the right price, her charms were on the menu alongside the usual beverages. She wasn’t especially friendly, merely available. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what could be had for a few brass studs; if he had been desperate, he might have been interested. Instead, he settled for a mug of warm beer. Lacking taste buds, he didn’t have to worry about how sour or watered-down it was.
Sorial’s priestly attire and stand-offish demeanor kept other patrons away. He was able to eavesdrop on a variety of idle conversations as he pretended to sip from the mug. It took a little while for him to penetrate the thick Northern accents but, once he became acclimated, he began to pick up nuggets of information. After a while, he surreptitiously spilled the contents of his mug onto the floor - considering how filthy it was, no one would notice - and ordered a second round. A different server took this order; she was even more forthcoming than the first one in terms of what she offered. She was also more attractive and favored Sorial with a gap-toothed smile. He said nothing and she got the message and left him alone. The same couldn’t be said of a drunken man who staggered over to the table and took possession of the recently vacated seat across from him.
“Afernoon, brother,” said the man, his voice slurred - a likely indication that the mug he was cradling wasn’t his first. In fact, to be as inebriated as he appeared to be at this hour, he must have gotten started with a liquid breakfast. He wore the garb of a farmer but his boots were polished rather than caked with mud and there was something odd about his demeanor. A man that drunk shouldn’t sit quite so rigidly. Sorial was immediately alert.
Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) Page 23