The two guards looked at each other in alarm then back at Farrel in his brilliant crimson robes and again at Solomon. The guard who had been standing silently with his hand resting on his sword stepped forward to look more closely at the battered and faded black ram on the chest plate of Solomon's armor.
Solomon nodded at them.
"Yes he really is the Crimson Wizard and yes that is a black ram on my chest plate."
"I believe you probably know of my friend here as the Black Ram...isn't that what they call you Solomon?"
"Never to my face," replied Solomon his tone ice cold. "Unless they think they can best me with the sword and that has never happened."
The guard who had been posturing with his sword quickly pulled his hand from it and moved aside. The other guard seemed like he wanted to protest, but his partner stared at him and shook his head vigorously, and he too stepped aside.
Farrel entered the tent throwing Solomon a private smirk as he did so. Solomon again followed close behind, his hand never having moved from the hilt of his sword.
Inside there were at least twenty of the top ranking knights, lords and various other nobles all standing around a large oval table. They were deep in serious discussion and did not notice Farrel and Solomon enter. The pair waited patiently for a few minutes, but the group's attention was focused on maps and troop displacements.
Solomon started to move towards the table, but Farrel grabbed his arm and gently pulled him back to his side with a shake of the head.
Instead Farrel decided to get their attention a little more dramatically and whispered the words of a wind spell. In the middle of the table a small whirlwind started to form that at first gently rustled the maps and papers on the table then grew in strength until hands started grabbing at them to keep them from blowing away.
"Someone close the tent flap!" ordered Lord Cortria from the head of the table.
Farrel brought his hands together in a sharp clap and the whirlwind instantly dissipated. Almost in unison all conversation stopped and everyone around the table turned towards him.
Farrel bowed deeply and formally.
"Greetings Lord Cortria, the Crimson Wizard at your service."
In his younger days Lord Cortria was known across the realm as a ferocious warrior. He was a huge hulk of a man and even now that he was well into his fifties he was still an imposing figure. As First Knight of the kingdom, a position he had held since the end of the Starvation war, he had proven himself as an excellent tactician and leader of the king's army.
He stood at the end of the table resplendent in his fine clothes, jewel adorned fingers, gold braided long coat and black boots made from the finest leather. His once jet black hair was now speckled with grey, as was his prominent flowing moustache. He was immaculately groomed from head to toe.
According to Solomon he did not suffer fools and was no fan of magic users, yet he was wise enough never to go into a major battle without them. He also lived strictly by the honour code that bound all knights.
Lord Cortria stepped away from the table and stood in front of them. He towered over both of them and despite smelling strongly of rich perfumes he was intimidating. He looked down at them angrily.
"What do you want?" he asked impatiently.
"I am surprised my Lord. I had heard you were a man of great honour. Is it not customary to welcome a guest who has come to offer his service?"
"This is not the king's court it is a war council and you entered my tent unannounced and without invitation. You also dare to bring this dishonourable mongrel into my presence and have the audacity to expect a formal greeting! I have no obligation to welcome you and we have no need for your services. Now get out before I have you both removed!"
Farrel bowed again as Solomon simmered angrily beside him, the knuckles of his sword hand white as he used the feeling of the cold hilt digging into his palm to keep himself restrained.
"As you wish my Lord," replied Farrel nonchalantly. He turned to leave then stopped after taking just one step and turned back to Lord Cortria. "It is a pity that you are so short sighted my Lord. This army that you face successfully subjugated the orcs in a matter of weeks. Their troops ride all manner of strange beasts that could not be tamed without magic. They have strong magic on their side, stronger than anything you have encountered before. If you want to win the battle tomorrow you will need me just like you needed me at the Battle of Tattel."
"The Battle of Tattel was over a decade ago! Where have you been since then?" retorted one of the other knights in a sudden outburst. Several of the others in the room quickly chimed in with various derogatory comments.
Lord Cortria raised a hand to silence them all. "As you can see I am not alone in my distaste for you services. You were once considered a hero of the realm, but after so many years in absence you are just a pipe dream, something that soldiers wish for in the hope they will somehow be spared in battle. On the other hand I have dedicated my life to protecting this kingdom and I have lost many good men by my side over the years. Assuage your guilt if you even feel any, some other way."
The words cut Farrel deeply, especially since he had dedicated every waking moment to securing an ever lasting peace for not just Risandea, but all of Umijia. If only they could understand, but they could not and they never would. For long moments he could not speak as he swallowed the words of an acidic reply. When finally he was able to respond his tone was intentionally serious and foreboding.
"What you think of me or my motives is irrelevant. I am here now and that alone should make you understand how dire the situation is. Without me you will be routed, with me you just might stand a chance."
Lord Cortria was about to say something when another knight moved away from the table and stood beside him. It was Aren Ulan. He was only a few years older than Farrel. He was tall, athletic and handsome with his blonde hair and grey eyes.
Since the death of his father at the hands of goblins Aren had taken over as Lord of Castle Ulan and was now a highly ranked knight of his own accord. Women loved him and he used his stature to its greatest advantage for pleasure and political advancement.
Aren had never liked Farrel. He was an arrogant elitist and had always looked down on Farrel because of his peasant upbringing. Their distaste for each other had blossomed when Aren discovered Farrel's infatuation with his sister Gabrielle when he was still just an apprentice.
If the relationship between Farrel and Aren was poor then the falling out between Aren and his cousin Solomon was catastrophic. When Solomon turned down his knighthood to instead vow an oath to Farrel the argument between them almost ended in a duel to the death.
Given their past Farrel could not help, but raise an eyebrow in surprise when Aren spoke.
"My Lord, you know very well my personal view on these two. So you will understand that what I am about to say makes me sick to my core," he said with disdain for them both. "Everything the Crimson Wizard has spoken of the enemy is true. They already outnumber us by at least three to one and still more troops come down from the mountains. We should take any advantage available to us."
Lord Cortria turned back to look at Aren with one eyebrow raised himself. He played with his moustache as he mused.
"Perhaps even the Black Ram here might be useful working in the kitchens," added Aren derisively.
Solomon released his hand from the hilt of his sword.
"Perhaps you would like to finish that duel right now!" said Solomon fiercely.
"Do not speak in my presence unless I give permission you dishonourable and disloyal lapdog! Unless perhaps you wish to duel with me?" yelled Lord Cortria with equal intensity.
Farrel quickly stepped in front of Solomon, grabbed his sword hand and physically placed it back onto the hilt of his sword.
"Remember your oath," he whispered then turned back to Lord Cortria, Aren and the others. "There will be no fighting here unless you want me to burn down this tent with everyone inside!"
To emphasis the point Farrel whispered a few words and waved his hand towards a lantern that hung above the table. The flame inside suddenly doubled in intensity as it came under his control.
Everyone around the table took a frightened step backwards almost in unison and even Lord Cortria looked unsettled.
"We will fight for you in battle tomorrow and you will see us both in a new light when we do, of that I can assure you."
"So be it," conceded Lord Cortria reluctantly. "Now do us the courtesy of leaving."
Farrel bowed in an over exaggerated and sarcastic manner again and then followed Solomon to the tent flap. Solomon exited and Farrel was about to follow, but paused momentarily, then turned back to Aren.
"You speak of honour and loyalty like they are a shield that will somehow protect you. Yet Solomon has shown me greater sacrifice, loyalty and friendship than anyone I have ever known. So heed my words and heed them well, the next person who questions Solomon Ulan's honour will be duelling with me and my weapon of choice is the flame!"
#
After Farrel finally exited Lord Cortria's tent Solomon was already standing a good dozen yards away by himself and looking towards the last tendrils of sunlight reaching out above the mountains as the sun fully set. His sword hand was once again planted firmly on the hilt of his sword.
Farrel walked over to stand quietly beside him.
"I am sorry my friend, that must have been difficult for you."
"Difficult?!" replied Solomon in angry disbelief, his knuckles going white again as he gripped the hilt of his sword harder. "I gave up everything to go on this quest of yours! I have lost land, titles, a knighthood and the respect of those most dear to me!"
"You mean people like that pompous fool of a cousin with his pretentious and self serving code of honour?" countered Farrel angrily.
"Living my life by that exact code of honour has kept me by your side all these years and has saved your life more than once. Perhaps you could think on that next time before you antagonise them."
Farrel exhaled deeply and was silent for a moment. For the last thirteen years Farrel had quarrelled within himself through periodic bouts of deep guilt at keeping his friend tethered by his side like a loyal wolfhound. Each time it had passed when he focused on the importance of their quest. This time however, with his visions clouded for so long now, he could not see a clear way forwards in what to do next and it left him in doubt.
Watching the fresh pain and sorrow on Solomon's face being back amongst those people who had once respected him, but now despised him was too much to bear.
Seeing Aren again also brought back many old memories of his own, especially thoughts of Gabrielle. That was a pain that he had long ago packed away and did not want to re-visit. Perhaps it was time to return Solomon to the people of Risandea where he belonged. Farrel let out a long and deep sigh.
"You are right my friend, I owe you a lot and I have already taken too much from you. Perhaps it is time to release you from your oath?"
Solomon turned to look him in the eyes, a look of shock upon his face. He slowly removed his sword hand from the hilt of his sword then placed it firmly on Farrel's shoulder. He looked down for a moment as he struggled to clear his throat, his voice stifled with emotion.
"Do you know how many times I have wished to hear those words over the years?" he mumbled, a tear creeping down his scarred cheek. "If only you had spoken them a decade earlier perhaps I might have had a chance to regain my honour and my old life."
"Well I am speaking them now, you are free of your oath to me. You are again free to choose your own future."
"Farrel Tarse you are my closest friend and the smartest person I know yet in this you are a fool. It is too late for me now, I can never go back," said Solomon bitterly.
"For that I will surely pay penance in the afterlife, but free you are nonetheless. Tomorrow it will be your choice and your choice alone to stand and fight as a free man or walk away as one. Until then let us seek out the wizard's tent so I can brew you up some tarbry for your leg."
#
Farrel headed straight for the edge of the encampment then stumbled around the perimeter by the flicking orange light of the campfires. Solomon walked behind him silently, deep in thought.
He soon found what he was looking for. The wizard's tent sat at the very edge of the encampment and in isolation to those others around it. Not a great deal had changed in regards to how magic users were seen and treated despite Farrel's own notoriety since the Battle of Tattel.
The tent was large and made from a patchwork of mismatched and brightly colored fabrics that looked gaudy even in the orange tint of the campfire light.
If the tent was a challenge to the eye then it was overpowering to the nose. Solomon stopped beside Farrel and turned his nose up at the smell then grumbled something unintelligible.
Farrel on the other hand found the unique mix of odours comforting. It reminded him of the many days training with Varn Maun in his tower at Castle Ulan. He briefly wondered what had become of his old mentor, it had been at least six years since he had last seen him in person.
To this day they kept in communication via messages sent upon the winds. Speaking only of significant visions and what they may mean. However, Farrel had always been cautious in talking even with his old master lest he understand exactly what Farrel was questing for.
If anyone ever suspected that Farrel had retrieved the Book of the Makers from Beskar Aarl then the entire Conclave would be sent against him. He hoped when the time came that Varn Maun would support him, but there was no certainty even in that.
"Let's go and see which poor souls the Conclave offered up as a sacrifice for this battle," said Farrel. He was not hopeful of the help he was likely to find.
The Conclave always sent assistance for defence of the realm, however, it was a token effort done only to appease the king and keep magic users from more serious widespread persecution. Inside the Conclave it was viewed as punishment so those sent were normally doing penance for some indiscretion.
Farrel entered the tent and surveyed the occupants. There were nine wizards in total. Some were sitting quietly and independently studying their spell books. A group of four were at the rear of the tent preparing various herbs and brews. None of them really paid Farrel or Solomon any attention except for one man who looked up from his spell book. As soon as he saw Farrel he leapt to his feet and strode over to him, his hand outstretched in a friendly greeting.
"Farrel! What are you doing here?" asked the man in a combination of disbelief and relief.
"One could ask you the same Raamen," replied Farrel as he shook his hand firmly. "What did you do to end up on a punishment detail?"
"Nothing," replied Raamen seriously. "I volunteered."
Raamen was both a little taller and a few years older than Farrel. He was fit without being muscular. His shoulder length black hair already had the odd fleck of grey and so did his lengthy goatee. Farrel had a great respect for his intelligence. Although he was a skilled healer he was not the type of person to go into battle voluntarily.
"Why?"
"None of the elders within the Conclave are treating this invasion seriously or they would be here themselves. I have seen and heard enough about these invaders from across the sea. They have strong magic with them, a magic different from ours. I have heard reports that they have orcs on leashes and they are obedient like hunting dogs."
"I have heard similar tales," replied Farrel in agreement. "Meaning no disrespect, but you are a master healer. How did you intend on fighting in the battle tomorrow?"
"I wasn't. I will do what I do best and heal those wounded that I can." Raamen leaned in closer to Farrel and lowered his voice, "The others here are not worth a pinch of salt between them as far as fighting goes so I thought I would try to teach them as much about healing as I could. At least then they may also be of use tomorrow. What do you intend to do?"
"If the enemy takes to the battlefield tom
orrow I intend to wreak havoc and send them back across the ocean wishing they had never brought war to this land," replied Farrel firmly.
Solomon suddenly cleared his throat and tapped Farrel on the shoulder firmly. "Unless your friend here has a large amount of ale I would very much like that tarbry you promised."
#
Farrel lay down on the ground inside the tent using his crimson knapsack as a makeshift pillow. The long hours spent flying on the back of Starria was catching up with him. Solomon had gone for a walk to clear his head, or more likely to be alone to enjoy his tarbry high in peace. Farrel was looking forward to a decent night's sleep. Not that he was likely to actually get one if the last week was anything to go by.
It was a moot point however, because no sooner had his head come to rest and his eyes closed when someone came bustling into the tent. It was a young squire and he came straight over to Farrel. He looked uncomfortable and fidgeted nervously while he spoke.
"My apologies for this late hour Crimson Wizard, but I was told to pass you this urgent note."
The squire handed him a very small scroll of parchment sealed with a plain wax seal. Whoever had sent the note did not want to be identified for some reason. This both intrigued and annoyed Farrel. He stared tersely at the squire then sat up and snatched the note from his hand.
'There are some who have not forgotten that you saved us once before. Please follow the bearer of this note so we may speak in private. It is of vital importance that we meet before the battle tomorrow.'
The note was not signed and the writing was printed with the formality of a scribe. With no further clues as to the origin of the note the only two options to solve the mystery was to torture the young squire or follow him as requested.
Farrel rose wearily to his feet and then gestured for the squire to lead the way. He followed the young man, who seemed much more relaxed now that he was outside the wizard's tent, back towards the centre of the camp. It appeared that whoever he was going to see was high in rank or nobility which only served to make him more curious.
Visions of Magic - Invasion Page 2