“But Master—”
“Tend to your duties, Nera. We have a couple of hours before they arrive.” He then walked inside the tower, leaving Nera to gather herself. The Master waved his hands side to side, signaling various mages within. Some merely bowed their heads, though others ran off to assigned posts.
Randler was recognized by several of the mages and it was a testament to Master Pyron’s power that they held themselves in check, for clearly they wanted to lash out and strike him down. For Pyron’s sake, Randler loudly hummed a melody, which he hoped the mage would take as a warning. The anxious crowd didn’t understand this procession as Randler was guided, unbound, to a meeting chamber on the third floor.
The room was coated in well-polished brown stone. The striations in the stone made it look more like petrified wood, but wooden structures were dangerous in a tower where fire could literally flare from the fingers of its inhabitants. This at least gave the semblance of being an oaken study with a grand table for greeting important guests.
“It will not be long before Dariak arrives.” Pyron offered a glass of red wine, which the bard refused, then he sat across from Randler and shook his head. “It is remarkable if you think you will be able to take Dariak alive from this place, after what he has done.”
“And what, indeed, has he done?”
“He accomplished what he set out to do,” Pyron explained, his voice growing cold and menacing. “He murdered Kerrish. One opponent down with no hope of defense or protection. He will be escorted to the king for execution.”
“I see.” Randler remained calm. “That would explain why you have summoned the guard then. I had thought it was merely a result of your defensive routines.”
“Well, it is a—” Pyron stopped and narrowed his eyes. “How would you know of our defensive procedures?”
“I am a bard. I soak in information and turn it to use as needed.”
“A walking library, then?” the mage scoffed. “You think of yourself too highly.”
Randler knew he needed to keep the conversation going and that he had to avoid speaking of his apparent abilities at all costs, for Frast was still outside and would be unable to provide the spells now that Randler was out of range. “I only know that I was welcomed to this magnificent tower and given free rein to walk around, to explore the library, and to speak with its denizens. You have factions here that are straining against each other, even on your own Council. There are those who would experiment with wilder magic, and those who would quell the very thought. The part that confuses me the most is why Delminor’s work has been cast aside and is so horribly disdained.”
Pyron’s lip twitched, for the minstrel was too astute. “There is no cause for me to discuss these issues with the likes of you.”
“Of course not; however, it does seem as if you mages have been locked in this tower for far too long, if you have forgotten your roots. People disagree all the time, but that’s a natural course of humanity. That is how we grow, by having conflicting theories and exploring them. But can you truly tell me that Delminor’s work is at the heart of evil? That his son is seeking some vicious revenge?”
“Dariak arrived and demanded the jades, but his request was thwarted. A key member of the opposition was then alone with Dariak and with that opportunity, Dariak murdered him.”
Randler shook his head. “It sounds too convenient. Dariak was trying to free Gabrion from the Trial, if I recall. Kerrish was needed for that process to happen, and volunteered himself to the task.”
Pyron rose to his feet, his face flushed. He slammed his hands on the table as he shouted, “And once the task was complete, Dariak summoned a powerful firestorm that eradicated his enemy!”
“That isn’t the Dariak I know,” Randler said. “Though I would have assumed that an accomplished mage who serves on the Council would be able to counter such a spell, and being the elder of the two, probably had a deeper understanding of the spell itself.”
“Enough! You will not spin this tale on its head, young bard.”
The reaction told Randler much. Pyron was holding on to one version of the story for some specific reason and wasn’t willing to consider any other options. He wondered if it had to do with alliances within the Council or perhaps there was some other complication with Kerrish’s death that only this mage knew. His vehement reply also suggested that Pyron had considered the alternative and was actively denying it. Randler wondered how strong the mage’s conviction was to hold on to that tale.
“I did not mean to anger you, Master Pyron,” the minstrel apologized graciously. “I was merely making conversation until my friend arrives.”
“Bah! Conversation indeed. If you wish to speak to me of important matters, then discuss your powers with me. How are you channeling magic through music?”
“As I told you already, I will share that knowledge once I see that Dariak is well and not before then. But I will tell you that it was Dariak’s own insight during our journey together that led me to this discovery. You would be a fool to kill him and lose all the advances he could bring to the mages.”
Enraged, Pyron lost his temper and before he realized what he was doing, he lashed out at Randler with a set of lightning flares. He’d only had a few seconds’ notice when the mage’s finger sparked, but Randler reacted before the bolts were released. He withdrew two daggers and jabbed them into the armrests of his chair. He then grabbed his drum and strummed a fast, erratic rhythm upon its surface. By then, the mage had drawn enough power and unleashed his blast. As he had hoped, after watching Dariak deflect the lightning bolts back at the Prisoner’s Tower, the lightning veered toward the daggers. What he didn’t know was that Frast had set up a reflective shield around him, which took the lightning and turned it back toward its caster.
Pyron accepted the blast and fell. The mages along the walls who had remained silent and out of sight rushed in to their master; all save one, who rushed forward and firmly grabbed Randler’s shoulder. The bard slightly turned his head to speak with his captor. “I merely defended myself. I spoke only words, yet he attacked me. Remember this moment for it will surely portend much.”
The hand clutching his shoulder gripped more firmly, causing him to wince. “Shh.”
Randler half expected Pyron to rise up, make some wild accusation, and then send him for execution along with Dariak. What he did not expect was Pyron to hoist himself up, dust off his robes, and laugh.
“Crafty, bard. Crafty. I will give you that much.” He rubbed his arm to combat a twinge from the shock and then he sat down. “I did not expect your form of magic to work so speedily, but you did well.”
“That was a test?” Randler asked skeptically.
Caught, Pyron frowned. “Of sorts,” he evaded. “But your skills do seem to extend well. Reflecting magic is usually difficult to do and requires mimicking the movements of the caster, yet you merely tapped a pattern on your drum.”
“Ah, well, it was the tempo of the pattern that turned the spell back toward you. Here, I will play it for you again,” which he did.
Pyron listened intently and his brows furrowed. “It certainly cannot be as easy as that. What was the purpose of those daggers?”
Randler grinned. “You call me crafty, yet here you are trying to get me to divulge my secrets without honoring your part of the bargain.”
“If there were a society of bards, such as we have a Council of Mages here, I would name you among the most prominent members. You are no mere warbler of tales. You have true insight and a definite gift.” Randler tipped his head at the compliment as Pyron continued, “And I see now that I will not succeed without showing you what you wish to see. But I must alert you; Dariak is a dangerous mage and he is bound so that he cannot utilize his powers. You will see him alive, but he will not be able to interact with you. We cannot release him.”
Randler was affronted. “You can’t simply bring fifty mages together with spells at the ready and allow him to speak? That is abs
urd.”
“He would kill us all as likely as not and there may not be enough time to react if he did. Enough of this, though. Come.” He paced across the room without looking back. Randler followed, noting that the mage who had been grabbing his shoulder stayed close by, cowl pulled low, only grunting at the bard and shoving him when he hesitated.
Randler wasn’t happy ascending another two flights of stairs, for it meant the exit was that much further away. Each delay also gave the king’s guard more time to approach, and that was an added complication he hadn’t anticipated. He hoped Frast was safely out of sight as the night deepened.
The cold iron door swung open and admitted them to a holding room. There were bars lining the walls, but they were only decorative, from what Randler could see. This wasn’t a cell, just fashioned to look like one from the inside. There were no scuff marks anywhere from prisoners trying to escape or spells being cast. It was simply a cold, dank sort of room.
In the center was an odd sight. Randler’s eyes focused on the warbled mass that rested on the floor. A strange cloth-like coating enwrapped the outer husk like a large cocoon. Silver bindings wound through the hull, creating a pattern that repeated itself all along the shell. He approached and felt a warm emanation from it, then he hesitated for a moment. It was a blessing that he could sense it, for if he had walked right into the energy, his claim of channeling magic through music would have lost its merit, for it would have alerted Pyron that he had no connection to the energies after all.
Stepping cautiously, Randler moved around the mass and nearly crumbled when he saw two puffy blue eyes peering up at him. Dariak was so tightly entombed, only the bridge of his nose up to his forehead could be seen. His mouth was covered and he clearly had no hope of speaking, much less of casting a spell.
“This is outrageous!” Randler gasped. “How does he eat or drink?”
“He doesn’t,” Pyron said coldly. “What need does he have for such things when he is to be slain anyway?”
Randler was stunned. “But it’s been a week since you captured him. He has had no food or drink in all that time?”
Pyron’s voice was emotionless. “It has taken longer for the king’s guard to arrive than usual.”
“Release him, so I may hear his voice!”
“You do not make demands here, bard.”
The door opened and several other mages entered. Pyron acknowledged them with a nod, but some were angry. “What is the meaning of this, Pyron? You would give the friend of this murderer visiting rights?”
Pyron answered, “Easy, Farrenok, this situation is under control.”
“Indeed!” the petulant mage responded. “His control! Dariak’s death has already been delayed for long enough. Now he gets to play with his friends? You’re not fit to lead us any longer.”
“Here! Here!” cackled old Lorresh. “Let’s put an end to this now.”
“Calm down. There is no harm being done here!” Pyron shouted over the muttering that started. “This bard has a knowledge of a skill that he will trade for merely seeing Dariak alive.”
“You skew our agreement, mage,” Randler warned. “I was to take Dariak.”
Now Pyron roared. “And I did not commit to that!”
“What skill?” asked Shelloni, who had been one of Dariak’s supporters before the news of Kerrish’s murder.
Pyron calmed enough to explain. “He is able to cast spells without the use of spell components or the old language.”
“Impossible!” cried Farrenok.
“Preposterous,” echoed Lorresh.
“Show them,” Pyron challenged, turning to Randler.
The bard frowned. Now he was stuck. “What good will that do? Will your thirst for knowledge stave off your hunger for blind revenge? Will either Dariak or I walk free from this place? Safe from you, who all have bloodlust in your eyes?”
The mage who had gripped Randler’s shoulder in the other chamber stepped forward and repeated the gesture harshly. Something then poked Randler in the back, and the bard assumed it was a dagger.
He had no choice. He chose the flute, for if this would be his last song, he wanted it to come from his last breath of air. “My greatest lament is that we could not solve this any other way.” He breathed deeply and blew across the mouthpiece, crafting a slow, melancholy tone that tugged at everyone who heard it. What surprised him, though, was the unbidden coldness that fell from the ceiling of the room. The mages collectively gasped as snow fluttered down, created solely from the wailing notes on the flute.
“I—I don’t believe it!” Farrenok fell to his knees.
“How are you doing that?” Shelloni demanded. “I feel the energies coming from you, but you uttered not a single word.”
Randler needed a moment to think of a response anyway, for he was as surprised as they. It was a moment, however, he did not receive, for in the huddled mass in the center of the floor, Dariak suddenly moaned, drawing everyone’s attention. Randler tried to step forward, but his shadow grabbed him and yanked him to the floor, smothering him. Seconds later, all Randler could hear were gasps from the other mages and shouts and cries to bolt the door. Then spellfire flew across the room and mages screamed in agony.
Yet Randler could not see them, pinned as he was. He struggled to rise up, but his captor wrestled him well and kept him down.
“Kill him! Kill him!” Farrenok panicked, but then fell to the floor with a hard crash. Lorresh fell soon after.
All Randler could feel was the mage lying on top of him casting incessantly, though he uttered not a sound. Soon the chaos ended and the mage pulled himself slowly away, then withdrew his hood.
“Frast!” Randler gasped. “I don’t understand.”
“There’s no time. We have to move. Now!” He grabbed Randler’s arm and dragged him toward the door.
“But Dariak!”
“There’s nothing you can do for him right now. We have to move! Go!”
Chapter 25
The Castle Town of Hathreneir
Traveling to the castle took a few days but was a relatively easy journey for a group of skilled fighters and mages. Creature attacks were fended off without casualties, just minor injuries in some cases. Gabrion rode astride a horse, bedecked in the antimagic armor he had received from Herchig. Nearly one hundred of the fighters in the group had been fitted for the special attire, meaning that over two-thirds of the sword-bearing army were ready for battle. Beyond that, the thirty or so mages wore their own vestments so they could reach their spell components more easily.
Gabrion still marveled that any of the citizens of Marritosh would join his cause, but in talking with the defectors, he came to understand why. The king of Hathreneir was a strict ruler and, like Gabrion’s own king, caught up in his own affairs. Whenever the kingdom required soldiers, for instance, they were taken from the surrounding populace, and because Marritosh was the closest settlement to the castle, they were the first victims. Many stepped up nobly and served with honor and for a touch of glory, but the stores of men in such esteem had long ago joined the king; for several years now, the volunteers were anything but voluntary.
Taxes were also higher these days, especially after the recent insurgence of fighting with Kallisor. At last, the people had grown tired of the pillaging of their town by their own monarch and it was those rebels who joined Ervinor’s side while they had waited for Gabrion’s return.
Upon arriving, Gabrion looked at the castle and wondered at its construction. He only had Kaison to reference in terms of strategic defense, where his king’s ancestors had enwrapped the castle with a vast city that would be trampled by invading forces long before anyone would reach the castle gate. Here, the situation was different.
The castle itself was designed more for military defense than architectural beauty. Battlements lined the walls like teeth, but not in the decorative manner he had seen in Kallisor. These looked menacing, like a giant maw ready to devour invaders. He withheld a shiver at
the thought, scanning for any signs of movement, though they were still some distance away.
There was a defensive wall, too, surrounding the castle, but it was low enough to seem barely useful. He wondered if there was a deep moat surrounding the wall that he couldn’t see, or if the kings of Hathreneir were arrogant enough to leave such a low barrier. Had he consulted the mages about it, they would have told him that other defenses hovered about the stone, though they would be unlikely to identify them without being much closer.
In front of the wall was a marketplace. It wasn’t a bazaar with tents and lean-tos, but the stalls were set firmly in the ground and made of stone. There was little organization to the layout of the shops themselves, which made bargain-hunting a bit of a chore, but was probably arranged purposely by the merchants themselves for that very reason. Between the rows of shops on either side was a cobbled square and it was here the army stepped with poise.
Gabrion and Ervinor dismounted and approached the nearest guard. The young man was suited in the finest emerald satin and though he held himself with purpose and strength, he looked as if he had never done more in his life than stand still and await orders. He saluted the newcomers with precision and asked them their business.
“Greetings, friend. I am Gabrion from Kallisor and I come to entreat with your king.”
The young soldier appraised Gabrion’s attire, then looked over the warrior’s shoulder at the armed forced waiting behind him. A deep frown flickered on the young man’s face before he cleared his throat and spoke clearly, “I am Azosh, page to the king of Hathreneir. Do you come with peaceful intent or otherwise?”
Ervinor laughed despite himself. “If we came meaning harm, would we announce it?”
Gabrion nudged him to silence. “There is no need for us to fight. I have two requests for his majesty and then we will depart. I bring my supporters only to give weight to my requests.”
The Shattered Shards Page 30