Paul Thompson - The Wizard_s Fate

The word of the famous Lord Tolandruth was good enough for young Havoc. He saluted then departed to instruct the officers. Jarabee followed him. The young priest had been silent throughout the confrontation, his gaze fixed on his murdered lord.

Standing in the center of the agitated camp, Tol sighed. “I’m wrestling with enemies made of smoke!” he muttered to Kiya. “There’s nothing to grasp!”

She shrugged. “We survived, Husband. That’s victory enough for now.”

Tol sent the couriers to find horses. He wanted to be back in Daltigoth before dawn. This camp, where Enkian Tumult had died, was in no wise a safe place to remain.

By methods of his own, the assassin appeared before his master.

“It is done, Your Highness. Lord Enkian is dead,” he reported, bowing his head low.

“Good. Was the farmer blamed, as I wished?”

The assassin’s downy cheek twitched. “Not-ah, no, great prince.”

Nazramin leaned forward into the firelight. At his feet, his great wolfhounds sensed his anger and growled low in their throats.

“And why not?”

“It was Enkian’s own doing, Highness. He called for wine after Lord Tolandruth left, and so was seen alive. Still, I thought it best to slay him at once, for the good of Your Highness’s cause.”

For a heart-stopping moment, Nazramin regarded the assassin with a narrow-eyed gaze. Finally, he sank back into his deep chair and said dismissively, “It’s as well. Enkian would have revealed my part in the plot soon enough.”

Jarabee bowed, legs shaking slightly. He asked, “Shall I return to the Seascapes, Highness? Or may I remain in the city as your loyal servant?”

Though he tried to conceal it, his desire to take the disgraced Mandes’s position was apparent.

“Neither,” Nazramin told him, and yawned. The prince raised a finger. Both hounds leaped to their feet, fangs bared.

Jarabee’s heart skipped a beat. “No, great prince! Please!” he cried, voice shrill.

An expectant smile lifted Nazramin’s thin lips. His upraised finger twitched slightly.

Jarabee turned and ran, sandals flapping. Iron-limbed wolfhounds sprang. The terrified priest threw the one spell he had at the ready. The nearer dog dropped to the floor, paralyzed, but there was no time to cast again. The second dog tore out Jarabee’s throat before he could scream.

Lord Enkian’s murder was never solved. The common assumption was that the young priest Jarabee had something to do with it, because Jarabee disappeared the same night Enkian died and was never seen again. No motive was ever discovered as to why he would want to harm his lord, but Enkian was notoriously close-fisted, and many assumed the two men had quarreled over Jarabee’s pay.

With the problem of Enkian’s army resolved, peace seemed to have returned at last. Mandes was gone, the succession was settled, and the first tribute from Tarsis did much to bolster the imperial coffers.

For the household at Villa Rumbold, life went on, even as great changes stirred the companions living there. First, Egrin and his retinue returned to Juramona. It was harvest time back home, and that meant taxes had to be collected. Ten days after Enkian’s death, Tol gave the Juramona men a farewell banquet the night before they were scheduled to depart. It turned out to be a rather muted affair, but it ended with an eye-opening revelation for Tol.

The household was gathered around the long dining table. Egrin filled a mug with the best beer in Daltigoth and handed it to Tol. “To the victor over Tarsis,” he declared.

Tol downed a hearty swallow. “That seems a hundred years ago.”

“You’re much too young to talk like that,” Egrin replied genially. “Wait until you’ve outlived all your enemies, then you’ll miss them.”

Kiya said, “Why should anyone miss their enemies?” She’d grown morose since Miya had left the villa to become Elicarno’s wife.

“For a warrior, life is measured by the enemies you best.” Egrin swirled the remnants of beer in his own mug, watching the foam break on the glazed clay sides. “Or by those who best you.”

Tol arched an eyebrow. “Oho! Are there any foes you’ve never defeated, Egrin?”

“Certainly I’m not invincible. No one is.”

A fresh platter of ribs arrived from the kitchen. Egrin’s men eagerly took the steaming platter from the servants hired for the banquet. Kiya growled a warning that some ribs had better make their way to her end of the table.

“Husband was won all his battles,” she said, when the platter finally reached her. “Monsters, pirates, soldiers-it’s all the same to him.”

Tol insisted he had enemies still. He thought of Mandes, who had disappeared, but particularly of Prince Nazramin, an utterly untouchable foe.

Egrin brought up the question that had begun to dominate Tol’s thoughts of late: What were his plans, now the war was over and the crown rested securely on the emperor’s brow?

Tol had no idea and said so. Egrin spoke of the pirates still active in the southern and western seas, saying Tol might summon Darpo and the fleet and deal with the brigands. Kiya countered with the Silvanesti outposts making incursions into the South Plains, the sparsely populated territory east of the Great Green.

Her comment ignited a long discussion about the elves and their capabilities. Since their plot to arm the forest tribes and block Ergoth’s eastward expansion had been foiled a decade earlier, the Silvanesti had remained remarkably quiet. That alone was grounds to suspect mischief, Egrin intoned darkly. Long-lived and incredibly patient, the elves could wait decades to allow a plot to mature.

The banquet went late, and in true warrior fashion, most of the Juramona men eventually fell asleep at the table. Even Egrin dozed in his chair. Tol scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, rose, and draped a woolen mantle around his old friend’s shoulders.

Egrin shifted slightly and began to mutter. “Killers… Silvanesti…” was all Tol made out before the marshal jerked awake with a gasp.

Tol put a hand on his shoulder.

It took Egrin a moment to recall his surroundings. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You were talking in your sleep.” Tol told what he’d heard, then said, “Reliving an old battle? I guess elves are the one enemy none of us can outlive.”

To his surprise, Egrin stood abruptly and walked out of the room. Tol followed. In a room across the entry hall, on the villa’s north side, Egrin stood before a large window, staring out at the cloudy night. Old Rumbold had been rich enough to afford real glass, and the window opening was filled with individual panes, each no bigger than the palm of Tol’s hand, held together by narrow strips of lead.

Egrin was rubbing one ear absently, a sure sign he was lost in thought. Tol seated himself on the carved arm of a heavy wooden chair, and waited. The villa was so quiet he could hear the faint hiss of the misty rain collecting on the windowpanes, yet he nearly missed Egrin’s first words, so softly were they spoken.

“The harder we run from the past, the closer it comes.” After a moment, he added, “I haven’t had that nightmare in a long time. I must be feeling my age, or perhaps it’s a reminder of my mortality.”

He turned to face Tol at last. “I’m very proud of you, you know. You’ve surpassed any dreams I ever had for you.”

The old warrior had never spoken in such direct terms. Tol was deeply moved, but before he could reply, Egrin went on.

“And because I’m proud of you, because there should be no lies between us, I need to tell you something about myself.”

Slowly, the marshal pushed his thick, gray-streaked auburn hair behind his left ear. Tol frowned. In the dim light it was difficult to make out, but there seemed to be something wrong with the ear. Its top was oddly flat, the skin puckered. A painful wound, Tol was certain, yet he had seen worse battle scars and said so.