R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Five tall towers dominated the structure, two beside the massive gatehouse in the front, two at the corners of the back, facing the bay, and one in the center of the city. She had been built as a tribute to the artistry of man, a bastion of security dedicated to preserving at all costs the inspired works, and even more, the spirit of creativity and appreciation, which distinguished mankind as a race worthy of the blessings of the Colonnae. A conglomeration of beauty and comfort, the epitome of the best that man had to offer, Pallendara had stood as such for over a thousand years. But three decades of an unlawful king’s paranoia had exacted a heavy toll. In the bright days before Ungden, the heavy iron gates were thrown wide day and night, an open invitation to all who would come to partake in the celebration that was this city. Only once in the history of Pallendara, at the time of the coming of Thalasi and his mutant army, had the gates been barred. Now, under the Usurper’s wary eye, they remained closed to all, and grim-faced soldiers stalked the parapets.

Reinheiser noted this impressive defense as the party trotted the last approach to the walls. He laughed inwardly, realizing that this overblown exhibition didn’t put forth the show of strength that Ungden no doubt envisioned. Quite the opposite, it revealed the insecurity, and thus the weakness, of the throne. The physicist also noted Bracken’s sigh when the banner of Ungden, a gray shark on a black background, came into view waving high above the city. Like many of his peers, Reinheiser realized, from that expression and the words of Ardaz, Bracken preferred the old shield of Calva, four white bridges and four pearls on a sea-blue field. But it was not within the privileges of the Warders of the White Walls to question the decrees of their Overlord.

Bracken gave a call of recognition to a soldier on the roof of the gatehouse and one of the great gates cracked open enough to admit the horsed men in single file. A short tunnel, its walls lined with arrow slits and its ceiling interfaced with murder holes, led to the open courtyard of the fortress, and Mitchell and Reinheiser uneasily suffered the curious and dangerous stares of many concealed guards as they paced their mounts through. A final portcullis cranked open when they neared, and the captain sighed audibly as they left the passage of horrors and came again into the sunlight.

Reinheiser could only imagine the glory Pallendara had once attained as he looked around him now. A tangible pall hung over the city, a gray fog of lethargy, where men kept at work out of duty and fear, not love. The people they passed stayed huddled and closed, with their eyes down in front of them to watch their own measured steps. Everywhere, engines of war dominated the view: a massive catapult belittling a three-tiered fountain, and ballistae mounted on the bases where proud statues once stood. Even the unemotional physicist felt a pang at the lost wonders this city must have known.

Bracken hurried them through the streets, revealing similar feelings and also, perhaps, a bit of embarrassment.

Nonetheless, a redundant stream of images dogged the trip as they wove around battlement after battlement, one line of defense after another. Every corner carried the same grim facade, and the group seemed to be going in circles.

Finally they dismounted, and a climb of a hundred marble steps brought them to the golden doors of Pallendara’s Throne Hall. Apparently the party was expected, for the guards immediately swung the doors open and escorted them inside. A red carpet led them through the halls and into a long chamber cluttered with statues and sculptures, its walls overlaid with tapestries and paintings; the finest works in all Calva thrown together into a muddled hoard of greed.

The court of Ungden the Usurper.

At the far end of the hall, on an oversized throne of gold and jewels, sat the Overlord. To his left, hunched over and leaning on a cane, stood a man in a white robe, its hood pulled low to conceal his face. Behind the throne, a line of soldiers in the silver and black uniform of the city waited at the call of their Overlord. Everything before him matched the court that Reinheiser had envisioned, everything except for the Overlord himself.

Reinheiser had anticipated an older version of Captain Mitchell, a brutish warrior who had bullied his way to power. But Ungden hardly fit that description. Slender and delicate, dressed in brightly colored silks with a ruffled collar and puffed sleeves, and overdecked in jewelry, a ring on every finger, two on some, and three on one, and several bracelets that clanked noisily with his every move, he seemed more a child dressed in a mature man’s clothing. Indeed, from a distance Reinheiser could hardly believe that this figure was old enough, given the years that the simple arithmetic from the day of his ascent to power would indicate. But when the physicist drew near, he recognized this as an obvious illusion of vanity. Powder lessened the wrinkles on Ungden’s face and a black wig hid his graying hairs.

Reinheiser tried to hide his surprise at the sight, but it seemed impossible to him that this man who had wrested the throne of a proud and mighty people was, by all measure of his reckoning, a fop.

When the party had settled before him, Ungden threw a leg over one arm of the throne and incessantly strummed the other with meticulously manicured fingers like a bored and impatient child.

“My lord,” Bracken said, bowing low, “I found these men on the foothills of the Crystal Mountains. I brought them here that you might judge if they indeed be the ancient ones the scouts were quested to find.”

He presented Reinheiser’s map to Ungden and moved off to the side.

Ungden scanned the parchment quickly and without much interest, then turned it over to the robed man beside him, who tucked it away in a deep pocket without even looking at it. After the two conferred in whispers for a moment, Ungden focused his gaze upon Mitchell.

“Your name,” he demanded.

“Mitchell, Hollis T. Mitchell.”

“Well, Hollis T. Mitchell, tell me about this map.”

“My friend, Martin Reinheiser, could probably tell you more, Lord Ungden. He penned it himself.”

“Ah, yes, I am quite sure that he could,” Ungden replied calmly. “But I asked you.” He offered no further explanation, as if his simple request contained an indisputable logic to end any further debate. And in this, his Throne Hall, surrounded by his armed and dangerous guard, it certainly did. The Overlord was no fool, and his counsel well informed. Just by the way the two men had presented themselves, it was obvious that Mitchell was easier prey on a verbal level than Reinheiser, and if these strangers were withholding secrets, Mitchell was the more likely of the two to slip up.

The captain proved a more worthy adversary than he looked, though, and with Reinheiser’s coaching behind him, he knew what to say.

“That map, Overlord, will guide you to your greatest foes, the elves of the second mutation.”

Ungden’s eyes flashed and he started forward in his chair. He caught himself almost immediately and reclined back with feigned calm. The robed man beside him didn’t react at all, as if Mitchell’s declaration had come as no surprise.

“And why do you freely give me such a map?” Ungden asked suspiciously. “Surely you must realize the worth of such information. Why do you offer it for nothing, when a king’s treasure might have been yours?”

“Two reasons,” Mitchell explained. “First, it is right that you should know where to find and deal with these mutants.” He paused for a moment, trying to remember the way Reinheiser had phrased this rehearsed speech. “The elves are impure, a stain upon the race of man, and like you, I seek to purify the race. I believe that was fate’s purpose in bringing us, the ancient ones, to Aielle.”