In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (29 page)

Magi grabbed a small table in the corner of the tavern, darker than most of the room due to the erratic placement of oil lamps along the wall.  That and the setting sun removed some natural light that
had streamed through the windows throughout the day.  The corner table was completely empty, save for a lone, hooded figure seated nearby.  The figure appeared to have a mug of something in front of them.

Magi sat down and ordered three ales from a serving lady.  He then turned to the stranger and said, “I presume this table is open?”

The figure turned and looked at Magi, nodding, and pulled back its cloak.  A striking young woman with deep brown eyes, coal-black hair, and the whitest, clearest face looked back at Magi.  “Would you move if I told you the seats were taken?”  She flashed him a piercing smile through bright red lips.

Magi knew that he had sucked in his breath before he caught himself in mid-gape, straightening his face out quickly. 
She’s no prettier than Kari, really
was his first thought.  “Yes, if you were saving these seats.”  He met her gaze.

She laughed lightly.  “Make yourself comfortable.  I am not using them.”  She continued to look at Magi squarely.  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Magi started to answer when Marik and Kyle came and sat down.  For a fraction of an instant, he saw a look that can only be described as shock cross her face, but it was gone so fast that he wasn’t sure he even saw it.  He was about to answer her and introduce Marik and Kyle when she put her hood back over her face, threw a few coins on the table, and bid him farewell.

“You sure have a way with women
,” Kyle remarked.  “She was striking.  Why do you think she ran off?  I mean, we could all use a bath, but still.  Master?”  He turned to Marik.

Marik just sat there sipping his ale and staring at the spot where her cloak had snapped behind her with a modest wind gust as she exited
the inn
. 
“Who can tell with these village women?” he muttered.

~Xaro~

His lieutenants took the news as he expected.  One believed, four still doubted.
  Even his mage, who should know better, and his warrior, who had seen the proof for himself…Xaro knew that even they were not fully convinced that an ancient God was really interested in Tenebrae.  They did not dare admit their doubts directly, but they didn’t need to.  Xaro could read them better than they knew—he could sense their patronization.  It didn’t matter—the doubters were still useful, and would not be in doubt for long.  They were loyal to him for the sake of his power and vision.

The world had seen no evidence of
a true deity for so many untold generations that men and other races had all created gods in their own images to suit their own situations.  Xaro laughed at the absurdity of it.  Farmers creating rain gods.  Dwarves creating stone gods.  Elves and their forest worship.  Warriors worshipping iron gods.  Shipwrights and their useless sea gods.  Maidens and their silly fertility goddesses.  Even his fellow magic-users worshipped stars and moons and books and nothing.  Temples rose up and got abandoned.  Generations passed, and more gods came and went. 
Only the clerics have it right.

His Dark Cleric, Malenec, kn
ew the truth.  All True Clerics drew their strength not from spells, but from prayers.  A prayer to a false god was as worthless as wheels on a ship.  There were few True Clerics left, however, and Xaro suspected he knew them all:  the three Elven guardians in the Tower, and Malenec.  All of them were in Urthrax, with their immense lagoon that they bless as Holy Water.  False clerics who knew a few simple healing spells and potions were a dime a dozen.  But the power to raise an undead army—now that required real power, he grudgingly had to admit.

Malenec had no use for steel or spell or disguise
—he was a True Cleric.  A Dark Cleric, drawing his power from Kuth-Cergor, who some referred to in ages past as ‘The Unholy One.’  Xaro scoffed at that title.  As if mankind could judge what is holy and what is not.

Xaro shook his head, considering his Dark Cleric.  It was true that
Malenec served him as one of his five lieutenants and called him Master.  But it was also true that Malenec had a direct line of communication to their God as well, and had slipped in the past describing his army as if they were Malenec’s own.  And while Kuth-Cergor had blessed Xaro with more ability than virtually any other man—Xaro knew this to be true—yet he would not recognize him as his True Cleric.  It bothered Xaro.  No matter.

Let the world worship their wood and tin and stars for now.  Soon they will become reacquainted with a real god, and I will rule the land at his right hand.  He gave many gifts to me; he gave one gift to Malenec.  So be it.

~Herodius~

The armada of boats launching from the Isles was a sight to behold; Herodius could not imagine all 40,000 men departing.  The logistics were staggering, but order was kept.  The boats were well provisioned as groups of three hundred slaves manned each boat.  The massive increase in the number of rowers was planned by the Ogre to account for the fact that they would not have the current working with them as the ships did on the way over.  They joined the other slaves that were already aboard to form two shifts of one hundred and fifty oarsmen, seventy-five to a side, rowing for twelve hours and then eating and sleeping for twelve hours.  Day after day after day.

Every muscle in Herodius’s back and his shoulders screamed for mercy as he rowed in time with the rest of his shipmates.  Strong though they all were, the boats were heavy and the wind was still.  A bucket of mostly warm water, with some sweat and blood mixed in, was passed along each row with a crude ladle for each islander to draw forth one cup.  That was the only break you received, and if you dawdled more than ten or fifteen seconds, the man next to you was likely to grab it from you.  The man next to you might have been your neighbor at one time.

Now each islander was a numbered slave, his family branded with a matching number, right down to the toddlers.  Pregnant women would have their babies marked soon after birth.  Your number was how they controlled you.  If 7X59Y misbehaved, word was sent back to the new island governors, and the family members of fighter 7X59Y were punished.  They were all called soldiers from this point forward.  Nobody was a farmer or a smitty or a carpenter.  Only soldiers.

Your number was your code, with different digits and letters representing which
and what part of the island you came from, etc.  There was probably more to the code than just five alphanumeric symbols, but it wasn’t explained to Herodius.  He only knew that they tracked your island and your community, and that it matched your family brand.

Herodius recalled how one of his friends tried to alter his mark before they left.    The enormous ogre singled him out before his fellow islanders.  “So, you wish to alter your appearance…we shall alter your spawn’s.”  His daughter had her hair ripped out by the roots for that.  Nobody tried to alter
their number after that. 
They want us to lose our humanity, to turn us into dogs, harden us for war. 
Herodius kept rowing.

Finally the bucket came to him.  Sweat had been pouring from his body after hours of exertion, and he was painfully thirsty.  He looked in the bucket.  Back home, he had fresh spring water to drink, and plenty of it.  Not just for himself and his family, but his animals and crops were all well watered.  Now he would get one ladle of dirty water.

“What’s the matter, Herodius?  Too good for our water?  Plenty of your friends here are waitin’ to get their cup.”  Captain Grull happened to be assigned to Herodius’s ship.  He was quick with his whip, and it did not take long for the men to row in strained silence.

“I am not too good for the water.”  He dipped the ladle and raised it to his parched lips, drinking greedily.  “I only hope to return to my family.”

Captain Grull leaned in close to Herodius.  He was a stocky man, outfitted with plain but sturdy armor, a whip on one hip and a long sword on another.  He was missing a tooth, and his breath reeked of mouth sores.  A smile from Captain Grull would curdle fresh goat’s milk.

“Hope is a powerful thing, Herodius,” he whispered. 
“‘Course, the way we left ’em, you might not want to return.  You might only find pieces and shells.”  Laughing, he grabbed the bucket from him and shoved it into the hands of the man in the next row.

Herodius just stared at Captain Grull, eyes ablaze, but said nothing.  He did continue to test his ankle shackle, looking for any weakness in the chain or collar.  There were none. 
Yet.

~Queen Najalas~

After weeks of travel through the enormous woods of
Filestalas
,
the Queen and her party finally came to Shith, along with several Elves that accompanied her on the journey from Thalanthalas.

Shith was a tale of two cities.  The old parts of town welcomed visitors from the East, as the forest thinned and the landscape began to roll downhill.  Trees gave way to grass, grass gave way to dirt, and dirt eventually gave way to stone as travelers approached the city center and the newer southwest portion.  The stonework led to a shipping canal, which had been dug over the years as a means of facilitating quick sailing to Oraz or a sea passage around the southern edge of Elvidor to reach Rookwood without having to cross the sprawling Elvish forest.  Trade developed, as this was the southernmost port on the continent, and was far enough east to avoid the Great Whirlpool altogether.

Shith was remarkably more clean and orderly than most cities, in part due to the city’s natural slope toward the water.  It made for a natural sewer system that washed refuse and waste from the city into the sea.  No dead bodies lied in the road; here the Queen’s power reached far, as knights bearing the banner of Rookwood kept the peace, and the roads were kept clean.  Beggars were unobtrusive, and while there were telltale signs of poverty, there were also signs of pride and dignity.  Villagers washed their clothes.  Gardens were well tended.  Open markets were buzzing, and more than just misery and hopelessness filled the air.  Small children played while bards sang loudly from busy corners, hoping to catch some silver in their hat.   The noble who governed the city, Lord Ian Jamison, was a favorite of the Queen’s.  Gregarious, efficient, and practical…like the Queen herself in many ways.  The Queen knew that some called him “Eight-fingered Ian” behind his back, but she would never refer to him in such a manner.  He had lost two fingers in a sword duel, but famously fought the villain with his off-hand, and won.  He was a hero in Shith, and fiercely loyal to the crown…her one toehold of power in the West.

Knowing that the Queen was coming, Lord Ian had prepared, against her wishes, a trumpeted entry into the city as her small party emerged from the depths of the forest. 
I knew sending an advance party would lead to this nonsense.  Bother. 
She looked over at Simon and sighed.  He just shook his head and sent word to tell Ian to quit with the outdoor ceremony, that this wasn’t a visit of State.

As they reached the grassy path leading to entrance to old Shith, they came to the two long rows of trumpeters, with hundreds of surprised subjects lining the path behind them, anxious to get a look.  Flanked by a knight on one side of her and an Elf on the other, Queen Najalas felt somewhat safe. 
But it wouldn’t be hard for someone to fire a crossbow at us. 
She frowned as they approached Lord Jamison.

“Your Majesty,” he said stiffly, bowing low as the epitome of formality.  “It is my great pleasure to see you here!  Welcome to Shith, my Queen.  On behalf of our humble city, you must accept our condolences for the loss of your husband, our King.  If there is anything you need—ask, and I shall make it so.”

He was finely dressed in his ceremonial armor.  His bronze breastplate bore the crest of Rookwood:  eagle over five mountain peaks (one for each massive tower), meant to symbolize that the crown ruled
all
of Elvidor.  His blond hair blew back in a cool but stiff breeze that morning.  The Queen did not stare at the two fingers missing off his right hand.

“Thank you, Lord Jamison.  While I appreciate the effort, I assure you that I won’t be here long.  I am in fact travelling to visit Pilanthas.  May we quickly dispense of the trumpets and banners to let people go about their day?  Thank you.”  It was a command worded politely as a question.  “Now, if you would be so kind, I would be most pleased if you could escort me and my companions to see the great Elf.  I assume you know where he lives, Ian?”

Lord Jamison bowed low again, and gave his captain a quick order.  “Disperse the crowd!”  He turned back to his Queen.  “I do indeed.  The way is not far, and I would be honored to lead you there.”  He hopped onto a beautiful chestnut stallion with surprising agility given his armor and the handicap of his hand.  At a walk, he took the lead and the Queen fell in beside him, with Simon, always present, on her other side.

While Simon and Ian began a pleasant conversation about the wonderful spices that they had begun to import all the way from Adimand, the Queen watched a young boy wave at her as his mother hastily curtsied and shooed the boy back toward their home.  Not for the first time, the Queen couldn’t help thinking: 
Elvidor needs an heir.