Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (24 page)

“No,” agreed Myselene. “If I was interested in safety, I would have holed up in some tiny fishing village far to the south and waited for the storm to blow over. As for the ‘elite spies,’ most of them are in the employ of Gorton, who serves as my chancellor. I came here because war is on the horizon. The army of The Lord of Fire is moving inexorably toward Obis and the city must be whole in time to face this threat.”

“And you believe you’re the one to make it whole. Entirely in keeping with what I’d expect from a child of King Rangarak. He always spoke of you as the least brittle of his brood. More than once I heard him say: ‘If only she had a cock between her legs.’”

“If I was to announce my candidacy tomorrow, the people of Obis would flock to my banner.”

“The uneducated rabble might but they’re nothing without the military. We control the city now regardless of what those fools on the Council of Nobles might believe. Kings of Obis are allowed to ascend the throne at the sufferance of the army. They remain in power by showing their mettle and taking command of us. I don’t see either thing happening in your case, Your Highness. Being backed by the peasantry has little value in a succession war.”

“True. Which is why we’re meeting. I have the name and the bloodline. You have the backing of a sizeable contingent of the military but no support outside the army.”

“You’re remarkably well informed.”

Myselene merely smiled.

“You propose an alliance?”

“I’m asking if you might be persuaded to support my candidacy.”

“Perhaps. If the offer is sweet enough.”

“Oh, I think I can promise that much.” She reached across the table and brushed a finger teasingly across the back of the general’s hand. “We’ll meet again. I’ll send Sorial to you once I’ve had an opportunity to stockpile some honey.”

* * *

“Something about Greeg bothers me,” said Sorial when he and Myselene were reviewing the meeting in their room that night.

“He doesn’t like me and he absolutely
hates
you, so it’s only natural he would make you feel ill at ease. But he’s a straightforward man with a rigorous code of honor, and he seems more open to my overtures than Otto.”

“It’s obvious he wants to fuck you.”

“Which is precisely what I intended. Sex is just another form of currency.”

“Do you think he blames you for your father’s death?”

“Undoubtedly, although he probably sees you as the chief culprit even though you weren’t in Vantok at the time. I doubt he’ll move against you while you’re under my protection.”

“So what’s next?”

“More waiting, unfortunately, and maybe a little more spying. Given a few days to consider the shifting landscape, Otto might reconsider and try to make contact. He’ll consult his ‘keepers’ and they’ll probably make the final decision. Greeg is more difficult to read. He’s at war with himself: principles against ambition. If the latter wins out, he’ll be more receptive the next time we approach him.”

“Have you figured out who killed your family?”

“It wasn’t Otto or Greeg. Greeg was on the road between Vantok and Obis when that happened and Otto lacks the stomach for such a decisive act. So it was either Clairmont or someone behind the scenes - perhaps one of Otto’s backers. With any luck, we’ll learn the answer to that question in the near future. Can you tell where Justin is now?”

Sorial closed his eyes and concentrated. Since marking Justin, it had become possible to track the other wizard’s presence, although he had briefly lost him several weeks ago, right around the time Alicia’s signature had vanished. “He’s south and east of here. My understanding of geography is limited - there weren’t much need to study maps while working in a stable - but if I was to guess, I’d say he’s at Earlford.”

“Right on schedule, then. Give him a few weeks to regroup, incorporate Earlford’s surviving male populace into his army, and put a vassal on the throne, and he’ll be on his way to Syre. He’ll be at the gates of Obis around Midwinter, which gives us sixteen or seventeen weeks to stabilize this city and get it ready for war. So little time…”

“How do we know when to make our next move?”

“That’s in the hands of our would-be allies. We wait to see who tries first to assassinate me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY: THE NARROW GAP

By the time the disorganized mass of two-thousand undulated through the mouth of Widow’s Pass, Ferguson had become the undeclared leader of Vantok’s refugees; this accumulation of displaced of humanity was his flock. It unsettled Carannan to acknowledge this but, as a witness to all that had transpired, he could understand why it had happened. These people had lost everything - their homes, their loved ones, their city, and even the certainty of their gods. Ferguson, a resplendent figure in his prelate’s regalia, offered solace and the possibility of a brighter future. He preached sermons of healing and represented himself as the “one true link” between the turbulent yesterdays and the hopeful tomorrows.

Until recently, Carannan had considered himself to be Ferguson’s ally. He had deemed Sorial’s persecution of the prelate to be unwarranted, but now he was no longer sure. In light of what had happened with Gorton, his son-in-law’s charges of murder and recklessness had gained greater relevance. It didn’t escape his thought process that circumstances orchestrated by Ferguson could as easily have resulted in Alicia’s death as her transformation. Ferguson’s fanaticism had expanded beyond where it had plateaued for his many years as the figurehead of a long-standing secret cabal in Vantok to something self-serving and dangerous.

Carannan was caught in the middle. Myselene had named him Overcommander of the Army of Vantok, but he was no longer sure the position remained valid or meaningful. The men he nominally commanded still respected the chain of command and took his orders… but only as long as they were in line with Ferguson’s. The prelate’s command was absolute and Carannan had little doubt that if Myselene returned at this moment, the refugees would only bow knee to her if Ferguson told them to. By leaving the current chancellor within grabbing distance of power, Myselene had committed a grave error. He couldn’t fault her judgment, however. None of them had seen this coming. None except Sorial. What Carannan had mistaken for deep-rooted personal animosity on the wizard’s part might in fact have been a clear character appraisal. Ferguson was no monster but he was blind to everything outside his immediate goal and ruthless in pruning away obstacles and distractions. Annie, Kara, Lamanar, Sorial, Alicia, Gorton, Azarak, Myselene, himself, perhaps even Justin… all tools to be discarded when they had served their purpose.

Yesterday, shortly after the back end of the train had reached the inside end of the pass’ notorious “first bridge,” Ferguson had given Carannan a “mission.” The prelate had commissioned his overcommander to escort two dozen “candidates” to the Ibitsal portal to determine their suitability as future wizards. It was a relatively straightforward assignment, although not without danger from the roving groups of bandits that preyed on unprotected travelers in the North, but hardly the kind of operation requiring the participation of the chief military officer. Carannan would be in charge of ten soldiers, all hand-picked by Ferguson. Not being able to choose his own men was a warning sign. Although Carannan didn’t doubt the need for Ferguson to know who might represent viable replacements for the current wizards, he recognized that his being selected to lead the expedition was a convenient way to separate him from the army. Once he was gone, Ferguson could erode the remnants of personal loyalty that existed for him within the ranks. He assumed that Rexall, who had once worked directly for Ferguson, would be named as his replacement. The prelate had surrounded himself with cronies and Carannan, by virtue of his independence and continued loyalty to the old order, was now a liability. His term as a useful tool was at an end.

This was his final night in camp. Tomorrow morning, he was slated to ride at the head of a column bound for the northeastern end of Widow’s Pass. Thus far, movement through the treacherous mountain road had been slow and deadly. They had lost two wagons and about fifty people in several different incidents. They had entered the pass five days ago and Carannan’s advance scouts estimated it would take another four or five days before this part of the journey was over. The second bridge, longer and more narrow than the first, loomed ahead. Although many of the wagons had been abandoned before entering the pass, with only the smallest being deemed suitable, even those were liabilities on the bridges, with no room to spare on either side. A slight slip could plunge a vehicle and its contents into a chasm - something that had already happened twice and would undoubtedly be repeated. If nothing else, departing on this mission would get him out of Widow’s Pass sooner.

Although it was still early Harvest across the rest of the continent, with the warmth of Summer lingering in the lower country, up here in the mountains, it felt like Winter. Even huddled deep in his heavy wool cloak, Carannan found it difficult to stay warm. There was little refuge from the cold, biting wind that howled its relentless fury all day and night. After dark, when the temperature dropped below freezing, moist patches along the narrow, winding trail turned slick. With the peaks so high and close on either side, there was never direct sunlight; the entire journey occurred in a perpetual twilight. At its widest, the trail was perhaps fifteen feet from side-to-side, but there were spans where it was less than half that. Although the sides were frequently walled by sheer, unclimbable cliffs, there were places in which the edges dropped off into seemingly bottomless chasms. All the deaths had been the result of men, women, and whole wagons going over those drops.

They struck camp an hour before the light failed to give people enough time to find relatively secure places to bunk down for the night. Fires were set but they were scattered and feeble, with little fuel to sustain them. People lay together, relying on body heat for warmth. That hadn’t stopped several elderly people from slipping away during the night. Carannan recalled that Alicia had made this trip a half-season later in the year and he couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for her. Somewhere up here, probably close to where they now were, Vagrum had met his end, shot in the head and forced over an edge by a would-be assassin.

Carannan was hunkered down by a tiny patch of glowing embers that gave off little heat and less light when Rexall approached him. The younger man sat down next to him, rubbed his hands vigorously over the “fire,” and spoke, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’m hearing rumors that you ain’t coming back. Ferguson no longer views you as reliable.”

Carannan nodded. The same could be said in reverse. He no longer doubted Ferguson’s ruthlessness although he was a little surprised that Rexall was the source of the warning. Maybe another of the prelate’s loyalists was wavering. “I’m just about the only one left in camp who might challenge his authority. And one of the few still true to Myselene. With her and Sorial away, it’s easy to forget that she’s our rightful ruler.”

“You underestimate your support and hers, at least among the military. But it ain’t hard to understand the people’s swing of allegiance. Many have known and revered Ferguson for decades. Myselene is a newcomer, not long married to the hereditary king. Her subjects might know and respect her, but there ain’t any ties. It would have been different for Azarak, but he’s ash.”

“Tell me, is the goal still Obis?”

“I don’t know for sure. Officially, that’s where we’re headed but I suspect we won’t go further than Sussaman. Ferguson will probably hole up there, wait out the battle, then make an accommodation with whoever wins. Then, as wizards die, he can replace them with new ones who are personally loyal to him. That’s where your mission comes in, only you won’t be finishing it. He really does need to know which of these people could have future importance and which are just ordinary citizens - your sister included.”

“Somewhere along the road to Ibitsal, I’ll have an ‘accident.’ Very tragic, I’m sure.”

“Seems inevitable, although I doubt you’ll make it to the exit of the pass. Easier to dispose of a body in here. Some of the men with loose lips and shit for brains are already wagering on who’ll get your command.”

Carannan allowed himself a grim smile. Given the opportunity, people would bet on anything. “Who’s the favorite? You?”

“It’s traditional for the undercommander to replace the overcommander when the time comes. Not sure I want the position, though. The target on my back is already big enough and it would feel too much like a betrayal. I’m sworn to Myselene’s service and, while some people don’t think my word is worth much, there are some oaths I don’t take lightly. I made one to Sorial after what happened in Ibitsal and I don’t intend to be forsworn.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Watch your back. I don’t know for sure.”

Rexall might not, but Carannan did. “It’s ten against one. Won’t matter if I watch my back or not. You’re talking to a dead man.”

* * *

Moving as quietly as a ghost, Rexall slipped off into the night, traveling slowly and with infinite caution. Thankfully, there was a nearly full moon tonight and the low-hanging clouds of the day had cleared, otherwise he feared he might blunder off the trail and kill himself in the dark. He wasn’t alone - a company of thirteen like-minded others were accompanying him. Their goal, which they had discussed only briefly in whispered, secretive conversations, was simple: catch up with the Ibitsal-bound group and rescue Overcommander Carannan. None of them had any illusions of what that would entail. The men accompanying Carannan were among the most fanatically loyal to Ferguson and the only way to prevent them from carrying out their duty might be to kill them. So be it. Plotting the death of a senior officer was a hanging offense anyway.

The soldiers accompanying Rexall into exile were a combination of former members of Duke Carannan’s personal militia, including the redoubtable Rotgut, and the remnants of Myselene’s personal retinue. None were conflicted about where their loyalty lay: first to the queen, second to the overcommander, and perhaps not at all to Ferguson if he was in the process of committing treason. The prelate would view this as perfidy, of course, which is why they had to depart in silence and secrecy. If caught, he had no doubt they would face summary execution for desertion. That was the way of the world, where winners of battles and those with larger armies made the rules and wrote history. He wondered how long into the next day it would take for Ferguson to recognize their absence. As acting overcommander, he would be the most noticeable missing person but the prelate relied so heavily on his priests that it was conceivable they could get an aggressive head start.

They planned to travel the rest of the night and all day on the morrow. This close to the camp, they couldn’t risk torches or lanterns but that would change after a mile or so. Still, they had to be careful to limit their illumination - Rexall well remembered how easy it was to spot distant light sources at night in this pass, especially around the two bridges. They were approaching the second one; he couldn’t remember the exact distance between the long, narrow, snake-like strips of road, but the main group was at least halfway. The bridges were too dangerous to cross in anything but full daylight. Rexall wasn’t likely to forget how harrowing the passage across the second one had been during his previous northward passage. That journey still haunted his nightmares and he often marveled that they had survived it with only one fatality.

Thirteen men followed Rexall as he inched his way away from the camp, leaving behind its limited warmth and illumination. He was their leader not only by virtue of his rank but because he was the only one of their number who had been here before. Not that he truly knew the way, but he had a general sense of what lay before them. Foremost in his mind was the recognition that even a slight misstep could represent a thousand foot plunge into an unmarked, rocky grave. He had liked Vagrum but had no desire to accompany him to that final resting place. One often made sacrifices for traveling compatriots but that, from Rexall’s perspective, was going a little too far.

Although the group’s short term goal was straightforward - rescue Carannan and release the potential wizards from Ferguson’s grasp - their long term objective was less clear. Where to go after that? If they reached the overcommander before he was killed, Rexall would gladly transfer the responsibility for making that decision. If not, however, the choice of destination would fall to him. Sussaman was a possibility. He had fond memories of his time there and was acquainted with some of the residents, but that was Ferguson’s stronghold and nowhere on the continent was loyalty to him stronger. They could proceed to Obis but the situation there was uncertain. If Myselene’s bid for the throne failed or was delayed, their reception could be… unpleasant. Syre was out of the question, since it would likely soon be in Justin’s hands, although Rexall wouldn’t have minded sampling the wares of some of its most famous citizens. Ibitsal was another possibility. They could proceed there and wait, although Rexall wasn’t sure how that would solve anything beyond answering the question of which members of the party could hear the portal’s call.

By the time dawn arrived, Rexall felt as exhausted as if he had been running all night and, despite the chill temperatures, he was drenched in sweat. Traveling with slow, measured, controlled steps and keeping constantly alert was more physically and mentally draining than moving fast. He estimated they had traversed no more than eight miles in an equal number of hours - not a good rate, although enough to hopefully place them beyond Ferguson’s reach. If they were going to catch up to Carannan, however, they were going to have to march double-time while there was light and hope the wizard candidates were slowing down the progress of the overcommander’s group.