Renegade Wizards (8 page)

T
he encampment was small, the tents poor shields against the crisp mountain air. A lone fire sparked and raged in the grip of the frosty weather, forcing the men and women seated around it to huddle closer and tuck their chins behind their scarves and cloaks. Over the fire rested a large pot of boiling water, tended by a dwarf with a frosted beard that served as his apron.

Kinsley patted a few people on the shoulder for encouragement before heading for one of the tents. He was comfortable despite the cold, though he’d never gotten used to the remedy against the Vingaard Mountain chill. Beneath the layers of his cloak and his wool-lined jacket was a pouch tied by string around his neck. Inside the pouch was a boiled potato, a few hours old and still emanating the heat of the fire. It was a farmer’s trick, but it worked. Regardless, Kinsley looked forward to returning to Palanthas and eating at a real inn. He was tired of hot potato for company and cold potato for his meal.

After scratching at the growth along his jaw, he decided that he was looking forward to a good lather and shave as well. However necessary, the outdoors experience was entirely to his disliking. His round, boyish face, green eyes, and
delicate fingers were better suited to seducing the daughters of noblemen and offering charms and enchantments to their wives. Potions to spark a husband’s sexual fervor, trinkets to appear younger or shapely once more, scrolls to improve private fortunes, and the rare curse to punish a cheating lover: Kinsley provided many favors for the spoiled noblewomen of Palanthas, magics often looked down upon by the Wizards of High Sorcery. And therein lay the problem; were it not for the Wizards of High Sorcery and their zealous enforcement of magical law, Kinsley wouldn’t be here in the Vingaard Mountains, freezing his potatoes off.

He stood at the closed flap of the tent and cleared his throat.

“Come in,” a voice called. It was deep and sounded annoyed.

“I have to return soon,” Kinsley said as he entered the tent. He tried to sound disappointed but couldn’t wait to leave.

Berthal nodded absently as he continued reading the book set upon his lap. He was a bearish man with a black beard and mustache. His black hair was a touch messy, and he wore gray robes. Even seated cross-legged on the mat, he was imposing. In another life and without any talent for magic, he might have been a warrior. Instead, he sat, mouthing the words from the page with a scholar’s intensity. Leaning against the tent wall was his staff, two braided pieces of wood that unraveled at the top into two dragon heads that faced each other.

“Anything of interest?” Kinsley asked, nodding to the book.

“Not interesting enough,” Berthal said, slamming the book shut. “Damn fool of a boy got caught for pinching the wrong books.” He waved the leather-bound tome to make a point. “Only a desk-trained practitioner would consider this important. Too much theory … not enough practical stuff in it. Just like the orders.”

“What about the other books,” Kinsley asked, motioning to
the three other volumes on the mat next to him. “Please tell me I didn’t break my back bringing them to you for nothing.”

“Well, you didn’t actually break your back,” Berthal said, “so I feel no pity. But here,” he said as he tossed Kinsley the tome. “Throw it on the fire. Nothing in there worth keeping, so it might as well keep us warm.”

Kinsley looked at the book and shrugged. “Don’t you think we should hold on to them, just in case?”

“Just in case this Wyldling magic doesn’t work, you mean?”

“Honestly, Berthal,” Kinsley sighed. “Are the old ways really so terrible?”

“These are the old ways,” Berthal replied. He held up his hand. Liquid light flowed from his elbow, up the column of his forearm. Threads of yellow energy undulated between his fingers and were spent in pops and snaps. Berthal’s eyes sparkled with their light; he delighted in the touch of raw, naked magic, unformed and uncontained by spell or word, ready to become something at the merest provocation. Pure, shapeless energy. Wyldling energy. It was the spark of creativity and the flush of inspiration before the artist turned it into something manifest.

“You know what I mean,” Kinsley said. He worried when Berthal got into those almost ecstatic states, as if he might lose himself and never return.

“Very well,” Berthal said. He sounded frustrated. His fingers flared open, and the light vanished, but the magic was never so easily dismissed. That which was called would never return willingly. Pages fluttered in the tent; the flame in the hooded lantern turned blue; two books rose an inch, then fell; Berthal’s eyes went white, then returned to normal; the temperature increased by several degrees inside the tent.

“We can’t keep hiding like this,” Kinsley said.

Berthal was silent a moment, his eyebrows arched together in troubled thought. “I know,” he replied. “More recruits are
on their way. Then we’ll move down the mountain. Someplace warm … warmer at least. So go. Back to Palanthas with you, and have a stout for me. We’ll join you soon enough.”

Kinsley nodded and weighed the book in his hand. “It’s risky … calling in these favors from our spies. What are you looking for?”

Berthal tapped one of the books next to him in thought. “Hope,” Berthal finally said. “And a weapon against the wizards.”

“Our army is growing.”

“No … armies are for war. To be slaughtered,” Berthal said. “I’m not looking for an army; I’m looking for a solution.”

Kinsley hesitated, uncertain of Berthal’s meaning, but the large man had gone back to thumbing through the books. It was time to return to Palanthas, Kinsley realized. Maybe something would turn up in their favor.

Three Travelers and More

I
t was too early to call it true morning, and the world still slept under skies suffused a deep purple. A mist gripped the earth, haloing trees with a ghostly nimbus and engulfing the landscape in the otherworldly.

Tythonnia pulled the gray cloak about her neck more tightly in the hopes of driving away the fog’s chill touch. Her travel garments were road-beaten leathers and suede—her pants and tunic, her boots and hooded cloak belonged to her during her time working on the farm, and all were perhaps a bit snug nowadays. She was used to toiling outdoors, but the past few years behind desks had winnowed away some of her muscle. That said, her nostrils welcomed the country air and her lungs swelled with each fresh breath. There was no moldy parchment, no ancient stone to spoil the smell of the outdoors.

Still, the words of Astathan rang in her ears, his final instructions to the three “renegades.”

“Finding Berthal will be tricky, for to approach him you must impress and fool his lieutenant.”

Tythonnia patted the neck of her horse, a strong Northern Dairly over fifteen hands high and colored chestnut with golden highlights. It was a sturdy riding horse and built more
for distance than speed. Still, the animal reminded Tythonnia of her farm days, of taking the horses out for a jaunt over the plains; and it was everything she could do not to spur the horse forward at a gallop. But her companions were obviously not comfortable riders—or at least, not comfortable enough to encourage their steeds into a race. Tythonnia turned in her saddle to check on the other two.

No, most certainly, they did not appear comfortable.

“Par-Salian will lead,” Astathan had said. “As the oldest among you, he possesses the wisdom and the experience to hold you true to your course. You will defer to him.”

Par-Salian had ridden horses before, but not with the familiar skill that Tythonnia possessed. She could see the affluent breeding in him, the privileged life of wealth and status. He didn’t strike Tythonnia as a nobleman; the arrogance was lacking, and the humility was something she’d expect from one raised among the clergy. Still, he rode his stocky gray Qwermish heavy horse with its smooth, long mane and wore his new travel garments undaunted. To his credit, he was enjoying the experience. He offered a small smile to Tythonnia and continued studying his environment as though confronting it for the first time.

Ladonna was a different matter.

“Your destination will be the city of Palanthas,” Astathan had continued, “where, we’ve learned, a lieutenant of Berthal operates. We do not know his name, but make your gifts in magic known, and it’s likely he will find you. For this, you will need to rely on Ladonna’s help. She was raised in Palanthas and knows its streets well.”

Ladonna, one of beauty’s paragons and both cunning and graceful, looked anything but, that morning. Although her robes were gone, her leather pants, her riding boots, her jerkin, and her cloak were all equally black. Like Par-Salian, her travel clothes were new and hardly creased. She rode an Abanasinian bay over sixteen hands in height. She appeared
tiny in her saddle, next to its broad head and long back, but it was a calm beast and sensible, not given to panic, easily the best choice for a novice. Yet Ladonna gripped the reins hard enough to strangle the blood from her fingers and seemed naked without her customary array of jewelry. Still, a rich finger or three bore rings, and a silver necklace set with precious stones dangled about her neck. The others had tried to convince her to remove them, but the best they got was her promise to keep them hidden. Even then, a wink of silver appeared from beneath her jerkin.

Ladonna caught Tythonnia staring at her, and clamped her jaw down in determination. Tythonnia tried not to smile too broadly and turned forward again.

“The trip will be arduous and the road unforgiving. For that, look to Tythonnia. Her experience in the wilderness will see you through the journey.”

Morning finally surrendered to the dawn, and the rising sun burned away the mist. They were hours gone from the city gates of Solanthus, though the twin spires of the city, the two great pillars of rock that rose above the walls and curled gently away from one another, were still barely visible in the distance. The path they rode was hammered into the grass and raw earth by the hooves of cattle herds. Solanthus was a trade hub, especially for livestock and grains. Roads, both paved and not, radiated from it like the rays of a broken sun.

Their route was relatively isolated and far from the tolled roads that the guilds of Solanthus maintained. It was rough ground, to be sure, but it offered anonymity as it drove straight north into the fertile Plains of Solamnia.

“And why aren’t we on a paved road?” Ladonna asked, her voice jarred by her horse’s steps. “There’s one a few miles west that leads straight to Castle Di Caela. From there we can take the road to Hartford and follow the river up to Vingaard Keep. You know, we might even be lucky enough to find a wayfarers’ inn or two along the way,” she added, her voice
coy and seductive with the promise of luxury.

“That sounds … wonderful,” Par-Salian said.

Already, he was looking forward to hot baths and warm meals. He was falling for the promise of an easier journey. Tythonnia hated to disappoint them, but …

“That wouldn’t be smart,” Tythonnia said. “Castle Di Caela and the road leading to it are controlled by the Knights of Solamnia. They’d question us about Solanthus, about the guild masters and the strength of the guild militia. And if they knew we were wizards, they’d assume we were renegades and turn us over to the Orders of High Sorcery in the hopes of a reward.”

“But we aren’t renegades. The orders would know that,” Par-Salian said.

“No,” Ladonna replied. “Only the masters know about our mission. We’d be freed, eventually—maybe—but they’d consider the mission a failure.” Ladonna shot Par-Salian a venomous look of surprising animosity, and added, “And
I
don’t have the luxury of failing
my
order.”

“Well … neither do I,” Par-Salian replied, perplexed by Ladonna’s sudden vitriol.

Ladonna retreated into silence again and continued riding. Tythonnia exchanged a glance with the red-faced Par-Salian, but he was clearly embarrassed. Why, Tythonnia couldn’t say. They rode quietly for the next few hours.

The female servant with pale skin and auburn hair bowed as she swept open the door for the renegade hunter Dumas. The atrium beyond was a marvel of gardening, the flowers bright and colorful, the birdsong relaxing. Pink-flowered apricot trees offered shade to the benches below while tall juniper shrubs marked the shoulders of the path. Vines grew along the red columns and plaster walls, lending the atrium an air of cultured abandonment.