That was fine. It wouldn’t remain that way for long.
Humming a little tune, he grabbed the skeleton that passed for a chair in the one corner and smashed it against the floor. It broke easily. Picking up various pieces of it, he found two of similar size and length that suited his purpose and set them up, side by side, on the single table that stood in the center of the room.
It was now that he reached in his pack, pulling out a chalky white block and placing it on the pieces of wood, forming an impromptu bridge. The block, known as fire ash, was made from various chemicals, mixed by an alchemist and allowed to congeal and settle before being cut into blocks, such as the one he now held. It was typically used to fuel low simmering fires that one required to make exotic delicacies or as a catalyst for various other alchemical processes.
But Simon, due to his nature of being one who always kept an ear open for new information and ways to use said information, had happened upon one very peculiar property of the otherwise unexciting material. It was the only known product, besides the rare metal drykite, to have an innate resistance to the extremely corrosive liquid commonly referred to as demon’s fire. Unlike drykite, demon’s fire would eat through the fire ash, but not nearly at the instant speed it did most things.
Perfect for what Simon had in mind.
He reached carefully into the pouch on his side, extracting two vials. One was made from the rare metal drykite and held the very liquid that was on the forefront of Simon’s mind: demon’s fire. He set that container very carefully on the edge of the table before regarding the last, and perhaps most dangerous, vial.
It was a clear container, and the liquid inside was a rather indistinct color which belied the fact that inside the small innocent package was a raging inferno. This was called Dryken’s Breath and Simon rolled his eyes at the naming conventions employed by alchemists desperate to add an aura of mystery to their methodical craft.
But it didn’t stop the steady respect he gave this volatile liquid as he placed it carefully under the bridge of fire ash. He knew that the moment air hit it; everything in this room would go up in flame, a fiery hell on Faelon that would incinerate everything it touched.
In fact, he was counting on it.
Simon had been saving these two treasures for a rainy day, since the both of them were worth a fortune in the right circles. But something in the depths of his chest told him this was that moment, and he followed his gut. Some things were worth more than gold.
He twisted off the cap of the demon’s fire vial with maddening carefulness, ignoring the sweat forming on his brow. One drop of the vial’s liquid on his skin and it’d be a painful, though quick, death. Holding his breath, he dropped the entire contents of the vial onto the fire ash, watching as his efforts were rewarded with a wicked hiss. The dangerous substance smoked and bubbled, filling the air with an acrid scent that left Simon gagging.
Reining in his reaction, Simon made sure that the liquid would eat through the block and hit the Dryken’s Breath. He gave himself about five minutes before all hell would break loose. More than enough time to get out of here, he hoped.
Taking a deep breath, the bard turned, running as if his life depended on getting away from there, because most likely it did. As he hit the bottom of the stairs, he heard the sounds of battle.
Undaunted, he continued running, the hissing behind him and the clanging metal in front of him only lending speed to his feet.
❧ ❧ ❧
“It’s been a long time, Denician,” the melodic feminine voice intoned, the words lingering, even as the willowy, ghostly, hands caressed the side of his face.
The Headmaster sighed, his breath coming out raggedly at the surge of emotions the figure in front of him induced. “Hello, Queen Selenthia. It is nice to see you are well.”
The hands recoiled. “Come, my love, there is no need for such titles, even if time and circumstance has driven us apart,” the ghost teased, with only a slight hint of reproach behind the words.
Though he would never admit, even after all these years, he still yearned for this woman, this elf, in front of him. She was communicating using a long distance scrying spell, so he was thankful that at least he didn’t have to look at the features that he knew so well.
In his mind’s eye he saw the long raven black hair that flowed like silk through his finger tips, pale perfect skin that resembled the gentle glow of the moonlight, and those knowing amethyst orbs that saw into the very depths of his being.
He ached for her.
He had just been an apprentice when she had entered his, until then, simple life. The Kingdom of Morlian was at peace with the elves of Selenthia at the time. So, at his master’s prodding, he had traveled to study the extensive magical texts that the elves kept. And they welcomed him in the aloof, yet curious way that only people who live for many centuries could.
And it was where he fell in love with a young elven maiden with laughter in her eyes. It amazed him when it came to light that she returned his affection. It was a magical couple of years. He wanted nothing more than to wake up every day of his life with her in his arms.
But it was not to be. He was human and she was elven. Such intimacies were forbidden by her people. She was willing to give it up for him, but he wasn’t ready to let her, to doom her to hundreds of years of banishment from her people just to be with him for however short his human lifespan lasted. So he left and broke both of their hearts in the process.
Then this whole war started and in the way that only Fate or circumstance can mock somebody, it all came full circle back to him. After an argument with the King, in which he protested the whole idea of starting a war with a race of people that had, hitherto, been perfectly peaceful, he, as the neutral head of the Academy, decided to meddle and gain an ally from the enemy’s side to try and stop the war before it started.
So he tried to contact the elvish maid that he still dreamed of every night, hoping she could find it in her heart to forgive him and work with him to stop needless bloodshed. So it came as a shock when he was introduced to the Queen and ruler of Selenthia herself. It came as a bigger surprise when the ruler turned out to be the love of his life, which had only recently ascended to the throne, picked by her people upon the death of their late king.
Oh the irony of life.
Denician rubbed his temples. “Selenthia,” he disliked the name, though it was the fate of all elven rulers to inherit the name of their homeland, “Please, now is not the time. Things are getting worse and we haven’t gotten anywhere.”
The image nodded. “The Council wishes to eradicate your Kingdom for daring to attack unprovoked. We, of course, believe that we were right in the trade dispute. There are hints of wanting to return to the warlike people we once were.”
“I can’t allow that to happen. For either side, win or lose. This isn’t what Faelon needs. I swear there is a puppet master behind these strings of war, but whoever they are, I haven’t gotten wind beyond my suspicions.”
“What about the prophet?”
Denician nodded. Shortly before the war started, a nameless prophet appeared, clad in simple white robes and black mask that hid his features, and everything he had said came true. Famine, births, disasters. He came to the King, telling him of a path he must take to lead Faelon to an era of prosperity. There had been great civil unrest in Morlian at the time, mostly from a great plague that had swept through, leaving a trail of misery behind it. Then a trade caravan containing a highly sought after metal got robbed and both sides claim the other was behind it.
The news was convenient enough to take Morlian’s focus off its problems. Too convenient, by the Headmaster’s reckoning. Denician immediately suspected the robed man, but no matter the security and surveillance he placed on the masked prophet, he couldn’t prove anything.
He felt as if he was just a nameless pawn dancing along to the tune of an unseen piper. The feeling of hopelessness infuriated him. He knew there had to be more to
this, but despite his best efforts, all he got were shadows flitting about the dark.
“He’s still clean. I’ve got my best men watching every move he makes, and yet, nothing. He gets up every morning, meditates, consults the king, eats, and then meditates some more. That’s it, every day, without fail.”
The willowy figure huffed with frustration. A very unqueen-like action that reminded Denician of the woman she was before. It was hard to stop the smile tugging at his lips. “We are missing something, love. Both of us realize there is more to this war than meets the eye. But neither of us can prove it. Are you sure your men are trustworthy?”
The Headmaster bristled. “Of course. I’d not trust anyone but my best men for such a task. And what about you, is anyone not being honest among your elves?”
“We are different than the newer races, with a longer view of the world. I do not see anyone of us betraying our kind.” There was a brief moment of hesitation. “But I do not discount it, just because I trust my people. I have been looking into it, though I have to be subtle. We do not distrust easily, amongst ourselves. It would be a great affront to openly bring the suspicion to the forefront of our politics.”
Denician snorted. “With all due respect, from what I remember of the goings on within your courts, the inner workings of our own ‘newer’ races seems tame in comparison.”
“That is a bit different. To us it is like a game. We live centuries and must find ways to amuse ourselves. The intrigue and wordplay interests us. It is mostly posturing and harmless in intent.”
“So how do we lesser lived races know that one of your people isn’t viewing this like a game? Poking and prodding and instigating for his, or her, own sick, twisted, amusement? Are you saying your people are incapable of evil? Or maybe that they might not view things differently, somehow believing what they are doing is for the greater good??”
“I don’t like your implications, love. We have not instigated a conflict for centu—”
“But just because you haven’t doesn’t mean you can’t, am I correct?”
“I’m not sure why you are attacking my race. . . but yes, you are correct. Anybody is capable of malicious intent, even the longer lived ones that should know better.”
The Headmaster sighed. It was always like this. He was always looking for ways to fight with her. He hated the social customs of the elves. The pomp, the strict caste rules, the nitpicking. Furthermore, navigating the murky and lengthy list of what was proper was painstaking at best. One had to live for centuries just to get anything done!
He blamed a large part of the frustration on not being able to have what he desired. If he was so great, why couldn’t he just take what he wanted? Social norms be damned! At the thought, he mentally shook his head. Go down that road and he’d be the one pushing for war.
“I’m sorry. . . Ashe,” he breathed an apology, her birth name rolling off his tongue, bittersweet.
The image twirled lightly, the happiness evident in her movements. Denician found an unwitting smile grace his lips. It was always so easy to make her happy. Underneath the pretense of a ruler, still beat the heart of the carefree woman that stole his heart. “I understand, love.” The image finally came to rest. “We have all been taxed rather hard. When may I see you next?”
It was an abrupt change of topic, and had Denician not been used to dealing with the capriciousness elves, he’d have thought her uncaring for her people in this time of war. He wished they would take the threat his nation posed seriously. Morlian was a slow to awaken beast, but changes were happening within that he was powerless to stop, despite his best efforts. The beast was stretching out its claws, and Denician saw trouble in the future of anything that got in its way.
But the elves, with their long view of the world at large, refused to believe that anything could really threaten them. This was just another bump in the road of time. They didn’t see the war machine slowly gearing up, as Denician did. They believed they had a chance. Denician hoped they were right. All the elves had seen were skirmishes and smaller battles with Morlia. What would they do when the beast was fully awakened, fangs spread, bearing down on their homeland?
He wasn’t exactly an elven advocate, but he didn’t want them eradicated or absorbed into Morlia.
He considered her question. Despite what he told himself to the contrary, she would always hold a place in his heart. Like a drug, he found himself always going back to her under some pretense or another. They could never be overtly together, but it didn’t stop them from seeking solace from everything in each other’s arms when they could.
It was dangerous. . . if they ever got caught. . . Still. . .
“I don’t know, Ashe. It’s hard, with the war and all. But I’ll come under some pretense of Academy work when I can.” He paused, and it took him a few moments to get the words out. “I miss you.”
“And I miss you. I’ll look into matters more closely, at your suggestion. The dishonor it would bring to my people to have a traitor among us wouldn’t even be close to how history would judge us if we allowed this to happen unchallenged. Now I must go. This spell taxes my energy. Until we meet again, my heart.”
The ghostly figure kissed her fingertips, touching them to Denician’s lips gently before vanishing, now nothing more than a swirling mass of nether to his eyes. And so it was, the Headmaster all alone again in his office. The ache in his chest grew at her absence and he let himself slump down in his chair with a groan, the leather lining protesting his sudden intrusion. Reaching into a secret compartment in his desk, he pulled out a flask of the strongest brandy he had
Later on he planned to rotate the men he had watching the prophet. He’d never admit to being wrong to Ashe, but it didn’t hurt to give her suggestion a shot, no matter how much he didn’t want for it to be true. He also had to go contact and bribe some of his spy network, searching for that something that he was missing. He had a lot of work to do, and that didn’t even include his Academy duties.
But that was for later. Right now he needed a drink.
Chapter 20
The assassins entered the room silently, having picked the lock with a speed that indicated dedication to a craft that depended on perfection.
Instead of the two pompous wizards and a bodyguard they were told resided there, they opened the door to an old crone, her husband, and a young waif. The two parties paused, unsure.
The moment of confusion was all that was needed A sword appeared in the old man’s hand, and the blade flashed. One of the five fell dead, his throat sliced into the crude facsimile of a smile. The deadly weapon struck again, but this time instinct took over and the assassin got his sword up in time, deflecting the blow.
A crackling light of energy sprung from the woman’s finger tips, following the slicing motion she made with her fingers. Off went a man’s hand and as the man opened his mouth to scream, the old man took the opening, silencing him with a back stroke of his sword.
Things started off badly, but they were quick to fill in the holes. One broke off to occupy the spell caster, forcing her to concentrate more on dodging than spellplay. Her quick cast ball of fire almost charred his face as he ducked. It impacted against the wall, igniting like a match to tinder. Smoke began to fill up the room.
Didn’t the information say two mages? The last one was confirmed as the boy gestured with his hand, a solid pocket of air ramming into the one that approached him. The man let out a grunt and rocked back on his heels, but doggedly moved forward against the pain, his sword cutting trails above the boys head as the boy ducked and rolled.
The old man was now on the defensive, sorely pressed by two expert swordsmen who had worked together before. When one left an opening, the other was quick to fill it. Expertly they worked the man’s defenses; high, low, from the side, the sound of three swords ringing together in terrible harmony.
Disguising his move with a risky attack that went up and over the man’s sword to duck down and stab at his chest, the
assassin reached into his tunic and whipped a knife at the old man. The wicked dagger stuck in the man’s thigh and the man’s defenses stuttered, allowing the two assassins to score minor blows.
Simon burst into the room, the bard’s sword swinging madly at the closest assassin. It was clumsy and untrained, but the simple addition of another was enough to cause a respite for the beleaguered defenders.
The assassins took the betrayal in stride, splitting off to attack separately. Finish the wounded man quickly. It was an unspoken agreement between the pair.
The old crone’s opponent was frustrated. Every time he thought he would hit her, his sword seemed to pass through nothing. How was she so old and yet so agile? He growled as his sword seemed to go through thin air yet again, though he was sure she was in reach.
No, he was letting his frustration get hold of him. Think. Assassins were heads and shoulders above mere grunts because they thought about their targets. They fought as much with their mind as their body and weapons. This time he did a measured lunge for her head, watching as his sword again passed through harmlessly.
And he saw. The outfit was a disguise. Her clothing and face were dirtied and hard to discern, but the skin at the base of her neck smooth and tight. Nothing like what an old woman would have. So they knew the attack was coming. His mind flickered to obvious betrayal of the bard. And somehow this mage, this witch, was making some spell to cause all his attacks to miss.
What would happen if he deliberately aimed wide? With a feral grin he swung his sword wildly and was rewarded with the split-second feeling of resistance as the edge nicked her arm. Well, it was a start. With his comrades pressing in and gradually tightening the noose on the others, things were very grim for his targets.
A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) Page 29