In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (30 page)

~Xaro~

Xaro was outside his fortress, looking at the improvements and restorations that had progressed.  The walls were fortified, and impressively tall.  New turrets had been erected, and he was inspecting a few prototypes of a lightweight siege engine that he could transport by ship and assemble whenever he came ashore, hastening an attack without having to fell a bunch of trees as soon as his army disembarked.

But the bulk of his efforts and resources had been focused almost exclusively on the Pits.  He knew that the war would be waged in another land.  He wanted
Sands End to be defensible, but what he mostly wanted were warriors fit to take the battle abroad to the enemy of his God.  And he knew when the islanders came, it would take months and months of drilling in the Pits to turn these farmers into True Warriors, and more training beyond that to learn how to work cohesively with the undead whenever Malenec got his act together.

Xaro stood in the center of the largest pit.  Underground rooms had been dug to allow warriors to rise up from below the dirt.  Stands for viewing and critiquing had been built.  Healing houses had been built, along with barracks and food
halls.  Smaller pits were used to teach every different weapon class.  Dunes had been flattened and turned into large dust fields to practice marching formations, fighting in a phalanx, and cavalry maneuvers.  Hand-to-hand fighting tactics would be drilled in yet other pits.  Outdoor dungeons, separate from those within the bowels of Sands End, were to be used for the disobedient or lazy, and even ‘humiliation poles’, that Tar-Tan had erected, would host incompetent fighters who would be stripped and mocked.  Xaro wrinkled his nose at those, but let them stand for now.  Perhaps they would be effective, but he had his doubts.

He was spending lavishly, trading gold and silver at a feverish clip with the Elves of Shinty-Moore, the Dwarves of Harken, and the merchant farmers across Adimand.  He still had some of Lord Kensington’s wealth, but it was not inexhaustible.  He would likely need some modest conquests along the way to fill his coffers before he ever tackled Rookwood.

He pulled the stopper from his waterskin and drank heartily.  The desert was interminably hot, and he was always thirsty here.  But it was a good place to train an army—it made them hard, and the campaign he would wage for his God would require a hard army.  He wished Tar-Tan could get here more quickly with their new recruits; looking at all he had built, he knew Sands End was now the premier training ground in the world for would-be Warriors.  Not even the Kekero fighting pits, where he had cut his own teeth, could compare to the grounds he had built for this express purpose.

He considered his last updates again.  They were decent
for the most part.  The only update that troubled him was Malenec’s.  Xaro didn’t appreciate his tone and the way he spoke to him.  And he was concerned about the power Malenec could wield with an undead army loyal to
him
.  He would have to keep a close eye on his Dark Cleric.

Veronica, sweet Veronica.  Pure and deadly.  Xaro sighed
—his private Assassin was intoxicating to him.  He knew she was competent.  But every time he spoke with her, he became more captivated with the
purity
of her focus.  The idea someone so beautiful—
that pale skin, black hair, and red lips!
—could be that single-minded was almost irresistible.  Xaro could not wait to meet his Assassin in person.

Now, if she could successfully eliminate the Queen’s hero, the might of Rookwood would scatter like the sands at
Sands End
.
  Strongiron was a fool.  He could have had Tar-Tan’s place; Xaro would have given him complete command of his Human army, and there would have been no ‘humiliation poles’ necessary under his command.  He begrudgingly admitted to himself that Strongiron was that good.  He was a natural leader; Xaro had noticed that from his first day in the Pits.  Other men loved him, would bleed for him.  That was invaluable, Xaro knew.  And yet, there were other ways of extracting good performances from men.  Fear, for one.  Men feared his enormous general, Tar-Tan.  Xaro chuckled at the prospect of his nearly nine-foot tall half-ogre threatening the family of one of his captured slaves.  They would be obedient, at the least. 
We shall see if they will be loyal.

Trevor’s update pleased him enormously.  His own
prophecy, combined with the foresight Kuth-Cergor would sometimes grant him, gave him all the confidence in the world that he had found the one mage powerful enough to stop him.  It had to be this Magi Blacksmooth.  And as long as he had that ring, he would never be susceptible to the Scroll’s awesome power.  It was paramount for Trevor to steal that ring from this upstart mage.  If that ring did what Xaro suspected… He had to have it.  He could not take the chance of wasting such a magnificent scroll.  Twenty years of planning, and one shot to get it right.  No, the ring needed to be removed before he would authorize Marik to use the scroll, which he did immediately after Trevor’s private update.  But more importantly, he wanted that ring removed by someone other than Marik.  Nobody knew exactly how special that ring was, though Marik undoubtedly now suspects what it is, of course
.  He will have put together my authorization to use the scroll with the convenient ‘loss’ of Magi’s ring…he’ll figure it out.
  Had he suspected earlier, he would have been sorely tempted to take it himself.  Lord knows he had plenty of opportunity.

Marik.  He was the most disciplined, most focused, and the most important member of his Council.  Raising that boy ha
d been a labor, Xaro knew.  But now that the scroll had been read and the process begun, it was only a matter of time.  Soon the boy would be ready to climb the Staircase himself.  The battle might be enjoined by then, and Xaro would not waste talent such as Magi’s. He couldn’t dream of killing him.

But he wasn’t going to stand idly by and let him fight against Kuth-Cergor, either, should it come to that.

~Queen Najalas~

In the old part of town, not far from the main entrance to the east at the edge of Filestalas
,
one home was set back off the road.  It was old, but meticulously well maintained.  And it was unmistakably Elvish in design, as living trees formed a foundation of pillars.  It looked like many of the homes and shops in Thalanthalas.

Lord Jamison led
Queen Najalas and Simon as they approached Pilanthas’s home while her men guarded the horses and supplies, though she felt as safe here as she would anywhere.  Her Captain of the Guard, Simon, would not hear of letting her enter the house alone, however.  “Oh very well, Simon.  If you fear for my life in the company of an ancient Elf, be my guest.”  Lord Jamison bid them goodbye and trotted off, waving at a figure standing in the doorway of the elaborate tree house set on the ground.

A young Elf was framed in the doorway,
waiting for their approach, a warm smile on his timeless face.  The Queen and Simon approached the man somewhat cautiously.  Like all Elves he was dark skinned and broad-nosed.  He had a gold loop through his left ear, and a somewhat stocky build that was a bit unusual for his kind.  A little short with a thick chest gave him somewhat of a dwarven frame, but it was subtle.  Perhaps he simply lifted heavy things, like a smitty.

The most striking feature on him, however, was his eyes.  They were pure white, like all True Mages.

“Young man, this is your Queen, who has travelled from the other side of the realm to speak with your master, the ancient Elf Pilanthas.  She seeks his council.  Please do not keep her in wait.”  Simon was direct, but not harsh.  Whatever arrogance he conveyed was minimal.  The Queen had no use for pageantry.

The Elf
bowed low, and with a modest wave of his hand, said, “I know your purpose, and I would recognize our fair Queen’s face anywhere.  What kind of prophet would I be if I wasn’t expecting you?” the old Elf said with a twinkle in his eye.  “Please, Queen Najalas—enter and be refreshed.  Simon, you may join us if it puts our Queen more at ease.”  He stepped aside and held the door to his unusual house open.

Queen Najalas stole the quickest look possible with her bodyguard before regaining her regal composure.  That quick look said it all
—
he looks like he’s 25!

“You are
—Pilanthas?” she asked.

“I am, your Majesty
,” he replied.  “Do not be thrown off by my youthful appearance.  I assure you, I am every bit of 250 years old.”

“Then by what sorcery
do you change your look?”  the Queen demanded.

Pilanthas smiled again.  “That is a secret that I may share with you
...or I may not.  But you did not travel all this way to speak with me about my face.  You wish to discuss…something else.  Shall we have our discussion inside, where it is more comfortable?”

The Queen inclined her head slightly
. “Yes.  Of course.”  Simon did not need her invitation—he followed her inside automatically.

The house was simply furnished, but for one thing that stood out: books.  The
y were everywhere, all ordered on shelves, with only a handful resting in piles on a few tables.  There were some strange vials and other queer objects that the Queen could not place, but every room must have had a few hundred books.  And the house, though simply furnished, was not small.

“You live in a library, Pilanthas
,” the Queen said as she sat and accepted some fragrant tea with a smile.  “Thank you.”

“When you live as long as I have, it affords you with time to both study and to write.” The
Elf sat himself down after offering Simon tea as well and passing out some bread.  “So, you have something on your mind?” he asked.

Queen Najalas didn’t
reply immediately.  She looked at the Elf closely.  There were no wrinkles.  His hair was light brown—not a streak of grey—and his body was the very picture of muscular youth.  He wore a green tunic.  The Queen had known many Elves, and knew they lived much longer than men.  Maybe three times as long—a 180-year-old Elf was considered a ripe old age, just as a 60-year-old man was.  But a 180-year-old Elf looked
old.
  And Pilanthas was more than 250 years old—legendary.  Why had nobody told her to expect the look of a boy?

“Pilanthas, I have many things on my mind.  But before we discuss them, I must confess that I am indeed
mystified by your appearance.  I find it difficult to trust a man whose age and face are so clearly mismatched.  I’m afraid your council will fall on deaf ears until I believe you are who you say you are.”  The Queen sipped her tea, but did not lower her gaze.

“Very well.  I had an inkling that this may be a
n—issue between us.  My Queen, let me tell you some things.  I know your general, Strongiron, told you about Xaro, whom he observed first hand.  I know that you did not believe him at first, any more than you believe me.  So you asked for confirmation, and received it recently in the form of whipped Lord Kensington, a man whom you view as a weakling.  I already know your questions of me.  You seek more confirmation that this Xaro is indeed a threat from across the sea.  You seek council about what you should do to defend Elvidor if he attacks.  You wish to see the future, to know your fate in such a battle.  And…you wish to know what man would be a suitable King, for your womb stirs and you wish to leave an heir, but you find most men interested in the title, yet unfit for rule.  Have I come close to the mark, your Majesty?”

The Queen narrowed her eyes.  Simon too was on edge, looking for a sign from his Queen.  But then she laughed.  “Well.  Either you are
truly a prophet, or the most well-informed man I have ever met.  Fair enough.  Do you have something a little stronger than tea, good Pilanthas?”

The
Elf got up and flashed an entirely too-charming smile.  “Of course, my Queen.”

~Tar-Tan~

“We must change course, General,” Captain Grull said to Tar-Tan.  “The boats will not survive a passage up the coast.  We underestimated the weight.”

Tar-Tan stood up in his cabin, slamming his fist onto a table, causing it break.  He also struck his head on the eight-foot ceiling, forgetting his height, causing more wood to splinter above him.

“Our boat will sink even faster if you decide to take it apart plank-by-plank, General.”  Captain Grull added.

The half-ogre curled his lip into an unpleasant sneer and sat back down.  “How is it possible that we did not account for this?”  Tar-Tan prided himself as an exceptional tactician.  For him, this miscalculation was almost worse than losing an arm in battle.  “Why must we head to the southern shores of Ipidine?”

Captain Grull spread his arms wide.  “We factored the weight fine for calm seas, General.  The Endless Sea of the West this time of year, however, is anything but calm.  We are rowing against wind and current, and the slaves
—”

“Soldiers” Tar-Tan interrupted.

“
Soldiers
…they go through more food as a result.  We have lost one ship already to waves capsizing her, and it was hardly the worst storm we’ll face up the coast.  We must get to land.  The ships we’ve designed cannot weather the kind of seas we’ll face with this much weight aboard.  They float, but the ballast is unstable this low in the water.”