by Robert Beers
“Speak of what you found,” the Alpha Wolf said, in a low growl. “Does bright eyes dwell in their place?”
“His scent is there, pack leader,” the panting female replied. “And the two-legged gray muzzle is still with him.”
“What did they say?” Thaylli asked Drinaugh
He told her.
She dug her heels into the side of his neck as if he were a horse. “Come on, let's go. Let's go now.”
Drinaugh swiveled his head on his long neck until he looked at Thaylli face to face. “I think we should wait.”
“What!?” She was incredulous. She couldn't believe her ears.
The Alpha Wolf's mate asked the panting female, “what of the two legs in that pack? How did they treat you?”
The female closed her mouth and took on a serious expression. “I could smell their fear. Some of them looked my way with their long teeth showing. The pack could have trouble in that place.”
“You speak wisdom.” The Alpha Wolf licked the side of the female's cheek in a gesture of reward. She opened her mouth in pleasure.
The Alpha Wolf continued, “the pack will wait and watch outside the boundary the two legs made for their pack's safety. It is better if we know more of this place before the hunt for our pack mate continues.”
Thaylli leaned forward and spoke quietly at Drinaugh's ear. “You don't have to tell me. I understood that clear enough. We're not going in, are we?”
“It's for the best right now, Thaylli,” the young dragon replied. “There is a genuine concern as to the possible safety of the pack. Humans can be dangerous and unpredictable. That is, that's what the older Dragon's have told us younger ones. The wolves say we're going to wait outside the city walls for a while to watch and learn before we go in.”
“Oh ... poo!”
Drinaugh, deep down, agreed with Thaylli's sentiment.
* * * *
The Ortian messenger reined in his horse and dismounted at the foot of the first flight of steps leading to the Ducal Palace. His mount's chest heaved as it tried to recover from the exertion of its day long run.
“Every time I've been here I've thought Grisham a filthy place. It has yet to change my mind.” The messenger eyes darted left and right as he mounted the steps to the first landing.
He would have to pass three checkpoints before being granted permission into the palace itself. Each would ask him the same question in the same dead, uninterested tone of voice.
“Bureaucrats, every one of them,” he thought. Collectively, you couldn't find enough initiative in all of them to wipe their own bums without a palace directive, filed in triplicate.
He shook his head. Nothing to do but get it over with and then get out of here. The sooner it was done, the sooner he could be on his way home.
“Halt and declare,” the first check point guard intoned, proving the accuracy of the messenger's prophetic skills.
He stopped the required three paces before the guard, catching the steady flow of functionaries and palace leeches out of the corner of his eye. Then he opened the leather pouch, pulled out the roll of bleached parchment with his right hand, and held it out for the guard to take.
“Sealed and warranted?” The guard didn't even look at the message.
“Aye, by the Emperor's own hand,” the messenger gave the required response. Title would have been the only change, depending upon the author of the missive.
“Enter and proceed.” The guard waved him on. If the man were any stiffer, he'd be a statue.
He stepped around the guard post and took the steps of the second landing with the same deliberate tread he'd taken the first.
Twenty steps to the first guard position. Twenty more to the second. Grisham's city planners had no more initiative than any of the other bureaucracies rotting within their seat of power.
“Halt and declare.” Again, the same monotone command.
He repeated the carefully choreographed pattern of opening the pouch and held the message out at arms length. This guard, like the first, gave no indication he even saw the roll of parchment with its dated Imperial seal.
“Sealed and warranted?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just like the last time.” This was getting monotonous.
“Sealed and warranted?”
Nothing would happen until he stayed with the pattern. He kept the sigh hidden inside himself, it wouldn't have been appreciated anyway. “Aye, by the Emperor's own hand.”
“Enter and proceed.”
Just one more checkpoint to go and he could leave this stinking hole. Twenty more steps and the final check point. Grisham's rulers had to be obsessed with threes. Everything in triplicate.
“Halt and declare.”
He kept his temper under control and went through the scripted motions of the ritual. The “enter and proceed” order fell upon his ears with welcome relief. Now he could get to the end of this dreary business.
Three wide steps of rose-colored marble led to the verandah fronting the main entrance to Grisham's Ducal palace. Three doors showed their faces to the outside worl set into thick granite frames flush with the stone blocks of the palace wall itself. The door to the far right was where friends and family of those residing with the palace entered their satin and fur-lined world. The door to the far left was for workers and servants, and led to a much less opulent existence. The one in the middle was his to use, as his message was for the eyes of the Duke alone, even though a servant would most likely be taking it.
Inside the foyer, a guard officer sat behind the high teakwood desk, situated prominently before the middle door.
“State your business and destination.” At least this one had a more flexible script.
“Messenger from the Empire of Ort, with a sealed parchment for the Duke's eyes, only.”
An oversized book was turned around and a dipped quill handed to the messenger. “Sign or make your mark here.”
Ignoring the veiled insult concerning his potential illiteracy, the messenger signed his name and title in the next available space, and handed the quill back to the guard officer.
The officer was of a more thorough strain than his subordinates were on the steps outside. He actually looked to see if there was a signature or a mark in the book. He saw the signature and grunted.
The messenger smiled inwardly. The officer was probably just literate enough to tell the difference between the two. Score one for Ort.
The guard officer gave a high sign to a page waiting in the wings. When the page approached, he nodded toward the Ortian messenger. “Sealed parchment for the Duke. Take it to him directly.” He handed the page a medallion that the boy hung around his neck. This protected him from being pulled aside for any other business while he was thus occupied.
The messenger reached into his pouch and pulled out the parchment, handing it to the boy. He knew it would reach the Duke unmolested. A few object lessons hung upon the palace walls insured the honesty of those left behind.
His job done, he turned on his heel and left the Ducal palace foyer. In another fortnight he would be home. Then he could rest.
* * * *
The page ran up the flights of stairs until he reached the floor the Duke's apartments were on. The door wardens saw the medallion he wore and opened the double doors as he approached.
“Second one this week, Gupp,” the one on the left remarked.
“Cause they knows I'm fast, Sire Dorrin. Tell yer sis I'll be there fer supper after shift.” The page ran on into the Duke's quarters.
He'd been there often enough over the two years of his duty that the splendor no longer got to him. He managed to keep his eyes straight as he stood at attention while waiting for his lord and master to notice him. Sometimes the Duke liked to test the patience of his pages. Those who failed the test got sent to service Magister Mallien, the High Priest. He had a fondness for young boys that approached legendary status. Gupp was determined to keep his virginity, that is, unless Dorrin's sister proved willi
ng.
To Gupp's relief, his lordship was more interested in the content of the message than in Gupp's ability to keep his backside inviolate. “Hand me that parchment, boy, and then get out of here.”
Gupp hightailed it out of Bilardi's apartments as if the pit itself were on his heels.
The Duke watched him go while fingering the seal on the message. It was from the Emperor himself. This was an occasion calling for wine. “Wuest,” he called for his aide de camp.
The little man with the rat-like face peered around the corner from his desk alcove where he tended to the Duke's papers. “Milord?”
Bilardi tapped the Ortian imperial seal with the heavy signet on his right ring finger. “Bring me a bottle of the Thirty-four vintage.” The command was given in a preoccupied tone.
Wuest's eyes bugged, but he knew better than to question any command, or request, given by his Duke. “At once, milord.”
Bilardi could have walked the few paces to the wine closet himself, but he was of the mind that was what servants were for. Wuest returned with the bottle. A film of fine dust covered it with a soft gray powder.
“Open it and leave it, Wuest, and a glass, thank you.” Bilardi worked the seal with a thumbnail, loosening it with care. When it separated from the parchment, he unrolled it and weighted the corners with lead discs made for that purpose.
He picked up the bottle of wine and poured a glassful as he began the read the declaration of war from the Ortian Empire. He finished the first paragraph and drained the glass in a swallow. A chuckle of supreme satisfaction and triumph welled up as he poured another glassful. He finished the second paragraph at the same time he finished his second drink.
A stray thought said it was near criminal to treat such a fine vintage like cheap swill. He brushed it aside as he poured again.
When he reached the part where the Emperor said that the war would be prosecuted until the Duke's head graced the highest flagpole on his own palace tower, he started to laugh out loud. The chuckles increased until they became full-throated howls of maniacal glee.
In the dungeons below, McCabe heard the echoes of Bilardi's madness. The voices inside him laughed along with the Duke. McCabe listened to them, heard their plans for the future, and smiled in the darkness.
* * * *
“The two shall come from the outside, through Emerald and Dragon Fire they come. Sword and bow will be their sign. Unequaled in prowess though light in years. Brother and sister from another world, born of the blood of Labad.
“Destiny will push them and terror will stalk them but yet they prevail.
War will divide them when friends fight to the death. One to the North and one to the South.
Emperor's champion becomes the bow and the sword becomes King.
Through his power the destroyer is born, through his power only will it die.
Friend of wolf and dragon, master of steel. Through these you will know him.
Guide to Elven Chance, master of warriors, Earl's doom. Through these shall you know her.
The wise will feel the growth of power and know the time is here.
Without guidance the Two shall fail and fall into great tribulation, but guidance sometimes comes in strange guise.
Son will kill father but pay the price of pride's severing.
Creation will hang in the balance when the shadow comes. Only the promised ones may prevent its destruction.
All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands."
The Librarian looked up from the ancient parchment and stared at Milward. “I still have difficulty believing I'm looking at the original, and yet, here it is, in my very own hands.”
“It is yours to keep, as well, my old friend. It will be far safer in your care, than in mine.” Milward's fingers tapped against the haft of his staff.
The librarian stumbled a bit as what he just heard took hold. “You cannot be serious! Me? You're giving Labad's vision to me?”
“I can't think of anyone else to give it to.” Milward said. “Your reaction proves the correctness of my feeling in this matter.”
The librarian rubbed the parchment between his thumb and forefinger as he mulled over the Wizard's words. “Then I must give you something of equal value in return. My real name.”
Milward gave no outward sign to the librarian's statement, but a stillness settled over the room they were in. It seemed as though the books and writings in the stacks themselves waited for what would be coming next.
“It is the only thing I have that comes close to the treasure you've entrusted to me.” The librarian kept his eyes on the parchment.
Milward remained silent.
“It will give you, as a Wizard, an avenue for great power over me, if you so choose,” the librarian continued.
“I will keep it as I've kept my own.” Milward said softly.
The librarian looked up at him and a brief smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I've no doubt of that, my old friend. I've no doubt of that at all.”
Milward waited, resting both hands on his staff as he sat in the chair opposite the librarian.
The old man cleared his throat. “Alten Baldricsson was the name my father gave me.” He smiled again. “It's been a long time since those words passed my lips. They sound almost foreign in my ears.”
“I've known you for a few centuries ... Alten. It's been at least that long.” Milward took an ornately carved pipe out of his tunic and fiddled with it. “You could have told me what you just did at any time during those past years. Why now? The prophecy,” he pointed a finger at the parchment in Alten's hand. “...Is just an excuse, you know very well what else the knowledge of your real name does where I'm concerned.”
“Oh, I'm very aware of the protection aspect, Milward. Call it... pride, if you will, that kept me from doing it sooner. I don't like the feeling of having to depend upon the kindness of others, but as you can see, I'm not the vibrant young scholar you used to know back then.” The librarian settled deeper into his chair.
“I know that ... Alten.” Milward said the librarian's name as if tasting it for palatability. “Age eventually gets to us all, even Dragons. You have a premonition?”
“It's not that definite; more of a vague feeling of unease about the future. Perhaps I'm just being paranoid.” Alten mused.
“You're not the type.” Milward tamped some Bacweed into his pipe. “I've learned to trust my feelings over the years. It's not too late for you to do the same.” He squinted at the bowl of the pipe as fragrant smoke began billowing out of it.
“That's very reassuring.” Alten's tone indicated he meant just the opposite of what he said. He reached into a drawer built into the side table next to his chair and pulled out a pipe every bit as ornate as the one Milward held. “Have you got any more of that Bac?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Read it back to me.” Bilardi leaned back into the soft velvet of his oversized chair as he placed his feet, one ankle crossed over the other, onto the polished ebony of his desk. He poured himself another measure of the fortified wine he'd been drinking since sunrise.
Wuest, his aide de camp, held the vellum in his hands as if it were a dangerous insect about to bite him. “Are you sure you want to do this, milord?”
The Duke sipped his wine. He had reached that stage of drunkenness where mellow met the edge of sobriety. “Read it, Wuest. Your station in life doesn't allow you the luxury of questioning the motivation of your betters. What I choose to do is my business, not yours.”
The aide cleared his throat. He could feel a lump building right along with the one in his belly. “Ahem ... Bilardi, Lord of Grisham and its environs, to Alford, pretender to the throne of Ort;
“We have received your attempt at writing an intelligent declaration. Know you that the great city-state of Grisham in its long and glorious history has never known defeat in battle, much less with a rabble such as you would gather unto your skirts.
Know you also that it is a poor excuse for a man who cannot protect his own family, even if they are a slutty bitch that lays with anything hanging between two legs.
You have impugned Grisham's honor, and that is a grievous insult that will not stand. Know you that we will meet you upon the field of honor, even though you have none."
Wuest finished his reading, and waited for the Duke to respond, but Bilardi remained silent. What he did do was lean forward, resting his elbows on the desktop with his forefingers steepled in front of the goblet he still held.
After about five minutes, Wuest cleared his throat around the ever-growing lump. “Milord...?”
Bilardi did not move. His eyes stared at some point in time beyond where he and his aide stood. “I have one more task for you today, Wuest.” The Duke's voice was soft, and silkily deadly. “I want you to go see the poisoners. I want you to have them concoct a potion for me. One that can be added to a drink, say a small glass of wine. It cannot change either the nose or the taste of the wine, regardless of how much is used. It must kill suddenly, but not in seconds, minutes, or even a day. It must kill after ten days. No more, no less. Make sure of this, Wuest.” He finished his wine and placed the goblet onto the desk.
Wuest knew then that he was facing a madman. He felt sick, but he also knew Bilardi would react adversely to his carpet being ruined. “May ... I ask why you wish such a thing made, Milord?”
“For the reaction, Wuest. That, and nothing more. What do you think the Ortian court will be feeling after they see our messenger vomit his guts onto their nicely polished floor?” Bilardi reached out and poured himself another goblet of the strong wine and sipped. “Grisham needs this war, Wuest. We have become comfortable and decadent. War changes that. Yes ... it does, indeed.” He began to chuckle.
Wuest left as the Duke waved him away. He heard the chuckles change into the peals of mad laughter he'd come to recognize over the past days. He made plans to visit his local right after he delivered the Duke's command to the alchemists. The ones Bilardi liked to call his poisoners.