Lieutenant Jarhad hesitated a moment longer, as if he were about to continue his protest, and then something seemed to shift in his demeanor. He stepped outside the tent and a moment later led a horse inside. Giorge and his mother hastened to the back of the tent to get out of the way, and as soon as it was inside, one of his men led in a second horse. “I’m going with you,” he said, as if it was an order that could not be broken.
“No,” Embril said as she brought the magic into focus and stepped up to the horse. “You have already wasted too much time, and I won’t waste any more casting a second spell.” She patted the horse on the neck and nickered in its ear, then reached for the first strands.
“You’ll need protection—”
“Go!” Embril shrieked, gripping a strand of flame so tightly that flames danced over her fist. When she released it, those flames shot outward much further than they normally would have, and she shook her head. “It may already be too late,” she muttered, staring at the flickering residue of the magic fading from her grip. Then she sighed and rapidly brought together the strands she needed for the Swiftness spell, effectively dismissing Lieutenant Jarhad from her mind.
By the time she finished the Swiftness spell and had led the horse out of the tent, their provisions were ready and Lieutenant Jarhad was issuing orders to break camp as quickly as possible.
When Giorge and his mother joined her, she handed him the reins and said, “You are a better rider than I am, and you know the way. We need to get there as quickly as possible.”
Giorge nodded and clambered into the saddle and gave her a hand up behind him. The saddlebags containing the provisions were secured and they rode quickly out of the bustling camp. As they left, Embril brought the magic into focus to see if there was any sign that Darby had already succeeded, but the glare of a strange aura around Giorge obscured her vision. She gasped; the aura hadn’t been there when they had ridden together from the cave. After she had recovered, she leaned forward and asked into his ear, “What happened to you?”
There was a long pause before he answered, “Symptata’s curse has ended.”
Symptata’s Curse? Embril wondered, then focused on staying in the saddle as they galloped through the sparse trees. Giorge told Darby about that, didn’t he? I should have listened better….
22
“Sire,” Captain Blanchard said as he stood at attention in the king’s study. “There have been more losses in The Borderlands.”
“Losses?” King Tyr repeated as he stood three steps in front of Blanchard. He was pleased to see the Captain had found the time to clean the scuff mark from his left boot and polish the third button of his uniform. His hair was crisply manicured, and he held himself rigidly erect with his eyes staring directly at the King’s forehead. “The fishmen?” he asked, not expecting it to be confirmed. There hadn’t been any sign of an incursion for nearly a year.
“No, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said.
The king frowned. “The Lake of Scales?” he prompted.
“Sire,” Captain Blanchard responded. “It will take at least a week to reach the Lake from Hellsbreath. They left four days ago.”
King Tyr nodded. “What is causing the losses, then?” he asked.
Captain Blanchard gulped before he replied. “We don’t know, Sire.”
King Tyr frowned and lifted his right hand to his chin. He turned to the left and began pacing. He did so methodically. Three steady steps, pivot to the right. Pause. “How many men?” he asked. Six steady steps, pivot to the right. Pause. Six steady steps, pivot to the right. Pause.
“It was worse this time,” Captain Blanchard said. “We lost an entire outpost. Thirty-six men were found dead.”
Three steady steps. Pause to glare at Captain Blanchard where he stood in the center of the square King Tyr had marked out. Three steady steps, pivot to the right. As he paced off six more steps, he asked, “If it wasn’t the fishmen, what could be causing these casualties?”
He was in the middle of the third leg of his second square when Captain Blanchard finally responded. “We don’t know, Sire. The signs suggest men did it. The footprints are shod, like ours, but the weight distribution is different. Most of their weight falls on the toes instead of being distributed over the length of the mark. It could be that they were trying to walk quietly.”
Pause to glare at Captain Blanchard.
“They use bows and arrows, Sire,” he continued. “Fishmen never use bows or arrows. The Death Swamps don’t have the kind of trees they would need in large enough numbers to make them, nor the kind of rocks to forge the arrowheads.”
Pivot to the right. “I did not ask what didn’t kill them, Captain Blanchard.”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “We don’t know what they are. There have been no survivors to tell us what has happened. All we know is that they aren’t fishmen, and they aren’t an army we’ve faced before.”
Five, six. Pause. Pivot. One. Two. Three. Pause to glare at Captain Blanchard. “Oh? It’s an army, then?”
Captain Blanchard frowned. “Well, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “It stands to reason that it would be an army. They’ve attacked in many places along The Borderlands with little time between them. A small group couldn’t have done that.”
“Really,” King Tyr stated in a flat, sarcastic tone. “Angus did, didn’t he?” He turned away and resumed pacing. “You said so yourself. He was here in Tyrag four days ago, and now he’s in Hellsbreath. By all accounts, he was on foot when he arrived, and such a journey would have taken weeks to walk.” He frowned. It was another riddle, and the simplest answer was that the Angus who arrived in Tyrag was a different Angus from the one who arrived at Hellsbreath. If they were different wizards, then who had really confronted Argyle?
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard agreed. “A wizard might be able to do it, but all of the attacks have been against isolated patrols and perimeter sentries. This is the first time they have attacked an entire outpost. From what I was told, they did it at night and likely slaughtered them without being discovered.” He frowned and grumbled. “They came like rats in the darkness and left unscathed.”
Pivot. Six steady steps. “Perhaps,” King Tyr offered, “a wizard is helping them?”
Captain Blanchard said nothing until King Tyr paused to glare at him. Then he said, “Yes, Sire. It is possible. If so, there should be hints of the wizard’s presence at the outpost. A diviner would be able to detect them. Shall I send for one?”
King Tyr’s glare softened a bit. It was a reasonable suggestion. He turned his face away from Captain Blanchard and took three steady steps. “I should think you would have done so already,” he said. “Are there not diviners in The Borderlands?”
“Not many, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “The wizards we employ up there are either Truthseers or those trained for battle. The few diviners we have are in the major outposts. This was a minor one.”
Pause. Pivot to the right. Rub chin. “I suggest you send one, forthwith,” he said.
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard acknowledged. “It will take a few days for the diviner to reach the location of the massacre.”
King Tyr continued pacing in silence for three orbits. He was troubled by the increasing disorder in his kingdom. He disliked it when things did not go as smoothly as they should, and the unknown assailant from the Death Swamps added too much chaos for his tastes. It wasn’t the loss of men—he had lost far more than that from the yearly fishmen incursions for this small of a loss to trouble him—it was the uncertainty, the unpredictable nature of this new foe. If they were an army, where had they come from? How could they have passed through the land undetected? He frowned. The fishmen had found a way, and there were tens of thousands of them. Was Angus right about them? Were the fishmen at the Lake of Scales? Had the dwarves—Onus curse them!—helped them escape from his wrath? Could the dwarves have helped something else move into the Death Swamps without him finding out? A force of
men from The Western Kingdoms, perhaps? He shook his head. No. His spies there would have told him if there had been a mustering of that size. So would his spies in The Southlands. Where else could an army of such size have come from? The only place was north of the Death Swamps, and that was a desolate wasteland of ice. A sizeable army could not live there, could it?
North of the Death Swamps? Was it really a wasteland? He had thought about sending scouts there, but it had always been pointless. The fishmen were in the way. Now? The fishmen were gone, and there was something else there, and they were attacking. They were methodical in their attacks, but the full pattern had not yet emerged. All he was certain about was that they were testing his defenses and decimating his sentries.
He stopped and faced Captain Blanchard. “Organize an elite patrol,” he began. “Men who have been in The Borderlands for years and have had experience in the Death Swamps. A small group that can move without being easily detected. Have them go through the Death Swamps to find out what lives on the other side. They are not to engage the enemy.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “There is still no sign of the other members of The Banner of the Wounded Hand? This may be a task suitable for them.”
“None, Sire,” Captain Blanchard replied.
King Tyr frowned. “That is unfortunate. If I thought it could wait, I would send them on this mission.”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “Before I issue the order, I will check to see if word has come from Hellsbreath. If The Banner of the Wounded Hand has returned, I will send them.”
King Tyr dropped his hand from his chin and said, “If they have not returned, do not delay the mission. It is possible, just possible,” he mused, “that this enemy tormenting us is from beyond the Death Swamps.”
“Of course, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “Will there be anything else?”
“Yes,” King Tyr said. “Come with me.” He led Captain Blanchard into a side room. A large table stood in its center, and on it was an ornate model of the Kingdom of Tyr and the surrounding territories. He walked around it until he was on the north edge of the model where the Death Swamps were located. Between them and the kingdom proper was The Borderlands, a series of outposts providing a barrier between the kingdom’s expansive grain fields and the fishmen who were wont to destroy them. They were represented as small, expertly crafted models of the forts, and he pointed at them. “Which outpost did we lose?”
Captain Blanchard barely hesitated before pointing to a small one near the center of the northern border. That fit the pattern nicely. All of the attacks on the sentries and patrols had occurred near the center westward. There had been no incidents near the eastern edge of the border. Why not? Why spare that part of The Borderlands? It was the most fortified, of course, since it protected the capital, so it made sense that a weaker enemy would avoid it. Still, every time the enemy killed a sentry or destroyed a patrol, it weakened their defenses in that area, and now that they had massacred an entire outpost, he would have to send more reinforcements from the eastern border to replace them. The enemy—if it were an army—could be drawing his defenses away from the city. “I assume you will be repopulating the outpost?”
“Yes, Sire,” he replied. “We have reassigned soldiers from the adjacent outposts to temporarily man it until reinforcements arrive from here.” As King Tyr expected, Captain Blanchard pointed to the southern-most outpost near the eastern border.
“Very well, Captain,” King Tyr said. “If further attacks take place, I want you to respond as you normally would. However, over the next few weeks, I want you to draw upon our reserves in Tyrag to quietly bolster these outposts.” He pointed to several of the ones near the eastern border. “Do so surreptitiously,” he added. “Send small groups at varying intervals, and when they arrive at the outposts, they are to remain hidden from view. I want it to appear as if those outposts are being depleted by the redeployment of troops.”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said. “It will diminish the city’s defenses.”
King Tyr nodded. “I am aware of that,” he said. “If we get confirmation that the fishmen are at the Lake of Scales, I intend to temporarily abandon these outposts—” he pointed at those from the center of The Borderlands to the western edge. “I intend to show the fishmen that they cannot escape us by running away.”
“Sire,” Captain Blanchard paled a bit. “That will leave us completely vulnerable to attacks from the Death Swamps. Also, the villagers in the valley near the Lake of Scales will not take kindly to an invasion of their territory.”
King Tyr shrugged. “We have delayed overlong in annexing them. If it weren’t for the Fishmen Incursions, we would have done so two centuries ago.” He paused for a moment and pointed at the model of Hellsbreath. “There is a large contingent of men at Hellsbreath. We will draw upon them as needed to quell any resistance from the villagers.” He paused and added, “It will take a considerable amount of time for the army from The Borderlands to reach Hellsbreath, and during that time, we will send an envoy from Hellsbreath to negotiate with the villagers. I am sure they will be amenable, once they realize our intentions.”
Captain Blanchard looked skeptical as he said, “Yes, Sire.”
King Tyr looked at the map for a few more seconds to make sure the models were in their proper places, and then said, “That will be all for now, Captain. Keep me apprised of any changes.”
“Yes, Sire,” Captain Blanchard said as he bowed and hurried from the room.
Changes, King Tyr thought. There are too many of them of late. As he returned to his private chambers, he thought about the other major disruption he had to deal with: Argyle. Grayle had finally put him back inside the Golden Key, and now she refused to let him out again—even temporarily. He didn’t blame her, of course, but word had already gotten out that Pug was dead, and the longer Argyle was absent, more and more scoundrels would begin to believe he was dead, too. He couldn’t have that. Argyle was necessary to maintain order among the ranks of those who lacked order. Without him at the head of his organization, his underlings would break into factions the king couldn’t control. There would be strife among those factions, and he would lose valuable resources as they killed each other off. Someone would eventually rise from the muck to take control, but how much damage would be done before then? Worse, what if the new scoundrel couldn’t be manipulated to serve the king and fought against him instead? No, he needed Argyle. Especially with the loss of Sardach.
And what about Grayle? He had been elated when Phillip had told him she was still alive, so much so that he had even forgiven his young manservant for the dust and cobwebs he had tracked in when he had brought him that news. She was still sequestered in her rooms—and would stay there until he could find a way to explain her reappearance. If he could. She was officially dead, and that created a difficulty that could not be easily dispelled. He had told the court that she had died after a prolonged illness, and her body had lain quietly on display for the traditional two days of mourning. Hundreds of his most influential subjects had seen and touched what they thought was Grayle, but it hadn’t been her on that bier. It had been difficult enough to counter the rumors about the young serving girl’s disappearance at the time, and those who were emboldened had even hinted at the similarity in their appearance. There would be more than rumors if Grayle suddenly reappeared as if nothing had happened….
And what was he to do about Sardach? How could she have been so stupid as to let Argyle word his command in such a way that Sardach could escape from bondage? If—when—they realized Sardach was no longer with Argyle, what would they do? The smoke elemental had been the final piece of a carefully orchestrated image that kept Argyle’s unruly minions in check. Even if they thought they could get past Pug, even if they had killed Argyle, they would still have to contend with Sardach. That added level of threat would be enough to staunch the courage of even the most capable soldier, since blades were useless against him. Even spells—most spell
s—were wasted on him, and that kept the Wizards’ School at bay. He needed to do something about that, but what was there to do? Sardach had been conjured in the time before The Taming, when magic roamed free and wizards were powerful enough to stretch their will to other planes of existence. Now, the magic was weak, diffuse, and the knowledge was forgotten.
King Tyr shook his head. The magic may be forgotten, but it isn’t lost, he thought as he walked up to his largest closet and stepped inside. He pushed the neatly arranged royal garments aside—half to the right the other half to the left—and after ensuring they were evenly spaced, moved to the far left of the back wall, which looked like it was made from solid granite slabs. He pushed the stone in the lower left corner inward with his left toe, and when it clicked into place, he walked over to the right edge of the wall and did the same thing with his right toe. Then he moved to the center block—the seventeenth stone from the left or right, five rows from both the bottom and top—and used both hands to simultaneously push the blocks to either side of it inward. When they clicked into place, he pushed on the blocks above and below it until they clicked. Then he gripped the edges of the stone and turned it a half turn to the right and backed quickly out of the closet. Three seconds passed, and then the stones moved back to their original positions and the wall slid down into the floor. Behind it, stacked neatly on shelves according to their sizes and color, were row upon row of ancient texts confiscated during The Taming. Somewhere in them was the conjuration spell that would bring Sardach back. The index would tell him where it was, but who could he trust to cast it? More to the point, was there anyone who would be able to cast it at all? It was old knowledge, and the Wizards’ Schools had been forbidden to teach that kind of magic after the incident that nearly destroyed Wayfair. The laws decreed after The Taming ensured that, and only a renegade mage might have the skills necessary to do it. Was there one he could trust?
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