by Colt, K. J.
“Imagine our surprise to see you here,” the broad form in front of him said, closing the distance between them. He cast down his hood, and even in the dark, Arythan could distinguish the painted dragons upon the man’s scalp. “Where are your friends, little man?”
“Y’re looking for someone else,” Arythan said. “I don’ ‘ave any friends.”
“Oh no, I remember you,” came a voice from behind him. “I would never forget our first meeting at the Broken Cask. And for a Caspernian cur, I must say you have a rather strong accent.”
Arythan glanced behind him to see the one known as Keeper. His nose was crooked, but the rest of his face was behind a scarf. Fine work, Dagger. Thanks…again. He could feel his fingers tingling as the magic surrounded him. He waited.
“Where are they?” the dragon-warrior demanded. “It would be a shame for you to have to deliver our message alone.”
“Nigqor-slet,” Arythan spat. Where are all the bloody guards now?
A third Desneran rushed at him from the side, and Arythan moved at the last moment, tripping his opponent with his injured ankle. The man’s curses mixed with the mage’s as Arythan stumbled backward. Fingers enclosed around the back of his neck like teeth, and an arm curled around his throat, the flat of a knife blade pressed against his cheek.
“What would be fitting?” Keeper seethed. “Shall I cut off your nose? Gouge out your eye?”
Now Arythan could hear the difference in his speech, a funny sort of impediment that could only come from missing teeth. He should have been afraid—or more likely, boiling with rage. What it was, though, that formed within him was something new: a cold, hard center of nothingness like a black, inert stone where his heart should have been. “Let go,” he said in a quiet voice that did not sound like his own.
“When I’m through with you,” Keeper rasped, and his pressure on the blade finally broke.
Arythan did not feel the cut at all, but he did feel the sizzle of his own blood upon his chill skin. Quicker than the Desneran could react, Arythan’s hands clenched around his wrists and twisted as he spun around to face his opponent. There was a snap and a cry, and Arythan withdrew—only to be seized by the dragon-warrior.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” The new voice belonged to a lean figure that stood an inch above the dragon-warrior. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem to have a misunderstanding here.”
The Desneran’s hold on the mage did not relax. “There is no misunderstanding,” he said, “only a favor to return. It is of no concern to you.”
“But I am concerned, for I think it is me you do not understand,” the tall man said. “Kitrimar is neutral territory. There are no acts of violence here, and those who break this rule will face the strictest of consequences. Now, if I’m not mistaken, I noticed a Desneran emblem upon your tunic.”
At last the dragon-warrior relented and shoved Arythan aside. He was joined by his two companions and addressed the mage as they began to retreat. “Justice will have to wait until we meet again outside these walls, little man. Be sure to bring your companions.” Then they were gone, leaving Arythan and the stranger in the middle of the road.
“That could have ended far worse,” the man said, approaching him. “You are not injured, are you?”
Arythan wiped the blood from his face with his hand. “No.”
“From the little I saw, I am certain you would have given a good resistance, but three against one is rather unfair. And they were fighters employed by the Crown of Desnera.”
“That supposed to mean something?” Arythan asked, indifferent to the whole affair.
The man shrugged. “Perhaps not. I apologize if I offended your honor by intervening, but I stand by my actions.” He extended a hand. “Othenis Strix.”
“Arythan Crow,” the mage said quietly, accepting the gesture. His eyes swept over the man’s face, trying to read him. He wore a short, full beard around a kindly smile, and lines of laughter had settled into the corners of his bright eyes. Arythan could not help but think the man reminded him of someone.
“I know that name,” Othenis said, wagging a finger, “but I can’t place it. How would I know you?”
Arythan hesitated. “I was a performer. With the Crimson Dragon.”
Othenis snapped his fingers. “Yes! Yes, that’s it. ‘Sparrow and Crow.’ One of the best shows I have ever seen. You must be here with your troupe.”
“No,” Arythan said, barely above a whisper. “Not anymore.”
Puzzled, Othenis rubbed his chin and studied him. “Well, it’s not every day I meet a ‘Dark Wizard’ on the street. May I buy you a drink?”
Despite the number of people in the tavern, they managed to find a table away from the activity at the bar. With a bit more light, Arythan could see the man was middle-aged, with flecks of gray in his beard and in his short, brown hair. There was an honesty in his gray eyes that only furthered the connection Arythan felt between Othenis and one other.
“You can stop me from prying, but it seems you have fallen upon hard times, Arythan,” Othenis said.
“Everything changes,” Arythan said vaguely. He stared at the ale in his tankard.
“With change comes opportunity.” Othenis smiled. “Take, for example, this conference. There is ambition and energy here, and if taken in the right direction, amazing things can be accomplished.”
Arythan looked up at him, thinking about what Michael had said concerning ambition.
“If regents and rulers decide to enforce protection for travelers along the Ring, people would venture beyond their small towns and villages. Ideas will spread, trade will thrive. People will begin to trust one another. This could be a very big step for Secramore and her people. Of course, it will take some time to implement all the changes that would better this land, but nothing is unachievable.”
“Y’ believe that?” Arythan asked, dubious.
Othenis took a swig, then dabbed at his beard with a napkin. “Absolutely. You have to believe, to aspire to something greater. Otherwise, you end up treading water and slowly sinking to the bottom.”
“Y’ talk like someone I knew,” Arythan murmured. “’E was always finding the good in things, even when ‘e…” He stopped to take a breath and blink. It was not like him to give way to his emotions before a stranger, but this stranger….
“Someone close to you that you lost,” Othenis inferred, his voice gentler.
“M’ brother,” Arythan said. “Y’ remind me o’ my brother.”
“Then I am flattered by the compliment, just as I am sorry for your pain.”
“’E would’ve been ‘ere, at this place. ‘E loved to see people, to travel…” Suddenly Arythan felt self-conscious about his disclosure. “’Tis rather lost on me.” He lowered his scarf and took a drink.
“If you’re here alone, you are welcome to join me. My companions are rather like a large family, and they would welcome you. I know the dangers of being a lone medoriate outside Mystland. You have to be careful where you go, to whom you speak. You would be protected with us.”
Arythan met his gaze, then dropped his eyes to Othenis’s tankard and the hand that held it. Rather, it was his wrist that caused Arythan’s eyes to widen. He saw it there, as Othenis exposed it to him: the mark of The Eye. Then it was gone, tucked beneath his sleeve.
Othenis regarded him evenly. “I see that you know us.”
“Yes,” Arythan whispered. “M’ brother—”
He did not have a chance to finish, for they were interrupted by a young man dressed as plainly as Othenis. He tapped the elder on the shoulder. “Sorry to intrude, but it’s time.”
Othenis gave a nod and turned to the mage. “My apologies, Arythan, but I have a meeting to attend.” He stood and shook Arythan’s hand again. “If you think it likely we will meet again, ask where the owl roosts, and you will find what you seek.” He draped his coat over his shoulders and turned—then hesitated. “May I ask the name of your brother?”
; “’Is name was ‘Awkwing.”
Othenis’s mouth fell open a moment, then he nodded and hurried away with his companion.
Arythan lingered in the tavern a while longer, nursing his ale, knowing he had nowhere to go. He thought about his encounter, wondered what it was all supposed to mean. All that he gained was a headache. And a look from the barkeeper that indicated he should be on his way. Most of the room was now empty, and so was his tankard.
Walking out into the night, he pulled his coat tighter, looking for an alley where he could spend the night. The occasional guard deterred him by sight, and eventually he ended up near Garriker’s inn. Then he recalled hearing something about a central conference chamber—the main structure where the meetings were to take place. No one would be there at this hour, and it would be out of the cold. Driven by this new goal, he moved beyond the inns to the heart of Kitrimar. True enough, his eyes were met by a large hall with many windows and a door on each of its four sides.
No one was in sight, so he inspired himself to move a little quicker to reach the alcove of a door. He picked the lock and slid inside the vast, dark space within. He could barely distinguish the shapes of chairs and tables as he moved along the outer wall of the hall, using the limited moonlight from the windows to assist him in finding a suitable sleeping place. He discovered a closet where coats and cloaks were intended to hang when the meetings were in session. At the back of the space, he took off his hat and nestled beneath his coat. His eyes closed almost immediately.
Whatever nightmares could arise from a stomach empty of all but ale, Arythan found them. Visions of his brother blended with his meeting with Othenis Strix, and then the wizard, Cyrul Frostmeyer. He could hear the man’s high, nasal voice as though it was speaking into his ears. At last Arythan opened his eyes and took a disgusted breath. In that brief span, he realized that there truly were voices, and one of them did indeed belong to Garriker’s royal medoriate.
He crept to where he had left the closet door slightly ajar and peered into the meeting space. There were two figures seated across from each other at a table, speaking in voices that would have been too quiet to hear had the room not been built to carry them.
“I tell you, Garriker suspects something,” Cyrul said.
“Or is it that you have become quite the thorn to him?” the other asked. His voice was also familiar to Arythan, though the mage could not place it.
“I am no thorn! He needs me. I am the only one who knows the secrets of the Enhancement aside from the Merchant Guild wizards. The only one!”
“What of this new medoriate? Is he not destined to be your replacement?”
Cyrul snorted. “He is a talentless boy. I have not nor will disclose anything to him.”
“Garriker calls him your assistant,” the other said with a hint of mockery.
“Yes, well my assistant has disappeared. That saves me the trouble of disposing of him.”
The other man leaned forward. “Why dispose of him, Frostmeyer? Unless you fear him. Beneath your confidence and your self-importance, you tremble because you have seen your fate. You have bitten too many fingers, placed too many threats. No one is irreplaceable.” The man sat back and stroked his long, scraggly beard. “So what is it you want us to do?”
“You imply that I have no value,” Cyrul protested, almost whined. “You know that’s not true. I have knowledge, skill, and power. You know this. We schooled together.”
“That was long ago, and we have gone our separate paths. Answer the question, Frostmeyer: what is it you wish of us?” The voice had hardened, and when it did, Arythan remembered its owner. The Desneran wizard at the Broken Cask.
“I…” Cyrul hesitated. “I want to join you. I want to leave Garriker’s service and work for the Guild.”
“That would be impossible,” the other scoffed.
“What? Why?”
“If Garriker no longer trusts you, what use are you to us?”
“I know how he thinks,” Cyrul insisted. “I know his angle on the project. I know the Enhancement better than anyone.”
“What you know can be learned. Do you think we are in want of talent? The Guild has every resource it needs. What it does not have is Garriker under its control. But even that will come with time. There is so much more to this, Frostmeyer, than you would ever imagine in that short-sighted mind of yours.”
“Do not mock me, Grim,” Cyrul hissed. “I know all about your dark little habits.”
“I am not a part of this equation,” Grim said, impassive. “But you are right in one respect.”
There was a pause.
“You do, perhaps, know too much. You have forgotten the double-edge of the sword.” Grim pushed back his chair and stood.
“Wh-what do you mean by this?” Cyrul stammered, also standing.
“We will spare you the humiliation of becoming obsolete.”
At this Cyrul suddenly lunged forward, wand in-hand. Grim, however, was faster. With the utterance of two short words, he had the royal medoriate frozen in place. He lifted a hand to signal some unseen witness, and as Arythan watched, his skin began to crawl.
There were seven of them, dressed in yellow, and they surrounded the frozen wizard, their weapons in-hand.
“It is unfortunate, Frostmeyer, that this should be your ending,” Grim said. He turned to the Warriors of the Sword. “You may do with him as you wish, but his remains are not to be found.”
Grim turned to leave, and one of the Warriors turned as well—turned to the closet where Arythan hid.
“You spoke only of one errant wizard,” the Warrior said.
Grim stopped. “What do you mean?”
“I sense another.”
Arythan immediately withdrew to the back of the closet, his heart smashing against his ribs. There was no Shadow to hide within, nowhere to escape. He held his breath, his eyes wide. The footsteps were drawing nearer. Nigqora—nigqora!
If he could draw his magic—one burst of flames as they opened the door—he would have a chance to run. He could escape. As quickly as his frantic mind would allow, he clawed at the energy around him, scraped and clutched at it. But it all seemed to withdraw from him as the wizards drew closer. Sieqa—no!
The closet door swung open, and he saw nothing more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
PUT TO THE FLAME
ARYTHAN awoke to the sound of screaming. He was in a cellar, his wrists bound by thin alethrium bands—the spikes of which dug into his skin as though he was caught in a briar. His ankles, however, were only secured by rope. His hat, scarf, coat, vest, and shirt were gone, and he shivered when his back grazed the cold stone wall behind him. He ceased shivering when he realized his knife was gone as well.
Another scream drew his attention to the opposite side of the room, where the backs of five men in yellow obscured his view of the on-going torture. He could hear the low monotone of the interrogator, then Cyrul Frostmeyer’s whimpering. A question was asked, to which the wizard cried, “I swear it! I swear to serve him! Only him!” Then his voice fell like glass, shattered upon the floor by his break in resolve.
“He is ready,” the interrogator said and gestured to one of the five. Something small was handed to him, followed by a shorter cry from the wizard. “You will take your oath, an oath which cannot be broken, lest your life be forfeit. Speak your name, wizard.”
Cyrul whispered his name.
“Repeat: I am the Sword of Jedinom, his blade of justice, a destroyer of darkness….”
Arythan could scarcely hear Cyrul’s voice as the words dropped from his mouth in defeat.
“I uphold all that is righteous in his eyes….”
Arythan folded his knees to his chest, trying to position himself so that the alethrium could cut into the rope. Awkwardly he began to saw, the bands on his wrists abrading against the rope as quickly as he could manage.
“I use my gift in his name and only in his name….”
Blood from the spike
s seeped beneath the bands and stained the ropes, which were fraying much too slowly.
“I give my soul unto my god….”
Sieqa, come on! Arythan thought, ignoring his injuries and working faster still.
“Jedinom, the Lord of Light.” Cyrul completed his oath, his sobs interrupted only once as he cried, “What have I done? Oh, what have I done?”
The Warriors of the Sword ignored him and redirected their attention toward Arythan. When he found the masked faces upon him, saw them advancing, he gave up his futile attempt at escape.
“You may be spared as your companion has been spared,” said one of the Warriors. “You will be given three chances to choose: life or death.”
Either way looks like death to me, Arythan thought, rigid where he sat. He could do little as two of the Warriors lifted him by the arms and dragged him across the floor to where Cyrul sat. The wizard had been stripped naked, his body covered in sweat. Cyrul’s glasses sat crooked upon his blotchy, swollen face, and his forehead had been branded with a black, coin-sized mark—the symbol of a sword. Appalled, Arythan turned away, knowing what awaited him.
The interrogator moved to stand over the mage; his dark, merciless eyes peered down at him through narrow slits in the masque. “We are the Warriors of the Sword, come to serve Jedinom’s will. All those gifted with magic are destined to wield their power in his name. Those who misuse their gift are servants of the Dark One and will be destroyed by the grace of Jedinom.”
The interrogator knelt beside him, and Arythan held his gaze defiantly. He’s just a man, he thought, remembering what he had found beneath the masque after his troupe had been murdered. Just a man, and nothing more.
“Do you, as one with the gift, embrace Jedinom’s glory to serve him faithfully in all regards of magic and righteousness?”
“Are y’ serious?” Arythan asked, swallowing whatever fear he felt.