The Sorcerer's Legacy (52 page)

“I believe we could all agree to that, for the interim of course,” Lord Kendrick replied.

“Excellent, I will write up the proclamation tonight and you may return with it in the morn. I will speak to my advisors and my military leaders and decide the deployment of my own soldiers to protect the countryside,” King Jarvin declared. “If there is no further business to discuss at this time, I bid you good day, gentlemen.

Jarvin waited until the lords and mayors were escorted from the audience hall before slumping in his seat, thoroughly exhausted.

“It is true what they say, the throne is the most uncomfortable chair ever created by man and ordained by the gods,” Jarvin said wearily.

His wife, Rosanne, reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. “I think you acquitted yourself with fairness and wisdom, as you always do, darling.”

“Then why do I feel so sick to my stomach?”

“Because you actually care what happens to your people. It is the one horrible fault you have as king and I love you dearly for it,” Queen Rosanne told her husband.

“Captain, please send for General Mayweather and my company commanders and have them attend me here in the hall. On second thought, have them come to the library,” Jarvin commanded then turned to his wife. “I am ever so much more comfortable there. Perhaps I should replace this dreadful throne with one of the library chairs.”

The queen gave him a wry smile. “You know as well as I that it is not the material of the chair but the responsibility it is padded with.”

“Gods how I know, dear.”

Thirty minutes later, Jarvin sat in one of the high-backed library chairs across the table from his four most senior officers and his two personal advisors.

Damned if this chair is not more comfortable than that throne. Perhaps I should start holding court in the library,
Jarvin mused.

“Your Majesty?” General Mayweather asked.

“Yes, forgive me, General, I was momentarily lost in thought. Issues of state you understand. Now then, as you may have heard, at least two large parties of renegades are terrorizing the southern cities up to and including Brightridge. Due to the dreadful assassination of not only Duke William but his seneschal as well, the state is basically headless and running around, please forgive me, like a chicken with its head cut off,” Jarvin told the men.

“What I intend to do, what I must do, is to send out three battalions to patrol the three primary states and their surrounding towns. My reports tell me we need not divide our forces in fourths to protect Southport. Duke Ulric has already fielded nearly a thousand men and horses and is actively pursuing the larger of the two known groups of raiders. He has already driven them off twice as of last report and inflicted heavy casualties, though he has yet to be able to achieve a decisive victory.

“It would appear that the raiders are entirely mounted and flee battle rather quickly before they take substantial losses. Even so, Duke Ulric deserves our highest praise for engaging them and driving them away before the raiders could inflict even more damage. As all of you know, with the exception of Ulric, none of the states currently has any standing armies of consequence due to the fiscal impossibilities of maintaining such large forces in times of relative peace. Since the conclusion of our last war with Sumara, it did not make military sense either.

“It is my plan to have Colonel Rutherford take his companies to patrol the roads around Brightridge until such time as they can rebuild their own army after suffering their disastrous defeat. Captain Cooper, you will take your company to secure the roads west of Duchess Paullina’s city of Argoth, and for Captain Haywood to guard the roads around Brelland. Your input please, gentlemen,” Jarvin invited once he laid his plans out.

All the officers began speaking at once but General Mayweather stood and took control. “Your Majesty. You are sending the vast majority of your military might outside the castle walls. Given the precariousness of your throne, I highly advise keeping at least one of two companies here in case of insurrection.”

“I understand your concern, General, and I quite agree with you, but I do not fear my people rising against me and I have my home guard to protect me from any attempted coup from my less than enamored lords. However if I do not at least make a show of force to put down these rabid raiders like the dogs they are, I will have an uprising on my hands,” Jarvin replied passionately.

“It is your home guard that worries me the most, Your Majesty!” General Mayweather exclaimed. “So many of your proven loyal men have been lost these last few years and been replaced by men that neither of us can personally attest to their loyalties.”

“General, I assure you that my personal guard is as loyal as it has ever been. Any replacements that have been made have been confirmed by Bishop Caalendor, Magus Illifan, or myself. Unless any of you can come up with any better reason than my own safety, those are the orders I require to be carried out. Goodnight to you, gentlemen, good hunting, and gods’ speed.

***

Maude, Malek, and Borik sat at a table in the S
andy Bottom
drinking one warm ale after another while lamenting the loss of Tarth.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Maude said for the tenth time in as many minutes. “I never got the chance to tell him how much he meant to me. I always felt like he needed me to take care of him.”

“He was such an important part of our group. With him around, I did not feel like such an oddball. Even you two looked pretty normal next to him,” Malek said dolefully.

“I never got to finish choking him to death,” Borik said somberly. “I always thought I could get his brain straight if I just choked and shook him hard enough.”

The barmaid walked over and refilled their mugs.

“That man over there wanted me to pass a message to ya,” the barmaid told Maude.

“What does he want?” Maude asked.

The barmaid took a deep breath, leaned down, and whispered something in Maude’s ear.

“Which one is it?” Maude asked with a smile.

The barmaid pointed to a large man a couple tables over, a farmer, given the dirt under his fingernails. When he saw Maude look over he gave her a smile and a wink.

“Hey Maude, looks like you have an admirer,” Malek said.

“It does, doesn’t it? Maybe this is exactly what I need to take my mind off Tarth,” Maude replied, still smiling.

Borik looked at Malek. “Is she smiling?”

“Yes, she actually has a rather nice smile. She should do it more often,” the cleric said lightly.

Borik raised his left hand, blocking his peripheral view of Maude and the table of men and ducked his head. “Tell me when it’s over.”

“When what’s over?” Malek asked, not understanding the dwarf’s sudden apprehension. “She’s actually talking to him and still smiling.”

“Oh you just don’t get it do you, cleric?” Borik grumbled.

“I don’t get wha—oh gods!”

Maude suddenly grabbed the back of the man’s dirty hair and repeatedly slammed his face down into the hard wooden table until he stopped moving. She dropped his face in his soup where he almost certainly would have drowned had his astonished friends not pulled the bowl away.

“Feel better now, Maude?” Borik asked.

“Yeah, a little bit,” Maude replied with a smile. “Still hurts though.”

“Buck up, Maude, I’m sure you’ll get to kill someone real soon,” Borik assured her.

“Gods I hope so. Even if I don’t, it was a sweet thing to say. Thanks for trying to cheer me up, Borik.”

“Anytime.”

It was late when Azerick rode into Sandusk. He got a room at the boarding house where he stabled Horse and walked into the
Sandy Bottom
to wash the trail dust out of his mouth. He sat at a stool next to a young man and ordered their best beer. He grimaced at the first taste, uttered a small incantation causing a small bead of ice to form in his upturned palm, and dropped it into the warm beverage. The outside of the mug instantly frosted up, and although it did not improve the flavor, at least it was cold.

Azerick was enjoying his second frosty mug when three men strode arrogantly into the tavern. The largest of the three men sidled up to the young man next to Azerick. The young man looked to see who was behind him and nearly fell off the stool in his haste to vacate the seat.

“Here you are, Butch, here’s your seat. I’m sorry I was in it I thought for sure I’d be long gone before you showed,” the man said nervously.

“Oh no, Joe, you go right on ahead and sit in my seat. After all, you’re just a dung-mucking sheep herder. Who am I to make you move from
my
seat,” Butch said sarcastically, which got a good round of laughs from his two cronies.

“Naw, that’s all right, Butch, you can sit here, honest I don’t mind,” Joe said.

“Oh now I have your permission to sit in my chair. That’s mighty generous of you, Joe,” Butch said, bringing another bout of laughter from his friends and nervous glances from most the other patrons.

“Come on, Butch, Joe’s getting off your stool. How about you sit down and have one on me?” The bartender asked, trying to defuse the situation.

Butch turned his glare onto the bartender. “Shut your mouth, Louis. You can pour me a mug of your swill when I’m done. Where was I before I got interrupted?”

“Butch, I didn’t mean that I was giving you permission like that, I know you don’t need my permission for nothin’,” Joe said nervously while trying to get past Butch but was blocked by the two men with him.

“Oh you didn’t mean that did you?”

“That’s right, Butch.”

“So I guess I misunderstood you then.”

“Yeah, Butch, just a big misunderstanding is all.”

“I guess I’m too stupid to understand the words of a muck-kicking sheep herder, is that it?” Butch asked, all humor gone from his voice.

“No Butch I nev—,” Joe’s words were cut off by Butch grabbing him by the front of his shirt, spinning him about, and throwing him halfway across the barroom floor.

“You want my stool so bad, Joe? Then I’ll give it to you!” Butch yelled and lifted the barstool over his head, about to bring it down on the prone Joe.

“Are you a betting man, Mister Butch?” Azerick asked, calmly sipping his beer.

Butch paused with the stool raised over his head. “What you say to me, stranger?”

“Don’t get involved, you’ll just get yourself hurt and more of my furniture busted up,” Louis the bartender urged him.

“I said, are you a betting man, Mister Butch,” Azerick spun on his stool to face Butch and repeated.

Butch set the barstool back down onto the floor. “What kind of bet?” Butch asked warily.

“One I think you will most enjoy. I bet my gold against your silver that with a few minutes of instruction from me, Joe down there can whip you like a mule driver pulling logs.”

“You’ll put up gold, against an equal amount of my silver, betting that worthless dung heap can whip me?” Butch asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“In a fight—with our fists?”

“Correct.”

“You must be stupid or crazy, boy; you’re on,” Butch smiled widely. “Give me all your silver, every bit right now,” Butch ordered his friends.

Butch was absolutely giddy. He and mates had just been paid so for them the bet was substantial. He added his own silver to his friends’ and set it on the bar.