Sunset of Lantonne (22 page)

The inside of the wagon was dimly lit, the shades on all four windows pulled tightly. Only the light from the door did anything to illuminate the occupants, though just enough that Ilarra could see that there were two people inside.

Huffing angrily, Raeln pushed Ilarra inside to speed her up.

Stepping up into the wagon, Ilarra found that the other wildling they had freed in the keep sat at the rear of the wagon, his bare paws propped up on the seats across from him, covered with mud that had covered much of the seats. Beside him, the halfling that Raeln had used to free Ilarra was tied and gagged, glaring between the two wolf wildlings.

“Glad you caught up,” the wildling said smoothly, smiling broadly when Raeln growled. Raising a hand, he showed them Raeln’s money pouch. “You did pay for the wagon, after all. I might feel bad if you didn’t show up.”

Snarling, Raeln climbed into the wagon after Ilarra, snatching the coin purse as he did. Closing the door behind them, he sat down hard across from the other wildling and swatted the man’s feet off the bench to give Ilarra a place to sit down.

“Where are we headed?” the stranger asked while Ilarra situated herself. “I’d like to head west, but I’m guessing I’m at the mercy of you two. If you’d taken a few more minutes, I’d already be on my way. It was your coin, so I’ll let you set the destination.”

Ilarra looked the man over, noticing even in the weak light of the wagon—far better than the lighting of the dungeon—she could make out thin scars covering his face near the muzzle and the exposed sections of his arms where the sleeves of his shirt did not cover. Even his legs and feet below the cuff of his pants showed signs of a rough life. Comparing him to Raeln’s brushed and unblemished fur—aside from the fresh scar near his ear—the two men looked as though they had come from opposite ends of Eldvar. Even more telling, the newcomer’s claws were grown out and had the dangerous-looking curve of a wild animal’s, contrasting Raeln’s trimmed claws.

Turning in her seat, Ilarra slid open the small wooden blind that separated the passengers from the driver. The man looked over his shoulder at her, clearly waiting for some cue as to where he was going. “Set off for Hyeth,” she said softly. “If we need to stop along the way to get rid of any baggage, we’ll let you know. Do not stop, no matter what you hear, as we have some matters to discuss.” She closed the window as the wagon lurched into motion.

“Hyeth?” asked the wildling, looking pensive. “Never even heard of the place…not that I’ve really been anywhere but Altis and Lantonne. You can drop me off once we’re out of site of the city. Until then…”

Without warning, Raeln leaned forward and punched the wildling in the face, bouncing his head off the back of the wagon’s wall, before sitting back.

As the wildling slumped, the halfling’s eyes widened and he looked around at the three other people in the wagon, clearly questioning.

“He stole from us,” Ilarra explained, smoothing her dress while Raeln fidgeted, trying to find a position that his large frame fit properly in the wagon’s close confines. “Raeln really doesn’t like thieves. He has a small obsession with law, so he probably wants to set you free, but I’m still torn on that.”

Squirming to get his tied hands in front of him, the halfling waved them at Ilarra, grunting something through his gag.

Smiling to herself, Ilarra leaned back into the cushions. “You tortured people…innocent people,” she told the child-faced man. “Raeln likes torturers even less than thieves. Something about them having less honor. My father can decide what to do with you when we arrive.”

Scowling, the little man muttered something that Ilarra guessed was a string of curses.

“Be nice,” warned Ilarra. “I believe you forgot to feed me about every third meal. I would hate to forget to feed you…this trip is a long one.”

The halfling’s eyes narrowed angrily, but he remained quiet for the rest of that day, leaning against the unconscious wildling and seemingly plotting Ilarra’s untimely death.

When confronted with adversity, I pray that history remembers me as a wise man and not a brutal one. This I put before those who come after me. Think not of how they view you now, but how your enemies’ children will remember you. If history cannot fault you for your actions, you have conquered as a just ruler. Should history remember you as a tyrant, your rule must fail and you will be cast down by your own people.

-
Teaching of Turess, considered by most to be symbolic rather than a command

“How many have you found?” demanded Therec, hurrying through the debris-strewn halls of the school of magic. He had to watch his step to keep from tripping over broken objects or stepping into dried pools of blood that had yet to be scrubbed from the paving stones. The whole tower would smell like death for months.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, ambassador,” the serving boy told him, following through the halls. “We haven’t found any of them.”

Therec practically slid to a stop, forcing the boy to catch himself so as to avoid running into him. “Not one magister? Corpses do not vanish. I doubt the enemy took the time to haul them away.”

The servant shrugged and repeated, “We have not found any magisters’ corpses, sir. Arlind and Dorus are under guard as you requested, but there is no sign of the others.”

“How many other bodies are missing? I see indications of multiple deaths right here.”

“None, ambassador. There were perhaps thirty other dead in the whole tower, but they are all accounted for. Only the magisters are missing. It looked as though they were hunting down the instructors and leaving any pupils that stayed out of their way.”

Therec tried to issue an order for the boy to check again, but he began coughing as his bruised throat rebelled against him. By the time the fit has passed, the serving boy had slipped away. That boy had already griped more than once about being sent to search through the bloodied halls alone and he likely thought he could escape further work by getting away from Therec.

It was just as well, Therec thought, rubbing at his throat and heading back toward the main stairs. He knew the answer would be the same. Three search parties had come up with nothing more than finding several apprentices that had been hiding. Each search discovered more corpses hidden away in odd places, but they were always servants. The singular exception had been an orcish junior magister, whose shredded remains were discovered across much of the second floor of the school. Therec had kept that hushed, as he would rather the servants whisper about missing magisters than dead ones. So long as they could believe the senior wizards were alive somewhere, they could hope for the keep’s security against the main force of Altis.

Therec had yet to find any clear purpose behind the attack, but he had to think the missing magisters had something to do with it. Small skirmishes had happened from the top of the keep to the dungeon, before all of the attackers had vanished in a matter of minutes. For as bizarre as the attack in the dungeons had been, both he and the king had survived…more or less. It had taken him until the next afternoon to wake, but the mere fact that he did wake up told him much about the other Turessian. The man was not in the tower to kill him or the king, or the job would have been finished. They were clearly after something else. Attacking the two of them was a distraction. The Turessian people were anything if not practical and leaving the job half-finished was entirely unlike them. That told him that whatever the other man’s true purpose was, he had likely succeeded, or he would still be in the tower.

Thinking of the king reminded Therec that he had been roaming the upper floors too long. He hurried down through the keep until he reached the entrance to the king’s chambers, where a great many soldiers stood at the ready before a freshly-installed door. Many still bore blood-caked wounds from the attack the day before, but Therec had to applaud them, not one had requested time off-duty.

Weapons were drawn as Therec approached, despite having come to the chamber once already that day. Sighing, he offered his hands, allowing the men to tie his wrists together in the belief that it would cripple him as a spellcaster. He did not have the heart to tell the ignorant men that most Turessians were trained to cast at least simple spells with their hands bound, while gagged, or in any number of other compromising situations. Such training was essential when living in lands that half the world’s barbarians had contemplated invading at one time or another. Telling these men that would have only complicated things.

Once he was bound, two soldiers led Therec into the king’s room and remained at his sides after the door closed behind them. He knew they were going nowhere and every visitor was being treated in much the same way. It was a precaution borne out of desperation and lack of any understanding of how to address the real problem.

To one side of the room, Arlind sat on one of the king’s chairs, her feet dangling off the ground as she wrung her hands in worry. She had not left the king’s side since the attack, though like Therec, she had two soldiers behind her watching for any treachery.

“Is there any change, Your Majesty?” Therec asked, genuinely concerned.

Cinastin sat up slowly in his bed, his wheezing far worse than it had been earlier that morning. He shook his head, but Therec could tell that he had gotten more pale and was having difficulty finding the breath to speak. Things were progressing uncomfortably swiftly.

“He wanted us both here,” said Arlind for the king, though she did not look away from the boy. “Dorus has been sent elsewhere to attend to the military. Half the horse-humping army is out looking for someone to fight, with no clear leadership. I’ll be damned if I’ll join a bloody witch-hunt, while my king…is like this.”

Arlind looked up at Therec and then down at his hands. Turning on her chair, she punched one of the guards in the thigh to get his attention. “Remove those ropes, you imbeciles. I will climb up your armor and bash your heads if you keep doing that.”

At last, King Cinastin caught his breath and smiled at Therec weakly while the attending soldiers untied Therec’s hands.

“Welcome back, my friend,” the king said, his voice shaking. “I hoped you would be back in time.”

Therec bit down the false protestations that leapt to mind, intended to help the dying believe their situation was not so dire. He had always found such deceptions to be a betrayal of that person’s trust, especially when they already knew better. With a dwarven healer at Cinastin’s side, he probably knew all of the worst-case results of his illness already.

The king had fought against the disease that ravaged his body from the ghoul’s bite. Shortly after waking from his own injuries, Therec had struggled at Arlind’s side to push back the progress of the disease, but he knew as well as the king that there was no true cure. Both magic and mundane medicine could cure ghoul plague, but only in the first few hours. The king and Therec had lain in the dungeon undiscovered for hours, by which time the fever had already begun. There was nothing anyone in Lantonne or Turessi could do to save the man. He would have already been dead, were it not for their efforts and even with them, he had maybe a day to live.

“I have already advised Arlind of her role in this,” the king continued, once Therec sat down nearby. “Given the risk of spreading this to anyone nearby during attempts to restore my body with the healing circles in the tower, no such attempt will be made. Publically, the attempts were made but did ultimately fail. My body and spirit are too weak to restore.”

Therec bowed his head in acknowledgement of the king’s concession to his greater knowledge of such matters. Arlind had freely admitted ignorance on the matter of ghoul fever and how it spread, making Therec the expert.

Lantonne as a city would rise up and hang anyone in the keep who did not do everything—no matter how foolish—to save the king’s life. The circle’s powers would be expected to be tested, regardless of the risk to everyone within quite a distance of the place during the ritual. Even with the risk of spreading the plague to Arlind or Therec, the offer had been made to Cinastin. The king had declined when he had learned that Therec had yet to see a victim of the plague return from death any better off than they were an hour before their heart stopped the first time. The resurrection process would simply reanimate him as a ghoul and likely kill everyone within a breath or two of the room where the circle lay.