Ferguson was alone in the small one-room hovel he had claimed as his own in Sussaman. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his head bowed and hands folded - a classic meditative pose. The room received its scant light and heat from a small fire in an indoor fire pit. Although the majority of the smoke exited through a venting hole in the roof, the inside was hazy and smelled vaguely of charred wood. Justin used that fire for his channel. He projected his voice across it - the least taxing method of communicating via “foreign” flames. Ferguson didn’t need to see him to know who was at the other end.
“Why are you in Sussaman?” asked Justin, his voice tetchy. “Wasn’t our agreement for you to proceed to Obis?”
If the prelate was startled by the disembodied voice, he gave no indication of it. His response was offered in a calm, measured tone. “We had no such agreement. As I recall, what you requested of me was a determination of those who might replace Sorial and Alicia. You also asked that I keep the Vantok refugees away from Obis. Both those tasks are in hand.”
“I asked you to kill Sorial.”
“I told you that wouldn’t be likely. The boy is paranoid and trusts me less than a rabid wolf. It makes more sense for me to remain here, in a neutral setting, than to risk my life - and with it the information you require - on the slight possibility that an opportunity to eliminate The Lord of Earth might be forthcoming.”
Justin almost laughed at Ferguson’s use of the word neutral. Sussaman was anything but that. This was known across the continent as the prelate’s stronghold, even if he pretended it wasn’t. But he had a point. It would be disastrous if Ferguson was inadvertently killed in the action at Obis. Better that he stay here, out of harm’s way. When the fighting was over, Justin would know where to find him.
“I’ve taken Syre. Actually, it’s been given to me. Once I’ve integrated the new troops into my army, we’ll set out for Obis. The trip should take between two and three weeks, depending on the weather. One way or another, it won’t be a long battle. The objective isn’t to lay siege to the city, it’s to bring it crashing down. I left parts of Vantok intact. Basingham and Syre are undamaged. But, when it’s all over, less of Obis will remain than Earlford.”
“I’ll await you here, in Sussaman. Once the Battle of Obis is done, come to me and I’ll provide you with what you want: names of likely successors in air, fire, water, and earth. You can also have the men and women from Vantok to serve as you see fit.”
Justin reflected that, after Obis, he probably wouldn’t need manpower. Although it was true that Andel would need to be tamed, he didn’t expect that to be a problem. The fall of Obis would cause Queen Morgoth to capitulate. Adding less than a thousand soldiers vanquished at Vantok wouldn’t substantially enrich his army, although he would prefer to have them fighting for him than against him. Once the chaos of war was at an end, the iron gauntlet of world-wide order would come down.
“Ariel is dead.” Justin offered the information without commentary. He wasn’t sure why he told Ferguson this; the man didn’t need to know.
Through the smoke and flames, the Lord of Fire saw the prelate nod, almost as if he had expected the news. “Then you’ll need a replacement for air.”
He had one. Two, in fact. But there was no need to let Ferguson know that. He continued, “Alicia may or may not be dead. I’m going to proceed under the assumption that she survived my trap. She’s a relatively minor threat, however - a hare that darts away through brambles rather than fights. Sorial is the greater danger. I suspect he may have discovered the pathway to deep magic - something that will make him a formidable foe.”
“His stubbornness and intransigence are his weaknesses. If you find a way to exploit them, defeating him won’t be difficult. And don’t underestimate Alicia. Her journey may have changed her, especially if she studied the right materials at the Yu’Tar Library.”
“In nine weeks? You and I know it takes years not weeks to begin to make sense of the wealth of information in that place.” A place that no longer exists for anyone to exploit.
Ferguson shrugged. “Is there anything else?”
“No. Wait there. Once the fighting is over at Obis, I’ll come to you.” He paused before adding. “And Ferguson, don’t think about double-crossing me. That would be folly on your part. You may not fear death but you should fear the endless agony I could put your old body through before dying. If you turn on me, I’ll make it my life’s ambition to see you consigned to a grizzly end. Fulfill your part of our bargain and I’ll be true to mine. Turn traitor and you’ll wish you’d stayed loyal to Sorial.”
The fire flared and Justin was gone, leaving Ferguson alone in his Sussaman cabin. He couldn’t help but shiver slightly, and not from the pervasive cold of the northern Winter that even the healthiest blaze couldn’t dispel. Justin’s visitation had been expected but it nevertheless unsettled him.
The news about Ariel was unsurprising. He had examined her thoroughly during the time of her imprisonment and had known the end was near. Truthfully, it was amazing she had survived as long as she did considering how advanced her physical deterioration was. He had seen pox-afflicted gutter whores in better shape. Still, this represented an opportunity… if the mystery surrounding the wizard candidates could be resolved.
Where were they? Ferguson had given orders to the escort soldiers that, upon reaching Ibitsal, they were to send a messenger to Sussaman to report and receive further instructions. Even assuming a conservative pace, the messenger was past due. The weather had been conducive to travel in the North, so that couldn’t explain the delay. Ferguson was growing increasingly concerned that something might have happened to the expedition.
An attack by a large group of bandits was a possibility but not a likelihood. The ruffians who roamed this part of the world typically preyed on small, weak collections of travelers - two-dozen refugees with half that many armed guards would represent too intimidating a target considering the likely payoff. A greater concern was one Ferguson had initially dismissed - that the trivial number of deserters, which had included Carannan’s lieutenant, the rapscallion Rexall - could in some way be responsible. He assumed they had fled to avoid combat but now he wondered whether their goal might have been more organized and damaging. What if they had hijacked the expedition? That would explain why no one had reported. It also made it questionable whether the candidates had reached Ibitsal.
There was no easy way to ascertain the truth, although he had sent out a party of a score armed men to scout the likely path between the mouth of Widow’s Pass and Ibitsal. With every passing hour, the possibility of a messenger’s arrival grew less likely and that made Ferguson’s position precarious. Not only was the key to his future plans tied to the candidates but, in the likely event that Justin won at Obis, his inability to present them could be seen as a betrayal regardless of how he framed it.
That worry aside, however, things were going as expected. He had been welcomed at Sussaman and, although the village was ill-equipped to accommodate such a large group of people, the inhabitants had done what they could to set up temporary shelter for the refugees and share their provisions. Wintering so many people here would eventually become a problem but Ferguson hoped that, one way or another, events at Obis would resolve it. If Myselene won, she would be eager to feed and protect the citizens of Vantok. If Justin won, he could probably be prevailed upon to share some of the spoils of Obis. Either way, there was no reason to implement a program of rationing… yet.
He supposed it was late enough in the game to send a message to Obis, if only to learn whether Myselene’s efforts to secure the throne had succeeded. There had been no word from the North’s biggest city - the few eastbound itinerant merchants who passed through claimed ignorance of any change in the scramble for the crown, although there were indications that partial martial law had been declared. Ferguson needed to send word of Gorton’s unfortunate demise and explain his decision to keep the refugees in Sussaman - for their own
protection, of course. Whether the queen agreed with him or not was immaterial. If she survived the inherent dangers in seizing the throne and managed the unlikely task of defeating Justin and his army, Ferguson would figure out a way to pacify her. For now, however, he had more pressing concerns than justifying his actions to the arrogant bitch who, as a result of having seduced the weak-willed and short-sighted Azarak, believed herself to be his rightful sovereign. The time for him to pretend obedience to one such as her was fast approaching its end. Ferguson would be glad when circumstances allowed him to shake free the yoke and finally begin to act as his role demanded.
* * *
Despite having spent more years as an adult within the confines of Sussaman than anywhere else, the small, cramped village didn’t feel like home to Warburm. Most of the people he had known back in the “old days” were dead and gone, their remains in the bone-yard just north of the settlement. A few familiar faces remained, like Aiden and Yuman, the First Brother, but Warburm more keenly felt the absences than the presences. Somehow, without Kara and Lamanar, this seemed like a foreign place.
His wife and daughter had settled in nicely into his “house” - a ramshackle cottage that had been kept in decent repair by the residents in case he chose to return. If nothing else, the men and women of Sussaman took care of their own, even if they had been absent for more than a decade. Warburm’s family was glad to have a roof over their heads for the first time since Vantok and he couldn’t blame them. But he was restless, a caged animal who had been too long deprived of his freedom. He yearned to be gone from here, whether to join the fighting in Obis or head south to retake Vantok. Anything other than waiting here - something the prelate was content to do.
He no longer trusted Ferguson. It was a hard thing to admit that the man he had for so long admired and followed had fundamentally changed, and not for the better. The great prophet whose lone concern had been guiding humanity through the dark years had been replaced by a self-serving megalomaniac who saw himself as being above the laws of men and gods. Events on the journey from Basingham to Sussaman had convinced Warburm that the prelate now viewed it as his right to eliminate those who disagreed with him or represented an impediment. Once, deaths ordered by Ferguson had come only after much deliberation and soul-searching. No longer, apparently. Gorton’s demise had been too convenient to be a coincidence. After that, in quick succession, the disappearances of Carannan and Rexall… Anyone in a position of power who might thwart Ferguson, regardless of any past association, was gone. Warburm was half-surprised no one had come for him during the night. He supposed the prelate still trusted him, although there was no guarantee of that.
Ferguson had placed him in the unenviable position of being the liaison between the refugees and the village. It was a duty full of annoying administrative details, and one that kept him away from his fire and his wife’s bed except in the darkest hours of the night. This evening, as dusk fell along with a few wayward snowflakes, he was wandering the streets again, searching for someone from Sussaman who could accompany one of Ferguson’s priests to Obis to learn whether Myselene had crowned herself queen.
“Lord Warburm?” The voice was tiny and querulous, yet it startled Warburm. He turned to meet two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. They were perhaps the only remarkable thing about the girl in front of him. She wore the heavy furs one might expect of someone outside in the latter days of Harvest, although her head was bare, covered only by a thick mane of blonde hair. She was thin - far too thin for Warburm’s taste, although he recognized that many would consider her to be pretty.
“Lord?” His tone was amused. Had he ever been addressed by that title before? Innkeeper, yes. Barkeep, occasionally. Fat bastard, often. Cheap-ass, to be sure. But Lord? Not that he could recall, although his memory wasn’t as clear as it had once been.
She nodded somberly. “Me name’s Shiree, Lord Warburm. They say you might be able to give me news of a man in Vantok’s army. Name of Rexall.”
Warburm arched an eyebrow. The girl’s name was familiar - Rexall had mentioned her a few times. On each occasion, his expression had been like that of a man probing a bad tooth with his tongue. Pain, regret, a wish to forget - Warburm knew those feelings well, having experienced them regularly over the course of his misbegotten years. Shiree’s emotions were easy enough to read. She was besotted. Poor her. Poor Rexall too, if he was still alive.
The “official” story was that Rexall had deserted in Widow’s Pass, abandoning his fellows out of cowardice. The penalty for desertion was hanging so it was unlikely he was going to make an appearance in Sussaman even if he some dire fate hadn’t befallen him. Some rumors claimed he had been thrown into one of the crevasses by Ferguson’s priest-guards. Others indicated he had left in the company of like-minded men seeking to prevent Carannan from being hacked to bits by those serving under his command on the journey to Ibitsal. Warburm didn’t know the truth of the matter, but he wasn’t going to burden this poor young girl with tales of woe concerning her lover. Better to lie. That was something Warburm had always been good at.
“I served with him all the way from Vantok to Widow’s Pass. He didn’t come to Sussaman with the rest of the refugees; he were sent to rendezvous with Queen Myselene at Obis.” Then, in an embellishment Rexall might curse him for, Warburm added, “He mentioned you a few times. Even asked me to inquire after you once we was all settled. Said ta tell you he’d find you afore it were all over.”
When he saw the way those sapphire eyes lit up with pride and joy, Warburm wondered if he had done her any favors.
“Thank you,” she said with an intensity that Warburm found unsettling, then was gone, plumes of frosty breath trailing behind her.
Just like that, he had manipulated her. Her and perhaps Rexall. Once, that might not have bothered him but, as he stood in the middle of one of Sussaman’s narrow streets with the snow gathering in intensity around him, he suddenly felt uncomfortable. For the first time, he saw how little difference there was between him and Ferguson, except perhaps in a matter of degree. Their methods were the same: deceive and control. He might argue that the words he had spoken to Shiree were in her best interests, but that was the same argument Ferguson proffered for everything he did. Like a true student, Warburm was emulating his master without even thinking about it. When his actions seemed to be for the greater good, it never bothered him, but now that Ferguson’s achievements had lost their purity, so much was tainted. Oh, to be back in those days when life was simple…
That was when Warburm knew what necessity demanded, and its recognition chilled him to the marrow. He had lived his life as a man of action, one who never shied away from doing a thing that had to be done. For the first time, he wondered if he might lack the courage. Then he thought of Sorial and Alicia. Remembering everything they had been through and imagining what might be to come, he decided that, regardless of the cost, he could show no less resolve than his former stableboy and the bratty little noble’s daughter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE PATH TO THE THRONE
Stalemate. One glance at the frosty plain of Myselene’s face as she exited the palace chamber where the Council of Nobles met told him the result hadn’t changed. All the riches she had paid (obtained courtesy of Sorial’s plundering underground stores of gems) and all the promises of power positions she had dangled weren’t enough to sway the final crucial vote that would legitimatize her coronation. It was six-to-six and Otto’s clasp on the five votes beyond his own was too strong. Time might erode that grip but she couldn’t wait for that to happen. Greeg’s intelligence put Justin at Syre’s gates; he would be outside Obis with an army of 20,000 in no more than six weeks. Too little time in even the best of circumstances.
Sorial hadn’t been allowed to accompany her inside, so he rejoined her once she exited. Her future bridegroom, despite having gone in with her, was no longer by her side.
“Where’s the general?” asked Sorial. Although Greeg had shown nothing
but support, at times verging on cordiality, since the agreement for him to co-rule Obis had been finalized, Sorial’s distrust hadn’t diminished. Greeg’s enmity wasn’t gone, it was merely camouflaged.
“Twisting arms. Calling in favors. Shoring up my support in the ranks. None of that has worked so far, so I’m not sure why he thinks it will be different. With all options exhausted, we’re going to have to do what I didn’t want to do.”
By that, she meant extending an offer to Otto to join her coalition. Sorial saw the sense in this but Myselene was reluctant. She viewed the duke as incompetent and unprincipled. Her first instinct was to have Otto assassinated but that could prove difficult, not to mention counterproductive. He had sequestered himself on the top floor of his house - not an easy place for an earth-wizard to reach without exposing himself - and was surrounded by warriors whose loyalty was beyond question. While it was true that anyone could be gotten, the time factor was again in play.
The option of giving Otto the position of chancellor, despite having been endorsed by both Sorial and Greeg, made Myselene uneasy. She had explained her concern by saying that, as chancellor, Otto would be able to consolidate a currently shaky power base and align his forces for the eventual usurpation of the throne. With her ruling and rebuilding Vantok a continent away, all he would have to do was remove Greeg. As chancellor, he would be the logical choice for viceroy if the king died and the queen chose to establish her seat of power elsewhere. From Sorial’s perspective, that was more Greeg’s problem than Myselene’s unless she had reconsidered her decision to focus on Vantok. Maybe she was indeed thinking of empire building. At the moment, however, Sorial was far more concerned about Justin and the Otherverse than who might rule Obis in a year’s time. All that mattered was for Myselene to be wearing the crown when the season ended.
They didn’t converse further until they were within the confines of Myselene’s temporary quarters - a suite of rooms in Obis’ most exclusive inn, The Gentleman’s Repose. Neither of them was naïve enough to believe that this location was secure from the ears of spies so Sorial used his magic to create a loud buzzing that would confound eavesdroppers.
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