The attack, when they launched it shortly after noon the next day, went about as expected, if not better. There were no fatalities on Carannan’s side, although two men suffered minor wounds - one a cut to the hand, another a slash to the cheek. Five of the opposing soldiers were dead before they understood the situation and the remaining five threw down their weapons and begged for mercy. Despite his assertion that he would offer no quarter, Carannan relented. He ordered the enemy combatants disarmed and had their wrists bound. The dead were then stripped of all useful items before being unceremoniously kicked off the side of the road.
The candidates regarded the newly arrived soldiers with expressions ranging from wariness to fear, although they recognized Carannan and many knew Rexall. Then one of the would-be wizards rushed forward to embrace the overcommander: his sister, Lavella. He grimaced when she threw her arms around him, squeezing his injured ribs, but he returned the hug as best he could. Many of the others visibly relaxed when they saw this display of affection.
“My friends,” said Carannan, addressing the two-dozen after disentangling himself from his sister, “What you’ve witnessed are the unfortunate actions of a group of soldiers who have proven themselves disloyal to our queen. These ten guards, thinking to elevate Prelate Ferguson to the leadership of Vantok, tried to kill me back up the road. Thanks to the actions of Undercommander Rexall and his band of brave and loyal members of the militia, my life was saved. We’ve undertaken this action, regrettable for its loss of life, in an effort to save you from the pernicious influence of those who would seek to undermine the authority of Queen Myselene. Even now, your rightful leader prepares to confront The Lord of Fire with the armies of Obis and we’ll go there to support her. Once that struggle is done, it’s our most fervent hope that we can return to Vantok and rebuild our lives and homes. What’s happened here in Widow’s Pass need be nothing more than a minor rut in a very uneven road.”
Rexall thought it was as a good a speech as he’d ever heard a solider make, although he admittedly didn’t have much to compare. Carannan’s predecessor, Overcommander Vikon, had favored two or three sentence endorsements which typically involved phrases like “Kill the scum!” and “Flay them alive!”
“From here, we’ll proceed directly to Obis, as directed by Queen Myselene and our late chancellor, Gorton.”
“We’re not going to Ibitsal?” asked a man whose wide girth and flabby features hinted at a possible past as a merchant.
“The queen will decide when and if you visit the haunted city,” said Carannan. “Your immediate destination is Obis.” An almost imperceptible current of relief ran through the assembled group of men and women. The reaction didn’t surprise Rexall. He had been to Ibitsal and didn’t thrill to the idea of returning. He could only imagine how terrifying the prospect might be to those going under these circumstances for the first time.
It took less than an hour to tend to the wounds of the survivors and get everyone ready to move. With the premature twilight of the mountains approaching, Carannan recognized that they would not be able to achieve the exit today. With the bridge behind them, however, they were able to find a relatively secure area in which to set up camp. Only after they were settled did Rexall notice, with a shock of recognition, that this was the place where he had nursed Alicia while Kara rode off for help from Sussaman. Welcome back to the North.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE NEXT KING OF OBIS
Killing a man was an easy thing. Distressingly easy, Sorial had to admit. The human body was an amazing thing - tough in so many ways but impossibly frail in others. To end a life, all one had to do was identify one of those frailties and exploit it. For a wizard, doing so was simplicity. A tiny pebble propelled with force through the temple and into the brain was sufficient. It was quick, quiet, and efficient. If there were earth-wizard assassins in the old era, Sorial suspected that might have been their approach of choice. It was his. Why be more elaborate or waste unnecessary energy?
Count Clairmont was dead, killed in the darkest hours of the night while navigating his way across his personal suite to a chamber pot. An inauspicious way to go for one with such lofty ambitions. His body lay several steps away from the bed. He never knew what happened, never recognized his danger, never saw his killer. As Sorial looked down at the crumpled form with a thin trickle of blood running down the side of his face, he felt no remorse. Life had robbed him of the capacity of compassion for men he didn’t know. He had been exposed to too much death for it to matter anymore. His conscience, or at least an important part of it, had shriveled up. He had become the creature Ferguson had wanted by adopting a posture of ruthlessness. Was this what happened to all wizards? If he survived, would he become like Ariel and Justin over time?
Myselene had determined that, of the four pretenders to Obis’ throne, Clairmont was the most expendable and the one whose death would send the most effective signal. Plus, he was a wholly despicable individual whose removal would cause little grief, even among those close to him. His family would publicly weep but privately rejoice as they sparred over his estate. His network of powerful allies would evaporate. There would be no investigation into his murder. Those who had supported him as the next king would switch their support elsewhere. Otto and Greeg stood to gain the most immediate benefit from this turn of events.
Sorial wondered what Alicia would think if she saw him now. There would be some regret but, like him, she had known that the trip to Obis would require him to act as an assassin, silently striking from the shadows to prune the field of contenders and boost Myselene’s chances. Wizards had a long history of serving rulers in this manner. Legends boasted of the great deeds done by users of magic but the reality was that most lived and died in obscurity, often doing tasks unsuited to reach the script of history scrolls. The queen was running a campaign mapped out by Gorton but refined by her. She was adapting to the situation at hand with a coolness and efficiency that Sorial admired. For the moment, he was her instrument.
With a shrug, Sorial allowed himself to merge into the cool stone floor of the count’s bedchamber. Moments later, he emerged in the village quarters he shared with Myselene. The tableau that greeted him was not at all what he had expected. Instead of finding the queen asleep on the straw-stuffed mattress with a threadbare blanket covering her form, he came upon her crouched in a corner with a dagger gripped in one hand. The blade glistened wetly in the dim lantern light and a crumpled form in black lay just inside the doorway.
Myselene started when she saw movement then relaxed when she recognized who it was. She rose and pointed at the body with the toe of a booted foot. “I wondered how long it would take you. It looks like someone located us.”
Sorial bent next to the corpse and examined it. Myselene’s dagger thrust had been precise, slipping between two ribs and puncturing the heart. Death had been instantaneous. There was blood on the floor but not as much as would have occurred from a sloppier wound. The man’s clothing was as unrevealing as his appearance although something about him jarred Sorial’s memory. The black clothing was like that worn by those who had attacked him long ago in the stable of The Wayfarer’s Comfort: Head to toe, they were garbed in black, from their soft leather boots to their tight-fitting pants and shirts to the scarves wrapped around their lower faces and the skullcaps crowning their heads.
“A professional assassin,” he said. “Where there’s one, there will be more.”
Myselene nodded. “Time for us to move into the city.” After cleaning off her knife on the man’s scarf, she said, “Can you get rid of him?”
Without a word, Sorial directed his concentration toward the mess on the floor. The man’s body sank into the ground as if it was quicksand. He would never again be seen. If someone came looking, they wouldn’t find him.
“It’s a good thing you set those wards. They alerted me to his approach so I was able to surprise him rather than the other way around.”
“Your attack was professional.”
Myselene smiled. “I’m not as helpless as I look. In Vantok, princesses take lessons in sewing and embroidery. In Obis, we learn how to use knives. Societal norms. I’d be hopeless if I had to mend a dress but I daresay there are times when it can be useful to know how and where to stab someone for maximum effect. You don’t have to be the strongest person to win a fight.”
“Remind me not to cross blades with you,” said Sorial. “Who sent him?”
“Difficult to say for sure but easy to venture a guess. Probably Otto. Greeg would have relied on something more straightforward, like sending a troop of soldiers here to either arrest or kill me. And, unless one of his rivals told him - unlikely but not impossible - I doubt Clairmont knows I’m in Obis.”
“If he did, it’s of little matter now.”
“It’s done?”
“He was alone and unprotected, although I’m sure he believed the locks on the door to his bedchamber were all the protection he needed. He died without knowing who his killer was.”
“That will stir the pot, then. Mystery, paranoia, terror. When a candidate dies, it’s always like that, especially for his backers. Time to arrange another meeting with Greeg to see if he has any interest in becoming the next king of Obis.”
“You’ve decided?”
“I trust him to be more predictable than Otto. Considering the situation and stakes, that’s an enviable quality in a husband. Plus, it’s likely that the duke tried to have me killed - not exactly an inducement to lure me into bed.”
“Greeg may be biding his time to make his move. Maybe he ain’t discovered your location yet.” Sorial couldn’t shake the memory of what he had seen in the general’s eyes at the tavern meeting: a primal hunger only partially fueled by lust. There had been a dark component to it, something more malevolent than simple, honest hatred.
“Since I have to pick one, I’ll go with the younger, more virile, less cunning man. Otto might have made a good chancellor if the position wasn’t already filled. Still, if he capitulates, I’ll find something for him. Vice chancellor, perhaps. Or maybe Master of the Coin. Then he could arrange payoffs to all those who backed his candidacy.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He’ll be dead. There are only two way to deal with rivals in a situation like this: pacify them or eliminate them. Otto has qualities that make the first option attractive but if he won’t bend his knee, I’ll cut off his head.”
* * *
Two days later, they were again meeting with Greeg. The location was the same as before, down to the table where they were gathered. This time, the request for a “discussion” had been provided in the form of a hastily-scribbled note delivered by Sorial. It specified a day, place, and time. Until Greeg walked into the tavern, neither the queen nor the wizard knew whether he would appear. Myselene was adamant that if he didn’t show up, she’d move on to Otto.
“Were you behind Count Clairmont’s demise?” asked Greeg after downing his first tankard of ale.
“Clairmont was a sadistic beast. He got better than he deserved.” Myselene pretended to sip the noxious liquid in her mug.
Greeg grunted. “I don’t disagree. The pig had more vices than most people rotting in the city gaol. People attribute his death to Duke Otto. A typical power play in a succession war. But that’s a bold move for someone so timid. It’s the kind of thing one might expect from a newcomer interesting in thinning the field.”
“Have you given my offer due consideration, General?”
“To support your candidacy?”
“If you’re interested, I’m prepared to discuss terms of an alliance.”
The expression that crossed Greeg’s face was indeterminate but again Sorial didn’t like what flared in the man’s eyes. According to Myselene, the general was an easy man to read - possessed of a typical, straightforward military mind. In her view, he was ambitious but unimaginative and could easily be manipulated if the correct approach was used. Sorial wasn’t so sure. Greeg’s icy exterior might mask an ugly and volcanic disposition.
“If it was just you, Your Highness, I wouldn’t be sitting at this table discussing what might be viewed as treasonous. You are, after all, a foreign power despite your royal birth and bloodline. But your wizard makes you formidable. Others might dismiss him as a charlatan and think me foolish for not doing likewise, but I’ve witnessed his powers and I think what happened with Count Clairmont is an example of him in action.”
“Then you’ll back my claim?”
“It’s abundantly clear what you would gain from such an arrangement. I bring with me sizable military support - enough to seize and hold the throne if it came to that.”
“My understanding is that Duke Otto has the support of a number of influential officers.”
“I won’t deny that. One of my captains is among them. Otto’s vague talk of ‘reforms’ has gained him backing in areas where a man such as him might not normally find it. But supporting an aspirant and fighting for him aren’t necessarily the same things. Because I rose through the ranks, I command considerable loyalty among the soldiers. Make no mistake about it - I can deliver the army. But you already know that. It’s what makes me attractive as an ally. Which brings us back to my question: what do I gain from a partnership?”
“Your life,” growled Sorial. Myselene had coached him when to “interrupt.” She wanted him to play the role of an unruly hound - dangerous and eager to pounce but controllable. Sorial didn’t see much point in the play acting but she thought it was important and she knew the dynamics of the situation far better than Sorial.
The faintest of smiles touched Greeg’s lips as the malignant flicker again burned hot in the depths of his eyes. “I think you’ll find me harder to kill than Clairmont. He was a reckless fool who believed himself untouchable. He didn’t believe in wizards, demons, or ghosts. I’m not easily surprised and I never sleep unguarded in locked rooms. I’ve done a little research on your kind and know you’re just as vulnerable to arrows and blades as the rest of us. Faced with two dozen soldiers, I doubt even your magic would be able to save you.”
Sorial said nothing. In some circumstances, Greeg might be right but with solid ground beneath his feet, Sorial thought it likely he could defeat a much larger group, perhaps even an entire army. He wasn’t about to boast about that to the general, however. Let Greeg nurse his misconceptions.
Myselene interceded to defuse the thickening tension. “Let me be open with you, General. My first concern is defeating The Lord of Fire. He represents a threat to the entire continent, not just the South. I don’t want to see Obis be a repeat of Vantok. I was there. I know what he’s capable of. No one in this city is taking the threat seriously and the only way I can see that happening is to have someone on the throne who understands what’s coming.
“My eventual goal, once The Lord of Fire is defeated, is to retake Vantok. I carry within me the legitimate heir to that city’s throne. I intend to rule from there and prepare my son or daughter to be the next sovereign. I can’t be in both places at the same time and there is a wide distance separating Vantok from Obis.”
A distance that becomes much shorter for a wizard. Sorial could make the trip from Vantok to Obis in a little more than a day but that was also knowledge Greeg didn’t need to have.
“So you’re offering me the position of viceroy?” The general’s tone was neutral, not indicating whether he thought it was a generous or miserly proposal.
Myselene’s lips curled gently upward, dimples appearing in both cheeks. That smile was a specialty of hers, capable of charming even the most intractable of men. “No. Not viceroy. King. You and I would marry and you’d remain here to rule as you see fit. As strange as it might seem for you, who have lived your entire life here, I find Obis depressing. It’s the city where I was born and, at least militarily, the most powerful human habitation on the continent, but it’s not where I want to spend the rest of my life. I’m willing to be queen in name only, visiting Obis
perhaps once every few years, and allowing my husband to occupy the throne and act independently. A viceroy would be beholden to me. A king wouldn’t be.”
“What of children and heirs?”
“My first-born, the babe now in my womb, will inherit the throne of his father. He’ll be the sole heir to Vantok with no claims on Obis. My children with you as their father would be in line to rule Obis. My intention is to keep the reigns of the two cities separate.”
“So you intend for this to be a marriage in fact as well as in name?” Greeg seemed a little surprised, although not disappointed, by the possibility. Myselene was dangling her body as a sweetener to the deal.
“To the extent that our union will produce children. After that, on those occasions when we’re in the same city, there will be no further conjugal visits. You can have as many mistresses and whores as you desire. How you choose to rule in Obis will be entirely yours to determine.”
Sorial didn’t think it would play out quite so simply. As he had learned during the long weeks working and traveling with her, Myselene wasn’t one to give away something as big as a city once she possessed it, especially not one as powerful as Obis. Greeg apparently sensed this as well. “I think you seem to offer more than you actually do. One trait you didn’t inherit from your father is your silver tongue. He was as blunt and plain-spoken as any man I’ve ever met. Nevertheless, even with limits to my autonomy, the offer is more generous than I expected. And, considering the situation, it’s impossible to dismiss. But I need time to consider and to assess the threat represented by The Lord of Fire. Thus far all I have are scattered and inconclusive reports about the swath of destruction that follows him across the South. There’s no indication as yet that he intends to bring his forces across The Crags.”
Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) Page 29