Paul Thompson - The Wizard_s Fate

The night passed without incident. Performing magic at great distances had to be incredibly draining, but if Mandes had overtaxed himself in striking at Miya and Darpo on successive nights, if those things actually had happened (and Tol prayed they had not), Tol knew the rogue wizard would strike again as soon as he was able.

During the night, eight different Lord Tolandruths, leading bands of Riders from the Juramona garrison, set out for Mandes’s lair along different routes. At each village and every river crossing the bands would openly proclaim themselves Lord Tolandruth’s men out to bring Mandes to justice. Tol was amused at just how easy it was to handpick a few soldiers, and disguise them to resemble himself.

With renewed provisions, Tol and Early left Juramona just after dawn. A marble vault of clouds still hid the sky, a bitter wind from the north playing on their faces. They were only twenty leagues from the Thel Mountains, thirty from Mount Axas proper-two days’ hard riding there, and two days back to the safety of Juramona.

Once they crossed the border into Hylo Early perked up as of old, becoming talkative again. There were gaps in the kender’s memories of the past few days, and Tol had an inkling why. Felryn’s spirit must have taken possession of Early the night Darpo was attacked then stayed with him until they left Juramona. Mandes said he’d stopped Felryn’s mouth, preventing him from speaking to Tol, but the sorcerer couldn’t prevent Felryn from entering another body.

In spite of his grief, Tol found the notion of the orderly, precise Felryn sharing the untidy mind of a kender as amusing as his many counterfeits roaming the countryside. Yet it was enormously comforting to know a part of his friend survived, and that Felryn was going to such lengths to aid him.

The easiest route to Mandes’s stronghold, according to Valaran’s map, was to ride along the western edge of the Thel range, paralleling the mountains, until they came abreast of Mount Axas. Remaining in the lower elevations for as long as possible ensured a more comfortable journey.

As they rode through patches of scrub pine, they heard other horses nearby, quite a few horses in fact. Reining up, they sat quietly and listened.

“Ten riders,” Tol finally murmured.

“Twelve,” countered Early. “Humans.”

“Egrin’s decoys?”

The kender shook his head.

Tol eyed him skeptically. Early was well traveled, but no scout. “How do you know?”

“I can see them,” he said, flicking his eyes.

Turning in the saddle, Tol saw them, too.

Twelve mounted men wearing furs and leather were approaching. They galloped by, forty paces away and heading in the same direction that Early and Tol were taking. They rode in good order, keeping a formation of twos, marking them as professionals. The plains nomads had been hiring out as fighters to Tarsis for generations; they knew how to ride and fight.

Such patrols grew more frequent as they rode north. Several times Tol and Early had to hide to avoid columns of riders. They counted several hundred armed men crisscrossing the western approaches. Their grim presence appeared to have cleared the countryside of local kender, depriving Tol of friendly eyes and ears.

The winter day was almost over when they first beheld Mount Axas. It rose in the gap between two lesser mountains, Kembra to the north and Bluetooth to the south. Compared to the rocky peaks around it, Axas looked earthy and dark, as if the stones of its slopes were stained. The lower reaches were completely enshrouded by a wall of white mist. There could be no more certain sign the Mist-Maker had indeed taken up residence there.

“According to the maps I saw in Daltigoth, the fortress stands on a plateau on the southwest side of the peak,” Tol said, squinting into the distance. The mountains were highlighted by the setting sun, but he couldn’t make out any structures from so far away. “With luck, we’ll reach it tomorrow night.”

In a shallow ravine, they crossed a trail showing signs of recent, heavy travel. The earth had been ground to powder by the hooves of many horses.

Ten steps into the scattered pines on the east side of the ravine, an arrow whistled out of the trees and lodged in a tree by Tol’s face.

Out came his saber. “Here we go!”

Four axe-wielding riders burst through the underbrush and rode at them, shouting.

“Keep close to me!” Tol said. Though he looked unhappy doing it, Early pulled his stubby sword and followed.

Tol impaled the first man he came to, the point of his saber punching through the man’s heavy furs. His axe blade whisked by Tol’s ear, but the mercenary toppled from his horse, dead. Tol fended off an overhand chop from a second rider. Using his longer reach, he kept clear of the man’s axe and landed several cuts on his chest and shoulders. Number Six scored bloody gouges in the man’s leather vest.

The clang of iron behind him showed Early was likewise engaged. Confident his back was secure, Tol plunged in.

Axes were not good weapons to use from horseback, so Tol forced a third man back, whirled, and lopped the hands off the rider behind him. The fourth enemy had a strung bow over his head, but Early’s intervention kept him from loosing an arrow. As Early now traded cuts with the third rider, Tol took on the axe-wielding bowman.

The blond-bearded mercenary tried to catch Tol’s saber with the hooks curling from each end of his broadhead axe. Realizing the danger, Tol drew back. The bowman immediately raised a ram’s horn to his lips.

Tol drove straight at him. The ram’s horn was on a lanyard, so the mercenary let it fall from his fingers and took his axe in both hands to ward off Tol’s attack. Moving the axe in a tight loop, he caught Number Six with his upper hook. He swung the thick blade in a tight circle, grinning. Bent like this, an iron saber would quickly snap, leaving Tol at his mercy.

However, the dwarf-forged blade wasn’t iron. The steel flexed further and further as the broad-shouldered nomad swung his axe in another tight circle. Tol exerted all his strength against the hilt, driving the long curved blade forward. It scraped over the axe handle and took the mercenary in the throat, just below his chin. His blue eyes widened in disbelief, and the axe fell from his fingers.

Freed from the binding hook, Tol’s saber twanged like a plucked lyre string. The blade now had a slight but distinct bend in it.

The last mercenary tried to flee when he saw his comrade fall. He broke off fighting Early and spurred for the ravine trail. Tol’s Ergothian war-horse easily overhauled the northerner’s stubbier animal. A single stroke laid open the man’s unprotected back. He slid off his horse and was dead when he hit the ground.

Breathing hard, Tol turned his mount around and rode back to Early. The kender was sweating in his furs.

“You did well,” Tol said. “My thanks.”

Early was pale. “I’ve never seen such quick deaths!”

“Had to be done. They would have killed us if we hadn’t fought to the finish.”

Far away, a horn sounded. More horns answered on every side. As Early scattered the mercenaries’ horses, Tol took the ram’s horn from the dead man’s neck and blew a flat, booming note. It echoed across the valley to the slopes of the mountains.

“Why’d you do that?” Early demanded.

“They’ll know there’s trouble as soon as they find any of the horses. Hearing the horn might make them think some of their people are still alive. Maybe it’ll buy us some time.”

He tossed the horn into the brush and they hurried on. The white bulwark of mist waited ahead.

Twilight had come. The last rays of the setting sun clung to the wall of unnatural mist. This pallid glow washed the land in eerie, shadowless light. The strange illumination affected life in the valley below. Birds, normally at roost this time of day, circled overhead in confusion, unable to settle and rest. Nocturnal beasts came out to prowl although their daytime brethren still had not retired.