Paul Thompson - The Wizard_s Fate

Tol and Early found themselves riding under a huge flock of screeching starlings. The noise was unnerving, not only for its own sake, but because it kept them from hearing anything else-like the warning signs of approaching horsemen.

When darkness finally claimed the valley and the birds and beasts settled into normal patterns, Tol and Early took shelter beneath a canopy of snow-covered cedars. Since morning, they’d been ascending the western slopes of the mountains, entering the frostier climate of the uplands. With their backs against a stout old tree, they ate cold rations and shared a gourd of cider.

Talk was kept to a minimum. As soon as he’d eaten, Early rested his head back against the shaggy bark. His breathing slowed into a shallow, steady rhythm.

Tol meant to resume their trek and reach the wall of mist by dawn, but he too felt the leaden weight of sleep. He struggled against it. Getting to one knee, he breathed deeply of the chill air. The cold was bracing and burned away his fatigue like a tonic. He stood.

Stars winked in and out of the black branches overhead. To the northeast, Mandes’s veil of fog stood out starkly against the black night. The starlight showed imperfections in its surface, ripples and whorls where the wind at higher altitudes tried to tear the mist away.

Maintaining such a Spell must take constant energy. When did Mandes rest? Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps that was why his soul wandered the night, tormenting others.

Solin appeared above the trees. Its pearly sheen warmed the dead color of the cloud-wall, and washed the woods in soft light. Shadows appeared among the widely spaced cedars.

The shadows moved.

“Early,” Tol whispered sharply. The kender did not respond, not even when Tol kicked his foot. Blast it if he wasn’t a heavy sleeper.

Brightness filled the woods behind Tol. He turned, shading his night-adapted eyes from the intense light.

In a heartbeat, his surroundings were transformed. Cedar trees became stone columns, rusty brown needles became a lush woolen carpet. Tol knew this place. This was the audience hall of the imperial palace, in Daltigoth.

A humming sound drew Tol’s attention to the ancient throne of Ackal Ergot. Ackal IV sat in the ornate gilded chair, his hair unkempt and tangled, his robes dirty. He held an odd-looking doll-not a child’s toy, sewn of soft cloth and stuffed with rags, but a stiff gray statuette.

Tol tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. He could see and hear perfectly, but Ackal seemed not to realize he was there.

The emperor continued to croon tunelessly to himself as he ran his fingers over the statuette’s face. His vacant eyes revealed the truth: Ackal IV wasn’t ill, he was mad. His mind was lost in some secret, distant vale.

At the far end of the dimly lit room, one of the tall doors opened, and a man entered. With a swirl of his floor-sweeping cape, the man traversed the long hall briskly. When he entered the wash of light from a pair of flickering braziers, the features of Prince Nazramin were revealed.

Instinctively, Tol’s hand went to his sword hilt, but the emperor’s brother strode past him, not seeing him at all.

Beneath his long cape, Nazramin wore a black leather riding habit, as though he’d just arrived from his country estate. He paused at the foot of the throne. The jeweled pommel of a large dagger glittered in his belt. Ackal IV would never have tolerated a weapon in his presence, had he been in his right mind.

“Brother?” Nazramin said.

The emperor continued to sing softly to himself, scraping a thumbnail over the dull gray statuette.

Nazramin took the statuette from him. Ackal whimpered slightly, reaching for it, but Nazramin pulled it away.

“A passable likeness,” said the red-haired prince, smiling unpleasantly at the figure’s face. “Not a striking one, but still, it served its purpose.”

Drawing closer, Tol realized the statuette bore the emperor’s face.

“Not the best medium, either,” continued Nazramin, “but lead is traditional.”

He dropped the statuette. It landed on its head with a fiat thud. Immediately, Ackal cringed and grasped his temples with both hands.

Tol felt sick. Image magic! Ackal was the victim of the lowest, vilest form of sorcery. It was Nazramin all along, pulling Mandes’s strings.

Nazramin paced slowly before the throne, still talking. Ackal’s clouded gaze tracked him with obvious difficulty.

“It’s taken a long time, but I’ve finally gotten everything in place. I bided my time. I endured your regency, brother, but I do not intend to suffer your reign any longer than necessary.”

The prince halted in front of the throne. “A coup would have been risky. Too many idiots in this city are loyal to that chair you sit on.” He drove a gauntleted fist into his palm. “Imbeciles! The throne of Ergoth is not a piece of furniture for any fool to occupy! Why should I risk myself to seize what rightfully belongs to me? I watched those idiot Pakins try to take the crown from our uncle and our father, and what did it get them? Pointless warfare and their heads on spikes decorating the city wall! There was no need to bloody myself. I could get what I wanted without such risk.”

Without preamble, Nazramin brought his booted heel down hard on the statuette’s middle. Ackal screamed piteously, grasping his ribs and writhing on the throne. Tol took a step forward, furious at his inability to intervene or even to vent his anger in words.

“Your wandering mind has been well recorded,” the prince went on more calmly. “I left the city so no one could connect me with your growing madness. In many way you cooperated splendidly. Banishing Mandes was timely-it removed any suspicion that magic was being used against you.”

He picked up the statuette. “He made this for me, you know. Sixty-six days of continual spellcasting it required, and Mandes was so weakened that another ten days passed before he could attach the first clamp. It was well worth the trouble, don’t you think, brother?”

The hair on Tol’s neck prickled as he listened to Nazramin’s recitation of the horrors he’d visited upon his own flesh and blood.

“I summoned Enkian Tumult here with a false tale about an insurrection. I thought you would take fright and send the hordes to destroy him, creating an impression in the people’s mind of cruelty and ruthlessness, but instead”-Nazramin’s brows drew down in anger-“you sent that peasant to talk to him. You forced me to have Enkian killed, so my plot would not be exposed.”

Ackal’s attention was wandering. He began to croon again. Nazramin closed the distance between them in two long strides and slapped him hard. Ackal’s head snapped back, and Tol could have sworn that, for a moment, awareness came to his eyes. It quickly faded.

“Listen to me, fool!” Nazramin snarled. “I want you to know who brought about your downfall!”

After a pause to collect himself, he continued. “You obliged me by sending Farmer Tol to settle accounts with Mandes. That was perfect. I’ve been freer to act with the peasant away, and Mandes knows too much. It would have been necessary to silence him eventually, so why not let Lord Pigsty do it? If by chance the wizard prevails, that will save me having the farmer’s throat cut in the future.”

Nazramin moved to the table next to the throne. It held an ornate golden goblet, bearing the arms of Ackal Ergot. The prince lifted it and drank deeply of the cider it contained.

While Nazramin quenched his thirst, Tol pondered the reality of what he was seeing. It could be an illusion, but he doubted it. Now that he stood on the sorcerer’s very doorstep, Mandes was pulling out all the stops, revealing to him the true instigator of the evil that had befallen him. Tol was the Emperor’s Champion, sworn to defend Ackal IV, and Mandes hoped to send him racing back to Daltigoth to save the emperor.