The Arcanist (37 page)

“What is a typhoon gate?”

Edouard was unbelievably grateful when Kyriel asked the question, as it drew Ascorlexia's attention away from him and back to her. Especially when he knew the same question had been on the tip of his tongue and he might foolishly have actually asked it. Curiosity was ever a failing of his.

“A vortex, servant of Tyrel. A syphon that sucks all cast magic into it and which then can be used to power the foul devices of the rock gnomes.”

The dragon sounded angry, even more angry than before, and Edouard was unbelievably happy that he wasn't talking to him.

“I understand that this unlearned simpleton knows nothing of such a device. But how is it that a servant of Tyrel also does not?”

“I regret that I do not have your great knowledge Ascorlexia.”

She was playing to the dragon's weakness Edouard realised. His pride. And it did seem to work as the dragon humphed and snorted for a bit, but at least seemed to calm down. Eventually he even relented in his assessment of them.

“It is true I suppose. Not all choose to spend their days learning the wonders of the world.”

Of course they both knew the dragon was just using another less aggressive means to call them ignorant when he said it. But Edouard didn't care and he doubted Kyriel did either.

“What matters I suppose is the danger. And this is dangerous.”

“The death stone steals magic, and magic is – boy?”

Ascorlexia's head whipped around again on that great long neck of his and Edouard was left standing there staring into a mouth larger than him. Much larger. Luckily he knew the answer. All those with magic did.

“Life Great One.”

“Finally! The simpleton speaks knowledge!” His head swung back to Kyriel and Edouard breathed once more.

“Life. The death stone steals magic. The gate increases its power. The stone on its own merely stole from this one the magic he tried to cast. With the gate working it will steal far more. It will take the magic that dwells within the caster, whether it is cast or not. It will steal all the magic that exists within the region, killing all those that either have magic or are made of magic. And it will power the infernal devices that the rock gnomes will build so that they may destroy more.”

“Thousands of years ago these vermin built many such devices and the deaths were without number. They drove the magical from the world with them. We are fortunate that only one of these rock vermin lives.”

“Three.” Edouard automatically corrected the dragon and immediately wanted to bite out his own tongue. He wanted it more when the dragon's huge head was instantly mere inches from him and he could feel his breath like a wind on his skin. Ascorlexia didn't even have to ask the question as he knew what he demanded to hear.

“I'm sorry Great One, but there are surely at least three of them. The portal that sent the mammoths through was opened somewhere in the troll wastes. And the sprigs were surely sent from thousands of leagues to the west.” Edouard stammered out his explanation as quickly as he could, desperate for those teeth and that foul breath to go away again. But the dragon wasn't finished with him.

“How do you know this simpleton?”

“I examined the site where the mammoths arrived, plotted the lines of strength and found the direction of the primary portal as twenty two degrees north or two hundred and two degrees south. The mammoths live in the frozen northern lands, and that end of the line runs straight through the heart of the troll wastes.”

“The sprigs live two thousand leagues to the west of us, and though we could not find the place where they arrived it seems unlikely that they walked all the way to Therion Great One.”

“Hmmn!”

The dragon made a throaty noise that in a man might have been a sign that he was thinking. But when Ascorlexia made the throaty noise it was more like thunder. Thunder in his throat and in the rock beneath Edouard's feet. But at least he looked away, staring into the distance somewhere beyond them both and Edouard found himself once more able to breathe the foul air. His heart was even beating again. Of course what the dragon was thinking about could be anything. The possibility that there were three Cabal wizards in the world working their ill again after all this time. That he would have to defend his great library from their raids again. Or how tasty the annoying human would be and whether to flame roast him first.

It was hard standing there, waiting for him to come to a decision. Wondering if the dragon was going to eat him out of annoyance. But that was what he had to do, and so somehow Edouard stood there unmoving, patiently awaiting the dragon's words. Kyriel looked more relaxed as she stood there, but that could just be her training and discipline. He couldn't really imagine that anyone could be comfortable so near to the great black dragon.

It was a long wait but Ascorlexia finally ended it.

“Leave me!” After so long standing there waiting, the command made Edouard jump. But he didn't care about that as he knew he'd been released. Immediately he bowed, turned on his heels and started heading for the way out. All he cared about was leaving. Kyriel he suspected was the same as she walked beside him, though she hid it better.

“I will think on this and send word to your mistress, servant.” The dragon called it after them as they left.

They stopped, turned around and bowed again when they heard him, but by the time they did he wasn't interested in saying anything more. Ascorlexia had once again begun curling up into a small hill and was looking to be making himself comfortable for a nap. Thinking or sleeping? Perhaps the two were the same to him. But whichever it was it still left them with nothing to do but continue on their way out and they did just that.

“It would be rude to run?” Edouard asked when they were a few hundred paces away, not completely sure why. But after so much fear the relief was robbing him of his senses.

“Rude yes. Stupid, more so.”

She was probably right he realised. It would be the same mistake mice made when they spotted a cat. They should freeze until the cat passed them by. But instead they ran drawing the cat's attention. He didn't want to draw the dragon's attention.

They continued on, walking steadily until finally the end of the tunnel was in sight, and it was only then that Edouard finally managed to calm his thumping heart a little. The exit was in sight, and he almost dared to hope they were going to get away.

When they finally emerged from the cavern into the open air and he could see his sky ship beyond it, it was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. Even with its balloon ever so slightly deflated since the burners had been turned off, it was magnificent in the late afternoon sunlight.

“Praise be to the Seven.”

He'd never been much of a follower of the various faiths. But even he felt the need to give thanks just then. They had after all just emerged alive and in one piece from the mouth of the underworld. His words though drew an unexpected response from his companion. A groan.

“And while you're thanking them do you think you could manage a small prayer for a safe journey home?”

Edouard stared at her, surprised. But then he saw the look on her face and understood. He was afraid of dragons. Kyriel it seemed was afraid of flying.

It was a strange world.

Chapter Thirty Five

The courtyard was crowded by the time Simon made it out there, but those who filled it were not those that he wanted to see. They were more of the royal guard. But he knew as their numbers constantly swelled no matter how many he kept sending to man Vesar's blockades, that they weren't loyal to him. They just pretended to be. They did as he commanded. But they wore veils and every so often he had the feeling that they were looking to Vesar for approval before doing what he commanded.

This was looking like a coup within a coup.

Of course Vesar would deny it. He had done so each time Simon had mentioned the question of loyalty. And his words were always the ones a king wanted to hear. But they were lies. Simon was sure of that. The planned armies of conquest were not appearing. The city wasn't being rebuilt to weather an attack. It wasn't being rebuilt at all. And all the workforce were being used to build that great temple of his. Simon kept directing that more be sent to rebuild the city, but somehow they kept being sent back to work on the temple.

Of course there were excuses. There were always excuses. And then there were explanations. Confused orders. The stone for the walls was on its way. The people sent to do his bidding were sick. They needed to build whatever damned temple he was building to defend the king. But Simon knew the truth.

Little by little he was being turned into a figurehead. A king with no real power save the legitimacy to let Vesar do whatever he wanted. However he lied about it, Vesar was taking charge. Pushing him aside. And this looked like being another step on that journey. Maybe the final step. After all there was no army in front of him as he had been promised.

It was time to end their partnership.

Simon had decided that days ago. The moment he'd finally interrogated the thieves that had been caught and first set him on this path to ruin.

He hadn't had them executed when he first became king as he'd once intended. He'd forgotten about them in the crush of chores and decisions that had suddenly had to be made. But that oversight had turned out to be a blessing. Because it was they who could tell him that the reason they had been caught was because the lord had been given warning of their impending crime. According to the testimony given by their intended victim at their trial, a warning given by a man dressed from head to foot in black. And the moment they had told him that Simon had seen the trap that had been laid out for him.

It had been Vesar right from the start! His loyal ally had tricked him into taking this course of action long before he had shown up at his door. He had forced his hand.

Once he'd heard that he'd realised just how completely the black robed priest had played him like a piece on a board game, and the anger had flowed through Simon like water. Hot and powerful it had left Simon almost shaking with fury. But he had contained it, knowing that he could not tip his hand. That Vesar could know nothing of what he'd learned. Not until it was time to kill him. And there was no longer a choice in that. The advisor had to die, and soon. Before he tried to kill him.

But Simon hadn't quite worked out the time and the place to do it. Until Vesar had announced the previous evening that he would have the answer to his problems ready for him to see the following morning in the courtyard. It was then that Simon had known he had to act. Because whatever the priest had to show him he was certain it wouldn't be the army he claimed. It was a trap being readied to be sprung.

So Simon had had his men set up an ambush for the advisor and his soldiers. A trap within a trap. While Vesar's men surrounded the courtyard, standing at a respectable distance from their leader, his men were on the ramparts of the castle walls looking down on things and supposedly protecting the castle from attack. Normally they were supposed to be there to stand watch looking for enemies coming from outside the castle. From the city. But now there were more of them on the ramparts, just waiting for the command. And it was a matter of simply turning around to shoot down on the royal guard, something Vesar should have considered. There were more men hidden in the various barracks and guard houses that Simon had had rebuilt, not to mention a waiting cannon. But then what did a priest know of strategy? Soon though, he'd learn a lesson in it – before he died.

The priest was standing in the middle of the courtyard waiting for him, and underneath his veil Simon was sure he was smiling. What he was smiling about though, Simon had no idea. The pile of polished steel parts beside him? It didn't look like anything to be pleased with. It looked like something to send off to the smiths for repair.

“Vesar.” Simon greeted his advisor unenthusiastically. It was becoming his normal way of greeting him as the man constantly disappointed him. But soon he promised himself, he wasn't going to have to be disappointed ever again. Vesar's death was only moments away and it would be very satisfying indeed.

“Your Majesty.” Vesar bowed low in what Simon was sure was mockery.

If he was becoming angered by his advisor then he knew his advisor was having similar thoughts about him. In truth if Simon hadn't arranged this ambush now he was sure Vesar would have arranged something similar for him very shortly. Always assuming that this wasn't it. And it looked very much as if it was.

“This is your masterpiece? Your unstoppable army? This pile of parts?” The king gestured at the mound of scrap metal beside the black priest, unimpressed. This was no army. It was all some sort of jape. It had to be. But it wasn't very funny. But then it was probably only meant to lure him out into the courtyard where he could be captured or killed.

“Why yes Your Majesty. This is the first of your new soldiers. The means by which you will destroy your enemies and conquer new lands.”

More mockery. And in truth treachery. It was hard to tell anything about a man when he covered his face so and spoke in such polished tones, but the king was certain of it.

“I've seen enough.” Simon turned on his heels, disgusted with himself for having placed as much faith as he had in the advisor, and headed back for the castle. When the musket balls started flying he wanted to be well clear.

“Your Majesty! Surely you want to see what all the effort your servants have gone to has wrought?”

Vesar actually managed to sound hurt, something that caught Simon by surprise. But of course he knew it was only an act. Still, he stopped and turned back to face him.

“Not really. You've failed me once more and now you chose to mock me as well.” Then he turned back to the castle and continued on his way.

“Your Majesty!” Simon ignored Vesar's pleas, unsure why the man was even making them. He knew what he'd done. He should even know what Simon was going to do about it. There could be little doubt anymore. The only thing the priest shouldn't know was how soon he'd do it.

The king finally reached the massive oak doors leading to the castle, then stopped and turned around once more. It was time.

“Now!” He yelled it out as loudly as he could and was instantly rewarded with the sound of gunfire coming from all around. His soldiers, even if they were mercenaries, were loyal. They were also good shots, and he watched a dozen of the royal guard take hits and fall to the ground. Vesar took a hit too even as he was opening his mouth to scream something. But he didn't fall to the ground. Instead he just stood there, undoubtedly angry.

A second volley rang out from above, and more of the Royal Guard fell to the ground in front of him. Half of them were dead by then and Simon knew the rest would be soon. Everything had gone exactly according to his plan. At least one of them knew how to plan.

But then things started falling apart though at first Simon didn't realise it.

His soldiers were reloading, their muskets empty and that gave the remaining royal guards the time they needed to run for the ramparts. But that was a mistake. Even as the first of them reached the stairs leading to them the charges went off and another dozen of the veiled soldiers were blown to pieces. More important than that however, it meant that the royal guards couldn't reach them, giving his soldiers a safe place from which to keep shooting. They could keep shooting until they ran out of ammunition. But even as he celebrated Simon noticed that some of those who had fallen were getting back up. That was wrong. Dead men didn't get back up.

Maybe they had been only wounded? Simon tried to tell himself that but as he watched more and more of them getting back up he knew it was wrong. Something else was at work here. Something bad. Meanwhile Vesar was crouched beside his collection of steel parts, his arm clutched to his chest as he whispered some sort of spell over them. Simon knew, he couldn't allow that. Things weren't going well and he couldn't let them get any worse. Especially when Vesar was still standing.

He drew his pistols, took careful aim, and fired, the first shot smashing into Vesar's heart. If the black priest had such a thing. It knocked him back a little, but didn't stop him from continuing his spell. So Simon aimed his second pistol straight at his advisor's head. It hit. Despite many people's belief that he was lazy he had trained with the pistols and he normally hit what he aimed at. But the shot didn't kill the priest. It just made him angry.

Vesar looked up at him from the ground, and for the first time Simon could see much of his face as the lead ball had torn away his veil. He was shocked. More than shocked, he was horrified.

Vesar wasn't human. He wasn't even close to human. Nor was he demon or dryad or even satyr. Grey skin, wrinkles and fangs. That was what he saw. Though they weren't really fangs so much as tusks. Small tusks protruding from his mouth. But there was more wrong with him than that. Much more. He was bleeding from where the musket ball had struck him high on the cheek, but the blood wasn't red. It was dark purple, almost black. And it moved slowly; too thick to run.

“What are you?”

Simon screamed it at the creature, for some reason expecting an answer. But he wasn't going to get one. Instead Vesar returned to his spell, muttering his words over the pile of steel parts, and Simon knew that whatever that was supposed to be, it was dangerous. It had to be if he was going to spend his time casting the spell even in the middle of battle.

A cannon fired then, startling them both. The soldiers at the gate had turned the cannon around as they had planned, and the shot had smashed into the nearest of the royal guards, shredding them. They weren't getting up again. Not when at least a dozen of them were in pieces. There were body parts strewn everywhere. But unfortunately for the cannoneers, they had finally been noticed. Two dozen of the royal guards ran for them, finally having a target within reach, and the battle was over before it even began. The six men went down, torn to pieces in seconds. Simon knew they were only going to be the first of many.

Simon started reloading his pistols frantically, wishing they were the bigger four barrel monstrosities his brother carried. Those things would rip apart Vesar where his smaller duelling pistols simply didn't have the power. That was why the guards were getting back up he knew. Normal muskets simply didn't have the power to cut all the way through their hide.

Still, his men tried again, firing another volley at the royal guards, knocking a few more of them down. But not the important one. The others were mere soldiers, Vesar was the leader and he needed to die. Quickly.

By the time Simon had reloaded both pistols he knew it was too late. Something was happening to the pile of steel parts. They were moving, somehow seeming to assemble themselves into something, and Vesar was looking down upon them with a terrible smile on his hideous face. That became Simon's target, and he put both shots straight into that smile.

Vesar snarled and turned away clutching at his mouth, and the king knew he was hurt. But he also knew he wasn't down. He knew it so very clearly when he watched Vesar turn to face him, stand up and draw his sword. A sword Simon hadn't even known the priest carried. It must have been hidden somewhere under his robes.

His face was damaged, badly. There was more blood and one of his tusks and a whole lot of teeth were missing.  The other musket ball had smashed into the side of his face and whatever damage it had done was hidden by his hood. But still Simon could see more blood trickling down his neck, disappearing into his robes and he hoped it was enough to slow him down. It had to be as he wasn't going to get another chance to shoot him.

Simon drew his sword and waited for his former adviser to come to him, all the while making sure of his footing on the cobbled courtyard. He might not practice a lot with his sword but he knew enough to remember the basics. He hoped the advisor wasn't so well versed in his swordsmanship.