War of Wizards (12 page)

But even as the words came out of his mouth, movement over the city caught his eye, and there it was—the dragon—its enormous wings churning the air with great beats. Markal’s musings suddenly seemed like they’d been cast forth as a challenge, and now the dragon was coming to show Markal his folly.

The dragon circled the city as it climbed, looping around and around until it was hundreds of feet above the highest reaches of the Dark Citadel. Then it banked, left the city and came directly at Whelan’s army. Trumpets sounded, captains cried orders. Archers readied their bows.

It picked up speed and raced above them, far overhead. A few arrows launched skyward, but they fell short. The dragon continued, paying the army no attention. Markal craned to watch it as it passed. It was longer than fifteen dragon wasps lying end to end. Its mouth was big enough to swallow a horse. Each black scale of its armor was bigger than a tower shield, and the sum of them was more formidable than any shield wall.

Whelan joined him in watching it fly away, then turned back in the saddle and raised an eyebrow. “What was that you were saying just now?”

“Whatever it was might be better forgotten,” Markal admitted. “Suffice it to say that I was pontificating about how little I know about dragons.”

And yet he knew slightly more about
this
dragon than he had. As big as it was, as much as man and beast had cringed in terror as it flew over, the dragon’s belly was lean, not distended. There was no smoke leaking from its mouth.

And that meant no dragon kin were in Veyre to fill its belly with smoldering charcoal, which in turn told Markal that it could not use its primary weapon, its fiery breath.

Chapter Ten

Chantmer the Tall came striding into the throne room, followed by four mages in robes with raised cowls. He gave an arrogant look around, dismissing with a glance the guards and viziers, before his gaze dropped to Darik, who sat next to Kallia where she stretched in a nest of silk pillows.

Kallia noticed a curious break in Chantmer’s haughty expression as he held the young man’s gaze. A certain wariness, unlike what he’d shown the others. And an active dislike that was mirrored in Darik’s own expression. At last, Chantmer turned his regard to the khalifa. She returned his gaze coolly.

“So there she is,” Chantmer said. “The so-called Jewel of the West.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “An empty vessel to carry the dark wizard’s spawn, more likely. To be torn apart and discarded when King Toth decides the moment is ripe for his rebirth.”

Angry cries passed through the other men and women in the room. Captain Rouhani started forward, hand on his scimitar. Chantmer turned toward him, eyes flashing, and drew one hand from his sleeve in warning. Kallia waved off her young captain before he tried to avenge her honor and got himself killed in the process. Rouhani slunk back to his post near the door, where he and two of his companions shared a muttered conversation, with angry glares directed at the wizard.

Chantmer approached her. His mages stayed near the door, forming a half circle. “Such hatred,” Chantmer said. “Roghan says it is jealousy, but I would call it pride.”

“Yes, there is a good deal of pride in this matter,” Kallia said. “We can all agree on that. The room is full of pride, isn’t it?”

Beside her, Darik gave a sardonic smile, but Chantmer seemed to miss the irony. He bent like a giant insect and squatted cross-legged in front of her.

“Are you so proud that you would deny my assistance in order to save your beloved city?”

“No, I am not so proud,” she said. “But you have a well-deserved reputation for treachery.”

“Oh, yes. I know all about that. Markal has been whispering in your ear, and your husband is not disinterested, either.”

“You killed your own allies,” she said incredulously. “Let them die so you could steal their pain and suffering for your own use.”

“Yet King Daniel—or the sultan, as he is now known—has forgiven me entirely. He is marching north on the Spice Road with an army of twenty-five thousand Marrabatti, together with several thousand Kratian camel riders. Daniel is coming because I asked him to.”

Kallia sat up straight. She hardly dared give voice to the hope that came rushing through her. “Whelan’s brother is the sultan of Marrabat? How did that happen? What about Sultan Mufashe? What about my sister? Marialla was supposed to marry the sultan, and—”

“The old sultan is dead. I placed your husband’s brother on the throne and convinced him to marry your sister. In truth, it didn’t take much convincing. They spent the first night rutting with all the enthusiasm of dogs in the street.”

Kallia laughed, not at his crude humor, but at the marvelous, wonderful news that the widowed former king had married her sister. Marialla had been cynical, ready to marry for political alliance, yet surely she preferred Daniel to the vain, pampered Mufashe and his harem.

And Daniel was leading an army to Balsalom? It was too wonderful, assuming it was true.

“I wish I could trust you,” she said.

“
I
did this,” Chantmer said. “Nobody else could have crushed the insolent sultan and bent his entire kingdom to my purpose—to put a barbarian on the throne of the most powerful of the sultanates, with a Balsalomian princess as his queen. No other person but me could have done it. Yet you still insist that I will betray you.”

“That’s what it means to be called a betrayer,” Darik said, speaking for the first time since Chantmer had entered. “A betrayer is not an enemy, he is a man who pretends to be a friend and ally. The more powerful he is, the more bitter the treachery when he turns against you.”

“Quiet, boy, when your betters are speaking.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet,” Darik said angrily.

He exposed his left hand as he said this. It was pink and raw looking, but seemed to be less injured than when he’d come in earlier, with both hands withered. Chantmer tensed. Darik had told Kallia that the wizards had arrived covered in tattoos that had apparently been storing reserves of magic. But the battle to drive the wights from the city walls had left them depleted.

Chantmer is afraid of Darik.
 

Chantmer the Tall, who had faced his entire order of wizards, who had battled the dark wizard, who had apparently killed the sultan of Marrabat, who had lived for several lifetimes studying arcane knowledge and building his strength, was uncertain of his chances against this young man.

The wizard sounded more circumspect when he spoke again. “Very well. You may speak as my presumptive equal, and we will ascertain whether you have earned that privilege. I won’t call you
boy
, and you won’t call me
betrayer
. Does that arrangement suit you?”

Darik grunted. For a moment, Kallia thought the young man’s anger would keep him from being reasonable, but he finally nodded. “Very well, Chantmer the Tall. Let’s assume that I’ve matured and assume that you’ve come to regret your despicable behavior at the battle for Arvada.”

“What is your role in this struggle, Darik?” Chantmer asked. “What did Markal tell you to do?”

“My duty is to protect my queen and the city of my birth. To bring down the dark wizard and cast his citadel in ruins. What is
your
role?” 

“To return Mithyl to its natural state. To see King Toth dead, his soul gathered by the Harvester, and his evil put down forever. My tactics, which you so harshly deplore, have always been turned to this purpose.”

“And not to your personal glory?” Darik said.

“There is a natural order to the world,” Chantmer said. “On top are the brother gods. Below them, the wizards and kings, sultans, khalifs. Wielders of secular and spiritual power. Then the viziers, their ministers. Below them, captains, knights, merchants. Finally, the common folk, and lowest of all, the slaves. A wise queen,” and here he nodded at Kallia, which she took as a concession, “rules justly. Her hand is firm, her responsibilities always in her mind. She enjoys wealth and power, but she is never greedy, and if her people are hungry, she will do without her luxuries. And she does not elevate herself above her station, any more than the slave seeks to be king.

“This was King Toth’s great error,” Chantmer added. “Not content to be the greatest of wizards, he sought to place himself above the gods themselves.”

Kallia studied him, believing him in part, but not fully. Wizards and kings? Perhaps. But Chantmer, she thought, didn’t consider himself equal to a khalifa, nor to his fellow wielders of magic. He was above them. Perhaps not equal to a god, but next to a god in power and authority.

“You wish to be considered a wizard,” Chanter continued. He was still speaking to Darik. “Very well, take your place among us. I will concede that you have some magical ability—I saw it during the battle with the wights—but you are undisciplined, your knowledge weak. Submit to my leadership, let me train you over the course of years, decades. You will rise to your natural level.”

“I already have a teacher,” Darik said. “Markal has been training me in the incantations and teaching me how to draw out the magic.”

“And Whelan has been training you to use the sword. The girl from the mountains wants you to ride griffins. I suppose if you want to piss away your talents . . .”

“We’re wasting time,” Kallia said. “It is midmorning, and Darik tells me that you believe the wights will return at nightfall.”

“I do not know for sure, but if not tonight, then tomorrow. We must be prepared.”

“Why do I suspect you’re going to make some unthinkable request?” she said. “Suggest I give you control of the city and its defenses, or some such?”

“That would, of course, be a wise decision. This is a foe raised by wizardry, and only wizardry can defeat it. Naturally, I understand that better than you. However, I am willing to concede the physical armies of this city to your captains and to Prince Ethan. The magical defenses, of course, I must insist on leading.”

Kallia glanced at Darik, who was scowling, then back to Chantmer. “We don’t have many magical defenses, other than the ones you’ve brought.”

“Obviously.”

“Then what do you want? The power to come and go from the city, to move unmolested atop the city walls?” She was uncertain about granting even this small concession, well aware that Chantmer could turn against them the moment it suited his purpose.

“Nobody could stop me, were that all I needed. But you have conjurers in your city, yes?”

“Nobody with your strength. There is the disbanded torturers guild, but Markal and Darik tell me their magic is weak, their resources insufficient. There are maybe twenty-five or thirty of them.”

“Every army needs foot soldiers,” Chantmer said. “Men who can carry a spear and die for the glory of the larger struggle. I will take what you can give me.” He nodded at Darik. “This boy, too.”

“I’d rather not,” Darik said to Kallia. “I don’t trust Chantmer.”

“All the more reason to stay with him,” Kallia said. “Follow him when he comes and goes, make sure he isn’t up to mischief while he’s supposedly organizing a defense. It will call for some sacrifice, that is true, but in this case—”

“No, please. Khalifa, listen to me. By the Brothers, this is more than a sacrifice, this is—”

“Darik,” she said firmly, to cut him off before he could give all of his well-justified reasons why he couldn’t possibly follow Chantmer around the city.

“Yes, my queen?”

“Look at me.” She rested one hand on her swollen abdomen. “This is a time of great sacrifice. Your pride—yes,
pride
—can be sacrificed for the good of Balsalom.” 

“Yes, Khalifa. May you live forever.” Darik bowed his head.

She laughed, and touched his shoulder. “Enough of that nonsense. Now, Chantmer,” she said to the wizard, “you have Darik, you have whatever conjurers you can find. What defenses can you prepare by nightfall?”

“Not enough, I’m afraid.”

Rima approached with a tray holding a clay pot of tea and three cups. Kallia took one cup and offered tea to the others. She figured it would be a conciliatory gesture toward the proud wizard, but he waved off the servant girl. Darik took a cup, but set it aside, as if he wanted to keep his hands free. Rima stood silently with the kettle, ready to refill the khalifa’s cup.

Kallia sipped her tea. It warmed her belly and settled her stomach.

“Explain yourself, Chantmer,” she said.

“It was all we could manage to drive off the wights last night.” Chantmer peeled back the sleeves on his arms. One of his hands was withered and shedding skin. His arms were smooth and white. “Do you see? Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Kallia began cautiously. “You’ve drained your magic and don’t have enough time to replenish it before the enemy attacks again. What about the conjurers?”

“Your former torturers? Apparently, I was not clear enough. Let me be more explicit. Their power is pathetic, and they are weak in the mind. I would use them to empower the weapons of your men, but to break the wights as they attack the city walls? I’d as soon use the giggling women of Sultan Mufashe’s harem to stop a rampaging giant.”

“Darik, then. He can help.”

“He’s drained, too.” Chantmer glanced at Darik. “Isn’t that right?”

A frown passed over the young man’s face. “I won’t be at full strength by nightfall, no.”

“I need more power.” There was something calculating in the wizard’s tone. “And it will require hard measures to gain it.”

“What kind of hard measures?” Kallia asked warily.

“You don’t
like
hard measures, I understand. Neither do I, Khalifa. Nor does any right-thinking person. But they are not merely hard, they are necessary.”

“Wizard,” she said, losing patience. “Tell me what you’re asking, and I will render my verdict.”

“There is a price to be paid for any magic.” Chantmer showed his injured hand again. “This was the cost I bore to hurl a fireball and break the formation of wights. Pain, agony even. No milk of poppy to ease it, no fortified wine. Only pain. One can suffer immediately, or one can do so over weeks or months, fixing the strength of each spell into a tattoo. One can gather more strength that way, but one is confined to a selection of spells chosen in advance.”