The Western Wizard (38 page)

Jakot answered first. “Natural, loose collections of stone and debris.”

Santagithi turned back to the map. “Up here . . .” Again, he indicated the higher slopes above the trail. “. . . we could set up a trap similar to the one the Vikerians sprang on us, but using the steepest slopes and the talus fans. We might be able to destroy the remainder of their army before they can gather allies.
Gentlemen, if this is successful, we might end the war in days.
” The idea made Santagithi smile, though briefly. “But it’s not going to be easy. First, we have to give them a reason to take this particular path. Second, we need them closely bunched, not with scouts and formations spread beyond the region of the fans.”

Jakot rose, studying the map. “It is the shortest route. Maybe if we could anger them enough, they might choose speed over caution.”

Garn yawned, clearly bored with the talk of strategy. “Maybe if we ambushed their king in his own court. That might anger them to reckless stupidity.”

The comment struck too close to home. As always, Santagithi reined his temper. “Effective, Garn, but it’s already been done.” He glanced at Colbey.

The Renshai rose, his expression even more stern than usual. Apparently, he had wrestled his conscience for the suggestion he was about to speak aloud. “Do you still have the bodies of the Northmen killed in court?”

“We could dig them up.” Santagithi said nothing more, curious about Colbey’s plan.

“I believe I can enrage even Kirin. If you can set the trap, I can bait it. All I ask is that you let me be there to see the results.”

Santagithi frowned. The idea of Colbey’s presence at the talus fans did not bother him. Stationed high above sheer mountainsides covered with shifting debris, his men should not become embroiled in hand-to-hand combat. At worst, the Northmen would escape the trap, and the plans would come to nothing. His concerns stemmed from what Colbey might mean by “bait.” “Fine,” he
said, at length. “But first, we’ll discuss this plan of yours when we talk about Valr Kirin. If I think it’s too dangerous, we’ll find another.”

Colbey smiled knowingly. “General, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

*  *  *

Familiar with the magical tempest that warded Shadimar’s ruins, Mitrian had the foresight to wear a heavy, hooded cloak and to pack a well-protected change of clothes; but that did not fully spare her from the rain. She led her mare past the two headless statues that stood sentinel before the long-dead city of Myrcidë. Dripping trails from her clothing and wet hoofprints betrayed their route. Lightning spidered the sky behind her, and thunder echoed between the granite walls and arches of the inner streets. Shattered stonework littered a courtyard that Mitrian remembered from her dream. Blueberries dotted the vine-choked walls and bushes filling the stretches between crumbling, ancient pillars and monuments. Mitrian smiled at the darting songbirds gorging on the berries, their beaks and talons purple-smeared. Their skimming flight from bushes to statues to walls unnerved Mitrian’s horse, so she hurried through the open area and down the streets and alleyways.

The horse whinnied nervously, head low as it picked its way over and around the fragments. Each blast of thunder sent it into a rigid standstill. Gentle coaxing and movement away from the lash of the storm convinced it to continue; but, each time, its first few steps became short, stiff jumps. Its antics worried Mitrian. The last time she had visited, her mare had calmed the instant it entered the ruins. The closer they had come to Shadimar, and the longer they remained, the more secure the horse had become.
Of course, that was a dream
, Mitrian reminded herself, though every feature of the ruins seemed exactly as she remembered it.

Mitrian came, at last, to the vast, roofed hall that formed the entrance to Shadimar’s home. There, she found a heavy stone door blocking her way. A curl of parchment balanced on the grisly brass face that held the door’s ring.

Mitrian stopped, uncertain where to go. At the time of
her other visit, Shadimar had met her here; and he had left the door open. Looping the horse’s reins around a pillar, she approached the door. She knocked, the stone chafing her knuckles. The sound scarcely reached to her own ears. Certain the Eastern Wizard could never hear her through a door this heavy, she pounded as hard as she could with the side of her fist. The breeze of her motion sent the parchment fluttering to the ground at her feet.

Stooping, Mitrian picked up the note. She had no intention of reading it, certain it concerned private matters between Wizards. But she glimpsed her own name at the top. The writer had used the common trading tongue in a fine, easily legible hand. Curious, she read:

Mitrian pocketed the note, a shiver of supernatural discomfort fluttering through her. She had spent nearly two years in the Eastern Wizard’s company while they researched, plotted, and carried out Sterrane’s return to his throne as well as the journeys to and from Béarn. In all that time, he had performed only one feat she considered magic, the sky pictures he had summoned to accompany Mar Lon’s music. Yet a gift for illusion did not explain the strangeness she always felt in his presence nor his foreknowledge of events he should have no way of predicting.

Turning from the Eastern Wizard’s door, Mitrian headed back to her mount.

*  *  *

Valr Kirin Raskogsson stood before the Vikerian throne, his war braids hissing against his jerkin with every movement. He studied King Tenja from a face hardened by age and war. His hawklike nose and piercing blue eyes heightened the predatory look of his features. “Sire, there’s a matter we need to discuss.” Kirin plucked at the hilt of his sword, hoping the words that he needed would come to him in time. When he had requested an audience that morning, he had felt certain that they would. Now, standing before King Tenja, the king’s adviser, and his bodyguard, Kirin found himself nearly speechless, glad for the lack of spectators.

King Tenja perched on his throne, a gaudy trinket adorned with lesser stones that were buffed and polished to appear like gems. His gray-tinged braids swung about his muscled neck. He wore a shirt and matching cloak of fur-trimmed silk that defined a physique trained to war. To his left, his pale, frail adviser watched Kirin expectantly. Named Alvis, the aging, balding Northman seemed lost in a wolfskin wrap. To the king’s right, the massive, ugly bodyguard stood with his hands crossed over his chest. From beneath his horned helmet, Eldir regarded The Slayer with the same dead-eyed indifference he grudgingly granted every man. His ax-bladed pole arm rested against the wall, within easy reach.

When Valr Kirin did not go on, King Tenja encouraged. “Speak freely, Kirin Raskogsson of Nordmir. We have fought side by side and at one another’s backs.”

Valr Kirin knew that the king’s words meant that he was trusted not only as a subordinate, but as an ally. It only made his pronouncement more difficult to speak. “Sire, you know that I spent some time recently on the Northern shore of Asci.”

“Summoned by one who claimed to be the Northern Sorceress. Yes, I know that. Did something happen there?”

Kirin glanced about the room, from its rough-hewn, empty rows of chairs, to the wooden doors painted to look like metal and the awkward carvings that mimicked the wealth of the Western Kingdoms. “Something of a sort, yes, Sire. Lady Trilless alerted me to a danger far
more extensive than even you and I had guessed.” He glanced up suddenly, hoping he had not become too presumptuous by placing a limit on the king’s speculation. He did not want to offend. “Sire, she claimed that, if not destroyed, Colbey is destined to annihilate all goodness, all Northmen, and, possibly, the gods themselves.” Kirin swallowed hard.

King Tenja sat in silence for a moment. Alvis became even paler. Eldir remained stony-faced, revealing no emotion at all by his features, though his hand caressed the bulbous hilt of his sword.

“Sire, she believes that the Southern Wizard will try to see to it that Colbey fulfills this prophecy. And also that Colbey will pursue it viciously and with malice, even at the cost of those he loves.”

The king’s hands balled into fists, and the veins swelled beneath sun-damaged skin. “As if a Renshai could love anything, except the destruction he reaps. We’re doing what we can to kill the Renshai. Did you tell her that?”

“Yes, Sire.” Valr Kirin nodded. He looked at his feet.

“There’s more?” King Tenja prodded, though surely he had heard enough.

“Yes, Sire, there is more.” Valr Kirin forced himself to meet the king’s gaze, having come to the part that he knew would make the king most uncomfortable. “She asked me to become her champion. Her cause is goodness and morality. How could I refuse such an honor?”

“So you accepted her offer.”

“Gladly.”

“What does that mean?”

Valr Kirin plucked at the sword at his belt, recalling when Trilless had handed Ristoril to him. The simple scabbard hid a blade that shone like the midday sun, its purity a constant, reassuring presence at his side. “Sire, it means I have to place the cause of right and principle above all else.”

King Tenja’s eyes narrowed as he interpreted the meaning of Kirin’s pronouncement, as it pertained to Vikerin. “You mean that you serve her first and us second.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes, Sire.” Valr Kirin measured the king’s mood, and he found it discomfited. “But,
for now, Vikerin’s cause and hers are the same. There’s no reason to think that would change.”

Eldir and Alvis watched their king closely. The bodyguard rocked from foot to foot. The adviser rubbed his hands together in a habitual gesture.

The king clarified further, gaze still locked on that of his lieutenant. “But if our causes separated, you would follow hers.”

Valr Kirin knew the answer that the king wanted, but he would not lie. “Yes, Sire.”

Tenja heaved a great sigh that shuddered through his muscled body. “My men’s safety means too much to place them in the hands of a leader not wholly committed to them.”

Kirin lowered his head. “I understand, Sire.”

“No, you don’t understand!” King Tenja’s fists clamped over the armrests of his chair like huge, white boulders. “Damn it, Kirin, you’re the best warrior I’ve ever had and the finest leader. We’re in the middle of a war, by Thor’s beard! Why now?”

“I’m sorry, Sire. I didn’t choose the time.”

Tenja opened his mouth, his face purpling, as if filled with all the blood his gripping hands had lost. Before he could speak, the doors rattled open, and a soldier named Thorfin stood in the entryway. A lumpy, brown-stained parcel swung from his hand, held at arm’s length.

All turned at the interruption. Valr Kirin stepped aside to make room for King Tenja’s soldier, glad to be free of the massive king’s attention for a time.

The warrior walked toward the throne hesitantly, his gaze straying repeatedly to the package he carried, then shying away as quickly. It appeared as if Thorfin did not wish to even look at the parcel; yet he feared that if he glanced away, it might harm him. His shuffling approach seemed to span an eternity.

King Tenja’s patience evaporated before the soldier reached a polite distance for conversation. “What do you have there?”

Thorfin continued his journey as he answered. “It’s a package, Sire. It came strapped to the back of a horse. One of ours, I believe, that we lost in the battle.” The effort of speaking and moving at once seemed too much
for Thorfin. The bundle slipped from his fingers, plummeting to the floor. It landed with an almost liquid slap, and its contents settled to the shape of the floor. Mouth wide in horror, Thorfin looked up. He made no move to reclaim the package nor to move around it.

“What is it?” Tenja demanded.

Thorfin shook his head, sending his gold braids into a whipping dance. “I’m not exactly certain, Sire.”

“Asps or some such,” Alvis said sourly. “Destroy it and have done.”

Valr Kirin studied the pack from a distance, certain that the dark stains came from blood. He saw no movement to make him agree with the adviser’s guess.

“Open it,” Tenja said.

All the color drained from Thorfin’s face. He edged toward the parcel obediently.

Sympathetic to Thorfin’s fear, Valr Kirin took a step forward to handle the matter for the soldier. Before he could move any closer, Eldir shoved through, clutching his ax. He glared at Thorfin. “Warriors don’t shrink from the unknown; they destroy doubts with bloodshed.” Using his gigantic frame to shield the king. Eldir cleaved the pack. Twelve severed hands spilled to the floor. They lay paler in death than life, streaked brown, their fingers stiffly bent in rigor.

Grief and outrage clutched Valr Kirin at once. Even Eldir recoiled so suddenly that his horned helm slid askew. No note or explanation accompanied the package, but the Northmen needed none. Without a doubt, these were Vikerian hands that should wield weapons in Valhalla. Now the souls of those brave soldiers would rot in Hel, barred from the reward they’d earned by the malicious swordsman who had dismembered them. History and precedent dictated who that man must be.
Colbey did this, still every bit a Renshai.

Silence hovered, while all five men stood like carved ivory. The king’s face went nearly black. “Infidel! Beast! Child of Demons! Go. Kill him now. Kill him yesterday.” Tenja’s eyes flashed with rage-inspired madness.

“Sire, no.” Valr Kirin spoke softly.

Tenja’s attention whipped suddenly to his lieutenant.
“Don’t ever try to command me, Slayer. I’ve killed men for less.”

“Sire, please. I’m not trying—”