Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (12 page)

Ferguson nodded. The lad who had come to the priesthood all those years had been a habitual liar. However, once introduced to the virtue of honesty, he had led a changed life. Ferguson believed Justin would make good on his promise but, in the end, what he offered might not be as meaningful as it sounded. “An enticing proposal but a potentially empty one if you continue your pursuit of the Otherverse. Sorial, for all his pigheadedness and lack of vision, has no designs on breaching the barrier that should not be breached.”

“Sorial has no designs
yet
. Believe me, they’ll come. For every wizard, they always do. But your sentiments are those of a coward, not a man with the foresight to lead his subjects into an uncertain future. They’re unworthy of you, Prelate. Weren’t you the one who once said that only bold risks will see us through the great transition period?”

Ferguson hated few things more than having his own words used against him. Stiffly, he replied, “There’s a difference between risk and insanity. Even supposing you find the key to unlock the Otherverse, you have no idea what will happen when you turn it. There’s every reason to believe the simple act of a man entering a foreign realm of pure energy could destroy everything the gods have wrought. That’s the very kind of Armageddon I was entrusted to prevent.”

“I don’t deny it’s a
possibility
, but the odds are strongly against it. It’s more likely that I alone would be annihilated. As you remarked, I’m not the first wizard to make this attempt. History is replete with tales of failure, some of them quite spectacular. But most, if not all, of those men used the wrong process. Stupidity and poor preparation led to their deaths or, in the tragedy of Lambert, far more than that.” It was said by some that the disaster of Lambert, where thousands perished in a magical conflagration that consumed one of the ancient cities, had been a determining factor in the gods withdrawing magic from the world.

“And you believe you’ve solved a riddle that all before you - many of who were giants in the Age of Wizards - have proved unable to crack?”

“Yes, in part because I approached the subject with an open mind. No preconceived notions. In the old days, those who attempted to enter the Otherverse would examine the failures of their predecessors and try to figure out what they did wrong without considering that the
entire
process may have been flawed, not just elements of it. I studied all the clues, read the relevant scrolls, poured over the tomes, and conducted some experiments. I believe I understand the procedure.

“But there’s something else to consider. When you say that all failed, you may be wrong. Two of the greatest wizards ever, the brothers Malbranche and Altemiak, attempted assaults on the Otherverse within a short span of one another. Both wrote extensively about their plans and Altemiak scribbled several journal entries bridging the gap between his brother’s action and his own. As you know, both men disappeared from the historical record in the same general time frame. There are no credible accounts of their deaths. I believe this is because they succeeded in their goal to enter the Otherverse. They passed beyond this world and therefore didn’t die in any conventional sense.

“The attempt may have destroyed them. Or the gods may have noticed their efforts and put an end to such a brazen threat to their supremacy. Or they may still be there and, if that’s the case, it’s a cause for concern for all men. Because if they continue to exist in some form with the power of the Otherverse at their command, then our situation on this tiny, isolated world could indeed be precarious.”

“So you seek to convince me that you plan to enter the Otherverse with the intention of addressing this potential threat?” There was scorn in Ferguson’s voice. Any consideration that Justin’s actions were motivated by altruism was ludicrous. The Lord of Fire was driven by ego, power, and a desire to prolong his existence.

“No,” replied Justin. “But it’s foolish to ignore the possibility that the Otherverse may be malignant. Any checks the gods placed on Malbranche and Altemiak expired with their passing and that would leave this world vulnerable to the whims of two men described by history as sadistic and arbitrary. The Otherverse must be explored soon, if only to ensure that the next great threat to this world isn’t festering there. There may be nothing anyone can do and it could be that all who try are doomed to failure. But the price for not trying to too great to disallow the risk. Yes, an attempt to enter the Otherverse could result in the destruction of all the gods shaped. But the same may be true of not making the attempt and I judge that the danger of the latter outweighs the former.”

As he considered Justin’s arguments, Ferguson kept his face impassive. It wasn’t difficult - even though some of the information was new to the prelate, he had long years of training to fall back on when confronted with surprises. He knew about the gaps in the historical record concerning Malbranche and Altemiak but had never connected those to the brothers’ attempts to reach the Otherverse. And he had never considered the possibility that someone or something might be within the Otherverse at this moment, waiting to strike. It was an unsettling proposition. But the question at hand wasn’t whether a foray into the Otherverse was advisable or even possible; it was the more straightforward consideration of whether it made more sense for Ferguson to remain in his current position as one of Queen Myselene’s advisors of whether he should take advantage of this new opportunity.

“And if I reject your offer?” asked Ferguson.

“For the moment, nothing. Killing you would be counterproductive and you might eventually change your mind. There’s no immediate expiration on the information you possess. The threat of execution wouldn’t mean much to you anyway. So if you say ‘no,’ things will continue as they currently are until the next time I come to you with an offer. My intention isn’t to blackmail you into joining me; it’s to provide you with an opportunity. I believe you have the perspicacity to recognize its value without an application of pressure.”

There was a brief period of silence as Ferguson continued to weigh his options. The sounds of the refugees preparing for departure in the morning could be heard from outside but they seemed strangely far away.  “I’ll do it,” he said at last.

“Excellent.” There was something peculiar in the timber of Justin’s voice. Triumph? Satisfaction? Relief?

“In all fairness, I don’t expect you to provide me with the names of potential candidates until after the war is concluded. They can’t be used with Sorial and Alicia still alive. Of course, our agreement means nothing if I’m not triumphant and that primarily means victory at Obis. So, as a means of proving your loyalty and securing the circumstances in which our bargain can be finalized, I have a task for you.”

“Of course,” said Ferguson, knowing precisely what Justin intended.

“Kill Sorial.”

“Not possible, I’m afraid.”

“He’s as vulnerable to a knife across the throat as anyone and even though he doesn’t trust you, it shouldn’t be much of a problem…”

“He won’t let me get close enough; an incident in Basingham has elevated his wariness to near-paranoia. For reasons unclear to me, he now wears a mask.”

“Opportunities may arise. Over time, he may let his guard down.”

“True, but I won’t be with him. He and Queen Myselene are taking a direct route to Obis while the rest of the Vantok contingent plods toward Widow’s Peak. The next time I see him will likely be at Obis. As for Alicia, I can’t get to her either, at least not right now. She went on a journey to the Yu’Tar Library and there’s no guessing when she’ll return.”

“Don’t concern yourself about Alicia. I know exactly where she is and I already have a trap set for her. It’s unfortunate about Sorial, though. His knack for survival is uncanny.”

“Luck is impartial and the favors of fortune are fickle.”

“Now you sound like my old teacher. One other thing, though. Do what you can do undermine this train of homeless vagabonds who call Myselene their queen. Militarily, they’re not much of a threat but the continent would be better off rid of them. Every able bodied man or woman placed behind Obis’ walls gives that city an added advantage.”

“I think I can assure you that Vantok’s refugees won’t be a factor in a future Battle of Obis. If it comes to pass. Nothing should be assumed when wizards are involved.”

“True,” snorted Justin. “I think of Basingham, Earlford, and Syre as formalities but history is littered with instances of overconfident commanders thinking too far ahead. Rest assured, when it comes to the actual conflict, I’ll be invested in the moment.

“It’s good to have renewed our acquaintanceship, Your Eminence. I’ll be in touch when the opportunity allows. And even if you don’t hear from me directly, assume that I’m watching.”

After Justin spoke those words, the flame in the lantern guttered and went out. The tent was plunged into as much darkness as the heavily lighted camp outside permitted.

After Justin’s departure, Ferguson didn’t bother to re-light the lantern. Instead, he pulled out his bedroll and lay down to think. His former pupil had, after all, given him a great deal to consider about both the present and the future.

Justin was making the same fundamental mistake Myselene had made - assuming that Ferguson was committed to one side or the other. He wasn’t. His only concern was fulfilling the mandate imparted to him by the gods. That easily justified what humans might construe as “betrayal.” For the moment, he would continue as he always had, working with those who assumed him to be their ally while reformulating his own plans to fit the current situation.

Nevertheless, his new agreement with Justin meant there would be some changes in the way he interacted with Myselene’s forces, and the first of those changes would occur this night and become apparent to Sorial at first light.

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE EMPIRE EXPANDS

The body of the guard had been removed by the time Sorial entered the tent but the other handiwork of the intruder remained evident. The basin that contained Alicia’s water had been overturned and all the precious liquid, Sorial’s lone link to his wife, had drained into the dirt. Even The Lord of Earth couldn’t retrieve it. According to Rexall, who had found the dead man shortly after dawn, it was a quick, painless killing: a knife driven into the head at the point where the skull met the neck. Such a murder - a strong, well-trained soldier with five kills at the Battle of Vantok - could only have been accomplished through an act of extreme stealth or if the man had known his attacker and was taken unawares.

This hadn’t been a random act of violence; it had been planned by someone who knew the value of the basin. Outside the queen’s inner circle and a few of the guards, no one was aware of the importance of the tent despite its off-limits designation. However, rather than looking for a traitor in that small group of loyalists, Sorial thought another possibility more likely: Ariel. His sister would have suspected he had a means of communication with Alicia and she could have accomplished something like this with ease. For an attack of this nature, she might not even have had to enter the tent. Magic in the hands of an expert could be used to do extraordinary things. Sorial was only now beginning to appreciate the variety available to him.

“It happened some time during the night,” said Rexall. “Two or three hours ago. No one saw or heard anything. When I came to relieve him this morning, he was dead and things looked like this.”

Sorial grunted in response. What was there to say? He could still pinpoint Alicia’s location if he sought her out but communication was no longer possible. The sudden surge of isolation was profound. He hadn’t felt this way since they had been separated during his journey to Havenham. The worst thing was that if she discovered some critical scrap of information, she couldn’t relay it to him. The overturning of the basin could result in a significant tactical disadvantage. It was a major blow.

“Let Chancellor Gorton know,” said Sorial. “But there ain’t nothing I can do. The water’s already dispersed and even I ain’t got the skill to bring the right droplets back. Give the man a decent burning and then let’s get the hell away from this cursed city. I don’t ever want to return to Basingham.”

Sorial remained in the tent for a few moments after Rexall departed, but an additional survey of the damage didn’t provide any more clues to the perpetrator’s identity. If it had been Ariel, she had entered the camp by stealth, committed the act, and then slipped away. It was all-too-familiar. His early encounters with her, before he realized who she was, had been much like that. The wind could hide her. In the darkness, she could move unseen.

Sorial exited into the bright morning sunlight, his form and face mostly concealed by the oversized robes he now favored. The ruined half of his face was masked but it wasn’t just the effects of Uthgarb’s acid attack that forced him to wear this attire. His body had become such a parody of its former, whole self that a frank view would promote unease. In many stories, wizards wore robes, so no one saw anything unusual in that choice of apparel and Sorial had become comfortable enough with his stone leg to be able to mimic a natural, albeit slow, gait.

He was restless to get underway and had already called the rock wyrm. It was waiting several miles up the coast. He and Myselene would ride it all the way through the mountains with a crossing one hundred miles west of Widow’s Pass. From there, their path would turn directly toward Obis. If he had been making the journey on his own, it would have taken less than two days. The queen’s presence, however, would force the rock wyrm to remain above ground. It was faster than a horse and virtually tireless but Sorial estimated it would still take nearly a week to reach their goal with about half that time spent among The Broken Crags.

The first wagons had already departed the camp. They would take the main thoroughfare to the east for twenty miles then veer off onto less-used paths running to the northeast to avoid blundering into the vanguard of Justin’s approaching army. If the weather held, the smaller roads would remain passable but Gorton in particular worried about a prolonged period of rain turning them into a quagmire that would suck the wheels of overloaded wagons in so deep that even a band of strongmen wouldn’t be able to extricate them. These were misfortunes that Sorial could prevent if he was with the column but, obviously, he was needed elsewhere. Whatever hardships the refugee force had to suffer, they would endure for the sake of their queen. At least, Sorial reflected, they should have temperate weather in Widow’s Pass. They would make the most treacherous portion of the journey during Harvest, before the heavy snows and biting winds arrived.

There were no speeches or farewells. Travelers left when they were ready, either on foot or in a wagon, with the latter option being reserved for those who were too infirm to make the trip under their own power. The only ones to ride horses other than the council members and high ranking military leaders were the guards in the front and those in the rear. The narrowness of the road demanded that the refugees move no more than four abreast, meaning that the entire train would stretch for perhaps two miles. Soldiers were stationed all along the column thereby reducing the likelihood of a bandit attack. There was little enough of value to steal but sometimes that didn’t matter.

Around mid-morning, Myselene and Gorton joined Sorial near the eastern edge of the camp, where he was watching the refugees depart. Their progress seemed maddeningly slow but Carannan was confident they would be well away by the time Justin’s forces arrived, which was estimated to be late in the day on the morrow. Of course, not everyone in camp would head north. Some would strike out on their own, seeking their fortunes elsewhere, perhaps in one of the many southern villages they hoped were too small to attract Justin’s attention. If Sorial had just been a stableboy, that’s what he would have done. An arduous trip to the North held little appeal. Even though he had been born there, his memories were of Vantok and he would want to stay as close to “home” as possible.

Sorial glanced at his queen. Although standing with her back ramrod straight to appear regal to those who saw her from a distance, up close she looked worn and weary. Carefully applied makeup had hidden much of the bruising on her face but nothing could completely conceal the evidence of her mistreatment in Basingham’s dungeons. Last night, in the small hours after they had “done their duty,” Myselene had broken down and cried - long, silent, powerful sobs. It was easy to forget how much she had lost so recently. Circumstances hadn’t allowed her to grieve for Azarak properly and perhaps only Sorial recognized how profoundly she missed him. By the time the dawn’s first light shone on the camp, however, the sense of determination that had driven Myselene since her flight from Vantok was once again at the fore. She was committed to this path - to retaking Vantok from Justin’s forces and restoring the survivors to their homes.

“Fourteen-hundred miles with this lot,” said Gorton with a sigh. “If we’re lucky, we might make twenty miles a day, and less while we’re in the Pass. That’s about ten weeks until we reach Obis. It’ll be getting cold by then with Winter approaching but we should still beat Justin by a half-season. He’ll need at least six weeks to consolidate control over Basingham and drive his army cross the continent to Earlford. By the time he takes Syre, we’ll be at our destination.”

They had discussed the most pressing concerns ad nauseam. Provisions and cold weather clothing could be requisitioned from villages in the South but would become a scarcity in the North. Myselene hated forcing her guards to become bandits but there was little choice. When stores weren’t offered, they would be taken by force. Once she had claimed Obis’ throne, she could send caravans loaded with supplies to the refugees but that might not be for a while. There was also Ferguson’s “secret base” of Sussaman just beyond the mountains. The vice chancellor had provided assurances that some measure of relief would come from there. Aiden, a resident of the village who had accompanied Rexall to Vantok, was sent on ahead to make preparations.

“I wish we weren’t so spread out,” said Myselene, reiterating a concern she had voiced numerous times before.

“So does Carannan, but he’s deployed his men in the best manner possible to provide protection, policing, and aid, and he’ll have riders patrolling the entire column. I’m more concerned about disease and famine than raids. I’d offer a prayer to the gods for the weather to hold if it would do any good. Ferguson assures me it’s folly but the habits of a lifetime die hard.”

“Watch your back with him,” said Sorial. “He seems cowed but there ain’t no defeat in that old body. He’s too valuable to kill and he knows it but, by all rights, he should have already decorated a gibbet. He’s committed treason several times over in addition to other unpardonable crimes.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” said Gorton, whose initial distrust of the former prelate had grown over time. “He keeps his own counsel and I always get the feeling he knows things he doesn’t reveal. But then you’d understand that better than most having been his prize victim.”

Myselene steered the subject elsewhere. “Gorton, I’ll send riders to find you as soon as I’ve secured Obis. If my plan fails, keep the refugees away from there. You know what will happen to them if they arrive at the gates without a friend in command. If someone else secures the throne, you’re free to do as you see fit. That goes for every man, woman, and child. Justin will still need to be opposed.” They all knew that Myselene’s gamble was a win-or-die proposition. If she played for the throne and lost, she would be executed. She was far too dangerous a claimant to let live.

“Don’t fail,” said Gorton. “Then we won’t have to worry about unpleasant alternatives. I have faith in you, Your Majesty. I always have. When you were a little girl, I wondered what it might be like for you to succeed your father instead of Grushik. Truth be told, I think the king did as well. Now I pray I’ll get a chance to learn. I always believed you had it in you to be a great leader and I may have underestimated your full potential.”

They parted with a long, lingering embrace borne of mutual affection and respect. Watching them, Sorial understood that, for Myselene, Gorton represented the father Rangarak had never been. For the older man, a notorious womanizer, there was a little more to it than paternal warmth. Myselene was a beautiful woman and he knew it. With a flash of insight, Sorial recognized that, if both the queen and her chancellor survived what was to come, they would one day be lovers. But that was a very big
if
.

For Sorial and his queen, the remaining good-byes were few. They exchanged brief farewells with Rexall and Warburm, but Carannan had already departed, at least temporarily riding at the front of the column.  No thought was given to a leave-taking of Ferguson, who was still sequestered in his tent.

Donning a priest’s robe that was a twin to Sorial’s, Myselene embraced anonymity. The two were able to wander away from the disbanding camp without attracting notice. On the upslope of a hill several thousand feet to the north, they paused to look back. It was perhaps a last view of Basingham in “friendly” hands. The gates remained firmly shut. It was unclear who was in charge and Myselene had made no attempt to open negotiations with the city in the wake of her escape and Sorial’s return. From here, the city appeared serene but, behind the walls, it was easy to imagine order breaking down with no clear leadership in place. With Uthgarb dead and Durth fled, it was anyone’s guess who had claimed the throne and how long they would hold it.

“Their leaders ain’t served them well,” said Sorial. There was a hint of anger in his voice, the outrage of a peasant betrayed by his liege. “No one in that palace thinks of the people in the streets, but they’re the ones who’ll bear the burden when Justin arrives. Men will be pressed into his army and women will be forced to… service… the soldiers.”

“You had the good fortune to grow up in a city with kings who cared about their subjects. Azarak was the best of them, perhaps the most honorable ruler across the continent. Durth is representative of the typical king - a man who’s more concerned about his own comforts and position than the suffering of the weakest of his subjects. He seeks prosperity for his city because his reputation is reflective of Basingham’s wealth. In adversity, it’s the duty of a peasant to suffer to protect the nobles and the nobles to suffer to protect the royals. One of the reasons Azarak faced rebellion is because he broke with custom and suggested that the upper classes should sacrifice to help the lower classes.”

“Perhaps a new order will rise out of the ashes of this war.”

“There’s little doubt the old ways are dying, and your kind will play a big part in how things evolve. The secular power of a king is as nothing compared to magic. Without gods to curb wizards… it won’t be many generations before the rulers of the cities will be bending knee to the Lords of Fire, Water, Earth, and Air.”

The inevitability of that unsettled Sorial; he hadn’t considered the long-term consequences of the return of magic. But there were more immediate concerns. “If we can survive Justin.”

Myselene offered a thin smile. “There is that, of course.”

They turned away from Basingham, leaving the city to its inevitable fate. The path ahead beckoned and, much like when he had made the journey to Havenham, Sorial felt he was about to set foot into a maelstrom.