The Road To Vanador

by Terry Mancour

  I was near to calling a halt, as the north wind picked up even more, hoping to find a place I could pitch my magical canopy, so we could wait out the storm. But then the forest on either side of the road cleared, and we came to a tidy, cozy little inn. A wooden sign bearing the painted symbol of a golden cauldron.

  It was entirely unexpected, in such a place, but entirely welcome. I didn’t even have to tell Dad to pull the wain up to the door of the place.

  “I’ll put the team in the barn,” Dad called through the sleet. “You go introduce us.”

  “Aren’t you worried about the seediness?” I asked.

  “Any place with a fire, a roof, and walls would be welcome, and if it had ale, too, I would count it a gift from the gods,” Dad assured me, as he unhitched the team.

  I didn’t know how apt that was until I went inside.

  The interior of the inn was dark, as such places are, but the big fire on the broad hearth lit it up merrily. Two lanterns were hung, one from each end of the long hall, and a number of pots were simmering in the coals around the fire already. A pair of trestle tables flanked the fireplace, each with a long bench facing the flame.

  “Welcome, travelers!” a familiar voice called out from one of them, as my eyes adjusted to the light.

  “Brother Hotfoot,” I nodded, as the silhouette of the monk resolved from the gloom. “What a surprising coincidence.”

  “I was just passing by,” he assured me. “But, then, I’m always just passing by. I thought I’d take the opportunity to catch up to you before you got to your new lands. I have news,” he added, as he sipped soup from a hornspoon.

  “What kind of soup?” I asked, as I shed my cloak and hung it on a peg.

  “Mutton and potato,” the monk said, approvingly. “It’s delicious.”

  “It’s one of my magical sheep,” another voice called from behind me. A glance over my shoulder revealed a rotund man in a long apron, with a wide face and curly brown hair and beard. He was hauling a great earthenware jug to the table from the buttery behind him. “I’ve got bread coming,” he promised.

  “Couther,” I nodded. “I doubt you’re just passing through. To what do I owe this divine visitation?”

  “There is an inn here, abandoned during the invasion,” he explained, as he set the jug on the table and produced two more wooden mugs, as if from nowhere. “Herus suggested we have a chat, and I obliged.”

  “I appreciate the intervention,” I said, carefully, as I took a seat. Dad came in behind me, and began taking off his hat and cloak without noticing whom I was speaking to. “It was nasty, out there. I hope you didn’t do all of that for me.”

  “Not our sphere, we just took advantage of it,” Herus assured. “It’s not often that you’re on the road, these days. It’s hard to get an appointment.”

  “I’ve been in several inns,” I countered. “You could have talked to me then.”

  “Not enough privacy,” Couther grunted. “Have to be careful, in urban areas. This kind of place is more my style.”

  “Fair enough. Dad, you remember Brother Herus, otherwise known as Herus, God of Travelers? And this is Couther, God of Innkeepers.”

  Dad looked startled. Then he relaxed. “I should have suspected,” he said, as he took a seat. “Best looking stable I’ve seen this entire trip.”

  “I keep a clean place,” the God of hospitality assured. “Dinner in a moment.”

  “News, first,” Herus nodded, as he continued to sip. “The first item is the most important: the attempt to call Avital into manifestation, alas, failed. The young priest who undertook the ceremony did his best, but . . . well, these things are hard to control,” he confessed. “Conditions seemed right, but . . . it just didn’t happen.”

  “That is a pity,” I agreed with a frown.

  “What, you were trying to . . . summon a god?” Dad asked, incredulously.

  “It was a long shot to begin with,” Herus said, sadly. “But it’s not the only attempt we can make. I’m working on a few things . . .”

  “We’ll adapt,” I agreed. “You have other news?” I asked, as I was served a bowl of stew by the hand of a god.

  “Plenty,” Herus continued. “Second item: the plague of undead in the Westlands has slowed, thanks to the weather, though the walking corpses emerging from the swamps of Enultramar are spry enough. Korbal has sent dark lords of great power to lead his forces. They are gathering forces and preparing new avenues of attack, across the west. No less than three Nemovorti have been tasked to assail the north. They will come against you from the moment you set foot in the Magelaw, and struggle against you until they are destroyed.”

  “I don’t much like your friend, Min,” Dad said, as he ate sacred soup. “He tells dark tales.”

  “Only darker, for being true,” Herus agreed, grimly. “Marcadine will strive with two Nemovorti who are assigned to destroy the Wilderlaw. Two or more build fortresses in the Westlands and plot to conquer. Three more vie to tear Enultramar asunder . . . and yet more linger in the shadows, their errands unknown.”

  “You’re gods,” Dad pointed out. “Shouldn’t you know?”

  “Omniscience apparently takes all the fun out of divinity,” Couther shrugged, as he set two golden loaves down next to our bowls. “Try the ale,” he encouraged. “It’s quite good.”

  “There are limits to our perceptions,” Herus said, diplomatically. “But that is the size of the foe we face. Korbal has the foundation of a strong army, and his vassals are remarkably ingenious in their own right. The best we can do for now is to muster our own forces and destroy them, one by one.”

  “I’ll take care of my three,” I assured him. The ale was incredibly good, as rich and hearty as you could ask for. It seemed to send a warm, golden glow into my cold limbs. “We can set others against the rest.”

  “Only if they are powerful, and armed with potent weapons,” Couther said. “You must use your Dradrien servants to do that.”

  “Is that prophecy?” I asked, surprised.

  “It’s a strong suggestion,” the god corrected. “You have the skills of the Iron Folk at your disposal. Use them,” he urged.

  “You should have ample opportunity to expand your thaumaturgical knowledge in Vanador,” agreed Herus. “I foresee that it will be a prime destination. Which brings me to my third piece of news: the Sea Folk have sent their emissary forth to Sevendor, seeking you. I have taken the liberty of re-directing him, once he arrives, but sooner or later he will come and present a demand for further snowstone,” Herus promised. “Discovering the secret of its creation should be a high priority.”

  “It’s on my list,” I agreed. “Are they open to reasonable negotiation, do you know?”

  “As long as it results in a larger supply of snowstone, I believe so,” Herus nodded. “They are quite uninterested in the details of how it comes. The Sea Brethren have a little leeway in how they carry out their masters’ direction, but only a little. The Vundel, on the other hand, are quite adamant. They will have it. So you must make more, or they will take what you have.”

  “I’m working on it!” I insisted, a little irritated. “It involved divine magic, you know. Your kind is on the scale for this, too. It might be helpful if one of you dropped a hint, at least.”

  “We’ll help out when we can,” Couther soothed. “That sort of thing isn’t exactly in our spheres. Briga will send inspiration, of course, as she can, but the rest of us . . . of what use are we? Avital was your best hope of that kind of divine intervention. I don’t even know Avital. You’re the wizard,” he pointed out. “Figure it out. It’s a thaumaturgical problem.”

  “With a theurgic component,” I countered.

  “Min, if we can help, we will!” Herus insisted. “But you can’t force this sort of thing. Mysterious ways, you know. That’s how it works. Let us do what we do, you wizards do what you do. At the proper places, at the proper times, we’ll provide assistance in the ways we’re able.”

 
; “That’s frustratingly unhelpful,” I said, flatly.

  “Noticed that, did you?” Couther asked. “Most divine magic is. Blame the human subconscious. If you people were tidier in how they thought about the universe, perhaps we’d be able to hand you the answers properly.”

  “I’ll be sure to bring it up at the next meeting,” I retorted. “I’ll do my best, but you realize that I’m going into exile in the middle of the Wilderness, away from all of the resources I’ll need.”

  “I think you’ll find the natural environment soothing,” Herus offered. “Thaumaturgy is mostly a mental art, anyway. You just need the right minds, thinking the right thoughts.”

  “Get them in a cozy place, with really good ale, and encourage them to talk,” Couther agreed. “The right people will be available at the right time. That’s how things generally unfold.”

  “That doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence,” Dad observed, looking from one deity to the other.

  “It’s what we have to work with,” Herus insisted, a little irritated. “When the need is great enough, the divine will manifest. That’s the difference between theurgy and thaumaturgy. With thaumaturgy, it’s all about intent.”

  “With theurgy, you have to be subtle and sneaky about it,” Couther nodded. “It’s inherently unpredictable, theurgy is. Divine energies respond to a different set of invocations. You’re really going to have to need an answer to manifest.”

  “Is not the survival of the species on this world a big enough incentive?” I challenged.

  “Then dream up a divinity whose sole purpose is to do that, then,” snorted Herus. “I just carry the messages. I’m way out of my element, as it is.”

  “You can’t just dream up a new divinity,” I shot back, just as irritated. Then I stopped. “Can you?”

  That resulted in an exchange of looks between the two gods. I hesitate to say I understood the naked face of the divine, but there was no mistaking that look.

  “What? What is it? What do you know?” I demanded.

  Herus sighed. “Ever since the Nemovorti met one of the gods in Vorone, some of them have been fascinated by the concept. It’s totally foreign to the Alka Alon understanding of magic, and divine power violates some fundamental laws. It’s the same adjustment the Alka Alon had to make, when our lot first showed up on Perwyn.”

  “The Alka Alon, back then, realized that divine magic was a spontaneous, unpredictable and wholly unique manifestation of the human mind interacting with Callidore’s Magosphere. They took action to control it by controlling humanity. The Nemovorti are still intrigued with the novelty of it. They don’t understand the dangers of messing around with human divine magic, yet,” Couther explained. He shrugged, when I looked at him in surprise. “A lot of thaumaturgic students talk in taverns and inns. I hear things.”

  “Some of them are starting to do experiments with divine magic,” Herus agreed, gravely.

  “Wasn’t necromancy enough?” I gasped. “How can they do that? Divine magic is the province of humanity, alone, I thought.”

  “They happen to have several thousand humans to practice with,” Herus reminded me. “They are conducting trials with their slaves, to explore the limits and dimensions of human emotional response. The experiments are, frankly, even more gruesome than their necromancy. But I fear what they might discover.”

  “Imagine the horrific gods that could crawl from the minds of tortured slaves,” Couther suggested. “We really don’t need that sort of thing right now, don’t you think?”

  “No, no, we really don’t,” I sighed, feeling disturbed by the news. “How do we stop that?”

  “Minalan, in case you haven’t figured it out, that’s your job to figure out,” Herus said, gently. “Vanador is your staging area. You’re to take what you’ve learned in Sevendor and apply the lessons in Vanador. Assemble your learned masters. Recruit your army of mighty warmagi. Construct the ideal state to counter the forces in the Penumbra. Convince the Alka Alon to rouse themselves from their lethargy and face their responsibilities. Bargain with the Vundel to bring their aid, if need be. Vanador is to be the city in which you rally your forces and stand against Korbal and his ilk,” Herus predicted.

  “You’re putting a lot of faith in my abilities,” I warned, shaking my head.

  “Faith is what we do,” Herus reminded me. “Honestly, I don’t know if you can pull it off,” he admitted. “But you keep surprising us.”

  “He excels at inspiring low expectations,” Dad observed, unhelpfully, as he took a long pull from his ale cup.

  “I won’t deny I have some ideas about . . . about this whole chamberpot of problems,” I said, with a deep sigh, “but I don’t really feel up to it.”

  “Who would?” Herus pointed out. “By my aching feet, Minalan, there is no secret workshop where we gods construct epic heroes. It’s a much more organic process than you might think. We see who rises to the occasion and then support them . . . until they get killed. Then we look for the next one.”

  “It’s not terribly efficient,” Couther admitted with a scowl. “That’s why you need to build Vanador. That would be a good place to do that sort of thing. Wizards, warriors, sages, all under the wise leadership of a proven master . . . I could see an entire course of mighty heroes arising from that sort of place.”

  “There’s still no guarantee you’ll be successful against the Nemovorti,” Herus continued, “but it will be glorious to watch you try. I’m sure your efforts will be instructive to the next generation of brave idiots.”

  “Gods like you make a man reconsider religion,” I complained.

  “You’ll make a wonderful story,” Couther consoled. “If there’s anyone left alive to tell it.”

  *

  *

  *

  The next morning, we arose refreshed and invigorated . . . and alone. The inn was empty of gods or man, though the fire still burned and there was a bubbling pot of porridge on the hearth and a pitcher of weak ale on the board. The inn seemed to have lost its cozy glow, too.

  We continued our journey under fairer skies. The weather had settled into a grim overcast, with only occasional bouts of snow or rain. It was dreary enough, at least, to keep bandits away. We emerged from the hills and into the long, low vale where the Cotton Road joined the Great Western Road. We were in the Wilderlands, proper, now.

  The lands east of Vorone and north of Gilmora have the worst traits of both cultures. Caught between the haughty Alshari Gilmorans and the barbaric Pearwoods tribes, they tended to be surly, suspicious, and mean.

  Which would explain why, a few miles from the crossroads, we came across a monk tied to a tree on the side of the road in the freezing rain, a noose dangling around his neck. It’s the sort of thing that makes a man reconsider religion.

  Part Six

  A Monk In The Road

  “Why would anyone tie a monk to a tree?” Dad asked, as we surveyed the poor man from the wagon.

  “I can think of a number of reasons,” I offered. “None of them are particularly pleasant. But the people in this region are notoriously surly. When they aren’t pissed drunk on Pearwoods brandy, they’re accusing you of stealing them blind while they’re stealing you blind.”

  “They don’t seem particularly well-disposed to the clergy,” Dad observed. “Should we cut him down?” he asked, with a mixture of skepticism and sympathy. “He’ll freeze to death if we don’t.”

  “I think we have to,” I answered. “I think we’re supposed to meet him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “We just had dinner with a couple of gods last night,” I reasoned. “We asked for help—”

  “You asked for help,” Dad objected. “I just wanted a spot by the fire.”

  “A fair point. Well, I asked them for assistance. And lo, we have a monk on the side of the road. Clearly, we’re meant to save him.”

  “He can’t be a very good monk, if he’s tied to a tree,” Dad pointed out.

&nbs
p; “I don’t think that matters. He’s the monk they provided. I’m sure he’ll be of some utility. Besides, you are right: he’ll freeze to death, if we don’t cut him down.”

  Dad and I got down from the wagon and I cut the ropes that bound the poor man to the tree. There was a satchel next to him, filled with scrolls and parchment. Someone – several people, I decided – had defecated in it. The monk’s long, thin face had been beaten, and the rain was already freezing on his tonsured head. He was unconscious, and moaned piteously as we lowered him from his ignoble perch.

  His limbs were numb and cold as we hefted him into the back of the wagon. I produced a flask of spirits and held it to his lips. He sputtered a bit, and his eyelids fluttered, but he took a grateful sip.

  I covered him with a blanket and my spare cloak and tried to see to his comfort. He was starting to slip into hypothermia, so I cast a quick enchantment to keep him warm. A few moments using Insight told me that he had no serious injuries, but that he’d sustained a painful trauma. The noose around his neck and the feces in his satchel supported that.

  I left him to sleep, and we continued on our way.

  “So, we’re rescuing strange monks on the side of the road, now?” Dad asked.

  “Occupational hazard of the professional wizard. Besides, it was a kindness to save his life. I think he’s a lawbrother,” I suggested, nodding back toward his soiled satchel.

  “Not a very good one, apparently,” Dad noted.

  “I’m sure it’s a fascinating story. He should survive, with some rest and some warmth. In a few days we’ll be in Vorone,” I reasoned. “We can drop him off there.”

  “I thought he was some divinely-sent gift?” Dad asked.

  “He might just be a smelly old monk,” I decided. “Let’s keep our options open.”

  A few miles later, Dad reached back and pulled a small musical instrument from under the tarp that protected our baggage.