by James Duvall
“What's happened, Marreth?”
“I have been cursed,” he answered, trying to project confidence or at least some assurance that this was a curse that could be broken.
“Cursed? What kind of curse?”
“Some nasty ralian thing. I am completely mute. I can hardly conjure a spark.”
“Marreth that's awful!” she said. “I hope Caedus can help you.”
Unlike the two of them, Caedus was of the Frostwind Order and had access to healing magicks that their own order did not. Marreth's health was not his primary motivation for visiting his old friend, but he had entertained thoughts that the frost mage might be able to help. When it came to curses, there was no order of more capable healers than the Frostwind Order, so it was not a bad guess on Morgen's part.
“I hope so too, but if he can't there are other roads unexplored. I'm certain I'll find a remedy eventually. Preferably one that doesn't taste like ichor.”
He gave her a reassuring smile, grinning at his own dry humor. Morgen had been the worrying type for as long as Marreth had known her, and he didn't want her to worry.
“It's not my only point of business with Caedus, actually. Fendiss is at war with Ralia. I have come to offer a treaty to Lord Beldin. Allies they desperately need.”
“A treaty?” Morgen laughed. “Marreth you're hardly a dignitary! I've been gone a while but I dare say you've not changed nearly that much in these few short years.”
Had they been short? They didn't feel short. Living under Isaac's heel seemed to have the effect of slowing the passage of time and at the same time he felt so much older than the man that had stood atop the gates of Sundor and weathered the long siege of the War of Ashes.
“From the dragons, actually,” Marreth said. “On behalf of the Society of course.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I hardly believe it myself most days.”
“I swear Marreth, you're starting to make me look bad. Even in exile you're more active than I ever was.”
“No one could make you look bad, Morgen,” Marreth said, honestly. Even in the shabby old dress and covered in soot she was still beautiful to his eyes. Her face seemed to light up in the silvery glow of the moonlight even before she touched off the wick of the final lamp.
“That's the last of them,” Morgen said, shrugging off Marreth's comments. She turned and surveyed her work. Her lights dotted the winding road in the shadows of the fortress towers, marking the way up the hill.
“Why don't you come with me?” Marreth asked, following her back up the hill. “I could use the company and you could keep me out of trouble.”
“More likely you'd get me into all manner of trouble.” Morgen rested her staff across her shoulders and draped her arms over it. She swayed back and forth contemplatively, looking up at the stars. “The quiet life isn't so bad you know. Ever think about settling down?”
“Maybe get a nice place in Camden. Something with a nice view, where I can see St. Penathor's from the study,” Marreth said wistfully.
Morgen heaved a sigh of frustration. “Marreth you're in exile.”
“Not forever,” he offered optimistically. “I'm going to get that house in Camden, just you wait and see.”
Morgen shook her head. “Isaac has a long memory...”
Marreth slid off his horse and put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. She turned to face him and without warning, embraced him tightly. Marreth's eyes widened and he found himself groping at the empty air for a crutch that wasn't there as he tried to steady himself. The lamplighter's staff slipped from Morgen's hands and clattered against the cobblestones, rolling and bouncing unevenly down the sloping street until it finally found a resting place. Marreth wrapped his arms around her cautiously, finally drawing her up against his chest.
“I've missed you,” she said in a near-whisper. “I've missed everyone. I'm so sorry, I couldn't just.. I couldn't. They had Jonathon...”
Marreth tilted her head up so he could look her straight in the eyes. “He was your brother,” he said gently, brushing away her tears. “No one faulted you for going after him. I would have been by your side if I had known.”
She buried her face against his shoulder. “I wish you had...”
Chapter 15
Lighthouse
Ashcrest, Colorado
Solomon's Watch Assessment of Portal Security
Increased density of anchor stone network beneath the Weather Station has created the desired 'net' effect. Artificer reports based on field density at 1.4 miles and 22 miles from the portal indicate an effective capture radius of 500 miles. This ensures that any attempt to portal into the region will cause the traveler to arrive at the Weather Station for processing.
~from Solomon's Watch public records in Ashcrest Library
Officer William Dalton sat hunched over a table trying to figure out a five letter word for 'a dwelling.'
House? No, that wouldn't work, the fourth letter was an 'i.'
Dalton was the only one on duty at the weather station today. Usually he would have company but with things as they were, more patrols were needed on the perimeter. At least in the weather station it was warm. Well, less cold, anyway.
“Cabin...” he mumbled, filling in the blank letters.
Three sharp clicks sounded in the portal room. What was that?
Dalton left the crossword on his desk and looked into the portal room, looming in the doorway. The damn thing always gave him the creeps. A network of anchor stones buried beneath the weather station meant any attempt to portal in the better part of North America would be drawn to this one, singular location. Here was a gateway from the unknown. There was no way to turn it off; no way to close the door.
“Anyone in there...?”
No one replied.
He leaned in, looking left and right. Nothing.
He consoled himself with the idea that whatever was going wrong down at the power station was similarly affecting the portal in the old weather station. Someone had knocked and found the doorway to earth shut at long last.
Click. Click. Pop!
White light surged from the empty air. It burst open from the center like fireworks, a pinwheel of blue and white and silver. The colors swirled together and something... something crawled out!
Dalton drew his pistol and steadied it on the shape emerging from the vortex of light. The creature surged out on four legs, then stretched leathery wings and lifted its head high. Every light in the room surged brightly, then all at once dropped away, plunging the world into darkness. The creature's eyes glowed with cold sapphire light, searching him in the darkness. A bracing chill sucked the warmth from the room. Dalton held his ground, pistol gripped so tight it shook. His next breath came in a puff that drifted up in front of the creature's eyes like a little plume of smoke.
“D-don't move...” Dalton said, the words lacking the force of command he'd desired. His fingers ached from the cold.
The creature growled.
Dalton threw himself against the wall and yanked the rifle from its rack. Through darkness he fled. His shoulder caught the door frame and spun him to the floor. The rifle clattered and slid away. Desperately he tore at his radio.
“Lighthouse! Lighthouse! Send everyone! Lighthouse!”
The radio crackled as he belly-crawled, groping in shadows for the rifle but finding only dust, grit, and dead bugs.
Someone answered in questioning tone. “Did someone call Lighthouse?”
“Lighthouse damnit! Lighthouse!”
***
Joshua had never had a gun pointed at him before and now there were six or so. He pawed at the amulet, trying to inspect it, but the slightest motion prompted more angry yelling from Solomon's Watch.
“Just, calm down, please?” he asked, but the words came out a growl. The officers scattered again. They really didn't like it when he tried to talk.
Oh, right, dragon. Fire.
Still hoping to avoid being-shot he
lowered his head and became as still as possible. He sank slowly to the ground and sat lion-style, watching them but never looking directly at anyone.
A red-haired woman arrived dressed in a deep blue Ashcrest Police Department uniform. Joshua had seen her before but couldn't remember her name.
“Amanda Carrington of Solomon's Watch,” she announced. “What is your purpose here, dragon?”
Joshua lifted his amulet, which wasn't glowing. Thinking quickly he raised a claw out in front and held up a single talon. Beneath his right wing he found the satchel where Syrrus had lashed it to him and sliced it open. Three large red crystals tumbled into his open claw. These he proffered to Officer Carrington.
“Why aren't you talking, dragon?” she asked. Her colleagues still had their weapons trained on him.
Joshua mimed at his throat and rubbed it, then again held up the darkened amulet.
“Do you have an alter?”
Joshua nodded.
“Alright, rifles down and let's see that alter.”
At their officer's command the rest of Solomon's Watch lowered their guns.
Deep blue and silver flames curled around Joshua and at last he was back in his alter. The torn satchel slumped to the ground. His alter had returned dressed in the outfit of a traveling Arcamynian merchant with a coin pouch on one hip. The chain of a fine Calderrian pocket watch hung from the breast pocket of his jacket. It was easily the most expensive item in the ensemble, and it sold the illusion of a young man just starting to find success on Arcamyn's western trade routes.
Joshua met Officer Carrington's eyes and the two stared at each other for a long moment.
“Isn't that uhm, isn't that Joshua Woods?” one of the men asked.
“Can't be, he's not a dragon. BOLO says he's human.”
“What's your name, kid?” Carrington asked.
“I am Joshua Woods.”
Chapter 16
A Man of Faith
Camden, Arcamyn
And lo I saw before me a stronghold with two great towers and a mighty wall. And their pride was great and they came forth saying who can rise against us? For our wall is mighty and our towers reach unto the heavens, and they reigned in tyranny over the land. And the people cried out unto the LORD for deliverance, and Ilsador heard the lamentation of his children. In his judgment he sent Dakrym, a Keeper of the Word to Aaron and he opened his mouth and said, 'go and take up your sword and your people shall be free, thus says the LORD.' And Aaron rose from his bed and took up his sword and marched upon the stronghold. Dakrym reached out his hand and struck the towers, and they became as dust and crumbled and the stronghold fell before his wrath.
The herald of the LORD opened his mouth and said to me, 'woe is he who stands against the armies of the LORD, for they are without hope.'
The First Book of Penathor, The Word of Light
Sir Anthony Graham passed through Market Street with purpose. Most of the shops were already shuttered for the night or well on their way. Merchants and their assistants finished up their final transactions for the evening and pulled their wares into the safety of their buildings. Even on this better-patrolled street things would disappear if left unattended for too long. It was not the thieving hours just yet. That would happen in the darkest hours of the night as the public houses turned out their patrons and the streets became most empty and quiet.
Graham found Sir Thomas Thabe in his regular watering hole, a little tavern called the Cracked Keg that reeked of sweat and perfume and booze. Thomas had a bottle in one hand and a spry young girl giggling into his ear, his free arm around her waist. She saw Graham's approach and went to the bar to watch with the regulars as Graham's heavy gauntlet fell hard on Sir Thomas's shoulder and spun him around.
“Anthony!” Thomas cheered, hoisting his bottle to a fellow knight. Graham snatched it from him and slammed it down on the table hard enough to send cracks spidering up one side. It teetered and fell, glugging amber fluid onto an already well-stained table.
“Get up,” Graham commanded. Thomas fumbled for the bottle instead so Graham hoisted him onto his feet. “Get up!”
“What's the fuss?” Thomas asked, his words coming out uneven and slurred. He was not so drunk that he could not stand, but he wobbled slightly on his feet, the ground apparently unsteady beneath him.
“You were supposed to report to your post over an hour ago,” Graham said through tightly grit teeth. “Instead I find you here. Your men stood waiting and no one was patrolling the streets!”
Thomas gaped at him, horrified. “You didn't send them?”
“Of course I sent them,” Graham snapped. “What little good it did. Their discipline suffers because of your inattention! They see you here when you should be at the tower and they arrive late to their shifts and shirk their duties on the streets and walls. Tell me how the streets of Camden are to be made safe when the soldiers and their commander are off drinking.”
Presently the regular tavern noise had all but died out as conversations broke off to watch the altercation. There was a certain expectation in the air as Thomas dusted himself off. Two heroes of the War of Ashes were about to have a tavern brawl right in front of them.
“All they send me is dregs what aren't fit to scrape the stable floors. What more can I possibly do with them?”
“Your duty--” Anthony began.
“Duty,” Thomas spat, voice thickened by alcohol. “What's that even mean, 'duty?', that I should work my knuckles to the bone while some noble lord's bastard son pulls duty in the palace?” He squared off with Graham, raising himself up to full height. He was a tower of a man and seemed about ready to topple until Graham laid hands on his shoulders and steadied him. Graham had become starkly aware of the prying eyes gathering around. He could hear someone in the back quietly taking bets.
“You are drunk,” Graham accused in hushed, angry tones.
“A little,” Thomas confessed with a guilty grin.
“C'mon, let's go,” Graham said, and led him out.
“Sorry, Anthony,” Thomas mumbled after a while, sobered by chill in the evening air.
“It's the second time this week,” Graham replied bitterly.
“Was it?” Thomas asked, thoughtfully. He slowed in his tracks as he tried to work out the days until Graham tugged him along.
“Mmm, really sorry then,” he added meekly.
The two walked together until they'd reached the Crusader's Gate, Thomas's post. Hardly a soul lingered in the shadow of the mighty iron gate at this late hour. The road beyond was nearly overgrown with weeds, but Anthony could still remember when it had been well-traveled, worn to bare earth beneath the feet of marching soldiers. Now it was once a fortnight they'd open it up to knock the rust off the chains. To the northeast lay Fort Falmoth, and beyond it the kingdom called Ralia, an enemy nearly as old as Arcamyn herself. The War of Ashes still weighed heavy on the veteran soldier's mind. Every torch and candle served as a reminder to the flames.
“Here we are,” Thomas said, looking up at the old and crumbling tower and the Crusader's Gate, shut fast. A disapproving grumble rattled out of his beer-filled belly. “The city's last defense against the fire-worshiping heathens.”
“Just let us know if you see a glow on the horizon,” Graham said, clapping him on the shoulder. Thomas muttered a curse at him and found his way to the tower door on a weaving path.
Graham finished his patrol in the shadow of Camden Palace and ventured into its marbled white halls. Past kings and Arcamyn's greatest generals looked out at him from paintings hung in every alcove. Near the Great Hall they were newest; King Isaac and his late father, King Rufus Kemp, stood side by side. A left turn took Graham toward his own quarters and the images became less familiar. Figures of wars his father had fought gave way to wars he'd only heard stories about, each passing alcove bringing less familiar tales to mind as stories gave way to legends as old and faded as the portraits left in their memory. Walking past them served as a reminder
to Graham, of where he'd come from and the long line of soldiers that had stood on Camden's walls. Each relied on the subsequent generation to carry that burden, and he felt the great weight of it upon his shoulders.
Resting on the city's highest hill, only St. Penathor's greatest tower rose above the balcony outside of Anthony Graham's quarters. From this vantage point, the knight could see the entirety of Camden sprawling out before him. On busy afternoons the murmur of the marketplace would carry this far. Tonight, however, the only sound from below was the soft, distant chime of bells in the tower of St. Penathor's Cathedral. Ilsador's silver cross glinted atop it in the soft blue light of the moon.
On the garden terrace below, Sir Charles Tamlin spoke with an unfamiliar man. The stranger had a wild mane of long, dark hair that could only belong to a ralian.
***
“His name is Khaebus Mulgim,” Sir Thomas said. Graham sat across from him at the table and looked back at him with a stern expression. “His visit is an affair of state, or so I'm told. I'm surprised they didn't say anything to you.”
“I could take this to the king,” Graham considered. “I'm sure he'd want to know why his general takes council with ralians in the middle of the night.”
“Don't be a fool, Anthony,” Thomas said. Last night's liquor had left him with a pounding hangover which he was trying to nurse away with an even stiffer coffee. “He'll say he was entertaining our visiting guests, and he probably was! There's nothing abnormal about it. You know Charles; he's a good man.”
Graham grumbled dissent and went to the window to look down at the streets. Charles Tamlin was a good man seven years ago, but under Isaac's rule the general had become political. With the passing of every month, his decisions seemed to be less based on what was right, and more based on what was 'right for the kingdom,' as he put it.
“You just don't like it 'cause they didn't tell you about it,” Thomas pointed out.