The Last Whisper of the Gods (41 page)

Azarak took note of her sour expression. “Never fear, little one. I won’t change my mind but this must be done properly. It would be an insult to your father if we announce our intentions to the population before he gives his final approval. It may be
fait accompli
, but the order of things must be observed.” She was young and impatient - Azarak could well remember those days - but few things were more bound by protocol than a royal wedding. Giving into impatience could ensure it wouldn’t happen.

After a moment’s pouting, Myselene sighed. “I suppose there are benefits to not being officially betrothed. Once I have a public status, I must behave with the utmost decorum, as befits the future queen of Vantok. We might as well enjoy our current situation as it is. We’ll have plenty of time later to play the cool and proper couple. Shall we retire to the bed, Your Majesty, or would you rather remain here?”

Either way, reflected Azarak, this day had improved markedly since his early morning meetings with Ferguson and Toranim. He could get used to this and, given his future wife’s energetic and playful disposition, there was no reason to believe it would end once he placed a crown upon her brow. He relaxed and let her assume control.

Consciousness crept back more quickly than Sorial would have preferred. As the blackness faded, the pain returned. Pain - his new friend and constant companion. A glance at his maimed right foot revealed the blackened stumps of his two smallest toes, sliced off with precision by Langashin, then cauterized by a torch to limit the bleeding. At the moment, the man was standing over him, his expression unreadable beneath his mask of whiskers as he toyed with the implement that had done the damage, caressing the blade with a finger. Langashin was experienced at this trade. He understood how to impart maximum discomfort without endangering the victim’s life.

Sorial’s screams and whimpers had been a symphony to Langashin. The inquisitor had explained in matter-of-fact terms what he was doing as he went through each step of the procedure: break the bone first, remove the digit with a quick, decisive cut, then apply a touch from the burning pitch at the end of a torch. Sorial had maintained consciousness through the severing of both toes and the burning of the first one. The second cauterization, which also seared the skin of the middle toe and the sole, had caused him to black out. Now, his mind was so befogged by pain that he had difficulty focusing on anything, least of all telling a coherent lie. Yet he had to find a way to convince Langashin of his sincerity without mentioning Alicia.

“Are you ready ta resume our discussions, or do I need to snip off ’nother toe? Ain’t no rush. You got eight more toes, five fingers, and one cock. We can continue this for quite some time if’n that’s what you want.”

Sorial mumbled something. He made a half-hearted attempt to shift to a sitting position, but lacked the will. It hurt too much to move.

“Tell me what incomparable compensation you were offered by His Majesty King Azarak and His Eminence Prelate Ferguson that resulted in such a long journey by you and two protectors...”

“Six.” A distraction. He needed a distraction.

The pronouncement brought Langashin up short. “Six what?”

“There was six men with me at the start,” Sorial lied. Langashin had referenced his “two” companions in an earlier session but the man was crafty enough to have been laying a trap. It was conceivable he could have knowledge of Warburm and Brindig - perhaps having captured or killed them - and intended to reveal this as a “surprise.” However sloppily, Sorial needed to lay the groundwork to account for them. “We was separated from two in an ambush by nomads in the wilds north of The Forbidden Lands. Two others were killed by a rock wyrm.”

Langashin nodded. “And one of the survivors was injured. My hunters informed me one of your companions was suffering from advanced rock wyrm poison. That’s what happens when you venture into dangerous areas. And there are more lethal things in The Forbidden Lands than rock wyrms, which mostly stay underground. Trolls are rare, but if’n you meet one, you ain’t gonna live ta tell the story. And the mountain giants are supposed ta be worse, though they may have died off long ago. Ain’t never seen one myself or heard tell of someone who has.”

Sorial remained quiet, doing his best to manage the pain. It had infested his entire body, but his right foot and left arm, where the salve’s palliative effects had worn off, were the worst. His other injuries were minor irritants compared to those. Then there was the persistent humming, which never went away. It whispered
comecomecome
in low, distant tones - a plea, an invitation, a demand.

“Six companions or two, it don’t matter. What were you promised?” Langashin fingered the blade; if Sorial’s next words didn’t satisfy him, it would bite again.

“They offered power, with authority second only to theirs. I’d have a palace, a harem, a personal guard, and would be outside the law. If I pledged to Vantok.”

“A princely offer.” The contempt in Langashin’s tone indicated his opinion of it.

“Not really. But I needed Azarak’s support. The only way to get it was to agree. Being city-born and bred, I couldn’t have found Havenham on my own. I needed trackers and men familiar with wilderness survival. But it weren’t never my intention to submit to a lesser title on my return with the power to take what I wanted.”

“Why would you?” Langashin sheathed the knife somewhere beneath his vest. “Deals can be renegotiated when the balance of power changes. I think you’ve finally told me something approaching the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but close enough for now. This presents a quandary.” The fingers that had moments ago been toying with the knife were now scratching the beard.

“You see,” continued the interrogator, “I see only two paths forward. The first is ta hand you over alive ta Maraman and collect the reward, but I ain’t that stupid, although he probably thinks I am. Maraman ain’t got high opinions of those he considers underlings, which is pretty much everyone. But if I gave you ta him, as soon as you were out of my power, you’d make an alliance with him, do your thing with the portal and - if you survive - destroy me and my settlement. Taking that risk would force me ta gamble on your
not
being a wizard, and that’s a dangerous proposition considering how many people think you got it in you. The alternative is ta kill you and give him your head on a pike. Only ten gold, but ten
safe
gold. Ten gold I’ll be alive ta spend. It would piss him off, but what’s he gonna do half a continent away? March his army down here and complain?”

Sorial felt his mouth go dry.

“Yet I’m wondering if there mightn’t be a third way. By all accounts, Azarak is an intelligent man and there may be no one alive more cunning than Ferguson. I hate the man but give him his due. It would have occurred to them that, once you became a wizard, their inducements wouldn’t be enough ta bind you ta Vantok. Third in command of a single city? Do they believe you ta be incorruptible? Doubtful. So they must have something else. Something ta control a wizard. Something you don’t know about or ain't telling me. If I can figger out what that is, you might not have ta die. You could be
my
wizard instead. Then I could head north, meet Maraman’s army, and put him under my command.”

“I could swear an oath of fealty.” The moment he made the offer, Sorial knew it was pointless.

Langashin laughed. “An oath of fealty from someone who admits planning to break one ta his lawful king? An oath of fealty when the gods who punished oath-breakers ain’t no more? ’Fraid I’ll need more’n that. You
will
swear an oath but it’ll have teeth. Our duty - yours and mine - is ta identify those teeth and secure the imprint of their bite marks. Understand this: you’ll be my wizard or no one’s. If I can’t find a way ta keep you on my leash, you ain’t getting near the portal. You’ll die in this cell. So it’s as much ta your advantage as mine ta figger something out.”

Sorial didn’t have an answer to this. Langashin’s line of questioning led to Alicia, the leverage Azarak and Ferguson possessed and the piece of information he would never reveal. He knew what was coming next; it would be very, very unpleasant. But, no matter how much pain he endured, he wouldn’t divulge this secret. Keeping Alicia safe was worth more than his life.

“For now, I think you’ve lost enough blood and body parts. I’ll give you the night ta recover and ponder what hold your king might have over you. If you remember, you can save yourself some pain and prevent the loss of toes, fingers, and cock. One way or t’other, I’ll know the answer ta this riddle or I’ll cut off your head and save it for your father. A good night’s rest and we'll attack the problem fresh on the morrow.”

* * *

For a span after Langashin’s departure, Sorial lay on the floor, allowing his body to become accustomed to its newest wounds. He supposed he was fortunate, at least for the moment. Of all the things he could have lost, two toes seemed an easy price to pay. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be an end to it.

The worst part was there was nothing Sorial could do about it. He was a dead man. No words or deeds could convince Langashin that he would be his pet wizard. Yet the prospect of dying wasn’t as frightening as it had once been; several days in the clutches of a torturer had made him realize that sometimes living was the worse alternative. Lamanar had known that at the end. But before Sorial was given the solace of his final oblivion, he would have to endure endless hours of torment. Langashin would invent questions Sorial couldn’t answer for the pleasure of hearing him scream. That was the man’s nature. He was addicted to the pain he could cause in others.

Eventually, the keepers entered with their buckets of cold water to splash over Sorial and sluice the floor. Before departing, they left behind a bowl of foul-smelling glop and a mug of murky water.

Shivering and weak, he tried to rise, but the pain caused by pressure on his right foot was too great. He settled for crawling to the water, which he gulped down. Then, as miserable as he had ever been in his life, he curled up on the floor. Concentrating on the siren's call of
comecomecome
offered a measure of calm and solace. It didn’t dispel the pain but made it seem more remote. Sorial focused, trying to ascertain its nature. He was sure it was the portal, inviting him into its embrace. Did that mean he had a wizard’s potential? Or was it a feint, a trick played by the portal on the unwary who sought it out? Sorial suspected he wouldn’t live long enough to learn the answer.

It was galling to recognize he had come so close to his goal only to fall short. But there wasn’t an alternative. Even had he been willing to tell the truth about Alicia, it would gain him nothing, so he would buy her safety with his life. When he was gone, she would have nothing to fear. Ferguson’s hold on her would evaporate. She would still be saddled with the title of The Wizard’s Bride, but that would be as meaningless as it had been for ten centuries. He wondered if there was another candidate waiting to replace him. No more children of Maraman and Kara, that much was certain. What would Ferguson think if he learned about Ariel?

Exhaustion demanded sleep and Sorial succumbed, but it was shallow and restless. Any time he moved, the pain awakened him. When he lay perfectly still, he experienced dull, manageable aches in his foot, arm, and nose. But when he brushed those injuries against anything, no matter how lightly, the resulting jolt of pain brought tears to his eyes and a whimper to his lips. He had always believed himself to have a high tolerance for pain, but never before had he known suffering as meted out by someone with a taste for its finer points.

He waited, equally dreading and anticipating Langashin’s return. Time had no meaning in this dungeon. Outside, it might be mid-day or midnight. In the world above, the first rays of light meant the hope of a new day - something Sorial had yearned for as a boy. He could remember the years in the stable when he had made it a point to be outside every morning to see the sun rise. In here, the approach of light meant that Langashin was coming back, and Langashin meant pain.

Sorial was awakened from a feverish dream by a sound. At first, he didn’t know what it was, then the grate of stone on stone told him the door to his cell was being opened. He squinted as the brightness of a newly lit torch flooded the chamber, expecting to see the immense bulk of Langashin saunter in. Except this wasn’t the inquisitor. It was someone smaller, less imposing. Not one of his keepers, either. It took a prolonged moment before Sorial’s pain-addled mind connected a name with the familiar features: Warburm, looking a little worse for wear than the last time Sorial saw him. At first, he thought he was dreaming, but when the face and form didn’t evaporate, he was forced to concede that this was happening.

Comecomecome
, urged the portal.

“I done found him!” whispered the innkeeper to someone in the hall, outside Sorial’s field of vision. He assumed it was Brindig, since there were no other candidates. “Or what’s left of him,” muttered Warburm after pausing a moment to study the wreckage of the man before him.

Sorial could envision what Warburm was seeing. In addition to his various injuries, he had lost weight as a result of malnutrition, had sores on many parts of his body where insects had stung or bitten him, and was wearing a unkempt beard of several days scraggly growth. In situations like this, people often claimed to look worse than they felt, but Sorial didn’t think that applied.

“Lad, do you recognize me?” Warburm bent close then retreated a little when he inhaled the stench of Sorial’s body.

“Of course.” The words emerged raspy and slurred, the result of a swollen mouth and a parched throat. “Is Brindig with you?”

Warburm nodded. “He be keeping watch, like always.”

“I have two keepers.”

“Had,” corrected Warburm. “Dealt with. We got to get you to the portal. It be the middle of the night and not too many of the locals be about. We been watching for a few days, though, and this place never really sleeps. But it don't get quieter than this. The lights ain’t on in the leader’s hut. The portal be close and if it accepts you, who knows what’ll happen?”

“You know where it is?”
Comecomecome.

“Aye, an’ it ain’t far. They’ll be fighting needed to get to it - it be watched day and night, but Brindig and me will take out the guards and anyone else, then we’ll hold them off while you do what’s got to be done.”

“I can feel it calling to me.”
Comecomecome
. The pulsing seemed more insistent now that the door to the cell was open. Yet, as clear as its call was, it couldn’t help Sorial overcome his injuries and infirmity. The simple task of walking, once taken for granted, was a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.