War of Wizards (4 page)

The wizard and the king walked together for several minutes before Markal could no longer hold his tongue. “Chantmer says he’s coming, and you don’t think we should turn him away?”

“Let’s count our immediate concerns, first,” Whelan said. “We’ll shortly be crashing against the gates of Veyre—is there some evil secret waiting for us at the city? And here’s something that’s troubling me. Have you thought of this? Our invasion of Veyre is almost a mirror image of the dark wizard’s own assault against the gates of Arvada.”

Yes, Markal had thought of that. King Toth had launched a massive invasion into the west to attack the Citadel of Arvada. And now, in a reversal, King Whelan had launched a massive invasion into the east to assault the Dark Citadel. Equal and opposite. Opposite and equal.

To add another strange parallel, advance outriders had reported that Balsalom and their other allies in the Western Khalifates had fallen under some as-yet unknown attack, and Markal recalled how Kallia’s forces retaking Balsalom had put a major enemy at Veyre’s rear, causing the enemy’s invasion to collapse. Could that be happening again, but in reverse?

“Chantmer is a villain and a deceiver,” Whelan continued. “We didn’t win in the Free Kingdoms because of him. We won in
spite
of him.”

“And yet? That’s what you said before, and you’re thinking it again.”

Whelan nodded. “And yet.”

“He is an enemy of our enemy, and I understand the temptation to turn to him for help. But should the dark wizard be cast down, Chantmer might take his place as our foe.”

“I fully expect it, Markal, but I’ll take my chances. Chantmer the Tall does not command the dead, he has no dragons. He is not sitting in the Dark Citadel, inviting us to attack.”

“So long as he was exiled to Marrabat, crippled and friendless, I liked my chances very much,” Markal agreed. “Returning north, his strength regained? He’s not returning a vassal of the sultan, an apprentice to the tattooed mages of Marrabat—you can count on that. He will no doubt be leading them.”

“When he arrives, I will count on you to keep Chantmer in line.”

“I wouldn’t assume he is coming here specifically.”

Whelan frowned. “No?”

Markal shook his head. “To join our army? No, not directly. Standing in the middle of a battle, trading blows with giants and dragons—that isn’t Chantmer’s way. He’d be more interested in the magical struggle. The
spiritual
struggle. And away from the two of us telling him what to do and when to do it. No, I don’t think he’s coming here. He has somewhere else in mind.”

“Balsalom,” Whelan said.

“Kallia is carrying the dark wizard’s child. Nobody is attending her at present. What an opportunity.”

“Of course people are attending her.” Whelan’s voice was tight, defensive. “I didn’t leave my wife alone to give birth in some back alley.”

Markal corrected himself. “There is no
wizard
to attend her. That is all I mean. This child, if it
is
a child . . . there is the stink of Toth’s magic around the whole thing, and so many unknowns we can only guess at what will happen.”

They turned around and walked through the camp, back toward the king’s tent. A trumpet sounded somewhere far to the south, and the two men stiffened. Whelan cursed by the Wounded Hand as the signal continued through the camp, passed from one horn to another.

Men came boiling out of tents, running to the ballistae and other siege weapons pointed toward the sky. They loaded huge bolts the size of a man’s leg into the machinery and cranked the winches to ready the weapons to fire.

“They’d better be right,” Markal said. “If some jumpy fool shoots down a griffin . . .”

An enormous shape passed in front of the hazy moon, black against blood red. It must have been a hundred feet long from the enormous head to the tip of its sinuous tail, with wings so broad that they blotted the moon and seemingly half the sky when they stretched open.

The dragon was only above them for an instant, so high and moving so quickly that no arrow or bolt could have touched it. And then it was gone.

Chapter Four

Darik and Captain Rouhani pushed their way up the hill to the palace. The streets were packed, and as they passed between the final manors of the guildmasters and viziers, with their ornate shutters and bronze-capped cupolas, a small army, four across and fifty deep, came marching down the road. They wore the white tunics and golden dragon of the House of Saffa—the khalifa’s palace guard.

“Out of the way!” one of them shouted. “By orders of the khalifa, move aside!”

The street emptied, and even Rouhani and Darik tugged the reins of their horses to get clear. As the men passed, Rouhani called to their captain, who confirmed that the order had come from Kallia herself.

“By the Brothers,” Rouhani said, after the company had passed and the two men began to ride again, “that is a bad sign. Why would they send out the palace guard so soon?”

He glanced back down the road after the marching soldiers, seemingly torn between riding back to the city wall and accompanying Darik to the palace, as he seemed to think was his duty.

“Go ahead,” Darik urged.

“The battle won’t be won or lost on my account. I have my orders—let’s keep going.”

Darik was glad to have the young captain accompany him to the palace, but wished he had time to stop and question the man. Everything had happened so quickly since Darik arrived at the Spice Gate looking for Sofiana, and he had many questions. What
manner
of army had overthrown the Khalifate of Starnar? Who was attacking Balsalom now? Veyrians? Ravagers? Either way, couldn’t they simply shut the gates and man the walls? Why did they need the palace guard so urgently?

The two men rode through the palace gates, entered the courtyard, and passed into the lower gardens. The Nye River flowed through the palace grounds before passing through the city and then onto the plain, and in the past, much of the water had been diverted into the gardens, making a hundred fountains bubble, and gurgling through numerous stone courses. All that water turned the gardens green and luxurious, with a riot of flowers and birds and trees that had made it the most beautiful spot in the city, if not in all of the khalifates. It was like a memory of the long-destroyed kingdom of Aristonia, Markal had once told Darik.

But the gardens were brown and dead now, the vines leafless, the trees reduced to stumps and charred branches. Statues lay overturned and smashed, columns blackened. Most of the buildings seemed to have been repaired since the savage occupation by Toth’s army, but not here, not in the gardens. That was a luxury the khalifa had not allowed herself.

Rouhani questioned two remaining members of the palace guard, who directed them to the slender, cupola-topped tower that rose to the rear of the palace near the massive back wall of the city. They left their horses at the stables and climbed the winding staircase up the tower. The room beneath the domed roof of the tower opened onto a marble balcony that overlooked the vast, throbbing heart of Balsalom: its winding streets, great markets, guild towers, and the thriving quarters of rich and poor.

Kallia Saffa stood at the railing, one hand shading her eyes and the other on her swollen belly. A tall Eriscoban with pale skin stood to one side, with two other men—viziers or ministers—on the other, plus what looked like two merchants, one of them a Selphan with a blue turban. The men were talking, while Kallia half listened, half studied the vast plain beyond the city walls.

“My queen,” Rouhani said, panting. “Look who has come! Darik of Balsalom!”

His voice was high and excited, as if he were introducing a great hero, and it took effort for Darik not to wince as they turned to regard him. The Eriscoban was King Whelan’s youngest brother, Ethan, and the young man’s eyes widened in recognition and pleasure. Darik found himself searching for the grand vizier, but of course Fenerath was in Marrabat with Princess Marialla and King Daniel. Darik was glad not to see the proud former guildmaster, who had been personally involved in the destruction of his father.

“How did you get in here?” one of the viziers demanded.

Darik and Rouhani had been waved through several times, from the palace gates to the two checkpoints in the tower itself. One breathless comment from Rouhani about the great warrior and wizard at his side had sufficed at every point. But not now. Now Darik was well aware that he was no kind of hero.

Kallia put her hand on her vizier’s wrist. “It is all right, Hajir. He is a friend, a confidant of my husband.” She smiled warmly at Darik, which put him somewhat at ease.

Hajir scowled. He was a tall, thin man, with arched eyebrows, and an oiled goatee, and gold beads on the end of his drooping mustache. “I know who he is, and what you
think
he is, Captain Rouhani. He’s a boy, a former slave, who managed to make powerful friends.”

“That is more or less true,” Darik admitted. “Nevertheless, I have business with the khalifa, may she live forever. I need her help.”

“You need
her
help? Please.” Hajir swept his hand out over the expansive view. “We’ll be under attack by nightfall, but let us drop all our preparations to see to your needs. Don’t tell me, has your griffin girl spurned you?”

The other vizier smiled knowingly, and Darik flushed, horrified that the khalifa’s ministers would even know of his connection with Daria, but he didn’t respond. There was no sense in letting the cranky vizier aggravate him.

“He knows the gravity of our situation,” Kallia said. “And I am sure he would not trouble me unnecessarily. What is it, Darik?”

It did feel trivial when compared to an attack on the city, but Sofiana was her husband’s daughter, and Prince Ethan’s niece, as well, and concern darkened their faces when he told them what had happened, how she had slipped away, and what he thought she meant to do. They both agreed that Sofiana should remain in Balsalom instead of riding through the war-torn khalifates looking for her father.

“Captain,” Ethan said to Rouhani when Darik had finished, “come with me to the gates. We’ll lead the search ourselves.”

“You couldn’t have managed one little girl?” Hajir asked Darik when Ethan and Rouhani had left.

“You’ve met the girl in question,” Kallia told him. “I’d sooner manage a fire salamander. It would be more domesticated. Go speak with the guildmasters, Hajir. Take these men from Starnar.” She nodded at the two merchants. “We won’t keep their news a secret. Everyone must know what we’re facing.”

“Let me take the boy,” Hajir said with a nod at Darik. “I’ll return him when he is washed and properly dressed. If you return to your chambers to rest—”

“I feel well enough,” Kallia said. “If there is another attack, my servant girl will attend me.”

Hajir bowed. “As you wish, Khalifa, may you live forever.”

The two ministers led out the merchants from Starnar. Only moments had passed since his arrival, but Darik was now alone with the khalifa. She beckoned him to stand next to her at the railing. He turned his gaze outward and immediately felt as though he would swoon and tumble over the edge, carried away by the dizzying height. But the sensation passed, and he looked beyond the city wall to the dusty plain. Hundreds of refugees were still pressing in through the open city gates, while some fifteen or twenty miles in the distance, a cloud of dust announced the presence of an approaching army.

Darik turned back to see Kallia studying him with an anxious expression. The khalifa had never been considered a beautiful woman, not like her sister Princess Marialla. Kallia didn’t have a particularly regal bearing, and pregnancy had softened her features further, rounding her cheeks and breasts to complement the swelling at her abdomen. But she had kind, sympathetic eyes and an expression that seemed both wise and vulnerable. There was deep resolve there, too, and a spark of intelligence. Gossip in the Knights Temperate had it that Whelan had married the khalifa of Balsalom for political reasons, but Darik had never believed it. Studying her now, he knew the men were wrong. Whelan said he loved her; Darik believed it with all of his heart.

Such a wave of emotion came over him that he suddenly regretted not returning earlier. Kallia Saffa was, and always would be, his queen, and he felt at this moment that he would give his life to protect her.

Kallia touched his wrist. “Are you all right? You seem troubled.”

“I was thinking about Whelan and how much he loves you.”

Her face brightened. “Have you heard news?”

“No, have you?”

“I heard about his brother, Roderick. Killed in the mountains and raised from the dead by the dark wizard. The two brothers fought—Whelan cut Roderick down and bound his soul in his sword.”

A terrible memory twisted in Darik. “I saw Captain Roderick fall. He rose again in the service of the enemy.” He hesitated. “I am glad Whelan did it, if it means his soul was freed.”

“I understand. To be bent in the service of the dark wizard . . . ”

Such a dark shadow passed over her face that Darik looked skyward, expecting to see that a cloud had passed in front of the sun. No. The day was clear and bright. He looked back at her, confused. The shadow was gone, and he felt suddenly warmer.

“You saw that?” she asked. “You felt it?”

“What was it?”

“The enemy. I am under attack.”

“What does he want?” Darik asked, confused. “You’re carrying his child, but I don’t understand. I never have.”

For a moment, she looked like she was going to answer, but then she turned back to the plain and the cloud of dust. “Whelan doesn’t know we’re under attack. I haven’t sent riders, only the regular contingent of reinforcements, marching on foot at the head of a supply caravan. By the time he hears, matters will already be settled here.”

“Why? Are you afraid he’ll turn his army around to defend you?”

“Yes, that is exactly my fear. My husband needs to throw down the dark wizard in his citadel, which means that I must fight off these enemies with the forces I have.”