The Last Whisper of the Gods (25 page)

Toranim nodded his agreement. This was the first time the king had spoken openly about what they both assumed - the manipulations of an adversary wizard were responsible for the weather.

Azarak mused, “We know so little, but we have to assume this wizard, whoever he is, is readying a strike north, with Vantok as his first target. Does he have an army? Are his forces men or monsters? Is the heat his way of breaking us down, weakening us so we’ll be too weary to fight when the time comes? It’s a basic strategy taken to extremes. The question is: How to combat it?”

“It's all about preparation. Arm the populace and train them to use their weapons, then put our faith in His Eminence and his schemes. You and I both know, Your Majesty, that one as wily as our prelate has more brands in the fire than one stableboy.”

“Aye. Ferguson’s a lover of secrets, and he’ll tell us only as much as he wants us to know. He dispenses information the way a farmer dispenses seed. If there was some way to know something about the host we might face - their nature, their numbers...”

“We can speculate,” offered Toranim.

“With thin evidence.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. If the wizard is using the heat to sap the effectiveness of our army, it could mean his force isn’t large enough to face us on an equal footing.”

“Or he’s concerned about losing too many men in an initial battle, which could limit his ability to surge northward.”

Toranim nodded. “So it’s unlikely we’ll be facing an overwhelming army. And my best guess is we can expect the majority of the enemy’s ranks to be comprised of mercenaries and nomads and peasants from villages in the Deep South.”

“At full strength, Vantok can field an army of six thousand, perhaps a quarter of whom will have some legitimate fighting training either in private militias or as members of the Watch. It would be surprising if any force based in The Forbidden Lands could do better than match that,” said Azarak.

“Our knowledge of The Forbidden Lands is limited. We know there are settlements along the coast and it may be that there are towns or even cities far to the south, well beyond the ruins of Havenham. It’s a pity we've never explored more than the northern fringes.”

“We tried.” Azarak recalled something he had read. “Several centuries ago, a king of Vantok sent a heavily armed force of ten score mounted warriors on an expedition into The Forbidden Lands. Their goal was to map the region, make contact with anyone who had settled there, and discover what lay on the southern side. They vanished without a trace after having sent back only a few mundane messages about how inhospitable and barren the place was. In the mountainous regions, they encountered wild goats and a few wolves. They were never heard from again and a rescue party found no evidence they’d been there. The Forbidden Lands are thus named for a reason.

“I’ve been shortsighted, ignoring the potential of a threat from the Deep South.” Azarak had always believed Vantok to be the safest of the southern cities because of its distance from the belligerent northern states. He had never dreamed that the greatest danger could be brewing in his own backyard.

“If the heat continues to build, morale will decay. It’s not good now. The conscription has made you unpopular.”

“How much time would you estimate before an attack comes?” asked Azarak, recognizing that Toranim had an overall better understanding of tactics than he did.

“Assuming we're projecting an attack by a mostly conventional fighting force, more than one year, but less than two,” said Toranim with a certainty that surprised the king.

“You sound confident of that.”

“The heat’s been building steadily over the span of several years. This will likely be the final year when a harvest is possible during the upcoming Winter. As the heat grows to levels we haven’t yet experienced, shallow wells will run dry. Trade will trickle to a stop and our grain stores will be depleted. Pestilence and famine, already creeping dangers, will run rampant. Many will flee Vantok for the cooler, more fertile lands to the north. That’s when our enemies will strike. The people may turn against you before then, Your Majesty. The future ills that befall Vantok will be laid at your feet.”

“One of my predecessors remarked that a popular king is one who shirks the hard choices faced by a good and just ruler. Not that such kernels of wisdom are helpful in times such as these.”

“A royal wedding, complete with the attendant pomp and celebration, is sure to lift spirits.”

Azarak frowned at that, but had to admit the truth in his chancellor’s words. “We must time it right,” said the king. “It’s a one-time weapon with limited longevity.”

“And we must find the right bride.”

“Which brings us back to the issue at hand. Should I wed the Princess of Obis and take as her dowry a contingent of King Rangarak’s army to bolster our own forces?” Azarak was beginning to wish he had acceded to the pressure placed upon him soon after the death of his first wife. At that time, the prime consideration for the new queen would have been her fertility. Now, with war, famine, and the rebirth of magic lurking like monsters in the shadows, the decision had become more complicated and the wrong choice could mean disaster for the city he ruled.

* * *

The morning after her dinner with the king, Myselene rose from her bed more optimistic than at any time since coming to Vantok. She didn’t even mind it when her overly attentive maid awoke her with a tray of honey-covered biscuits and berries to break her fast. She knew she had been at her best the previous evening and the thrill of her triumph had carried through the night. She sensed she had won Azarak over or, at the least, made a dent in his armor. Courtship was as much a battle as combat with arms. Her strategy was to wear down his defenses then, when the opening presented itself, launch the final assault.

How to accomplish that remained an open question. Her older, pragmatic sister had suggested she yield her virginity to the king. Any man of honor, as Azarak surely must be, would be duty-bound to marry her after that. One of her maids and confidants had countered that she should tease him but not surrender her maidenhead. That would leave him lusting for a prize he would receive only after the vows were exchanged. Myselene could see wisdom in both approaches but she would need to know her intended betrothed better before deciding which would be the better course of action.

She wanted this marriage, and not just for her children. She wanted it for herself. Having now spent hours in Azarak’s company, she felt certain her role could be more substantive than that of a royal broodmare and an ornament for important occasions. She could be those things, of course, but she had more to offer. The king of Vantok was the kind of man who would listen to her counsel and solicit her opinions. As his queen, she would have power and influence - two things she currently lacked as the second daughter of the king of Obis and would never have as the wife of a rich merchant or favored noble.

She didn’t know the identities of her rivals but assumed there were many. The king’s unwillingness to marry for years after his first wife’s death indicated he was unhappy with his choices. Myselene’s tactic was to convince Azarak that she was the right one - the only one - who could fill the void left by his first wife.

She knew her dowry would be as crucial an enticement as her person. She had gently probed the king’s needs and learned a few things. He didn’t seem overly worried about finances but he was concerned about how the weather was damaging Vantok’s trade and farming industries. He was also troubled about the military, although she couldn’t discern why. Perhaps because of the crime and lawlessness resulting from the rumors about the gods, but there seemed to be something more... something he was unwilling to reveal. At any rate, it was clear that he needed troops as dearly as a well-patrolled trade route between Obis and Vantok. But how many men was a marriage between her and Azarak worth to her father? One hundred? Two hundred? Five hundred? Obis had a standing army of twenty-thousand men, so five hundred didn’t seem unreasonable to Myselene, but she knew her father prized his militia above all else.

After the maid had departed to clear away her dishes and fetch a pitcher of fresh water, Myselene rose from bed, let her sleeping gown slip to the floor in a pool of aquamarine silk, and regarded herself critically in the polished sliver looking glass.
This
was still her best weapon, she acknowledged, appraising her full breasts with their symmetrical areola and pink nipples. Going forward, every garment she wore would be designed to emphasize her body, to let Azarak see what could be his. She would turn his head if it took walking naked into his sleeping chamber to accomplish that goal. Some believed her naturally quiet demeanor to be a sign of maidenly innocence. They couldn’t be more wrong. Myselene had little practical experience but she had studied what occurred between men and women in the bedchamber and had been given advice by experienced servants. When it came to using sexuality to win campaigns, few would be able match her. Once all the skirmishes were fought, she
would be
the queen of Vantok.

For Sorial, the twilight of Summer meant the time had come to face the future. As much as he enjoyed the simplicity of spending long days at manual labor and short nights sleeping the dreamless slumber of exhaustion, he couldn’t remain in this limbo forever. At seventeen years of age, Sorial had elected to heed the clarion call of destiny and confront those who had manipulated his past; the time for flight and subterfuge was over. It was unfair to him. It was unfair to Alicia. It was even unfair to those who had placed him in this position.

One aspect of repetitive, rigorous physical labor was that it freed the mind, giving Sorial many hours to contemplate his situation. He accepted the correctness of his mother’s secretiveness. He also recognized that the people who had mapped out his youth were serious, desperate men. This wasn’t some random plot cobbled together on the fly. His existence had been planned from before his birth. Whatever their flaws, Warburm’s cabal had acted deliberately and they were far from the end game. They wanted, nay
needed
, a wizard and they were determined for Sorial to be that person. They had manipulated his bloodline and kept him hidden from his enemies, whoever they might be, but nothing they had done could ensure he was truly capable of wielding magic.

It was past time for the key players in this drama to provide a full accounting. Sorial understood the framework of his situation, but he was ignorant of a myriad of details. He would do what they wanted. To gain his heart’s desire, an unharried life with Alicia, he had to risk everything. The alternative meant spending the next fifteen years as a fugitive while hoping Alicia would be waiting for him when her time of servitude was done. And would there even be a Vantok in fifteen years? The expectation and hope was that once he came into his powers, he would save the city. Without a wizard, how long could it last? There was more at stake than his future happiness, even though that was how it had been framed for his consumption.

He admitted there was something enticing about the lure of power. All his life, he had been a servant, one who existed to do the bidding of others. His greatest acts of freedom had been stealing swims in the upstream river and spending hot, sweaty nights under the sheets with Annie. Being a wizard would change that. He would have authority and respect. He would give the commands, not receive them. Wasn’t such a reward worth the gamble of a life that, if lived on its current trajectory, might lead to long years of toil and hardship, possibly ending in an unmarked grave?

Sorial wanted to live. Truth be told, he was frightened of death, especially if the gods had cast men adrift. He could understand why so many despaired. It was a terrifying possibility, the bleakness of oblivion. He suspected this quest to awaken his powers would kill him. He lacked the faith that others had. Deep down, he didn’t believe in monsters or magic. The world was what he saw around him. But the die had been cast. He would do what they asked, what they required, but it would be done on his terms.

The sun had cleared the eastern horizon, heralding the beginning of another scorching day, when Sorial pushed aside the flap of his master’s tent and entered the close quarters within. He had just completed his final shift working for the merchant Drazir, a grueling sundown-to-sunrise stint that had seen Sorial load the man’s six wagons for the long trip north. Drazir was leaving on the morrow for more profitable cities. During Summer, Vantok offered little to buy and less to sell. This would be his last stop here until the heat abated.

Drazir glanced up from coin counting when Sorial entered. “Ah, Mansab,” he said in a heavily-accented voice, using the name Sorial had given him when entering his employ. “Come to collect your last wages? Sure you won’t change your mind and come north with me? I could use a man like you in my guards. Pay good. Twice what you make here, and ’twill be cooler in Basingham. Here, it’s hell. There, paradise.”

This wasn’t the first time Drazir had asked. Sorial knew the man was concerned about the trip, even though he had recruited six mercenaries to protect him from the dangers of the road. Bandits were becoming more brazen and even well-protected caravans had been attacked. One reason Drazir had lingered for so long in the unprofitable markets of Vantok was that he feared he wouldn’t survive the journey to Basingham.

“Sorry, Master Drazir. I hafta clear my name.”

“Which is not Mansab, we both know. In Basingham, you could be whoever you want. No one cares what you did in Vantok.”

“All the same...”

Drazir grunted his disappointment, then extended his hand and dropped a dozen brass studs into Sorial’s calloused palm.

“May the gods guard your path.” Sorial mouthed the traditional departure wish.

Drazir snorted. “If there were gods to guard my path, I wouldn’t be having to take the path.”

Immediately after leaving Drazir’s tent, Sorial headed for Lamanar and Kara’s farm. He had decided to confront his mother first, then Warburm. It would be telling to note discrepancies in their stories; there was no guarantee that, even at this late date, they would be forthcoming. They had been keeping secrets for so long he suspected it had become second nature.

It had been a year since Sorial had been to the farm, and he was shocked at its condition. The fields had turned into flatlands of packed and baked clay as if no planting had taken place during Winter. Even from a distance, the house looked dilapidated, with wall timbers rotting and in need of chinking and the thatched roof in disrepair. Whatever Lamanar’s faults as a father and husband, he had always been rigorous about his crops and house. No longer, apparently.

Kara answered his knock and her weathered expression brightened. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on each cheek, tears in her eyes. She looked older than Sorial remembered; the lines on her face were deeper and there was gray in her hair. She might have been thinner as well, although her simple, homespun dress hid any weight loss.

“Mother.” Sorial’s voice was carefully neutral.

“Come in,” she motioned, stepping aside to let him in out of the sun. The main room showed the same signs of neglect as the outside. The fireplace had partially collapsed and there was a hole in the ceiling where the thatch had rotted and fallen through. The chamber was stuffy and smelled of mice and rats; Sorial knew the odor from his years in the stable. There was no evidence of them, but there could be dozens lurking out of plain sight.

“What happened?” asked Sorial.

She sighed. “Lamanar has given in to despair. After you disappeared, he stopped caring. Instead of tending the fields and fixing the cabin, he spent his waking hours going from tavern to tavern, drinking away the days. How he’s been paying for it, I don’t know; we’re probably deep in debt, although Warburm may be subsidizing his binge. Those two were once like brothers. The house looks worse than it is, though. With so little rain, there’s not much concern about the weather getting in. The hole in the roof lets the cooler air in better at night.”

There was no accusation in Kara’s tone, but her words were plain enough:
After you disappeared, he stopped caring
.

“Have you returned for good or is this just a visit?” asked Kara. Apparently, she assumed he had left Vantok following
the day
.

“That may depend on what you tell me. You and Warburm.”

“You intend to see him?”

Sorial nodded. “As soon as I leave here. The Wayfarer’s Comfort is my next stop.”

“I shouldn’t say this, but unless you intend to submit to Warburm, don’t go there. Once he has you in his power, he won’t let you go. Believe me, I speak from experience.”

Sorial expected no less.

“Tell me your story, Mother. All of it. Open every secret. I want plain speech and I want to know everything. Anything less, and I’ll disappear back to where I’ve been for the past two seasons and you’ll never see me again.” It was an idle threat, but Kara didn’t recognize it as such. His disappearance had shaken her. He wondered if the same was true of Warburm. Somehow, he doubted it. The innkeeper knew him too well. Far better than his mother did.

They sat across from one another near the ruined fireplace, occupying the same worn chairs they had used so often in the past.

Kara began. “It started when I was a child in a small village between Obis and Syre. My mother was a courtesan of Syre who died giving birth to me. My father was a sergeant in the military of Obis. I was left in the care of relatives who treated me like a slave. My father would visit from time-to-time, so there was some necessity for my guardians to see to my general well-being, if only to avoid his wrath. He was a kind man although often sad and distracted and he genuinely loved me. When he died in a border skirmish with barbarians from The White World, my cousins began to ill use me. I knew that when I flowered, I would be raped and sold as a whore, so I ran away.

“A priest found me begging by a roadside inn near the border of Obis, seeking a crust of bread from any who would spare it. He cleaned me up, gave me a meal, and offered to take me back to his town to learn the ways of piety and truth. I wasn’t much interested in his gods but the thought of having a warm place to sleep and a full belly was appealing. So I went.

“The place he brought me to was more of a camp than a town. It was run by the priest and several of his fellows who represented a sect devoted to the ‘last whisper of the gods.’ They followed the teachings of a man named Ferguson who, although not yet a prelate, was highly placed in the distant city of Vantok. Everyone in the little village - peasants, adventurers, and merchants - shared the belief of the priest: the days of the gods were numbered and they were making preparations for the future survival of the faithful by returning magic to the world.”

Apparently, the abandonment of the gods wasn’t a new idea. It had existed long before Sorial’s birth. That it had come to pass led credence to the beliefs and actions of those who had taken his mother in. Another thought came to mind, and he voiced it: “Was this priest my father?”

Kara smiled, perhaps a little sadly, but continued her story without answering. “Ferguson came to see me shortly after my first woman’s bleeding. By then, I’d been in the village for four or five seasons, and was perhaps thirteen years of age. I learned it wasn’t happenstance that the priest encountered me outside the inn; he’d been sent to fetch me. According to Ferguson, I was the one they were seeking. I was asked if I would pledge myself to their cause and, having seen nothing but kindness from them, I agreed. Would that I understood at that young age the sacrifices I’d be required to make.” Her voice trailed off and her eyes took on a faraway look. Sorial knew she was no longer in the room with him. She was back in the camp, promising herself to Ferguson.

“I was placed in the joint care of the priest and a young adventurer named Warburm who frequently stopped by the village. What he lacked in chivalry he made up for in bluster, but I took a liking to him. Together, those two taught me what my duty would be. Magic was returning to the world, they said, and it would appear in the next generation. I’d been selected because my bloodline could be traced back to one of the ancient magicians of the last age. A man from another strong blood line would be chosen to lie with me and sire a child. That son or daughter would grow up to be a great hope of the world - one of the cabal of four wizards who would maintain balance once the gods were gone.

“The first time your father came to me, I didn’t see his face. He visited me every night in the darkness for a full moon’s cycle. He was neither gentle nor cruel; to him, it was a duty. By day, he remained out of sight in a shuttered cabin and, once the new moon came, he left the village. Three seasons later, I was delivered of twin boys - your brothers. There was much rejoicing that day, but it didn’t last.

“The oldest boy was sickly and died when a mild bout of influenza swept through the village; he was only four years old. His brother survived but Ferguson decreed that ‘a spare’ was needed, so my lover was recalled from wherever he was journeying. Our ‘courtship’ proceeded as before; the result this time was a girl.

“For nearly ten years, life progressed as it always had. Toward the end of that peaceful decade, the priests became urgent. Ferguson issued a decree that the time had come. Warburm and several others escorted my son, just past his Maturity, to a portal located in the nearby ruins of the ancient city of Ibitsal. He didn’t return. The portal rejected him and he was incinerated in a flare of fire. There was nothing left of him to bring home.” She paused again, a tear trickling down her cheek. Sorial said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“No one could explain what went wrong. There was speculation: magic hadn’t yet returned, the portal was damaged, or my son simply lacked the innate ability. Whatever the case, he was dead and my daughter, who was next in the line of succession, would be expected to undergo the same ordeal once her Maturity arrived. She was only ten at the time, but she understood she would follow her brother, possibly into the grave.”

“Around this time, there were rumors of other factions - groups that shared Ferguson’s core beliefs but disagreed with him about how to proceed. Some saw this as an opportunity to profit and prosper if they could raise one of the four wizards. Ferguson’s dream of unity among the quartet was shattered, as Warburm had always predicted would happen. Now it was a matter of producing one and hoping he or she would be able to reach out to the others and convince them of the need to work together.