R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Hidden under the cowl of his robe, the wizard beside the throne grinned in amusement.

“Second,” the captain continued, “I do ask for something in return.”

“Then you are a fool,” Ungden said with a chuckle, “for I already have your information. You have nothing left with which to bargain.”

“But I do,” Mitchell argued. “I have myself.”

Ungden gave Mitchell a sidelong glance, and Reinheiser nodded in satisfaction that he had coached the captain well.

“Explain, then, your worth to me,” Ungden demanded.

“What I ask in return is a position in your army,” Mitchell replied. “A position of high rank, that I may aid in the purification of the race of man. That is my destiny.”

Ungden lifted his eyebrows at this suggestion. “And what am I to tell my officers when I appoint an unproven stranger among them?”

“Tell them that a lord is coming from another place and another time,” Mitchell replied without hesitation. “A great warrior who knows much of combat and will help lead Calva to victory over its hated foes.”

The wizard leaned over and whispered something to Ungden, who nodded in agreement. “What is the name of this place that you are from, this nation that called you a lord?” he asked.

“The United States of America,” Mitchell replied proudly. “The mightiest nation that this world has ever known.”

“Indeed,” Ungden said, obviously unimpressed by what he, the Overlord of the grandest nation in Aielle, perceived as a preposterous claim. “And there you were king?”

“No, not king, but I commanded the army for the king, and by his will, so that he would be free to attend to other matters of state. Millions were at my disposal, Lord Ungden, with weapons beyond anything you can imagine.”

“Millions,” Ungden mocked sarcastically, imitating the captain’s excited tone, but his robed adviser whispered to him again and his taunting smile disappeared. He sat quietly for a moment, trying futilely to compose himself in light of the confirmation from his aide that such an empire had indeed existed.

“My forces are under the able command of Persomy, First Warder of the White Wall,” Ungden explained. “He is bound to me by an oath of loyalty that cannot be doubted and he carries out my orders without question. And he does so very well, I must say. So you understand that I really do not need another commander.”

Mitchell’s face twisted at Ungden’s unanticipated refusal.

“However,” Ungden continued, “my good friend Istaahl has advised me that perhaps you will indeed prove a valuable asset to my army. Therefore, Hollis T. Mitchell, I commission you temporary Undercommander of the forces of Pallendara and the nation of Calva, reporting only to Persomy and to myself. The permanency of your position depends on how we fare against the night dancers, for you and Persomy shall meet this very day and draw up our plan of attack.”

“Thank you, Overlord Ungden,” Mitchell stammered through a broad grin. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Ungden narrowed his eyes, obviously disapproving of cockiness in an inferior. He leaned forward in his throne and eyed the captain directly, showing him a wicked smile. “Be assured, Undercommander,” he explained with deadly certainty, “that I shall hold you solely responsible if we fail.”

No longer smiling, Mitchell needed no explanation of the implications of Ungden’s promise.

THE USURPER TURNED his untrusting eye at Reinheiser. “And what do you desire?” he asked, his words heavy with the cynicism that dominated every aspect of his life.

“Desire?” Reinheiser echoed with feigned surprise.

“Do not be evasive,” the Overlord warned, but though he smiled knowingly, the physicist held fast to his naive facade. “What do you ask,” Ungden demanded, “in return for your part in delivering the map?”

“Why nothing, my lord,” Reinheiser replied. “I only did what I believed was proper.”

Ungden nodded approvingly, though his expression showed that his doubts remained. Tainted by his own perverted outlook, the Usurper recognized personal gain as the primary motivation for any man’s actions and suspected treachery in anyone who claimed otherwise. He knew that Reinheiser was lying. The wizard beside the throne again smiled under his hood. He knew it, too; and furthermore, he understood what it was that Martin Reinheiser sought.

“Although,” Reinheiser continued, as if a small favor had occurred to him as an afterthought, “I would truly appreciate a tour of this magnificent palace, and perhaps of the city, too.”

“It shall be done,” Ungden said. “And more than that, for you certainly deserve it, you shall remain in the palace, comfortable and respected as my royal guest.”

“Thank you, gracious lord,” Reinheiser said, and bowed low as if honored, though he realized that the invitation was just Ungden’s way of keeping an eye on him.

The Usurper accepted the bow with an unenthusiastic wave of his hand, indicating that he was through with the two strangers and the meeting at an end.

Reinheiser saw many splendors that day, artworks as wondrous as any from his own world. Unfortunately, the manner in which they were thrown together and cluttered about in every room assaulted his senses with an overload of images and insulted the artists who had devoted months, even years, of their lives to create them. Like the dragons of mythology, Ungden hoarded his treasures without any idea of appreciation for them. To the Usurper, owning seemed an end unto itself, and mere placement, aesthetically insulting, showed that his greed far outweighed any love he had for the art.

Yet Reinheiser, too, cared little for art. His desire to see the palace had nothing to do with observing masterpieces, and it took quite an effort for him to hold his facade and convince the wary guard that he was interested in the tour. It wasn’t until the afternoon that he found what he was truly looking for. As his guide led him to his room, they passed a darkened, unadorned hallway. Right away Reinheiser suspected something important about this corridor, for it was the only area he had viewed in the entire palace bare of Ungden’s pillaged collection.

“Take me down there,” he demanded.

“Nay, I cannot,” the guard replied.

“You wear the ring of a Warder of the White Walls,” Reinheiser promptly reminded. “Your Overlord granted me this tour and you are bound to carry out his will. Now, take me down there.”

The guard returned Reinheiser’s threatening glare with a dangerous look of this own. “ ‘I cannot,” he stated again. “That passage leads to the tower of Istaahl, and he alone determines his guests.”

“Even above Ungden?” Reinheiser stated the question rhetorically, meaning to unnerve the guard and remind him of his loyalties, but the Warder remained resolute in his refusal.

“Overlord Ungden has granted Istaahl full rights of privacy and sovereignty over his tower,” the man explained. “We may approach only at the invitation of the mage.”

Reinheiser had run out of arguments, though it wasn’t of much consequence. He had discovered what he set out to find, and was confident that he would meet with the wizard soon enough; that had been predetermined. He would have to be patient for a while.

Just for a short while. Conveniently, Reinheiser’s room was close by. He entered and shut the door behind him, stopping to listen for steps as the guard departed. But no footsteps moved away; as Reinheiser had fully expected, his room was to be watched. Frustrated, he reclined on his bed, rehearsing the speech he had planned for the wizard and trying to formulate a plan to slip past the sentry. Wearied from the long ride, he was soon fast asleep.