The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) (17 page)

So that was it. Chantmer fancied himself Memnet’s heir, powerful enough to stand alone against the dark wizard. Markal had met them both, and had no doubt that Memnet was the superior wizard. But then again, Cragyn was not King Toth.

“You oversimplify the war,” Markal said. “Memnet was the greatest wizard of his order, but there were others who stood by his side.”

Chantmer’s eyes blazed. He clenched his fists. “As the Order of the Wounded Hand will stand by mine. This time, the enemy will not escape, but will be bound into my power.” Light blazed from his fists.

Markal rose to his feet, alarmed. “What are you talking about?
This
time? When we cast the dark wizard from the Order, he was nothing but an acolyte. There was no
escaping.
”

“Cragyn? You think this is about Cragyn?”

“Don’t speak that name here,” Markal warned. Magic tingled through his fingers and half a dozen incantations rose unbidden to his mind.

Chantmer sneered. “You fool. You know nothing, do you? Cragyn is nothing. Nothing but a fool who thought he could bind the wight of Toth and surrendered his own will in return. Yes, Markal Talebearer, that is right. King Toth has returned to Mithyl to finish what he started and bring about his own rebirth.”

Alarm spread through Markal. “What evidence do you have? I demand to know what knowledge you have that would lead you to make such a claim.”

“I’ve known for years that Cragyn tried to bind the souls of the dead to his power, that he searched for dark spirits whose power kept the Harvester from gathering them. Toth, Malik the Cruel, King Egan. Indeed, I suspected that he had come under partial control of an evil spirit about the time he turned King Richard’s thoughts to violence.”

Chantmer continued, “Had Cragyn been stronger, he might have controlled such a spirit. But ultimately the spirit took complete control of his body. When I saw the Dark Citadel rising in Veyre, it confirmed my fears.”

Markal opened his mouth to refute Chantmer, unwilling to believe that Toth could be alive and in possession of a body after so many years, but much made sudden sense. The Dark Citadel, the Cloud Kingdoms’ interest in the wars, even the dark wizard’s impregnation of Kallia, all of it with roots in the Tothian Wars. Markal felt a sudden fear: Whelan, Darik, and Sofiana had gone to search out Cragyn last night without any knowledge of his true identity. To find the source of the dark wizard’s power and destroy it.

“If you knew this,” Markal said, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Like you told me about the Tome of Prophesy?” Chantmer asked.

That was true, Markal admitted. And he’d also kept secret Whelan’s plan to kill the dark wizard. Perhaps if they had both shared their knowledge, they wouldn’t have this problem.

He nodded. “Perhaps you are right. From now on, I tell you everything I know, and you tell me everything.”

“Very well,” Chantmer agreed. He gave Markal a knowing smile. “First, let me tell you that your friends survived their silly attempt to kill the enemy.”

#

Kallia helped build Saldibar’s tower of silence. Constructed of lashed poles, the tower rose to fifty feet outside the Gates of the Dead. The viziers came, together with guild representatives and Saldibar’s favorite slaves. He had no family, having devoted his life to serving three generations of Balsalom’s leaders, but there was grief among the gathered, and a recognition among all that they had lost a strong leader and a good man. But no words were spoken, no wails or laments. Only the wind punctuated the silence.

Kallia helped carry poles to the men building the tower. Crows and vultures gathered. After they picked the body clean, the bones would bleach in the sun for six weeks before the tower was burned.

The palace guards threw Mol Khah’s body into the Nye as it oozed from the far side of the city, filled with Balsalom’s waste. Some thought that they should send it to Cragyn as a gift, but the wizard was unlikely to be bothered by such a gesture.

Kallia met with Pasha Boroah, Pasha Jeromon, and Guildmaster Fenerath in her tower rooms that afternoon, the throne room destroyed by fire. Incense burned in braziers throughout the room, reminding her of Saldibar’s departed soul. Boroah lit a hookah and they sat cross-legged on the floor smoking in turn. Following the advice of her physics, Kallia passed on the pipe. The three men each took pulls before Kallia felt ready to broach the subject for which they’d gathered.

She turned to the guildmaster and said, “Fenerath, I name you the new grand vizier of Balsalom.” She presented Saldibar’s opal pendant.

Fenerath took the amulet. He’d changed since the revolt, stripping himself of jewelry and rich clothing, save for a single ruby sewn to the front of his turban, and took a more moderate approach with the guild leaders. She didn’t know what had caused the change, but she welcomed it.

Fenerath hesitated before putting the amulet around his neck. At last he sighed and gave it back to her. “I’ve dreamed of such a day, but now is not the right time. Instead of doing this now, khalifa—
may you live forever
—wait a few months until you have time to consider the issue.”

Kallia shook her head. “I’ve considered it enough. I leave Balsalom tomorrow.”

Alarm spread through Jeromon and Fenerath. Pasha Jeromon said, “You’re leaving? Who will be our queen?” Jeromon was a young man who’d been master of the guardsmen guild until yesterday when she’d promoted him to pasha for leadership in battle.

“I am still your khalifa,” she reassured them, drinking from her tea while Boroah took another pull from the hookah. The spiced smoke filled the air and soothed her nerves. For a moment, she almost disregarded the physics’ advice and joined them.

She continued. “But tomorrow Boroah and I march west with the army. I’ve had enough waiting for the enemy to murder my people as he sees fit.”

Jeromon and Fenerath looked at Boroah. The old soldier nodded slightly and said in a quiet voice, “Yes, that is right.” She had consulted with him that morning as they built Saldibar’s tower of silence and he’d agreed that her plan might work.

“We’d hoped the Citadel would send an army, and I believe they would have, had they the chance. Now we have the chance to help them and defeat our enemy at the same time.”

“But if you fail, Balsalom will be helpless when the dark wizard returns,” Jeromon protested.

But Fenerath shook his head while he smoked the hookah. “Balsalom will be helpless either way. Our best wager is to throw in our lot with the barbarians.”

“That’s what I thought,” Boroah agreed. “Take a gamble. Throw the bones and hope they land in lines. We take only the best-trained foot soldiers, archers, and cavalry, some six thousand men by my reckoning.”

“Less than half the force of our army when the dark wizard first marched against us,” Kallia said. “And that leaves Jeromon and Fenerath only the old, the poorly trained, and the injured to defend the city.”

Pasha Jeromon rubbed the thin beard on his chin, as if considering the challenge. “But what is poorly trained and injured today may become a formidable force by spring, should we survive that long. But six thousand! The enemy boasts ten times that number.”

“With an enemy at his front,” Kallia reminded him. “We are reinforcements only, a flanking maneuver that will turn the enemy’s attention and hearten our allies. And, perhaps Lord Garydon sends horse and foot from the Teeth, bolstering our numbers.”

Boroah’s men had reported several days of heavy fighting at the Teeth, and Garydon’s banners still flew over the castle. Had the dark wizard simply failed or had he come to an agreement with the wily lord of the western passes? They wouldn’t know until they demanded the man’s aid.

Jeromon said, “More troubling still, we can’t protect our supply chains through the mountains. Even with minimal garrisons, the enemy can ride from his castles and cut our supply lines at will.” He frowned. “And Garydon, too, should his loyalties turn to the enemy.”

“We bring whatever supplies we can carry,” Boroah answered, “and wait for victory to deliver fresh supplies in Eriscoba.”

Kallia held out Saldibar’s pendant again for Fenerath. “Will you take it, my friend, and lead Balsalom in my stead? You will be khalif should I be killed. I have no heir.” The last part wasn’t entirely true, she thought, remembering the child that grew within her.

It was a risky offer. Plots had been set in motion, assassins hired, for less. But Kallia was willing to risk everything for the trust and loyalty of her people. She considered the risk a small price.

Still sitting cross-legged, Fenerath bowed until his turban brushed the floor. He took the amulet. “Khalifa—may you live forever—I will do my best to lead with your grace and wisdom, though I may never have your beauty.”

She gave him a mock grimace. “Your tongue is as smooth as your shiny bald head, my vizier. But since you keep your skull covered with turbans, I suppose you must let slip the tongue on occasion.”

They left Balsalom the next morning. To her surprise, everyone who heard about their desperate march west wanted to go with the khalifa. She hadn’t thought it possible to move so quickly, but with the army already mobilized and carrying minimal supplies, they had few preparations. They ended with seven thousand fighting men Boroah considered fit. Watching them march under hundreds of white flags emblazoned with gold dragons, confident and well-rested, Kallia thought them a formidable force indeed. They would tire by the time they reached Eriscoba; they brought as many extra horse and camel as they could find, to lessen the burden on each beast and make it possible to rest their mounts, but the next few days would be hard ones indeed.

Boroah wanted Kallia to ride in a sedan carried between four camels, where she would be attended by slaves with fans and fine wines, but she resisted any efforts to isolate her from the army. She rode instead on a horse in the vanguard, next to Boroah. The old pasha was in remarkable spirits, barking orders to his captains, arranging the logistics of their minimal supply train, and studying an array of maps.

Kallia’s spirits rode high as well. The rain had stopped, but clouds and pending autumn kept the weather pleasantly cool. She hadn’t ridden a horse for so long in years and enjoyed the swaying rhythm of the animal beneath her. The sickness that had plagued her the last few days diminished to occasional nausea.

But then Balsalom faded in the east, and when evening approached, the Desolation of Toth beckoned. It stood on the horizon like a gray wound across the landscape, and served as a bitter reminder of what awaited Balsalom should they fail. A dank wind blew out from the blighted lands, and the oppression grew as they drew nearer.

They camped midway through the Desolation the first night. Nobody wanted to spend the night among the dead, but they had little choice. In the morning they would cross it and expose themselves to the enemy fortifications for the first time. From there, a sprint through the mountains.

Kallia woke in the night, heart pounding from a night terror whose memory remained just out of reach. Almost, her courage failed and she woke Boroah to tell him they would return to Balsalom. But Saldibar was dead, she remembered, murdered by the dark wizard. She would do whatever was necessary to stop Cragyn.

Chapter Nine

Darik woke to an insistent shaking. “You planning to sleep all day?”

He opened his eyes to find Sofiana standing over him. He rose groggily in bed. Looking down from the loft, he saw light stream through the open door. Ah, but it felt good to get a good sleep.

“You love to do that, don’t you?” he asked. “Isn’t that the third time you’ve rudely awakened me, counting the time you tried to slit my throat? How late is it anyway?”

She eyed him with that self-satisfied look he found so annoying. “Late enough that the battle has already begun.”

“What?” Darik exclaimed, pulling on his trousers and his boots. He strapped on his armor while Sofiana waited impatiently, then fastened his sword and hurried down the ladder. Sofiana followed.

She said, “Veyrians crossed the Thorft during the night and landed boats downstream. We drove them away, but not before they burned a fletcher’s shop and two granaries. Surely you heard the shouting.”

No, he hadn’t, he had to admit. He stepped outside to a view of chaos.

Men and horses clogged the Tothian Way on both sides of the river. The population of Sleptstock had swollen from a few dozen to thousands. Eriscoban camps piled up the west hills, and shouts and animal noises filled the air. Archers stood by the banks, the ground bristling with arrows impaled in the mud for easy access.

East of the river, a sea of black and scarlet spread across the plain, stretching as far as Darik could see and dwarfing Hoffan’s army. Hundreds of banners snapped in the breeze, sprouting from the mass of camels, mammoths, giants, and men on foot and horse. Dozens of black shapes soared high in the air, more dragon wasps than Darik had thought existed in all of Mithyl. Trumpets blared amongst the enemy, calling men to order. Chalfean war drums boomed their response from further back in the enemy ranks. The sight filled Darik with dread.

The Thorft River lay between the two armies, crossed by a single bridge. For now, both sides respected this boundary, and the bridge itself sat empty from west bank to east. The armies fired an occasional arrow across the river, but most of these shots landed in the water.

Cloud castles dotted the sky, taking the place of storm clouds, which had dissipated during the night. They clustered so thickly that they shadowed the ground, but when Darik craned his eyes skyward, he saw no movement. Watching only, content to bask in their own arrogance.

A great shout passed through the armies of the Free Kingdoms. “The griffins! The griffins have come!”

And they came. Swooping from the north, they cut through the air faster than galloping horses, over a hundred strong. The sound of screaming eagles filled the air, skittering the horses. The dragon wasps fled east, not daring an engagement. The great cheer continued through the Eriscoban ranks.