War of Wizards (3 page)

“No, it is not time, but the thing grows unnaturally, and nobody knows for sure. The conjurers say it has turned her body against her. She suffers pains—tries to hide them, but all the palace knows.”

Darik had been enjoying the warmth of the late-season sun, but now it seemed as though the air had gone chill. He remembered the horror of seeing Whelan’s brother, King Daniel, possessed by the wight of his dead wife. That had been an attack from King Toth, the dark wizard, as he tried to weaken the Free Kingdoms in advance of the war.

But Kallia Saffa, the khalifa of Balsalom, was carrying the seed of the dark wizard himself in her womb. How much greater danger did she face? Could she even survive giving birth to such a thing?

The two men had passed beyond the spice markets, skirted the edge of the former Slaves Quarter, and were now among the handsome stone houses of the Merchants Quarter, with their blue shutters and their ornate doors trimmed with brass. Here and there, Darik spotted evidence of the fires and destruction that had savaged Balsalom when the dark wizard’s army sacked it under the command of the brutal Pasha Mol Khah.

Darik had just caught his first glimpse of the slender, elegant towers of the palace when a distant horn sounded from the city walls. It was a single long note, followed by two short blasts. He recognized it as the call from the Great Gates, the largest and most heavily fortified entrance into the city.

Captain Rouhani pulled up short on his horse and cocked his head, and Darik stopped as well. There was silence for a moment, and then came a single long trumpet blast that lasted for several seconds.

Rouhani drew a sharp breath. “The Harvester take me. Already?”

“What is it? What does that mean?”

“It’s the enemy. We’re under attack. I must take you to the palace at once. You must help the khalifa. We need her.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Darik asked helplessly. “I can’t . . . I don’t . . .”

“By the Brothers, Darik of Balsalom, do what must be done. Use your wizardry and heal her!”

Chapter Three

Markal studied Whelan by the light of the torches blazing inside the tent. Maps lay spread before the king, who stared at them with unfocused eyes. A small leather bundle sat on one side of the table next to plumes, bottles of ink, wax, and the king’s seal. The bundle was about the size and shape of a small cat, although that wasn’t what it contained. It was this bundle that kept distracting Whelan. Its arrival had punctured the king’s confidence, which had been building over the past few days as they won a series of small battles against the enemy.

The latest maps were encouraging. Advance scouts had brought them a few hours earlier, and if they hadn’t also brought the bundle, Whelan’s confidence would have grown greater still. The maps showed the entrenchments thrown up around Veyre, the defensive encampments in the hills outside the city, the position and condition of the castles and other fortifications guarding the Tothian Way.

Careful estimates suggested that the Veyrians had no more than fifteen thousand men, perhaps as few as twelve thousand, to blunt the combined army of Balsalomians and Eriscobans pressing eastward. Then there was whatever force Toth had within the city itself, perhaps another ten or fifteen thousand men. Against that, Whelan boasted a main army of twenty-eight thousand men, with two additional forces each numbering eight thousand men.

“It isn’t men with sword and spear who concern me,” Whelan said at last, his voice low and heavy. “Our army is well matched in that regard. It’s these other . . .”

The wizard guessed that Whelan had been on the verge of commenting about the giants, the ravagers, the possibility of a dragon in the sky, but the man’s voice trailed off as he eyed the bundle again. His hand reached for his waist, as if expecting to find his sword strapped to his side. But of course, he had unstrapped the big, two-handed weapon before sitting at the table.

Whelan shook his head. “I’m sorry. What was I saying? Oh, yes. About the enemy forces.”

The sooner the king confronted his loss, the better, so Markal reached for the bundle to unwrap it. Whelan drew in his breath and reached for his wrist, but Markal pulled loose. “No, Whelan. It is time.”

The king nodded and leaned back in his chair. He put a hand to his stubbled chin and looked on as Markal unwound the thing. It had very little weight for its size. Soon, it was uncovered and lying in the middle of the table.

The falcon’s once-sleek feathers had been charred, and its eyes were dead and glassy. One wing bent at an unnatural angle, and its blackened talons clenched shut. The scouts had found it scorched and dying in a thicket several miles outside of camp and brought it in for the wizard to inspect. By the time Markal and Whelan saw it, the bird had been dead for hours.

Whelan stared at it, his lips thin and pressed together.

“You are sure?” Markal asked.

“See the notch on the left side of her beak? A fox once tried to take the rabbit she’d killed. Fool bird nearly lost her life for it.” Whelan nodded grimly. “It is Scree. I don’t understand why she would be here and not with my brother, but I am sure. It’s the same falcon.”

Daniel and Sofiana had taken the bird with them along the Spice Road to Marrabat. That was hundreds of miles away.

Whelan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How will I bear it?”

“Soldiers are dying in your service every day,” Markal said gently. “You cannot let your men see how upset you are about the loss of a falcon.”

“It’s not the falcon, Markal. Though I am upset enough about that. I should have left her in Eriscoba, not carried her with me into danger. That’s not what is bothering me.”

A sudden draft flapped at the tent and made the torches sputter and smoke. Markal turned a sharp gaze toward the entrance, thinking immediately of wights, but the guards seemed unperturbed, and the draft died as suddenly as it had come up. There was no magic in it. It was only the wind.

But Markal was still frowning as he looked back to Whelan. “Then what?”

“Scree was no homing pigeon—she couldn’t have found me by herself. She wouldn’t have flown over hundreds of miles of desert and wasteland alone. So someone brought her.”

“You mean your daughter?”

“Who else?” Whelan asked. “Sofiana is headstrong and stubborn. No doubt the girl ran off on her own, and if she did, I’m sure she managed to lose whoever was pursuing her. She must have brought Scree to hunt and provide meat for the journey. They must have been close—it was only a few miles from here that they found the falcon. If my daughter survived, if she wasn’t captured or killed, then where is she?”

Markal was momentarily surprised. The falcon had the scent of magic all over her; it was so strong that he’d assumed that Whelan felt it. Darik would have. But without knowing that, no wonder Whelan’s thoughts would go to his daughter. Everyone he loved was far away—his daughter, his wife, and his two remaining brothers—menaced by threats beyond Whelan’s control. Worry for them must have weighed heavily on Whelan’s shoulders already. So if he’d seen his dead falcon, naturally he would have assumed . . .

“Let me set your mind at ease,” Markal said. “Nobody brought this animal to the khalifates, she flew alone.”

Whelan clenched the edge of the table. “I told you, Scree couldn’t do that. She—”

Markal rested a hand on the man’s arm. “Whelan, listen to me. There’s magic in this. Someone sent her to us, that’s how she crossed the desert. Sofiana had nothing to do with it. No doubt your daughter is still in Marrabat. Darik was with her, and he’s more tenacious than you give him credit for.”

Whelan released his grip on the table. Relief washed over his face. “The Brothers be praised. You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. The stink of magic fills the tent. It’s so strong, it makes me lightheaded. Whatever spell was cast on the falcon, it must have been strong. Probably Narud did it. Animals are his specialty.”

“To what end? Why would he send my falcon to find us?”

“I don’t know,” Markal confessed. “I started to search Scree’s body for a message when the scouts brought her in, but you told me to put her away.”

“That’s because I thought . . . I couldn’t look at Scree without thinking of my daughter. And that made me think of my wife, and of what the dark wizard has done to her. I was terrified, and I couldn’t let my men see it.”

“Yes, I know. I understand that now.”

“Because you’re absolutely right. We’re too close to Veyre, and the confidence of this army balances on the edge of a blade.”

“May I make a closer inspection?”

“Of course.” Whelan rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, certainly.”

Markal’s hands moved over the dead falcon’s body. He searched beneath her feathers and around the neck, then trailed his fingers to the claws.

“Damn,” Whelan said, his voice low. “I’m relieved to imagine that Sofiana is safe, but this hurts. Scree was a good companion. I can only imagine what a griffin rider feels when he loses his mount.”

“A griffin rider would tell you that it feels like losing a child.”

It sounded more glib than Markal intended, even though it was entirely true. The bond between griffin and rider could not be understood by people of the lowlands. But the truth was, Whelan’s loved ones were in grave danger, and his comment had renewed some of the worry on the man’s face.

Markal’s search turned up nothing. Could the note have been lost or taken? Probably a conjurer in the dark wizard’s army had spotted the bird, sensed the magic on it, and scorched it from the sky. Yet the bird had still been alive when the scouts had found her, so it was unlikely that they had rifled the body for a note.

“Anything?” Whelan asked.

“No. But I’m not finished.”

Markal recalled the words of a spell that would prove useful in this situation. It was a modified form of the one that had allowed Darik to track an escaped brigand through the Free Kingdoms a few months earlier. Markal’s hands were still stiff from the power he’d called up and stored in Memnet’s orb earlier that day, but this was a small spell and would cost him little.

He spoke the words of the incantation, and a painful tingle rolled down his left hand to the tips of his fingers. The hand didn’t char, though, only throbbed like it had been slammed between two boards.

The falcon seemed to glow with green light atop the table as the spell took effect. The king didn’t seem to notice the change. He continued to stare at the bird with his brow furrowed and an unhappy turn to his mouth.

“Let’s see what you want, Narud,” Markal muttered as he put his hands on the dead animal. “Why did you send the falcon?”

The first hint of magic had carried the distinct scent of the Order of the Wounded Hand, but an unusual element now entered it. There was something cool and detached about it, with a sharp tang, like a spice market in a desert oasis. Markal had felt that magic before, when he’d battled the mage from Marrabat where the Tothian Way crossed the Desolation. And another magical scent underlaid
that
, something Markal knew even more intimately.

“Chantmer sent your falcon,” Markal said. He squeezed his fingertips into the charred plumage, trying to coax out more information. “Yes, I am certain.”

Chantmer the Tall, Chantmer the Arrogant. Chantmer the Selfish and Obnoxious.

Whelan must have been thinking the same thing. “What, did Chantmer grow jealous of the dark wizard and decide to perform some villainy of his own?”

“Chantmer is coming. He’s returning to the battle.”

Whelan grunted. “Why? And on whose side?”

“On nobody’s side but Chantmer’s, of course. He’ll be entering the war in pursuit of his own vainglorious objectives.” Markal withdrew his hands. “I can’t get anything more out of it. The magic is strong. Almost too strong. The stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer where a gentle tap would have been sufficient. If Chantmer had been more subtle, the dark wizard’s conjurer might not have noticed Scree flying overhead, and she’d be alive.”

“One more crime upon Chantmer’s shoulders.”

“Perhaps, but not an intentional crime, for once. Scree’s death couldn’t have been his intent.” Markal considered. “I tried to kill Chantmer in Arvada. A few weeks ago, I was hunting him down to finish the job. But now, I’m not so sure.”

Markal turned it over in his head. Chantmer had power, of course he did.

“It is an offer, isn’t it?” Whelan asked.

“The Harvester take him if it is,” Markal said irritably. “Chantmer may help for a stretch, but he’ll turn against us in the end.”

“I’m sure you are right. And yet . . . ”

Markal studied Whelan’s expression. “You think we need him.”

Whelan covered Scree’s body and rose from his seat. He went to the armor rack near the tent entrance. He left his breastplate hanging, but strapped on his sword and swung his cloak over his shoulders.

“Come outside with me. I need to get away from these maps for a stretch.”

Markal studied Whelan’s troubled expression as the two of them stepped past the guard and into the cool night air. The king was still young and strong, and handsome and assured enough to capture the heart of the khalifa of Balsalom even before she’d known of his royal background, but the previous year had left lines on his face, and the weariness of an older man in his eyes.

They walked without escort through the tent encampment that stretched for miles along the Tothian Way. The smoke from campfires turned the moon a dark red, while the smell of animals and sweat and roasting meat left the air thick and heavy and pungent.

Ballistae sat positioned through the camp at regular intervals. Dragon wasps and their riders had flown over the camp two days earlier, hurling missiles, and as defense, the pashas and captains had aimed the siege weapons skyward. These might work against wasps, but should a full-size dragon appear, Markal doubted they’d be able to drive it off before it savaged the army. He was counting on Daria to defend against aerial attacks, but she had disappeared shortly after the battle with Pasha Ismail’s army and hadn’t been seen in the two weeks since.