Shadow of the Otherverse (The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga Book 3) (7 page)

The night was half-done by the time she drifted into a restless slumber. Her dreams were dark and frightening, almost like those of one afflicted by a fever. Not since the trip to Ibitsal had the night terrors come upon her with such force. There were images of Sorial entwined in Myselene’s arms, back arched with ecstasy. An ancient-looking man wreathed in fire stalked across a blasted land, heading for a gateway Alicia dimly remembered from her time in the portal. And the streets of an unfamiliar ancient city ran red with blood.

She awoke in a cold sweat to the first light of dawn. The dreams didn’t fade the way they often did, instead remaining vivid in her waking mind. For the most part, Alicia put little stock in the predictive value of dreams but she couldn’t avoid wondering if some night visions, especially for those with magical abilities, might be more than the ramblings of an overactive subconscious. Without the gods to guide time, could the future be glimpsed?

She rose and stretched, then used a little magic to wring water out of the humid air to wash her skin and slake her thirst. Her belly grumbled its hunger, so she coaxed a few crustaceans onto the shore for a breakfast. There was food aplenty in the jungle but she didn’t yet feel courageous enough to venture into that foreign world. She had discovered that crabs in particular were tasty uncooked and she felt more secure eating them than munching on unknown berries and leaves.

She tried the mirror again without success. Then, taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, she followed the beach south. The night sounds of the jungle had faded with the coming of dawn, replaced by the more conventional singing of birds. Occasionally, some would fly out, either singly or in flocks, but most stayed out of sight. As the morning turned to afternoon, the sky filled with clouds and it didn’t take long before rain began to fall. This didn’t impede Alicia’s progress. If anything, it energized her. After walking for hours on the unyielding terrain of the beach, her calves were aching.

The beach came to an abrupt end, falling away into a gorge where it appeared as if a part of the world had collapsed. Below, the water swirled angrily as it poured into the chasm with the inrushing tide. Ahead, the land climbed sharply, creating a cliff wall between the edge of the jungle and the raging ocean. Far ahead, silhouetted against the horizon, Alicia saw a high point of land protruding out into the sea. That might be the promontory Ferguson had mentioned. Or so she hoped.

Getting there would require Alicia to make her way inland, entering the jungle. She might be able to survive the rough waters as they crashed against the cliff side but there was little she could do about scaling the bluff separating the jungle’s edge from the breakers. Here, where the beach ended, it was only several dozen feet high - close enough that the spray splashed her face when she looked over the edge - but it quickly grew into an imposing wall of rock. The promontory might be a thousand feet above the ocean, far more than Alicia could hope to climb even with the help of her magic.

On another occasion, she might have been impressed by the geographical oddity that confronted her. At some time in the past, a calamity had struck here, haphazardly rearranging the coastline. But Alicia was no tourist. Almost reluctantly, she turned away from the drop-off and headed for the wall of trees.

The growth was so dense that Alicia momentarily despaired of being able to penetrate it until the idea occurred to shape some of the falling rain into a water scythe. Using that, she was able to cut a path with little difficulty. Once fully under the shelter of the trees, she discovered a much different environment. The heat of the beach dissipated in the perpetual twilight. The lack of light didn’t promote plant growth and the tree trunks were widely spaced so movement wasn’t difficult. Ferns and fungus abounded but there was little in the way of healthy vegetation. Water constantly dripped from above and the ground was sodden. Alicia’s bare feet luxuriated in the sensation of squishing the mud or padding across a soft carpet of moss.

There was, however, an overwhelming sense of being watched, of invisible eyes taking her measure. The only animals she saw were birds - they flittered by regularly, heedless of the stranger in their midst. A few looked like species she was familiar with but others with brightly colored plumage all the hues of the rainbow were unlike anything she had previously seen. She wondered if these creatures could be controlled by The Lord of Air, although that wasn’t a concern or consideration at the moment.

There was a freshwater stream nearby running roughly parallel to the coast. She located it, knowing she would be more comfortable traveling in this curious place with a source of water close at hand. She wondered how far this jungle extended. There was no end that her eyes could see and her magical senses were equally unhelpful in detecting a break. She wished she could climb. Clambering to the top of one of the trees at least a hundred feet (perhaps more) over the forest floor might give her a useful perspective of the immediate terrain. But she knew if she tried to scale a trunk, she was more likely to fall and sustain an injury than reach her goal. And, as she recalled from her failed attempt to heal Warburm’s broken back, she was useless at re-knitting fractured bones. Sorial would be needed for that, and he was two weeks away.

Reaching the stream helped Alicia gain her bearings - wandering around in the jungle without a firm point-of-reference wasn’t a good idea. The water was shallow - no more than three feet at its deepest point - but the current was fast. A quick check of the temperature revealed a cool source, probably an underground spring. Alicia could have taken a few moments to trace it but she didn’t feel compelled to do so.

She set off at a brisk walk along the bank. Recognizing that this would be an excellent source of fresh water for the denizens of the jungle, Alicia remained alert, and that vigilance likely saved her life.

The moment she became aware of something behind her, she froze, questing with her magical senses. They told her nothing more than what she already knew: there was a placid stream gurgling to her left, an untamed ocean several thousand feet to her right, and water dripping regularly from the trees above. She turned and stared directly into the yellow eyes of the biggest cat she had ever seen.

It was perhaps twenty feet away and looked ready to pounce. Perhaps nine feet from nose to tail, it barely resembled the scrawny domestic animals that wandered the alleyways of Vantok consuming mice. (Alicia had always liked cats for that reason.) Its tawny fur was marked with darker stripes along the back and sides. Its long, sharp teeth were bared and the muscles in its hind legs were tensed for action.

Alicia swallowed hard then spoke. “I mean you no harm but I’m perfectly able to defend myself.” She felt a little silly not only for saying something so pompous but for speaking to an animal. Yet she recalled that in old stories many strains of wildlife were imbued with eldritch powers, including the ability to communicate with men. That didn’t appear to be the case with this one. It was unaffected by her words.

Alicia knew what had to be done and didn’t hesitate. Using the stream as ammunition, she crafted a ball of highly compressed water like the ones she had used against Justin’s forces at Vantok. Before the cat could spring, she blasted it with the projectile. The result was devastating. After the impact, little remained of the cat except tiny fragments of bone and fur. Most of it had been liquefied. Alicia channeled a localized downpour of water to sluice away the remnants of the crimson shower coating her body.

She turned and resumed her southward path, feeling more at ease than before the confrontation. She had met one of the jungle’s dangers and emerged unscathed. That gave her confidence that she might be able to succeed. She might not have felt the same had she recognized the obstacles that lay between her and her goal.

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE DARKEST PLACE IN BASINGHAM

Myselene remained groggy a half-day after losing consciousness although whether that was from the effects of the drug or from the blow to the head she had been dealt by a guard, she wasn’t sure. At the moment, she was sharing a dungeon cell with Sorial, who was insensible, having recently been administered a reinforcing dose of the drug to render him harmless. They were both naked and manacled at their wrists and ankles. For Sorial, that was a prudent precaution but Myselene ruefully reflected that it was overkill for her. It’s not as if she could have escaped through the wrought iron door and there were no windows. She estimated they were deep underground. That might have been a benefit for Sorial if he had been in a condition to use his powers but their captors were taking no chances with him.

She wondered what had led Durth to break faith with her. She prided herself on being a shrewd judge of character and this betrayal defied her expectations. Had he made a deal with Justin on the side or was he acting in the hope that by providing the enemy with his two chief adversaries, The Lord of Fire might spare Basingham? It didn’t make any sense, though. Durth had known from the beginning that even if he surrendered the city unconditionally, his life would be part of the settlement, and he was no martyr.

Obviously, she had been too trusting, believing herself to be among friends. Maybe if she hadn’t been so focused on Sorial’s unexpected assault on her authority, she might have noticed something was wrong. She blamed herself. A queen couldn’t allow herself the luxury of stewing in indignation. She had done so and paid a steep price. It was hard to see how this could end in any way other than her and Sorial being led in chains to kneel before Justin. That audience would end no better for either of them than it had for Azarak. The Lord of Fire had already shown himself to be disinclined to offer mercy.

“Open it up,” declared an all-too-familiar voice from outside the cell. This was followed by the sound of a key being inserted into a lock and the ancient door protesting mightily at being forced ajar. Light from the hall streamed into the gloomy cell, causing Myselene’s dark-adapted eyes to blink and water. Ambassador Uthgarb lugged his immense bulk through the opening. A handkerchief was pressed to his nose to spare him the indignity of inhaling the unpleasant odor that went hand-in-hand with unwashed captives kept in unsanitary conditions. At the moment, Myselene was lying in a pool of her own urine. There was nothing she could do about it since the chains limited her movement.

“Your Majesty,” the ambassador intoned, executing a mock bow. “I’m sorry I couldn’t obtain better accommodations for you but there are protocols to be observed where prisoners are concerned, even royal pretenders such as yourself.”

“Pretender?” Myselene was having difficulty collecting her thoughts. The aftereffects of her dinner drink were still impeding her ability to concentrate.

“Yes. Basingham has decided to recognize the authority of Lord Justin as the king of Vantok. I know this must come as an unpleasant surprise to you but, after all, you didn’t hold the title of ‘queen’ long enough to become accustomed to it. And perhaps you’ll gain it again if the reason Justin wants you unharmed is so he can marry you. Execution would seem such a waste but that’s not my decision.”

“I demand to see King Durth.” Her tongue was thick making her words slurred.

“Alas, His Majesty is indisposed. You see, he didn’t agree with the decision to recognize Lord Justin, so he’s been confined to his quarters until The Lord of Fire can convince him otherwise. Or until there’s nothing left to need convincing.”

“So you’re in charge?”

“Temporarily. Until Lord Justin can sort out the succession. It may be that he’ll decide to appoint me chancellor so I could rule in his absence. After all, you and I both know he won’t be in Basingham for long. His campaign will take him east and then north. It may be a year or more before his return and it’s unlikely he’ll use Basingham as his capitol. Vantok is a possibility, or perhaps a new city. If you please him, perhaps you can regain your throne.”

Myselene’s gaze wandered to Sorial, who lay still on the floor. The only indication of life was the rising and falling of his chest. A large purplish bruise had darkened his left cheek. Uthgarb noted where she was looking. “His future is rather less open-ended, I would imagine. I suspect the only reason The Lord of Fire wants him delivered alive is so he can have the pleasure of killing him himself. It’s a pity. I would have enjoyed the distinction of being the first one to slay a wizard in the new order. Now, where is his wife?”

“Preparing a rescue, I imagine.”

Uthgarb’s lips curled into a predatory leer. The expression accentuated his unattractive features. “I doubt that. By now, your army will have figured out that you’ve been captured. The gates to the city are closed to them and their requests for information have been ignored. The Lady Alicia would have acted if she was able to, which leads to the conclusion that she’s otherwise occupied. Where has she gone?”

Myselene said nothing, but her spirits weren’t bolstered by Uthgarb’s words. Not that an expectation of rescue was likely. The remnants of her army, many of whom were still hampered by injuries, were no match for Basingham’s fully mobilized militia.

Uthgarb appeared unfazed by the queen’s silence. “Irony is a wonderful thing, isn’t it, Your Majesty? After the cruel form of ‘diplomacy’ you used on me, how delightful that I should be able to repay you with interest. It’s almost enough to make me believe that our priests are wrong and the gods remain - at least those that savor revenge. You can refuse to answer my questions, of course. Force isn’t an option at my disposal. Was it my decision, I’d invite five or six of my burliest guards in here to repeatedly violate you. Your screams and the blood dripping down your loins would be ecstasy for me. But The Lord of Fire wouldn’t be pleased, so you’ll remain physically unharmed while in my custody. But I have it within my power to increase your comfort. If you answer my questions, I can place you in a chamber of relative ease and you can await Justin’s coming with food, baths, and wine - undrugged, of course. A far more appealing immediate fate than lying here in your own piss and shit next to this wretch.”

“You’re a snake, Uthgarb, and I don’t doubt ‘Lord Justin’ will see that.”

“Snakes have their uses - eating rats, for example. Far more use than queens without cities to rule.”

Myselene withdrew into silence. There seemed little point in continuing to engage this man in conversation, especially with her thoughts still foggy.

“The line between courage and stubbornness is a thin one, Your Majesty, and I don’t have the wisdom to determine on which side of it you reside. I’ll leave it to Lord Justin to decide. Perhaps you and I have too much history. However, to prove that I can be merciful, I’ll order the guards to unchain your hands. That way, when your food is brought, you won’t be forced to lap it up like a dog. A queen - even a false one - deserves a little more dignity than that. Unfortunately, I can’t offer the same to your companion, although I doubt he’ll be lucid enough to do something as active as eating. I’m frankly a little surprised at how easy it was to contain and capture a wizard. Makes me wonder why we’re so intimidated by them. As a child, I remember seeing a glass sword. The damage it could deal was devastating but it was far too fragile to be used in battle. One clash with even the most blunt steel and it would shatter. That’s how I think of your wizard. Capable of dealing great damage if unimpeded but easily neutralized.

“Enjoy your stay, Queen Myselene. The next time we meet will be when I present you to King Justin after he assumes the throne of Basingham.”

* * *

“We have to accept they have her,” said Carannan, one gauntleted fist opening and closing with impotent rage. He was joined by Gorton and Ferguson in the queen’s tent for an emergency discussion of what their next step should be. Dawn was quickly approaching - in less than two hours, the day would be upon them. The queen and Sorial should have returned from Basingham long ago. There had been no word from them or the soldiers accompanying them. The city gates were closed and all the postern doors were bolted. Challenges and calls for information had been met with silence. When a man was sent under a flag of truce to request a parlay with a representative of King Durth, he was curtly informed that “Durth no longer rules in Basingham.”

“That they have Sorial is more worrying,” said Gorton. “Myselene, for all her wiles and intelligence, is only a human. But Sorial is a wizard. We must assume they found a way to overcome and possibly kill him. Otherwise, he would have found a way to free the queen.”

“It’s evident that a faction within Basingham sympathetic to Justin has come into power. It’s likely that they plan to ransom His Magus and Her Majesty for the safety of Basingham. If that’s the case, they’re likely both alive, although they may not be in the best physical condition. They’ll be using a similar tactic on Sorial as the one we’re employing with Ariel. A wizard can’t use his powers if he’s unconscious.” As usual, Ferguson’s words expressed little emotion - no dismay, no anger, no sorrow, no despair.

“We have to do something,” said Gorton, but the tone of his voice indicated he had no idea what that
something
might be.

“Even if all the men were healed and well-rested, we have neither the numbers nor the resources to breach the walls or establish a siege. There’s no practical military solution to this,” said Carannan.

“What about your daughter?” asked Gorton. “Could she be recalled? Sorial said there’s a mirror that can be used to contact her. If she knew he was in trouble…”

“She’d come immediately. I don’t doubt that. But she’s more than a week away, so it would take that long for her to get back. And the mirror is only one-way. She has to initiate the contact. Hoping for help from Alicia isn’t a sound foundation for a plan of action.”

At that moment, the flap of the tent was pushed aside to admit one of Carannan’s lieutenants. He saluted the overcommander smartly before handing over a small, tightly rolled strip of parchment. Carannan dismissed the man then read aloud: “From advance scout group B6, indications that the enemy army are preparing to depart Vantok. Estimate full march on the morrow.”  He paused before adding. “That was yesterday. We have a week, maybe eight or nine days at most.”

“There’s a network of tunnels used by the priests to travel from the temple to other strategic locations within Basingham. Among them will be an emergency escape route that leads to a point outside the city. If we locate it, it could provide a way in for a small rescue party,” said Ferguson.

“Do you know where we might find the entrance to this tunnel?” asked Carannan.

Ferguson spared him the look he might give to a simpleton. “If I did, I would have said so. Only the members of the Prelate of Basingham’s inner circle know the location. For obvious reasons, it’s a closely guarded secret, much as was the case with the secret ways in and out of Vantok’s temple. But it exists - of that you can be sure.”

“That doesn’t do us much good,” muttered Gorton. “A well-hidden entrance is as good as a nonexistent one. But maybe there’s another option. What we need for this operation is a wizard, and we have one within our control.”

Carannan shook his head vehemently. “It’s not worth the risk. There’s a reason she’s drugged into senselessness. She’s not an animal to be bridled. If you let her wake up, she won’t be under our control anymore.”

Much to Carannan’s chagrin, Ferguson didn’t share his alarm. The priest’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “By now, during her infrequent moments of lucidity, she will have worked out that we mean to execute her. It might be possible to offer her a bargain. Sorial’s opinion is that she’s been drugged for so long that her powers won’t return immediately with consciousness. He’s had at least one recent conversation with her. She might seize on an unpalatable agreement like a drowning man clutching at a thorny branch: her freedom in return for saving Sorial and Myselene.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, she tried to
kill
him,” said Carannan. “More than once. And, even if we make this bargain and she adheres to it, which in and of itself is unlikely, we lose her to The Lord of Fire.”

“Considering the likely outcomes, are we giving up much?” asked Ferguson. He shook his head.  “I assert that we’re surrendering very little. Under the queen’s plan, Ariel was to be executed.”

“Sorial rejected that plan,” said Carannan.

“Don’t be naïve, Your Grace. It doesn’t become one in your position.” For a moment at least, the old Ferguson surfaced: steely, condescending, and brooking no disagreement. “In the end, Sorial’s dissent wouldn’t have mattered. She’s the queen. She would have left orders for Ariel’s execution once she and Sorial departed for Obis. By eliminating the current air-wizard so prematurely, we would cede the new one to Justin. Why not send back his current one while gaining the return of our queen and Lord of Earth in the process?”

“It’s a risk,” said Gorton. “Even if we extract an oath, the gods are no longer around to curse oath breakers. There’s no way to bind her to her word.”

“We can make her swear an oath that means something to her - the memory of her mother, perhaps. I can’t promise she’d abide by a bargain. We have no way to
force
her. But her mother and brothers displayed rigid honor in a world where honor means little. Perhaps Ariel, like Braddock and Sorial, inherited that quality. The way she interacted with Sorial before he became a wizard - seeking to ‘save’ him rather than simply eliminating him - is a compelling argument to that being the case.”