An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3)

by J. D. L. Rosell

  His strange rescuer broke the silence. "All ages pass, and even good men and women must depart."

  Tal looked up at him. Though his appearance was youthful, the way Pim sometimes spoke made him seem ancient. Perhaps he is, he reflected. Geminia had also appeared young, and she'd seen over two centuries of the World. Such was ever the way of elves.

  Pim's gaze suddenly sharpened as he stared at Tal. "Bran, forgive me for being so blunt. But this news changes all. There is little time for games." A small smile found his lips again. "Or perhaps only a little time."

  His muscles tensed of their own volition. "What do you mean?"

  "There are things I must tell you, things I see that you cannot. Trials you must face."

  He wondered what this wanderer could know of what he faced. But he remained silent, waiting.

  Pim's irises grew dark again for a moment, then gradually cleared. "Wounds hide within you. These are scars that do not wane with time, but wax. Once, we had a name for it — karkados. Canker, it would be in your tongue."

  "Canker?" The word was unfamiliar to him, yet he had a creeping suspicion he knew what it referred to.

  Pim nodded slowly. "A disease that grows and grows without end. It is born of the very regeneration that keeps our bodies alive, but has been corrupted. Sometimes, it occurs on its own. Other occasions, there is a… catalyst."

  Tal knew then, as impossible as it seemed, that this was the truth. He had felt the scars inside him, pulling, tearing. With every spell he had cast during his fight with the ijiraq, they had broken open a little more. And from them spilled a miasma that had defeated him more thoroughly than the beast ever could.

  He had felt invulnerable atop Geminia's kintree, all-powerful. He had played at being a god.

  But divine power did not come without a price.

  The strange elf's eyes gleamed green in defiance of the orange firelight. "The thing with karkados, however, is that it is a malady born of sorcery. An odd affliction for a human, though possible… if they are a warlock."

  They matched stares for a long moment. Tal kept his expression carefully blank, trying to hide the despair seeping into his bones.

  "An intriguing theory," Tal said at last. "But seeing as how I'm not a warlock, I must not have this canker of yours."

  It was not strictly a lie. Warlocks reportedly attained their powers from spirits they named their deities. Jalduaen was the best known in the Westreach for his prominent place as the patron of the Circle. Tal's sorcery was not born of any god, but had emerged of its own will, as far as he was aware.

  Pim smiled widely. "Not a warlock, then. But a sorcerer? Most certainly. I saw the ijiraq's body, Bran. I saw the burns along its hide. There have been no lightning storms in this valley, not in the past day. Those injuries were not born of clouds, but spells."

  Tal forced out a laugh. "A sorcerer! Now I know you to be mad."

  But his heart was beating faster still. He sees too much. He had to make a choice, and make it quick.

  Trust him. Or kill him.

  Before he could set his mind, the elf spoke again, his smile fading. "I do not mean to threaten you, Bran the Prospector. I only offer my aid. I can help you in this. I can cure your canker."

  Delaying the inevitable decision, Tal stalled for time. "How lucky I am to be rescued by a physician! And how am I to repay you? With a stake in the gold I shall inevitably find?"

  Pim shook his head, the movement abrupt. "I require only one thing, a thing that costs you nothing: stories."

  Stories. It was far from the usual currency in such exchanges. And though Tal was penniless in Imperial coin, it was still not the answer he wished to hear.

  The stories he had to tell came at far too high a price.

  But his stomach for blood was quickly eroding. He was lost in a foreign land. Ikvaldar might be the highest mountain in the East, but with the winter storms raging, he would never find it by sight alone. He needed a map — or, barring that, a guide.

  And then there was this "canker" that he must contend with. He was not so rich in resources he could throw away an offer of aid, even from so dubious a source.

  Tal shrugged. "Fine. If you wish to help me so badly, I can entertain you for a fireside tale or two. Though magic is not likely to make an appearance."

  Pim gave him a haughty sneer that put Tal's to shame. "You are an amusing man, Bran. I have not seen many puppet shows in my time in the Empire. I'm rather looking forward to this one."

  Mulling over the man's meaning, Tal only flashed a strained smile. "Happy to spread smiles where I can. Now, you mentioned something of a meal…"

  His strange companion laughed and rose, and Tal breathed a sigh of relief as their conversation steered into safer waters.

  The Caravan

  They caught up to the caravan the next day.

  Rolan caught sight of it first. "Ho!" the lad called excitedly, turning in his seat before his mother. "I see it!"

  Ashelia shushed him, and her urgency dampened even the boy's enthusiasm. Garin stiffened his jaw and recited cantrips and simple spells with silent lips. He hoped they wouldn't be necessary; he'd seen more than enough violence to avoid it when he could.

  But as they traveled through the Eastern crags, anyone and anything might pose a danger.

  They rode close enough that the sleighs could be seen plainly through the blustering snow. The line curled out of sight around the bend ahead, but Garin guessed half a dozen coaches made up the party, with an equal number of riders. Not so many that, with the competent sorcerers in their company, they could not contend with anything they might throw against them. Bluff horses pulled the sleighs, their coats as thick as an aurochs'. The pounding of their broad hooves was a low rumble that steadily grew louder with their approach.

  A flurry stung his eyes, temporarily blinding him. By the time Garin had blinked his vision clear, the riders ahead had turned and begun to approach.

  "Careful," Helnor warned, a hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Keep wary now."

  Though it felt an awkward gesture, Garin followed his lead in placing his hand on his weapon. A glance at Wren showed she did the same, while Ashelia made no overtures of threat. Aelyn and Kaleras merely waited, their potency better left hidden, while Falcon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly uncertain as to what a bard should do. Rolan's eyes were wide, seemingly from both intrigue and fear.

  The six riders fanned out around them. Their weapons were not drawn or leveled, but two cradled crossbows in their arms, and all had flinty-eyed expressions. They were of various Eastern races, though the majority were human.

  "Who are you and why do you trail us?" the man in the center, one of the humans, called out in accented Reachtongue.

  Though the guard looked toward Helnor, Ashelia spoke for their company, shouting to be heard over the wind's howl.

  "Our apologies for surprising you in a blizzard, Guard. We flee from Gladelyl, from which I suspect you have also come."

  "We may have," the guard hedged.

  "Then you realize we have no quarrel with each other," Ashelia pressed on. "We must speak with your master. We have urgent business with him."

  The guard's eyes flickered toward Rolan sitting before Ashelia. "What business could you have on a stormy winter road?"

  At the lead guard's tone, the crossbowmen raised their weapons slightly, their warning made plain. Garin didn't see how anything Ashelia said might change their minds. They were right to be suspicious; after all, as a ragged company with no goods of their own, his party must have the look of a bandits.

  Helnor stepped his stor forward, bringing the guards' attention back to him. "Have some respect — you speak to a Peer of Gladelyl! She's not some outlaw wishing to waylay your master."

  The guard seemed unruffled by the revelation of Ashelia's aristocratic status. "A Peer of Gladelyl," he repeated coolly. "What would a Peer be doing in the East?"

  "We have lost a friend of ours," Ashelia responded.
She, too, kept her temper tightly in check. "We have reason to believe he has come this way."

  "A lost friend?" The guard spat off the side of his horse. "If he is lost in this, you will not find him except frozen in a drift."

  At this, Ashelia's expression spasmed. Garin thought that she, like himself, had imagined the possibility often enough that the image sprang immediately to mind.

  "Nevertheless," she said tightly. "We must search."

  After a further moment's scrutiny, the lead guard motioned one of his fellows closer and conferenced with them in whispers. Then the second guard peeled away and rode toward the front of the caravan.

  "We will see what our master thinks," the lead guard said, his gaze no softer for the concession, his hand still resting on his sword.

  They remained there, unsheltered from the cutting wind, while they waited for the guard to return. Garin clutched his furs about himself and tried not to visibly shiver. He wished he could cast a spell that might generate at least a small stream of heat, but it wasn't worth the risk of a crossbow bolt through his middle. Not to mention losing the one opportunity they might have to find Tal.

  To his surprise, he felt a stirring in the back of his mind at the thought. Immediately, he recognized what it meant. A thrill went through him.

  Ilvuan. Is that you?

  No reply came, only a sensation like his stor's hot breath against his shoulder. Garin knew him all the same.

  Speak when you can, he told the Singer, then let Ilvuan slide back into the oblivion he had briefly surfaced from.

  His distraction gone, the wind-scored silence seemed to stretch on and on, growing more taut as if time had become the string on a winding crossbow. Garin found his eyes flitting to his companions, trying to judge how nervous he should feel by their attitudes. Helnor was frowning at the lead guard, his hand resting on his sheathed blade. Ashelia had her arms clasped tight about her, eyes as cold and flat as the weather. Rolan huddled against his mother as he stared at the armed men and women like a hare before wolves. Wren's teeth were openly bared in what looked to be a snarl, but might as easily have been a grimace against the incessant cold. Aelyn, too, seemed furious, his molten eyes the brightest thing around. Falcon twitched, his hand constantly traveling over his stump as if it were an instrument he might make sing, if only he knew how. Only Kaleras seemed at ease, though his posture was too rigid.

  Garin shifted his gaze to the snow. Looking there, at least, would not risk a chance of violence.

  Finally, after what seemed a leisurely span, the guard returned, his heavy beast pounding through the snow, and gave his report to his superior. After a moment, the lead guard nodded and turned back to Ashelia and Helnor.

  "My master will speak with you. Only you," he added, motioning at the Peer. "The others will remain here."

  Garin could not see Helnor's face, hidden beneath his hood as it was, but he could imagine how the Prime felt about that arrangement. Nevertheless, Helnor rode near to Ashelia and took his nephew from her mount, then remained behind as the lead guard led her away.

  Wren had sidled her mount close to Garin. "She'll be fine," she muttered. "She's a sorceress and a Warder. There's not a more dangerous person among this caravan."

  Garin nodded in acknowledgement, though his eyes never left the semi-circle of guards that remained with them. The two crossbows in particular he had trouble letting out of his sight. He didn't voice the thought that circled through his head.

  Even a sorceress can be killed in a single knife-stroke.

  Again, the absurdity of the situation struck him. With the hostile land already doing its best to kill them all, it seemed that those traveling through it should not fight among themselves. And they had a goal, a goal which their mutual fear was stopping them from reaching.

  He refused to let fear control him. He'd allowed it to do so far too often in the past.

  Garin gently pressed his heels into Horn's sides, propelling him forward. He ignored Wren's whispered protests as he headed toward one of the humans who did not hold a crossbow. As he bridged the space between the two factions, he felt eyes from both sides watching him. He tried not to let his unease show, but kept his gaze steadily on the guard. She looked the friendliest of the group from the little he could see of their faces. He hoped his guess wasn't wrong. The guard only watched him in silence as he stopped half a dozen paces away from her.

  "Do you speak Reachtongue?" he asked in what he hoped was a genial tone.

  The guard nodded and remained silent.

  "You heard before: we're looking for a friend. Have you taken in any men in the past few days?"

  The Easterner shook her head. He wished she would speak. As it was, he wasn't entirely sure she could understand him.

  "We think he fell in the river," Garin pressed. "You're sure you haven't rescued a stranger?"

  Again, the guard shook her head, then finally replied in broken speech, "If he fall in river, he die. Water too cold to live."

  He clenched his jaw. She was likely right, but it was not a truth he wished to hear.

  "Thank you," he said dully. Moving slowly as to not raise any alarm, Garin returned to his companions.

  "That was damned foolish," Wren whispered to him. "But damned brave as well."

  He flashed her a half-hearted grin. "Even a sheep can play the wolf."

  Her smile faded. "I don't think you're a sheep," she said softly.

  Then why haven't you forgiven me?

  The question nearly escaped his lips. They spent all their time by each other — yet ever since that night in Elendol when he had blanched at the battle and bloodshed, she had made no advances toward him. Sometimes, in the dead of night, when the winds grew harsh and the air brittle with cold, they nestled into each other for warmth. But they had shared no kiss nor anything more romantic than a touch on the shoulder. He hadn't found the courage to ask if they were even still a pair.

  Regardless, her words warmed him. Better she not think him a coward than the reverse. And if she did, he would have plenty of opportunity to prove himself otherwise.

  Still, as he eyed the surrounding guards, he hoped another opportunity for courage took its time in arriving.

  Ashelia returned some minutes later. He knew from her expression she'd received no better news than he had. As she rejoined their company, she gathered them in a close enough to hear.

  "The merchant hasn't seen or heard of Tal. And he has no maps available for purchase. But he has allowed us to follow their caravan to the nearest town — a settlement of Reach dwarves, apparently. There, we might learn more."

  Garin nodded with the others, though his expectations were growing thinner with each step they traveled. Impossible as it was to imagine Tal succumbing to anything, he was beginning to fear the guard had been right.

  As the caravan started up again and labored through the snow, Garin muttered, "Bisk." As a little warmth trickled into his body, he tried to cling to hope.

  A Dream of Paradise

  Tal heaved in another stinging breath as he labored up the road after Pim.

  The strain didn't come from a heavy burden. Most of his gear had been lost with his stor, who seemed to have fled after Tal's tumble into the river. All he had were his cloak and clothes, his weapons, the Binding Ring, and a few small things he had secured on his person.

  Yet though his companion bore a weighty pack and had no beast to lighten the load, Pim was indefatigable. He had not paused to rest for all the morning they had been walking, but continued up and down slopes with the same, long stride. The razor-edged wind could have been a warm summer breeze for all he seemed to mind it.

  Tal plodded forward one step, then another. Truth be told, he had marched with as much speed as Pim before his contest with the ijiraq. But ever since then, any effort, physical or mental, cost him double. Aches proliferated throughout his muscles and joints. His head pounded like a smithy that never closed. He felt as if he'd aged two score years in a day.


  Nowhere hurt worse than his hands. Where his fingers had been cut away, an incessant throbbing had taken hold. Now the stumps strained with pressure, like there were abscesses in need of draining. He barely dared to hold anything for fear of the pain.

  But no matter how great his agony grew, Tal dammed the flow of sorcery. While it promised healing such as he had experienced atop Geminia's kintree, he feared the scars inside him might lacerate and make his condition even worse. He could not risk aggravating the canker, if Pim was correct in naming his affliction.

  Yet, despite his constant efforts, magic still occasionally leaked through. He felt its touch whenever his focus slipped. A thrill of lightning. A searing of flame. A distortion or sharpening of his senses.

  As soon as he felt the lapse, he strengthened his resolve. But he knew the contest could not last forever. Behind his barriers, the sorcery was welling up like floodwaters behind a dike. He feared what would happen when he could no longer fight it.

  His precarious health and sanity were not his foremost concerns, however. Even as he wheezed up the slope after him, Tal kept a wary gaze on Pim's back. The elf didn't seem threatening in any outward way. He carried no weapons beyond the sorcery latent in his blood and an unadorned walking stick. A smile perched on his lips like a mother bird on its nest in spring. He often joked with Tal, teasing him like an old friend and ignoring the strange circumstances under which they had met the day before.

  But all the same, Tal could not trust him. For he suspected Pim knew more of his past than the elf was letting on.

  The notion wasn't born of any one moment, but a collection of them. It was the way Pim glanced at him when Tal pretended not to be looking. It was the supercilious smiles and the knowing gleam to his sable-laced eyes.

  Yet, for all his suspicions, he could do nothing about it at the moment. He needed Pim. He would just have to take all the elf's inauspicious oddities along with him.

  Tal looked up from his feet to find Pim waiting for him at the top of the rise. The elf stood erect, the wind not seeming to touch him even as it gusted over the ridge.