In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (65 page)

“I need your help, Tarsh.  He’s already been back here, back to Brig
g and our school—some of my most powerful spell books are missing—I know he’s been through my home.  The boy you grew up with is no more…he’s a thief, a liar, and a killer. I’m currently looking for a special object, one that will help keep us safe.  But I need some help.”

Tarsh wanted to help his Master. 
If the Queen’s and Marik’s allegations were true—
“Of course I’ll help, but why me?  Surely you want an older student, one who’s already climbed the Staircase…” Tarsh tried not to sound too bitter, recalling his recent conversation with Serenity.

“These are dark times, Tarsh.  As I said, I fear war is brewing.  What I need
most right now is loyalty.  I do not doubt your skill or power—you are twice the mage of most of my former students.  Besides, surely you are ready to climb the Staircase now.  You were nearly ready when I left.”  Marik flashed Tarsh an encouraging smile.

“Serenity won’t let me Climb.  She doesn’t think I’m ready.” 
Now
he was bitter.

“Come with me and I’ll show you the spell to Climb before week’s end.  Talent identification was never Serenity’s strength, Tarsh.  She’s a competent teacher, but she lacks the spark of a truly
special
mage, and she fails to identify that spark in others as well.”  Marik laid it on thick, walking over to grab Tarsh’s hand.  “I, however, will not make that same mistake.”

I’ll be able to teleport! 
“When do we leave?” He asked with a rare smile.

Reeled in. 
“Right now.  You’ll find a travelling bag already packed.  Take a walk around to make sure I didn’t miss anything, for you won’t be returning any time soon.”

“What about Nugget?” Tarsh asked, somewhat shamefaced.

“He’s a better fit for Serenity’s tutelage, don’t you think?”  Marik asked with a wave of his hand, already knowing what the young man’s answer would be.

Chapter 23:  Prosecution or Persecution

~Magi~

“The charges?” yelled one of the vassals in Lord Corovant’s Great Hall.

The Lord sat upon a
Judgment Throne that would have made Queen Najalas blush.  It was an enormous chair, heavily padded, with wide arms of finely polished wood encrusted with jade, rubies, and even diamonds.  The back of the chair rose several feet above his head, and it was pure gold, matching Lord Corovant’s own hair.  His silken blond hair was also perfectly combed, as usual.  He did not, however, look as bored as usual.

Magi had use of only his eyes, and one benefit of having pure white eyes was that he could
shift his gaze around and nobody could tell what he was really looking at.  Standing to the side of Lord Corovant, he kept his eyes fixed on the man.  He saw a Lord who never once took his own eyes off Magi.

“Thievery, murder, malicious spellcasting, and disobeying a direct order from the Queen herself.  That is for starters, though I daresay more shall be uncovered.”  Another vassal in Lord Corovant’s court answered the call.

Magi moved his eyes a bit further.  Though he could not move his neck or waist, he could still see almost half the room just by shifting his eyes around.  He saw a fool in one of the corners, juggling oddly-shaped fruit.  Corovant never bothered to pay his jester so much as a glance.  He knew the room behind him was packed.

“Proceed
,” the Lord said stiffly.

The first vassal cleared his throat and called out loudly, “First witness:  Manny the fishmonger.”

A dirty, disheveled man made his way slowly to the front.  Magi smelled him long before he came within the mage’s field of vision.  The smell of sour wine, fish, salt, and sweat as he passed made many in the Hall gasp. He recognized him instantly as the swindler he’d encountered a year ago on his first trip to Gaust with Lionel, Sindar, and Kyle. 
Kyle.

The man sat on a plain chair beneath the dais, facing the room, with Lord Corovant above him.  “Stole from me, he did!  Notch all my coppers, I do.  Fancy mage like him can magic-up his own money, but it’s more fun to steal from old Manny.  Just a fish peddler, me Lord.  Simple as can be.  But I’ll not soon forget the face of any man who robs old Manny.  Take his hands, Lord!  One less conjurer in the world would be no loss.  Never got me coppers back, neither.  Then he steals from me again, Lord!  Me and the missus were having a time together, you see, and he breaks into me room, steals good coin from us both while we’re huddled in a corner, with naught but straw to keep us decent.  Had it in for poor Manny since he first saw me, he did.  Justice!  Manny demands justice from his Lord!”

Lord Corovant held up his hand to keep the fish peddler from continuing.  He wrinkled his nose.  “Thank you.  Next accuser.”  With a slight nod from the throne, a Knight came from nowhere and led Manny, a bit roughly, out of the Hall.

Wyzle came forward.  He looked at the chair that had been occupied by Manny and decided to stand instead.  “He killed his own friend, a Ranger.  The man has no conscience.  Why he killed him I’ll never know, but he stole an incredibly valuable scroll from me,
left a bloody corpse to rot on my marble floor, and then put all of us asleep to aid in his escape.  It comes as no surprise to me when I heard his other travelling friend was found dead in the very inn that, uh, Manny was staying with his, uh, missus.  Two horses mysteriously vanished from the stables of
The Lazy Pour
, and many awoke from the same magical sleep that he used to curse my own staff.  He is a menace, my Lord.  Taking his hands does not begin to atone for his crimes.  Let him sit in boiling water until his flesh is purified.  Then take his hands and let him beg for his bread and eat with his beak like the crow that he is.”

Shouts rang up as the popular Keeper of the Books in the Great Library stirred up the crowd in the Hall.  Soon there was small mob waiting outside the Hall, having heard the commotion and the rumors of a salacious trial, pressing on the doors
in an attempt to get inside to see this criminal.

Magi, still under the paralysis spells of the mage-guards, did nothing but shift his eyes around.

Lord Corovant held up a hand, straightening his cuff in the process.  “Thank you.  Next accuser.”  Wyzle retreated to the back of the Hall.

A
middle-aged man, thin but fit, came forward.  Whispers seemed to follow him through the chamber.  Nobody in the large crowd recognized him.  Magi thought he looked vaguely familiar, but couldn’t place him.  “Lord Corovant,” he began.  “I am Phineas, a mage-guard at Rookwood.  Long live the Queen!”

“Long live the Queen!” echoed throughout the hall.  Magi noticed that Lord Corovant barely moved his lips.

“When I heard that you had captured this fiend, I had to teleport here.  I can assure you that I saw with my own two eyes that this man assaulted a woman who was a guest of our Queen, and then used his magic to kill a man who rose to her defense.  Her own brother, in fact.  As it turns out, apparently this man was once his best friend.  Loyalty and friendship are as lost to this creature as are civility and respect.  Whatever your ruling, Lord Corovant, he is not to be killed until I take him back to Rookwood, where the Queen herself will pronounce final judgment on the crimes committed in her presence.  You must leave more than a speck of his flesh intact that it may be flayed in the dungeons of our mighty castle.”

Lord Corovant stared at the mage-guard, trying not to look indignant. 
As if the East should dictate to us west of the mountains…
“Thank you, Phineas.”  He stood and stretched, straightening the deep blue sash he wore over his pale yellow tunic.  He cleared his throat politely.  “Is there anyone who would speak on behalf of the accused?”

“I will
,” a velvety voice replied.  Though Magi could not turn his head, he recognized the unmistakable voice of Elsa, the Ol’ Shakoor.  He would have smiled if he could have moved his lips.

~Xaro~

Xaro surveyed
his army, putting the disappointment of his last update with Veronica behind him.  The
pillafer
had been the ingredient he needed, and his potion brewing had done wonders for the recovery of his army.  Daily, he mixed with the men, praising Kuth-Cergor and encouraging their efforts as they began to regain strength.  Their loyalty would not be won in a day—perhaps the islanders would never be loyal, given the manner of their conquest and the success of Herodius’s rebellion.  Yet every day, Xaro trained them, fed them, healed them, encouraged them, and mostly preached to them.  What Tar-tan had failed to do through fear, Xaro had achieved through generosity.

Upon his arrival at the disheveled camp outside the Dead Marshes, he went from slave to slave, using his magic to treat the
basic injuries.  He started with those who swore an oath of allegiance to him.  He came last to those who were still defiant, those who had wished that they had left with Herodius.  Many would have, had they been faster, braver, or healthier.  Those he healed too…only to strengthen them for public torture.  When it became clear that better food, cleaner water, and nicer quarters awaited those who had pledged their loyalty, while pain, deprivation, and suffering followed from continual defiance—the last few resistors caved.  Soon all were bowing down to Xaro, worshipping this “new” God, Kuth-Cergor, and following General Tar-tan’s orders.  The revitalized army, well-fed and better trained, aided with supplies from Misk, was ready to march again inside a month.

The human army for Xaro now
approached 30,000, combining the volunteers from Misk and the restored men from the original “recruitment” of the Uncharted Isles.  He was hoping for more, but it would be enough.  He had some additional swords that he left behind at Sands End, from the initial group of mercenaries he raised from the fighting pits of Kekero. 
Once that fool of a cleric arrives with his undead army, we should have more than 50,000 bodies to throw against the Queen and her arrogant knights and allies. 
Soon, Xaro would have to decide whether to strike north first…or head back east to Rookwood itself.

Of immediate concern was the logistical challenge his half-ogre
now struggled with: getting his army across the Ajax Mountains and then across the Thirsty Desert to his stronghold at Sands End
.
  There was no spell he knew of that would teleport an entire army.

He headed outside his camp
, looking for some fresh air.  He walked past some flat land just outside the city walls that he had encouraged the young, new Lord Ethan to grant to loyal men for them to farm for all of Misk so that not everything would need to be imported.  Past the flats, the terrain grew a little hillier, with more trees scattered about.  Xaro found a patch of ground shaded by a few larger trees. He located a quiet spot, where he created a small ring of stones to build a modest campfire with a flick of his wrist and a few words of magic.  It wasn’t so much that he was cold; but he found the flames soothing.  Clearing his mind, he called upon Kuth-Cergor.

“Master, God of this Age, show your servant how I can lead your army across this harsh land.  Guide my decisions, Lord of this World, and bless my efforts.  Grant me wisdom and understanding
, that I may march the men you have given into my hand to our new home, over the mountains and across the desert.  Preserve my strength in numbers that I may do your bidding, my Master.  Show favor to me in this, as you have shown favor to others who serve you.”  He didn’t utter Malenec’s name, but he saw his face in his mind’s eye.

The flames flickered in silence.

Xaro was patient.  He was all but a True Cleric, and few men could match his faith in his Master.  He stared at the magical fire, watching the flames dance and flow.  Patiently he whispered similar prayers, asking Kuth-Cergor for guidance, direction, protection, and blessing.  The afternoon passed and night began to fall, painting the sky deep purple-blue, then black.  Xaro waited, clearing his mind, just listening.  He looked down on the ground and saw a small ant hill to one side of his fire pit.  Several ants scurried about, heading toward the ring of stones.  Mesmerized, he watched as these ants began to group themselves and came to the ring. 
How odd.
  It was fascinating to watch as one of the lead ants found a crack between the rocks and began walking toward the fire!  Soon all the ants were marching through the gap, right into the flames.

Suddenly
, the fire went out, and Xaro was in the dark until he created a glow ball.  Curiously, he looked at the ants and saw them march across the place where a second ago a fire had been raging.  Soon the whole colony had crossed his fire pit.

Xaro smiled.  “Thank you, my Master.  In faith we will head toward the Ajax Mountains, and trust you to find us a path through and safe passage across the desert toward
Sands End.”

A distant peal of thunder erupted to the north, as sheet lighting flashed across the night sky.

~Phillip~

Loaded up like a pack-mule, Phillip the Elder was miserable.  His schemes could not have gone more sideways:

Gain favor with Rebecca, the Lady Ranger, an athletic beauty
—not happening.

Gain favor with Kari, the striking
illusionist who wants to be a True Cleric—not with Rebecca watching his every move.

Gain favor with the Queen herself for securing an alliance
—not in a thousand lifetimes

He would have settled
for any of those outcomes.  Absent that, he would have contented himself to simply travel home to Brigg.  Out some gold, but with a thrilling tale to spin.  Instead he was faced with conscription into the Queen’s guard or travelling on this ridiculous quest to find remnants of some ancient God.  And he had not even been given a choice!

Still,
even this would have been tolerable if he had been treated with respect—a bit of dignity accorded to a man of his position.  Alas, he had served on the boat essentially as a deck hand, and now was in charge of the pony that carried half their supplies on its back.

Seated uncomfortably atop one of the horses they’d brought, Phillip looked around at the stark land onto which they had disembarked.  There were endless rolling hills with long grass and heather up to your legs in some parts, even when saddled.  It was wide open, with hardly a tree in sight.  The few they did see were short and wide, more like overgrown bushes.  But mostly it was rolling hills, thick grass, and a cold wind that blew in from the coast, rippling across the heather in waves.  Phillip was constantly checking the buckles on the pack pony that trudged
alongside him, the grass whipping against his legs.

As they
continued riding slowly overland, with Strongiron at the front, followed by Kari, then Rebecca, than Phillip, and last by Niku, Phillip couldn’t help but stare at his arms and legs to take his mind off his misery.  At least he was getting fit.  Gone was the soft belly of a politician.  The rations he had eaten on all their travels had been for nourishment and nourishment alone—nothing in excess, no food for pleasure.  The hard labor he had done since being forced into this trip had done his body good, he had to admit.  He was stronger, of that he was sure.  But more miserable than ever.