In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (27 page)

Minutes or hours later, Magi couldn’t tell, but the sky
finally began to lighten.  Still the rain continued; not as fierce, but the drops were icy and the temperature had changed dramatically as the mild gave way to cold.  The magical fire still burned, but Magi could draw no warmth from it.  He continued to cough, and felt weak.

The
pile stirred next to Magi.  He tried to focus, floating in and out of consciousness, and thought he made out Kyle.  He croaked out, “Kyle?” and then coughed violently again.  Finally, he closed his eyes and slept.

~Magi~

Instead of icy rain pouring down from a pitch-black sky, it
now poured down from a frigid, grey sky.  Magi rolled over and opened one eye, only to be pelted by a raindrop for the effort.  There was no shelter and no relief from this wicked storm.  The effort to push himself to a seated position exhausted him, but he forced himself to try and concentrate.  He knew he was alive, but he was injured and sick.  Really sick—his head was burning and the rest of him was freezing.  He thought again about making a fire, but didn’t trust his voice.  He put his hand up to his head and felt the fever, but was surprised to find himself bleeding as well.  His hair was sticky and damp from rain and matted blood.  From what, who knows.

He crawled over to the
person lying to his right.  He tried to call out “Kyle?” but his voice was still too weak, so he kept trudging along the rocky shore, with their equipment from the raft strewn everywhere.  He reached the body and flipped him over…it was Elmon.  He lay there, dead or unconscious.

“Magi.” The voice came from behind him.  It was Marik.

“Master!” he croaked.  He could barely get the words out.  He reached out to his mentor.

“Rest
—we all got thrown into the sea.  When the storm came upon us, I cast a levitation spell to avoid getting pitched overboard when the raft broke apart.  I couldn’t teleport us anywhere over the water, and I had to levitate quickly to the high ground.  I built an everflame to try and keep you warm while I tried to surface everything and everyone.  You and Kyle I rescued in time, but Elmon had already drowned when I brought him ashore.  Venatus we lost to the deep, along with all our horses.”

He sat down and looked at Magi’s head.  “I need to do something about that.  I’m too weak after all that ‘lifting’ for a proper healing spell, but fortunately I brought a number of healing scrolls for just such an emergency.  This sickness of yours will not wait for my strength to return.  Come
—lean on me, and I will take you back to the everflame.”

Magi gratefully reached up
for on Marik’s shoulder.  Magi was large for his age, and Marik struggled initially with the deadweight.  Slowly, the Master dragged Magi closer to the light where he collapsed, shivering.  Marik went over to the chest they had brought for all their scrolls, and carefully opened it, keeping his cloak over it to keep the rain from falling inside.  He found the scroll he was looking for and removed it, shutting the chest.

The scroll was in a watertight leather sleeve.  Marik sat next to the fire, next to Magi, and tried to create a little dry
area using his cloak as a miniature tent, with enough room underneath to lay out the healing scroll for a reading before it got wet.  The power was in the scroll itself; even an exhausted mage could cast a complex spell if they had strength enough to read.  For this reason, healing and resting scrolls were one of the most practical artifacts a magic user could carry with them.  Marik had planned well.

As he read the spell, the scroll began to glow.  The words disappeared as they were read, and finally the paper itself turned to dust.  Magi felt the magic flow over his body, deep into his bones, and he tingled sharply all over. 
That was the last thing he remembered as he fell asleep, though his dreams were filled with dark images and strange chants.

~Xaro~

“Malenec,” Xaro began directly.  “How are you progressing?”

The Dark Cleric was adorned in his usual black garb, including a travelling cloak that snapped behind him in the wind.  He chose to take their meeting outside, apparently.  He was tall and thin, with long black hair that he tied back into a severe ponytail, drawing attention to his thin eyebrows.  Those eyebrows framed eyes rimmed in black and the color of grey stone.  His angular face terminated in a sharp goatee.  “You’re late,” was all he said.

“I was preoccupied.  I’ll ask again, my brother.  Tell me about our army?”

“We are not brothers, Xaro.”  Malenec smiled, but no one who ever saw him smile would say it was warm or joyful or filled with mirth.  Rather, his smile made one nervous, the way a hawk might smile at a rodent as it dragged a talon across its belly.

No man made Xaro nervous.  “It is a mere pleasantry, but I’m happy to dispense with it if you are.  Now for the third and final time, Malenec, what is your update?”

Softening his tone, albeit only slightly, Malenec answered.  “My army rises.  Finding fresh corpses in the numbers we need is somewhat daunting, but I am not without creativity.”  He kept smiling at Xaro, meeting his unblinking gaze.

“
Your
army?”  Xaro said gently.

“Our army, Master.  For Kuth-Cergor, of course.”

Xaro nodded, but didn’t lower his eyes. “Yes.  Of course, Malenec.  If you find yourself wanting for corpses, perhaps I will dispatch my new Assassin to you when her task is complete.” 
What am I thinking?  Keep those two as far apart from each other as possible!

Malenec
, however, had no interest in her help.  “I look forward to meeting her at some point.  I am sure our colleague is talented, no doubt, but Assassins excel in the stealthy execution of a single individual.  What I need is a plague.  Kuth-Cergor however has not seen fit to grant my prayers for pestilence…yet.”

Xaro just narrowed his eyes.  “Well, I am sure
you will find other divine resources necessary for the task at hand.  It is critical that we build an undead army, Malenec.”

The Dark Cleric’s image wiped the smile from his face, narrowed his own eyes, and leaned forward.  “I know how critical it is.  And I am the only one who can do it.”

Which you never miss a chance to remind me. 
Xaro ignored the dig.  “What are your numbers?”

Malenec didn’t immediately answer.  He leaned back and began stroking his oiled goatee.  “Fourteen.”

Xaro was shocked.  “Did you say fourteen?  As in fourteen thousand?”

Malenec curled a lip.  “
Fourteen
.  As I have said, I need more populated areas, and I need bodies freshly dead.  I cannot walk through a graveyard and animate bones and dust.  As I also said, a pestilence is what I need most.  But Kuth-Cergor has made clear that I am not to leave the continent yet.  I have faith.”

And I do not? 
“See that your faith leads you to better results, Malenec.  We will talk again soon.”  Disgusted, Xaro waved his hand and ended the connection.

What is he doing, killing a handful of isolated fishermen?  I need tens of thousands, not tens of…ones. 
He calmed himself and began turning his thoughts to his fifth and final lieutenant, hoping he was having greater success than his Dark Cleric.

Restless and desiring better news, Xaro cast a telepathic spell to make sure the last member of his inner circle could meet, which was affirmed.  He then began weaving the familiar image summoning spell, scattering black dust toward the ceiling.  Xaro took a seat, waiting for the outline to fill in.

“Well?” was all he asked.

“It is done.  Once you authorized it, I took the first opportunity that presented itself.  I have read him the Scroll of Tralatus,” said Marik.

Chapter 10:  Changes In Direction

~Magi~

When Magi awoke, he was immediately aware how hungry he was.  He opened his eyes and the smell of fresh fish filled the air.  The sun was up, and he was no longer dreadfully cold.  Whatever chill and fever he
’d had was also gone.  He looked around and saw a haggard Kyle eating roasted fish over that same blue everflame.  Marik stood next to Kyle, shuffling some bags around.

“Magi.  Good
—you’re awake.  How do you feel?”  Marik asked gently.

“Hungry.  That fish smells damn good, Kyle.”  He looked at
it greedily.  Kyle raised his eyebrows at Magi’s tone, but handed his best friend some food.

Marik tilted his head toward Magi before saying anything, a curious smirk on his face, considering their predicament.  He then plowed ahead. 
“Excellent.  Let’s all eat as much as we can—we’ve been through a lot over the last two days.  We’ve lost our guide and a good man in Elmon, not to mention our horses.  We still have a lot of ground here to cover to get to Briz, where we should be able to buy supplies to get us through Elf’s Bane
and onto Shith.  The sooner we see Pilanthas and get your prophecy, the better.  The tide will be low for a few more hours, and I’d like to be gone before we all get soaked again.  We’ll need to levitate ourselves and our packs to the top of this rock wall, where the terrain at least is passable.”

They ate in silence and extinguished the flame with a bit of magic before setting out, each levitating straight up the cliff face. 
With a clear head and restored voices, the spells were simple enough to cast and the magic users fell into a brisk walk behind Marik, generally following a southeasterly route.

“I thought you were unfamiliar with the territory here,
Master,” Kyle said.  “Are you sure this is the right way?”

Marik looked back over his shoulder
with a smile.  “Yes.  I was able to study some maps in Fostler.  Briefly, before you got yourself turned into a unicorn.”

Kyle
shut his mouth and kept walking.

~Xaro~

The hot wind
that followed the sand storm did nothing to cool Sands End.
 
It was dry, and to the east below the mesa the dunes rolled on for as far as the eye could see. 
I wonder what life was like before the desert. 
Xaro had lived long—unnaturally long—but the desert across the northern edge of Ipidine had always been there.

Xaro sat down, dabbing a damp cloth on his neck.  He called for ale—a treat that he rarely indulged in, but the news from Marik more than made up for Malenec’s slow progress, and he felt like a quiet celebration.   He
peered out over his simple sitting room, neatly organized with spellbooks and scrolls on one side, prayer journals and healing herbs on another.  His walls were outfitted with various weapons hanging from hooks and on shelves.  He considered his five lieutenants, having finalized them all…some recently, and some quite a while ago. 
They fear me, but most don’t yet know whom they truly serve—not yet.  To know him is to know fear. 
Each was powerful enough to control a vast territory through their unique talents—all were one of the best at their chosen profession.  Yet even together, he doubted they could touch him. 
An interesting thought…I wonder which is strongest? 
He filed it away in his mind to mull over later.

It had always been his plan to assemble a small council of five lieutenants, each gifted in different ways.  He hand-picked them all himself, and then contracted with those such as his Thief and Assassin (who put credence in such paperwork), and
finally gave each of them their first orders.  He set the following tasks before them:

From his Cleric, he required an undead army
.

From his Warrior, he required a living army
.

From his Thief, he required an artifact
.

From his Assassin, he required a death
.

And from his Mage, he required a soul
.

As he took a long pull on the refreshingly bitter ale, Xaro could not help but let his mind wander back in time to his own prophecy, many years ago.  An Elven prophet named Pilanthas in the town of Shith had lifted his prophecy and interpreted it.  He was older than other mages when he met with the Elf, having spent many years with Paul, learning the topography of various continents, wandering through lands with the Ranger.  When he had learned everything that he felt he could from him, he remembered leaving Paul the Wanderer to complete his studies of the Art…his Magic.  Eventually the time had come for him to hear his own prophecy before he sought to climb the Staircase.  He recalled his conversation that day with Pilanthas…

***

Images of pale eyes becoming brown soon narrowed as a castle burned in the background.  The scene faded in a haze of smoke to reveal one man approaching him.  He had white eyes and reddish-brown hair, and carried a staff…

“What does that mean, Elf?” Xaro asked Pilanthas.  “Explain the prophecy.”

The ancient Elf was perhaps the only one on Tenebrae who was both older than Xaro while actually looking younger.  Whatever prayer Kuth-Cergor granted to extend Xaro’s days, Pilanthas, apparently, had his own elixir.  If Xaro looked half his age, Pilanthas looked a tenth of his…and it was well known that he was more than 250 years old.

“There does not appear to be a significant risk to you in climbing the Staircase,” began the Elf.

“Of course there isn’t.  But what do the images mean?”  Xaro was not being conceited, he simply never considered the Staircase a risk.  He wanted more from his prophecy than warnings or encouragement for something he had already made his mind up about.

“Remember, your prophecy is not a prediction of things certain.  Think of it as one path among many paths.  It is only the most likely path forward, but not the only one.”

“Yes—noted.  And?”  Xaro smiled as patiently as he could.

Pilanthas sighed.  “It appears you are destined to be somewhat of a chameleon.  I don’t know how, but it looks as if you will succeed in climbing the Staircase, but will find a way to hide your ‘True’ nature, if you’ll pardon the pun.  Your eyes won’t be permanently transformed.”

The ideas began to click for Xaro as he began to consider the possibilities of walking the world as a True Mage, but without having to announce it with every blink.  A smile began to unconsciously form above his square jawline.  “Is that rare?”

“Quite.”

“What else?”  Xaro stood up to begin pacing.

“Just this.  There is another mage, yet unborn, that will mark you an equal.  I sense that your paths will cross, and there will be war in your wake.”

Xaro laughed dismissively, which was arrogant on his part, and he knew it.  He sat back down and looked at Pilanthas, asking the obvious question: “Who wins when we fight?”

Pilanthas closed his pure, white eyes for a moment, as if deep in thought or considering his words.  When he opened them, it was his turn to smile.  “Who said anything about you two fighting?”

Xaro curled a lip, pointing his finger at the Elf.  “Do not play games.  Speak plainly about what you saw.”

Unperturbed, Pilanthas sipped his honey-colored mead.  He shrugged.  “The truth is that I don’t know.  The path of your future shows Tenebrae at war, with you and this mage at the forefront.  Whether you fight or not is not clear, so it is equally unclear who would win, obviously.  What I can say is simply this:  this mage will be unlike any others you have seen or faced.  It is clear that you will be an actor in this theatre of war, and so will he.  That is why I say your paths will cross, but how that turns out is anybody’s guess.  I would only offer you this—I wouldn’t underestimate him if I were you.  And I am fairly certain that I will tell him the same thing twenty years from now about you…”

***

Xaro finished his bitter ale and set his empty mug down on a table.  Perhaps he would drink from a chalice when he was King someday soon, but for now he contented himself to drink his ale out of plain ceramic.  His luxury was in the depth and breadth of his knowledge and skill, and in that regard he lived more luxurious than any other.

It had been more than twenty years ago since he learned of his prophecy and of this young mage.  Twenty years of careful research, planning, and follow through.  With Marik’s update, Xaro reached an important decision.

He would call his first small council, and introduce each of his lieutenants not only to one another, but it was time they all knew who they
really
served.

~Veronica~

Veronica stared at her reflection in an unusually deep puddle on the trail from the port city of Nervadine to the large mountain village of Briz, near the southern edge of the Crystal Mountains
.
She smiled in a rare moment of vanity.

Veronica the Assassin was also Veronica the Beauty
, though the nature of her work caused her to live most her life in the shadows, unseen, unheard, untouched, and unloved.  Often covered in nondescript, baggy, or camouflaged clothing, with a hooded cloak, one just never got close enough to see her as a young woman. By the time she was close enough for one to appreciate her beauty, it was likely the last thought they ever had. 
The way I like it, in this Dark World.

Oh, she
had enjoyed meeting and flirting with Xaro.  He was a powerful man, for sure.  While she was grateful for his contract, she couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever be good enough to kill him.  He would be the penultimate test of her skills, of that she had no doubt.  But for now, she had no plans to assassinate him. 
Besides, nobody has hired me for that job,
she thought ruefully as she mounted her horse and continued her journey.

Strongiron was different.  Someone
had
given her a contract for him.  Xaro wanted the Queen’s True Warrior dead.  In their briefing for the job, he suspected that the Queen would make Strongiron her General.  Xaro apparently knew the man, and had even trained with him during his days in Kekero.  He was competent.  A leader.  She could tell Xaro respected him.  And though he would never acknowledge him as a personal threat, it was obvious that this man complicated his plans—the fact that Xaro had hired Veronica to eliminate him was all the evidence of this she needed.  Strongiron was a threat.  No—perhaps more like an obstacle.

She spurred her horse
on, having always found the rhythm of a trot conducive to deep thinking.  She had told Xaro that she had a plan, and she did—sort of.  While the challenge of breaking into Rookwood and murdering the True Warrior in his sleep, or poisoning his food, etc. appealed to her competitive nature, the reality was that she knew the odds of a direct “assault” would likely be unsuccessful.  Another Warrior might judge success by exchanging his life for the life of his adversary…but a True Assassin followed a much different code.  There was no honor in that.  A True Assassin was judged successful by terminating their mark without getting hurt or getting caught.  So unless the Warrior could be separated from his men and his castle for a prolonged period of time, a direct move against him would not likely yield success.  The Assassin’s Guild was, after all, a pragmatic bunch.  Not that direct confrontation wasn’t sometimes effective.

She
recalled two of her more recent kills during her final Test—the one that led to Silver recommending her to Xaro for this most lucrative contract.  Less than a year ago, Silver had asked her to remove the protectors surrounding a young mage, a True Warrior and a Ranger, who were in the port city of Gaust on one of the other Fingers north of her.  She never asked why—an Assassin rarely did, and certainly not for a Test.  But finding the bored Ranger surrounded by a couple of teenagers in a library and a half-drunk fighter seated by himself in a pub were hardly difficult.  The real challenge was escaping unseen, which she had on both counts.  Silver seemed to think these two kills were exceptionally difficult, but frankly the ten kills that had preceded the Selectivity Test were harder to Veronica.  A child by strangling, an elderly woman via poison dart, a young farmer drowned, the burning alive of a miller, the stabbing of a pretty young woman, the torture and execution in private of a pompous noble, the snaring of an experienced village tracker in the woods, the mercy killing of a leper, the bludgeoning of a knight, and lastly—her specialty—the throat slashing of a new mother….these kills were much, much more difficult.  Not necessarily emotionally; Veronica had cut herself off from that weakness, but rather the planning and execution of ten completely different kills was a vibrant challenge.  For example, bludgeoning an armored knight required quite a bit of skill.  Knights hardly ever drink to dull their senses, are hard to woo with feminine wiles, and pretty much seem to sleep encased in steel.  Veronica improvised on that one…a few special mushrooms added to a lamb dish created a bit of stomach discomfort and nausea.  Even knights have to remove their helms when that happens.  The knight, alone in a trough, hunched over behind a tavern, had given her the opening she needed.  Smiling, she patted her horse’s neck gently and kept trotting forward.