Paul Thompson - The Wizard_s Fate

The two clattered through the sleeping city, leaving the Quarry district for the New City. Here they found the first stirrings for the new day-vendors rolled out pushcarts or opened stalls, servants and housewives scrubbed their stoops. Since the death of Pelladrom Tumult in the market square riot, there had been markedly fewer disturbances in the streets, and the coronation of Ackal IV had diminished tensions over the succession still further. Of course, the arrival of Enkian Tumult had created a new cause for worry.

They left the city by the north gate, called Kanira’s Door by most folk. The eccentric Empress Kanira had built an elaborate ceremonial gate as the starting point of the great paved road she envisioned reaching all the way to the empire’s northern territories. The gate and fifty leagues of road were completed, then a bankrupt treasury had halted the entire enterprise. Such wild extravagance had precipitated her fall at the hands of her stepson, Ergothas II, widely considered one of the empire’s greatest rulers.

Kanira’s Door comprised columns of red granite, alternating with lofty cylinders of pink marble. The columns were placed so close together a sword blade could not fit between them. The line of columns curved outward from the city wall in a great half-circle to the gate proper: a massive slab of sculpted granite that hung over a deep pit in the road. The slab pivoted vertically, and when open, it rested flat on the ground, making a bridge over the pit. In the closed position, the vertical slab left a gaping chasm before it. Although a formidable defensive position, such a gate was so complex and expensive to build it had never been duplicated.

An ingenious mechanism lowered the ponderous stone platform while Tol and Kiya waited. Two ogres, legs shackled and bodies joined at the waists by another weighty chain, cranked furiously at a monstrous stone flywheel. The motion of the wheel turned pulleys and gears, and the gate swung down and open without the slightest scrape. Both horses cantered across the granite bridge, iron-shod hooves clattering loudly.

The land beyond Kanira’s Door was more hilly than the southern or eastern approaches to the capital. In the final bloom of summer, the fields and orchards were heavy with fruit and sparkled with dew. The fecund smell of ripeness was strong in the still morning air.

Kiya remarked it was not the warrior hordes of Ergoth but its fields that had first impressed her with the empire’s power.

“How so?” asked Tol.

“To clear and cultivate such vast amounts of land requires planning. Anyone can assemble a big army. Warriors can always be found when needed, but the effort required to feed an empire is a far surer gauge of a nation’s strength.”

As he stared out across the great fields, seeing the first workers come to tend the crops, Tol had to admit there was much truth in what she said.

Once they left the farm country near the city, the land became more wooded. The sun rose as they crossed and recrossed many small, winding streams.

The morning was glorious, bright and balmy, and they passed numerous farm carts laden with laborers. Tol was recognized frequently and hailed by the farmers. He always returned their greetings. No matter how far or how high he went, he would always be a farmer’s son.

The carters he questioned said they’d seen no riders in the area, no strange warriors. Their very presence testified to the truth of that. Farmers did not linger where mounted soldiers rode.

When Tol and Kiya reached the banks of Salamander Creek at the edge of Verdant Isle, they had to ride along the bank looking for a fording place. Despite its name, the “creek” was twenty paces wide and as much as eight to ten feet deep in spots.

In the quiet rush of flowing water, Kiya spoke after a long silence.

“Do you ever think about death?”

Tol continued to scan the water for a likely crossing. “What warrior doesn’t? “

“I mean, do you wonder how you will die?”

“Not really, no. Why?”

Kiya’s buff-colored horse shifted slightly beneath her, and she slackened the reins so it could put its head down to drink. Water splashed over boulders half-submerged in the creek. In the silence, the sound of the water seemed very loud.

“I know how I’m going to die,” she finally said. “I asked a shaman of the Riverside Tribe to divine it for me many years ago.”

Again there was a pause, and again Tol said nothing, letting her tell it in her own time. She rode slightly ahead of him and he could see only her profile. “He said I would die at the hands of my best friend, and it would be a great blessing that I did.”

The words shook Tol, and he frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Two events were foretold to precede my death. First, I would leave the forest to dwell in a land of stone and iron.” She had certainly done that. “Second, my sister would leave me for a man of smoke and fire.”

That description certainly suggested Elicarno. More often than not, his hands and clothes were stained with soot from his workshop forge.

“How much time is supposed to pass between these events and your death?”

“The wise one did not say.”

“They seldom do!” he declared, moving his mount up alongside hers. “Don’t dwell on it, Kiya. Prophesies are cheap entertainment. It will be years before the gods claim you.”

“Or it might be today” She turned to him and said with sudden intensity, “When the time comes, will you end my life?”

Tol recoiled. “The friend the shaman mentioned may be someone you haven’t even met yet!”

She didn’t reply but continued to stare at him intently. Gently, he said, “We can cross there. Come, Kiya. Neither of us is going to die today.”

Her sister would have had a sharp rejoinder to such a bold statement, but Kiya merely said, “How do you know, ‘my lord’?”

“Maybe I’m a shaman, too.”

When they were halfway across, four riders appeared on the other side of the creek. They were indeed part of Enkian Tumult’s army, for they were dressed as men of the northwest coast in stiff canvas brigandines covered with bronze scales. Their helmets were bronze also and resembled cloth caps with the peaks pushed back. On the wild shore of the Seascapes, the omnipresent winds drove salt spray inland for leagues. The salt air ate iron the way moths consumed old cloth, so warriors there still wore bronze.

The riders did not seem hostile. They waited patiently for Tol and Kiya to reach shore. This end of Verdant Isle was a sea of lush marsh grass brushing the horses’ bellies. Further from shore, the ground sloped up and was covered with vineyards and orchards. Verdant Isle apples were well known in Daltigoth.

As Tol and Kiya splashed ashore, the Seascapers surrounded them. The men were armed with long spears, but they kept these pointed in the air, not toward the newcomers.

A rider with a silver chevron welded to the brow of his helmet spoke. “Halt! Who are you and where are you bound?”

Tol was relieved not to be recognized. The northerners probably knew the name of Lord Tolandruth but not his face.

“We are couriers from Daltigoth,” he replied. “We come with a message for Lord Enkian.”

The corporal exchanged a significant look with his fellows then bade Tol to follow him.

The riders made no move to disarm Kiya or Tol but rode within spear reach on all four sides. Their manner was curious and cautious but not threatening.

The party crested the brow of the hill, and the greenish waters of the Hokun Canal on the north side of the isle came into view. More men appeared, some on foot, some mounted. Verdant Isle was not very large, and Enkian had quartered five thousand men here, plus an unknown number of camp followers and other noncombatants.