Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (34 page)

“And Rexall… we’ll be together?”

She was asking for reassurance, a confirmation that her dream might be realized. Warburm felt bad deceiving her. Although it was true that Rexall
might
be in Obis and he
might
welcome her arrival, the confluence of those two possibilities seemed unlikely at best. He was lying to manipulate her - the very thing that, until learning the darker truth last night, had made him uncomfortable about Ferguson. But the revelation of the alliance between the prelate and Justin changed everything. His best chance of getting a message to Obis was by deluding Shiree. Her heartbreak might be the cost of revealing Ferguson’s treachery to Myselene. Compared with the price Warburm might pay, it was light but that didn’t make it easier to speak the words that would gain her complicity.

“Aye. That be one reason I chose you rather than others. Because of him. This done give you two a chance ta spend some time together before the war. After that, I canna promise nothin’. People die in battles and if Rexall be unlucky… But you’ll have at least a few weeks, if’n you can leave in a few hours.”

“I’ll do it,” she whispered fervently. “What’s the message?”

Warburm had given this some thought. It had to be short, so Shiree could commit it to memory, and it had to be clear to Sorial and Myselene but ambiguous to anyone else, including the one delivering it. “Tell this to the queen: ‘Your old mentor be no more. The one Sorial don’t trust made a pact with another of the four. The refugees be not in play at Obis.’ Speak it back to me and memorize it.” Even if that wasn’t the fullest account of the situation, it should be enough to warn Myselene that all was not well and Ferguson had cast his lot with Justin. The news would come as less of a surprise to Sorial than it would the queen, who had championed adding Ferguson to her council.

After spending a few more minutes coaching Shiree then promising to come for her shortly after noon, he went in search of the three men who would accompany her. He had a trio in mind - ex-Watch members who had been regulars at The Wayfarer’s Comfort and wouldn’t double-check the orders with Ferguson. While he didn’t trust them enough to reveal Shiree’s mission, he believed that, if forced to decide, they would choose him over Ferguson. The story he told them was credible: Shiree was his illegitimate daughter and he was sending her to the ‘safety’ of Obis to escape the scourge of Justin’s approaching army. Ferguson’s decision to keep the refugees uninformed about the disposition of the enemy helped him, since it allowed him to argue that Sussaman was in greater jeopardy than Obis. One of the soldiers, when given this commission, asked Warburm about his wife and “other” daughter; he responded that, despite his urging, they refused to be parted from him.

His position as liaison between the refugees and the village allowed him to procure four stout, well-rested horses. Shortly after noon, he introduced Shiree to her escort and bade the four of them farewell. That part of his task completed, he steeled himself to accomplish the rest of it.

* * *

Ferguson was frustrated. Things had not been going well for a while and the news just brought to him by a messenger confirmed his fears. The wizard candidates were not where they were supposed to be. A group of fast riders dispatched to scout the trails between Widow’s Pass and Ibitsal had found no sign of them. They had either been killed without a trace, taken an unmarked route, or been diverted at the behest of rebels. The third was by far the most likely. If Rexall and his fellow deserters had ambushed the escorts, the group might have reached Obis by now.

Was it too much to hope that Sorial, Alicia, and Justin might all perish in the upcoming conflict? Probably; he had to be flexible to take advantage of whatever the result was and feign allegiance to either Myselene or The Lord of Fire.

He had called a meeting of his officers, assistants, and various other functionaries. The time had come for him to explain elements of his plan for the immediate future. Many were of the opinion that they would soon be embarking on a trip to Obis. Because most would end up hibernating in this cold, under provisioned hamlet, they had to understand that this was where they would be for the foreseeable future so preparations could be made to blunt the hardships.

The Sussaman meeting hall was really just an oversized cabin. The tiny fire was inadequate to heat the building so everyone, Ferguson included, was dressed as if out-of-doors. Over the past few days, it had become unseasonably cold. This weather was more what one might expect from mid-Winter than the waning weeks of Harvest. He wondered whether Justin’s manipulation of the weather around Vantok might have upset climatological patterns all across the continent.

The room was nearly full by the time the late arrivals trickled in. In addition to the ten “battle priests” who served as Ferguson’s personal protectors, there were also the various commanders and sub-commanders of the remnants of Vantok’s militia, the head of Sussaman’s small “home guard”, the elders of the settlement, the ever-faithful Warburm, and various others of minor import.

“Brothers and sisters, welcome. I’ve asked you here this evening so I might discuss plans for the immediate future. At this moment, the army of The Lord of Fire is encamped outside Syre in preparation for the long march to Obis. I have recently received a direct communique from Her Majesty, Queen Myselene, instructing us to remain in Sussaman and not to approach Obis until after the battle is decided. Since I am ever her loyal subject, I will obey.

“We have all been given a new calling, a great calling. Vantok lies in partial ruins. Earlford has been razed. Regardless of who wins at Obis, the city will be devastated. Out of this, a new bastion for humanity will arise. Sussaman will be at its center. I have long foreseen this. This small community will become the next great city, the capitol of a new nation. We will be beholden to no one as we carry out the last mandate of the gods to rescue this world and keep it safe.

“The times are dangerous, brothers and sisters. We must have unity. The Lord of Fire sees this although he has gone about it in a needlessly bloody fashion. It’s our duty as the architects of a new order to stride purposefully into the future, to lead the others. And those who refuse to be led must unfortunately be cast out. With the gods no longer around to shepherd us, we must find our own way.”

This was Ferguson’s vision - at least as much of it as he was willing to reveal in these circumstances. The specifics depended on who won at Obis. In either case, however, he could adapt. Justin’s obsession with the Otherverse was a concern - a breach attempt could not be permitted. In the end, with the current roster of wizards eliminated, he could begin rebuilding. All the energy invested in Sorial and Alicia had been wasted… so much time lost because of those ingrates. If they had only agreed to be guided by him, things would have been different now. But all wasn’t lost. The key to empire building was adaptability, and Ferguson had never been anchored to a single plan. Ever since his first failure - Braddock’s unfortunate death - he had known the road would be characterized by twists and forks. Where one opportunity closed, another opened.

He could tell by the rapt faces that his words had found favor with the audience. He was ready to continue when a lone dissenting voice spoke out. “This be all well an’ good, Yer Eminence, but what about Queen Myselene? Don’t she get a say in this? She be yer sovereign, after all. An’ you be only her vice chancellor.”

Warburm made his way through the densely packed group of people ringing the prelate until he was face-to-face with him. Ferguson’s speech had left him feeling more uneasy than ever. Aside from the token mention of Myselene as part of his lie about why the refugees weren’t moving on to Obis, he had conveniently ignored her existence. This was all about his aspirations, and they were more grandiose than Warburm had expected. It was hard to reconcile the man before him today with the diligent priest the gods had chosen as their messenger.

His words marked him as an enemy. They couldn’t be taken back, nor would he unsay them if it had been possible. These were questions that needed to be asked, sentiments that demanded to be spoken aloud. But voicing them had moved him from the list of trusted lackeys to undesirables, joining Gorton, Carannan, Rexall, and others. That didn’t matter to Warburm. Of concern, however, was the negative reaction to his words, with the anger directed not at Ferguson but at him for having the temerity to challenge the Great Leader.

The prelate stared hard at Warburm before answering. The mildness of his words was belied by an icy glare. “All rulers, including Queen Myselene, will fall in line under the new order. I have no desire to be a king or queen. The secular leaders will retain their crowns and live in their palaces. But they, like all of us, are subject to the will of the gods. As their sole messenger, only I can dispense the wisdom of their last whisper.”

The statement was treasonous but Warburm doubted anyone listening cared. Although Ferguson was careful not to make any overt threats against the queen, the prelate’s ambitions represented a threat to her future well-being.

Almost as a single entity, Ferguson’s protectors stirred as they sensed the building tension. One moved a gloved hand close to the hilt of the sword scabbarded at his waist. Those ten men were the only ones allowed to bear arms in the prelate’s presence. Priests with martial training, they were as good - or better - than the army’s soldiers. Some had been regular members of Vantok’s militia; others had spent their adult lives cloistered. Regardless of their background, they were all elite fighters.

As was customary, Warburm had left his big, ugly dagger at the door. No one had bothered to search for concealed weapons, however, since he was known to be in the prelate’s trusted inner circle. So, despite the prohibition, he would not be entirely reliant on his fists in the event of a conflict. The dull, rusty breadknife tucked into his belt under his vest wouldn’t be much of a defense in a fight, but it was better than nothing. His weapons of choice were pistols but this wasn’t a time when they would be useful. The damn things could be notoriously unreliable.

“And what if Her Majesty doesn’t agree with your implementation of the will of the gods?”

“No one is above the will of the gods. All must submit.”

Warburm nodded sadly. It had come to this as he knew it would.

He moved swiftly with actions so unexpected that no one was able to stop him. The old instincts of a warrior served him well, even dulled as they were by many years running an inn. He knew how to kill a man at close range even with something as seemingly nonlethal as a breadknife.

The weapon was in his hand and at Ferguson’s neck before anyone reacted. With all the force he could muster, he jerked the blade across the prelate’s throat, tearing open a wide, uneven gash from right to left, nearly severing the head from the torso. The jugular and cardioid were both severed, spraying everyone and everything in the vicinity with blood: warm, sticky, and under pressure. Ferguson’s face, gone ghostly pale in an instant, displayed naked shock even as the light in his eyes faded. He tried to say something but no words emerged.

The first sword thrust split Warburm’s side before the prelate’s body hit the ground. Then another. And another. Altogether, he was stabbed more than a dozen times by ten different blades. It didn’t matter. The deed was done. He knew from the moment he had made the final decision that this would be the result. Recriminations and self-sacrifice had never been part of his nature. Ferguson had too long been a wild card in Myselene and Sorial’s struggle to counter The Lord of Fire. No longer. The exchange - his life for the prelate’s - was fair. They had both outlived their usefulness.

Warburm died knowing the tyrant had preceded him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: NOT DEAD YET

Well, he wasn’t dead. At least not yet.

He wasn’t sure whether that was good news or bad news. The excruciating pain in his shoulder and upper chest was gone, replaced by a dull throb. His head also hurt, although it was the sting of an ordinary headache.

His memories of his last moments of consciousness were hazy and fragmented. He recalled having saved Myselene by pulling her into the ground then using his abilities to collapse the palace. In retrospect, he admitted that had been an excessive overreaction - a large number of innocents had died as a result, including servants and non-partisan soldiers not in the throne room. If he had been able to think and assess more rationally, his approach would have been different. The conspirators - Greeg, Otto, and Rathbone - could have been removed with precision.

After destroying the palace, he had towed Myselene to an exit point far enough away that she wouldn’t have to navigate the rubble. Following that, his string of memories ended. The still blackness of oblivion was all that remained, staring back at him as he tried to recall what had come next.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, stableboy.”

He opened his eyes to the most welcome sight he could imagine - his beautiful wife sitting in a chair by his bedside, much as she had done all those years ago in The Wayfarer’s Comfort after hired assassins had nearly ended his life.

Alicia was changed. Physically, she looked older, more mature. It was a byproduct of exposure to the energy from the Otherverse. Although a few weeks short of her seventeenth birthday, she appeared at least a decade beyond that. She might have been a twin to her Aunt Lavella. But it was more than that - her features had taken on a world-weary cast. Her eyes showed a depth and sadness not previously there. Thankfully, she seemed uninjured; their time apart hadn’t marred her the way it had him. Her smile lit up the dimness of the room, adorned its stark simplicity. The tears pooling in her eyes reflected the dim lantern light of the unfamiliar chamber.

“Every time we’re separated, I come back and you’ve lost another piece of your body. Soon there won’t be anything left.” She bent close to him and traced a gentle finger across the scarred skin of his face where Uthgarb’s acid had left its mark. She dropped the lighthearted tone. “I guess that’s what it means to be a wizard. I saw Ariel’s body. There wasn’t much left and it was ugly. Even discounting the accident that killed her, she couldn’t have lasted much longer. I don’t want to end up like that. Promise me we won’t end up like that.”

“She’s dead?”

Alicia nodded. “My fault, I’m afraid. It was self-defense.”

Sorial didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure how to feel. Relieved? Sad? Regretful? In truth, he was numb. His emotions regarding his sister had been conflicted since he had realized her identity. Protector one day, attacker the next. Once, she had saved him. More than once, she had tried to kill him. Now she had joined Craddock, Braddock, Maraman, and Kara. The last of his blood… gone.

“How long have I been here? And where is ‘here’?”

“You’re in The Citadel.” A glance around the unfurnished, undecorated space corroborated that. Soldiers, after all, didn’t generally believe in aesthetically pleasing trappings. Rooms were functional and if the function was to provide shelter and privacy during sleep, the only thing needed was a bed. “And you’ve been unconscious for five days. A lot has happened while you’ve been sleeping.”

“You saved me?”

She nodded. “It wasn’t easy. While forcing dirt into open wounds may have helped you dissipate the toxin on the arrow, it created other problems. By the time I was brought to you, the wound had gone septic and you were suffering from blood poisoning. If I had been even a half-day later, you would have been in the grave. Fortunately, your infirmities were things I can heal, blood and soft tissue being mostly water. Some of the diseased flesh had to be cleaned away; it was too far gone to be regenerated. I hate to be blunt, but you’ve already lost the arm so losing some of the shoulder shouldn’t be a disadvantage, although I imagine it will feel strange. And there’s some disfigurement to the neck but it’s nothing compared to what you managed to do to your face. You have to learn to be a little more careful. You may not value your skin and what’s beneath it, but I do. Imagine how you’d feel if I came back looking like you.”

It was a fair point.

“Myselene?”

“Recuperating but in better shape than you. Her injuries were superficial. Fortunately, the arrows that struck her weren’t poisoned and they weren’t aimed to kill.” She hesitated. “The baby’s fine as well. Is it…?” He could tell it was hard for her to ask the question, but he knew she needed to know the answer.

“The babe has my blood but it’s Azarak’s child.”

She nodded. Her expression was a curious mixture of satisfaction and sorrow. “We won’t speak about this again. It happened. It was necessary. But it’s over.”

“Repercussions from the collapse of the palace?”

Alicia raised one eyebrow. “I’ll say this for you, stableboy, you know how to make an impression. People are scared shitless of you. The whole populace is cowed. It’s made things easier for Myselene, though, since they view you as ‘her wizard.’ A royal hound with a vicious bite. She was able to declare herself queen without needing a coronation and has been given free rein to start preparations for Justin’s arrival, which should be in about three weeks.”

“How many people died?”

Her face was somber. “Several hundred. It’s a big palace and the entire thing came down. No one blames you, though. In fact, you’re viewed as a hero by everyone who matters, having saved the queen from those who sought to usurp her position and kill her. The vice-prelate survived and corroborated her story.

“My father is here, along with Rexall and the entire group of Ferguson’s would-be wizard candidates. More bad news, although this won’t surprise you. Ferguson has turned traitor. He’s setting himself up as the ruler of the refugees at Sussaman. He tried to have my father killed. Only a timely intervention by Rexall and his group of deserters saved his life. Myselene says you know about Gorton; his death was the pebble that started the avalanche and Ferguson was responsible for that. Poisoned him.

“What happened to you?” Her voice caught as she asked the question. She could make light of his appearance but it clearly disturbed her.

Although he was no storyteller, it took more than an hour for him to recount all that had happened since her departure. He went into exhaustive detail about his encounter with the ghosts at Ibitsal since the implications of that conversation might impact their future. The time passed quickly and they were undisturbed. Midway through his tale, Alicia slipped off her boots and lay down next to him on the wide bed. It was chilly in the room despite a healthy fire and she snuggled close, stealing and offering body warmth. He wrapped his arm around her and toyed with the fringes of her hair.

Once he was done, she reciprocated. Her narrative was longer, woven with more artistry than his straightforward chronology. She spoke of her initial terror at being alone in a strange land, her wonder at meeting the elves, and how her frustration had turned to amazement in the library. She described her encounter with Justin and finished with a detailed recounting of what had happened when Ariel and the djinn arrived.

When she was done, he summarized: “You got what you went for.”

“Always one to oversimplify, aren’t you? Yes, I learned things that can help us and, when you’re strong enough to be active, I’ll try to teach you. I can’t believe he destroyed it all.” The sense of loss in her tone was profound.

For his part, Sorial regarded Justin’s actions as regrettable but no more. The Yu’Tar Library was useful to him only second-hand. He suspected he might have been outraged if he had visited the structure or if he could read. But letters were an arcane mystery to him, their understanding more impenetrable than magic.

They lay together in silence for a while, listening to each other’s breathing and reveling in their mutual closeness. The long moment was interrupted by the grumbling of Sorial’s stomach. For nearly a week, his only nourishment had been broth poured down his throat.

“Uncouth as always, stableboy.” Alicia disengaged from his embrace, rose, and slipped on her boots.

She left him alone to fetch something for them both to eat. She hadn’t been gone more than a handful of minutes when Sorial heard a commotion outside the door. He struggled to a sitting position and readied himself to take action if necessary. Instead, the door opened to admit the queen of Obis. She motioned for her guards to remain without and entered alone.

Myselene moved to the side of Sorial’s bed. She walked slowly and with a slight limp, evidence that Alicia’s healing had only repaired some of the damage. Aside from some bruising on her cheek and forehead, she appeared to be in good condition. The queen’s next action surprised Sorial: she dropped to one knee beside his bed and lowered her head in a gesture of respect. She simply said, “Thank you.” It was something she would never do in public but Sorial appreciated the gesture even though it was between only the two of them.

She was sitting in the chair by his bed discussing events of the past few days when Alicia entered, accompanied by Carannan and Rexall. They all bowed to the queen then stood around chatting while Sorial wolfed down the food procured by his wife. He washed it down with a tasteless dark beer then was ready to discuss strategy and tactics and what had gone wrong with the remnants of Vantok’s militia and citizenry.

“We’ve lost Ferguson and the refugees,” said Carannan. “With Gorton out of the way, Ferguson established himself as the leader and used his powers of persuasion to subvert the people’s loyalty to the Crown. His next step is unclear; he may not even be certain of it himself. In my estimation, he’s waiting to see what happens at Obis. If Justin wins, he’ll sue for peace. If Myselene wins, he’ll ‘return to the fold,’ claiming to have stayed in Sussaman to protect a battle-weary people unprepared for another engagement.”

“Can someone remind me why I didn’t execute him when he was in my power?” asked Sorial. As far as he was concerned, this was vintage Ferguson.

“His wealth of knowledge, especially about magic and the Otherverse,” said Alicia. “I hope I’ve learned enough to make him expendable.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you have or not,” said Myselene, her eyes as hard as diamonds. “He’s committed treason and compounded the matter by murdering a chancellor and attempting to murder an overcommander. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t commute the death sentence. Ferguson’s actions have exceeded my capacity for mercy.”

“Pronouncing his guilt is one thing, Your Majesty,” said Sorial. “Carrying out the punishment will be another. For now, though, I suggest putting aside concerns about him. There are more pressing issues. What’s the latest intelligence on Justin’s position and movement?”

“That latest we’ve heard is that he’s still in Syre but will be departing within a week. We were hoping you could” - Myselene wiggled her fingers in a manner that was intended to suggest magic - “verify.”

Sorial did as requested and ascertained that Justin was in the same place as the last time he had checked. There was no way to determine whether he was preparing to move but, in the worst case, he was still two to three weeks away from bringing his engines of war to bear on Obis.

Carannan grimaced when he heard the time frame. “We’re trying to prepare for everything since we don’t know what his tactics will be. In the past, most of those attacking Obis have opted for a siege. I’ve done some reading about how previous invasions were turned back, although there hasn’t been a serious threat to the city in more than five centuries.”

“A siege won’t be his plan,” said Sorial. “He’s in a hurry and he has djinn and a dragon. A siege would demand patience and endurance and could last to the middle of the year before the city’s will broke. Justin won’t wait that long - perhaps can’t wait that long. He’ll favor a lightning strike. At Vantok, he hid the creatures until Alicia and I were lured away then unleashed them. At Obis, there ain’t no reason to conceal them. They’ll lead the attack and their primary goal will be to bring down the walls. Once that’s accomplished, it will be army against army.”

“If the walls come down, we can’t shield all the non-combatants,” said Rexall.

“Not all of them, no,” agreed Carannan. “But there are places many of them can shelter. It’s a safer option than trying a Winter evacuation. Thousands of people trapped out in the wilderness in a storm would mean thousands of corpses.”

“So we defend the city?” asked Rexall.

Carannan nodded. “The Obis army’s high command has deferred to me because of my experience fighting what they call ‘sorcery contaminated battles.’ I think most of them would be content to disbelieve the existence of wizards if Sorial’s destruction of the palace hadn’t provided an irrefutable argument in its favor.”

“Sorial and I need some time together to share what we’ve learned. From what you’ve told me, he’s come into a greater understanding of his powers than he had when I left and I learned a fair amount I think can help us. We need to formulate a magical strategy to use against Justin. He won’t have Ariel as support although, considering her fragile condition, I don’t think he was counting on her to do anything of significance. His plan is probably to stay out of combat unless things start going badly. On our side, magic will be needed not only to counter the djinn and the dragon but also to defend against Justin if he enters the fray.”