Previous Chapter: The Shimmering Isles
The Wizards Left Behind
The necromancer stared out the tower window and observed the world below him. The remnants of the Beaune army fled across the vineyards in full retreat; a red and gold banner depicting a three-headed lion chased them from the field as the forces of Rheineland congealed. The battle had been long and the fighting intense. The quiet coup d’état that was supposed to have occurred had failed after the assassination of General Merovech by Silas Amaro. It was assumed that the Beaune nobility had supported Merovech, but whether they were aware of his connection to Earl Rudolf of Rheineland, who was his cousin, was not known. None of those in power were able to make sense of what had happened with the Capetians. The fighting prowess of the Medjay warriors was legendary, yet no one could believe that a small contingent of the mutants had slaughtered an entire garrison of Beaune soldiers. When it had become clear that the castle was overrun, the Rheineland troops stationed around the fortress had attacked with siege weapons. A stone hurled by a trebuchet killed most of the Medjay warriors, but the killers of their leadership were unaccounted for, though Rhea Callimachus of Vaalbara was suspected. No one had asked Dazbog to explain the sequence of events. His captors had assumed him to be a senile wizard, discombobulated during the conflict, and so they had bound his hands with adamant shackles and thrown him in the tower to rot. He was fine with being forgotten. The echo of steps on stone told him that he was not.
The door to his chambers flew open and a big man with a long mustache stomped in, dragging a short-haired woman in chains. He threw the woman in the corner and towered over Dazbog, his face contorted with anger. His hair was black and slicked back, and he wore the sort of scowl that told the necromancer that he was looking for a scapegoat. With a snarl, he seized the sole chair and sat down, eyes boring into the old wizard. They sat in silence for some time.
“Do you know who that woman is?” he asked.
Dazbog looked the woman over and shook his head.
“She’s a wizard like you. Correct me if I am wrong, but I was under the impression that you all knew each other. There’s the Conventum, is there not?”
“I have no license to practice magic,” replied Dazbog. “Therefore, I have limited contact with my peers.”
“You have no license? Well, that is very interesting. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, if you are going to be so forthcoming. What is your name? Who did you arrive with? What was your purpose in coming to Beaune?”
“My name is Dazbog. I am a conjurer of petty tricks. I came with a troupe to ply my trade and entertain the Count.”
“Petty tricks, eh?” sneered the man. “What can you do, make fire dance?”
“Yes. I mold it into shapes and illustrate scenes from history. My art is failing, however, with my health. The humidity of this land is not good for my lungs.”
“You know nothing about any Capetians?”
“I have never been to Massalia, my lord. I once traveled through Valice, but I didn’t make it through Galvania. The Baron’s men turned us back.”
“They thought you unsavory fellows, I bet.” The man scratched his chin and looked thoughtfully at the woman in the corner. He turned back to Dazbog and shook his head.
“Let me tell you a little about my problems, Dazbog. I am Gustaf Kohler, an intelligence officer in the service of Earl Rudolf. My job was not supposed to be this difficult. I detest difficult situations, don’t you? I was supposed to be sampling the fine vintages of Beaune with General Merovech this afternoon while the Rheineland army marched peacefully back across the border. It was all a show, you understand? The whole conflict. We just needed an excuse to depose that grotesque simpleton and replace him with someone more interested in diplomacy. Now, there are many ways one can go about deposing a ruler. The best way is to make it look as though his own country got rid of him. The worst way is to occupy his castle when it happens to be overflowing with the dead bodies of his men. That looks bad, and that’s why the Beaune army attacked us when they returned from the front. Thankfully, we defeated them, but we suffered losses, and now we’re occupiers instead of allies. The politicians will sort this out eventually, yet I must have some coherent narrative to tell the politicians, otherwise they’ll think I’m useless, and it’ll be my body that’s strung up from the rafters. I don’t quite buy your old conjurer act. That woman over here is named Hypatia Almagest, and she was Oudinot’s mage. She wasn’t included in the scheme to overthrow the old bugger; in fact, she was scheduled for termination and somehow missed her appointment. I can’t quite get anything out of her using conventional methods, and I don’t want to wait until the Earl’s wizard gets here because I can’t stand the bastard. He’s old and smells like a goat. Frankly, Dazbog, you resemble him in both appearance and odor. That’s how I know you’re full of shit. You think an intelligence officer can’t pick up on your Capetian accent? Most of the inhabitants of this castle were slaughtered, but not all of them. Some of the servants survived, and they tell tales of mortally-wounded men crawling around on all fours, devouring all in their path, howling and speaking in demonic voices. Sounds like a crock of shit, honestly, but something funny went on here. How did a contingent of Medjay warriors end up in Beaune? Why did they kill everyone, including Merovech? And why did they take with them a necromancer such as yourself?”
Dazbog gave the man a yellow-toothed smile. He stood up and brushed off his burlap robe and gazed out the window. This was the moment. The confession. The admission of sin. The beginning of the end.
“They came here because they were following thieves. The Heart of Rankar was stolen by a sorceress named Cassilda and a fellow who calls himself the Thief. The Capetian Secret Service chief, Silas Amaro, took his lieutenant, the mercenary Jekkar Firenze, and a troop of Medjay warriors on a quest to retrieve the priceless relic, which is an heirloom of the Duke’s house. I was drafted into their service, and I aided as much as I could. The violence in the castle was a misunderstanding. Amaro had been driven nearly mad—the man was a sociopath, you’re familiar with the type, I’m sure—and I believe he simply lost his temper and killed the General. As to what occurred between Amaro and the sorceress, I cannot say. I was wearied from my labors and stayed in the tower.”
“So you were just an innocent bystander, I’m to understand? Who told the Capetians your quarry was in Beaune?”
“She would know better than I, my lord,” said Dazbog.
Kohler looked at Hypatia with spite and then spat on the floor.
“How can I repeat such a ridiculous tale? I have a good ear for the truth, old man, and I can tell that some of what you say is not complete hogwash. But it sounds like a faerie story. Why would the Capetians traipse halfway across Ur with an armed commando, disrespecting the sovereign borders of several nations, to recover an heirloom? Why wouldn’t Amaro send a simple assassin to do his bidding? Why did he come himself?”
“If you want, we can ask him. Just bring his corpse up here.”
Kohler looked amused. He stood up and loomed over Hypatia, waiting for her to meet his eyes.
“What of his claims, witch? Shall we raise the dead?”
She didn’t reply, and Kohler appeared satisfied. He was the type of man who enjoyed breaking people and utterly dominating their will.
“I will send for my instruments. Hypatia here has had but a taste, and we’ll see how your story changes after my tools have touched your flesh. I will leave you for but a moment. Please behave. I do not like when my charges mistreat each other.”
He shut the door behind him and locked it. Hypatia waited until she heard his heavy steps descending before she spoke to Dazbog.
“Here,” she said, spitting a hairpin onto the floor between them. “Pick it up and try to unlock my chains.”
Dazbog said nothing but looked at her without emotion.
“Don’t you want to escape? Unlock me, and I’ll unlock you, and we’ll clean this castle of the bastards.”
“There is nowhere to run to, woman,” said the old wizard. “The burden of our sentience will soon be lifted. You and I will cease to comprehend pain. Guided by the mighty wind that I summoned, the Northron’s zeppelin should have reached the Shimmering Isles by now. The Land of the Dead is a harsh place, but their company is strong, and vengeance burns in the sorceress’s heart. She will claim the Heart of Rankar as her own and take its power into her. In doing so, the last living piece of God will finally be extinguished, and we will be free as our egos fade like light glowing from dying embers. No more sentient generations will be born to feel pain. What a gift I will have given the human race! It is unfortunate that my triumph will be a hollow one. You are the only one who has any presentiment of what will happen, and I can tell by the expression on your face that you do not understand. It is fine, Hypatia! I feel love for you, a love that I have not felt since I read the dark books and lost all hope. If only we could preserve love! But I am a misbegotten creature, a mistake of nature, a freak twisted and tied into unbreakable knots. The good must be killed with the bad. Understand, child, that it is not worth it to be. How could any of us ever be happy knowing that somewhere there is a child who has known nothing but a balled-up fist and the sour acid of hunger pangs? Pain is all that child will ever know, and that child will die without ever feeling a positive emotion. Somewhere out there a woman is being raped and throttled. A boy will die after being torn apart by wolves. A heretic is burning in one corner while a mob stones a leper in another. All of us know that we will die, and we must bear the pain of knowing that every person we have ever loved will die. What a nightmare existence we lead, Hypatia. What sorrow we experience because of our sentience. Do you know what I have done? I bent the will of Silas Amaro and his assassin. I used them to clear a path for Cassilda and her thief. She would never have obtained the Heart without him, and together they will end the eternal torment of the human race. Rejoice, my dear, and fear no torturer’s knives. There is no need to escape.”
Hypatia picked up the hairpin and fumbled with the lock of her chains. Dazbog turned away and looked out the window. Perhaps his optimism was misplaced. Perhaps they would die in the Land of the Dead. No, it will not happen. He had picked the sorceress, fed her the proper texts, engineered her mind without her knowing. She was powerful and driven. The Thief was also skilled. The odds were on his side.
The lock clicked just as heavy steps echoed on the stairway. Hypatia shook off the shackles and closed her eyes, trying to summon as much energy as possible. Her face was bruised and battered, and blood was encrusted under her nose.
“I don’t know if you’re mad, old man, but I’ll do you a courtesy. Perhaps you’ll do me one as well.”
She flicked her fingers and the chains fell from Dazbog’s hands. The door burst open, and Kohler stood there with a pleasant smile plastered across his face, as though he were about to enjoy a beloved hobby. The smile quickly changed to a grimace as a pair of chains flew from the floor and wrapped around the spy’s neck. He fell to his knees and clutched at the chains, spittle flying from his lips. Hypatia took his knife from his belt and walked through the door, looking once at Dazbog before vanishing down the stairs.
“Such terrible suffering,” said Dazbog to Kohler, as his eyes bulged, and his face turned blue. “It is a telekinetic spell she has used on you, and I am not particularly skilled in that area. You do have my sympathies, Kohler. You are simply a product of your environment and forces beyond control. If they have made you into a sadist, it is not your fault.”
Kohler stopped struggling. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, and his eyes became dull and witless. Dazbog waited a few more moments and then leaned back against the stone. He was very tired, and very old, and what powers he possessed wavered with his feeble strength. Still, he felt he owed the woman something. She was vivacious, full of a perverse desire for life, and though he despised such eagerness, he could not help but admire it in another.
“I will help you, Hypatia Almagest,” muttered the old wizard as his eyes closed and he slipped into a trance.
On the floor, the body of Kohler twitched.
Next Chapter: Into the Forest
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