Archis Varren stormed down the stairs to the castle entrance hall and severely regarded the man who stood there.
“What is this?” he demanded, reaching the bottom step of the sweeping staircase. “I gave you strict orders to take your men south and destroy the Ronnesians’ northern defenses at Kilsney. Why have you returned so soon?”
The sailor quivered at Varren’s tone. “Lord Varren, sir,” he began and saluted quickly, “we reached their encampment as you ordered, sir, but – ”
“I do not like this but, Captain Beren.”
“Sir, I cannot explain it any other way but to say that a freakish wind arose and forced us back up the river – ”
Varren held up his hand to halt the man’s words. “I fail to understand how that could have stopped you from dropping anchor.”
“As do I, my lord. But a mist rose up in a matter of minutes and then a strong wind turned us about. We could do nothing to slow ourselves. We drew up all our sails and lowered our anchors but the wind continued to push us back. None of my lieutenants understood it either, sir, and I’ve been on the sea for twenty years!”
“Yet you seem perfectly incapable of following orders!”
“Sir, I beg you to understand. The mist dispersed when we reached Lake Divide, but the wind didn’t relent until we were barely an hour from the capital.”
“Then you should have turned tail and gone straight back down there!” Varren exclaimed. “Gods, do I have to captain each and every one of your ships myself to ensure my orders are carried out?”
“Sir, we considered returning but we lost one of our ships just up from the lake and – ”
“You lost a ship?” Varren exclaimed incredulously. “How can you lose a ship when you failed to enter battle?”
“She just sank, sir!”
Varren cursed furiously and ran his hands through his hair. “Didn’t someone check the ships before they set sail?”
“Yes, my lord, and they were all perfectly sound!”
“What of the men aboard her?”
“Unsure, sir, though some could have swum to shore and survived.”
Varren cursed again.
“And, sir – ”
“What?”
“Sir, the bridge had been destroyed by the time we reached Kilsney and our men were overcome by the Ronnesian defense. Most were attempting to cross the river or escape along the southern bank, but some had surrendered. When the wind died, we thought it best to return to the capital and regroup before launching another attack.”
“You thought that, did you?”
“Sir, there’s one more thing I think I should mention.”
“More bad news?”
“Some of my men claim to have seen a man on the southern shore, robed in brown and gray. Of course, I dismissed him as some kind of farmer but my men thought he was a monk – ”
“A what?”
“A holy man, sir, with braided hair, but I know for a fact there are no monasteries in that part of Menthenae.”
“But what is the significance of this? You tell me that your ships just turned on their own, sailed for day up the Divide and one of them sank! What do I care for an old man out walking on the bank? What could a monk have to do with…” His voice trailed off as the whisper of a possibility answered the question for him. Varren felt his insides churn with fury. If his attempt to attack the Ronnesian northern border had been thwarted because the queen’s servants had come north, that would explain the campaign’s failure. If she was ordering her mages to attack with the army, to use their powers against the ungifted, that would mean that she had broken the unspoken rule.
A freakish wind, the captain had called it. A mist that had appeared out of nowhere and a wind they had been powerless to control.
Latrett.
His anger rose again and he dismissed the captain with a wave of his hand and muttered that he would relay the information to the king.
“What of the invasion, sir?” the captain called after him.
“Get out!” Varren snarled over his shoulder and continued up the stairs to the king’s quarters. He was already planning another offensive. This time, he told himself, he would lead the attack across the river himself. Of course, it would take a week or so to prepare for the necessary provisions but he was determined to make a swift retaliation. Never in the whole history of their conflict had either side used their mages in open warfare. They had only ever fought one another – mage against mage. He had lost count of how many times he had wanted to draw his sword and join his fellow countrymen in battle. He would have been able to launch an attack that would have left the Ronnesians crippled beyond repair. He could have had Queen Zennia begging at his feet before he had reached his sixteenth year if he had been given half a chance. Varren would no longer hold back. He was free to wield his powers as he chose, as his ancestors had once done, and with such euphoria that he would never want to return to his present caged existence.
When he reached the king’s quarters, he did not knock but threw the door open with a surge of magic and stormed inside. Samian jumped up from his sofa, several papers flying into the air from his surprised fingers.
“Damn it, Archis! What is the meaning of this?”
“The Ronnesian crone!” Varren yelled, striding across the room with his arms wide. “She has no respect for the honor of warfare!”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“Sorcha sent her shaman to the border and shattered our invasion!”
“But what of our ships?”
“All but one returned without even a single man disembarking.”
“What of the – ”
“That shaman bastard sank the damn thing, didn’t he?” Varren hurled a glass from the king’s table at the wall, where it smashed.
Samian sighed and slumped back onto the couch.
“I want permission to respond,” Varren continued, turning and gripping the back of a cushioned chair by the fire. “I won’t let them get away with this!”
“No, Archis,” Samian said wearily.
“No?”
“Winter has come early this year and I don’t want our men fighting in snow. Better for them to rest while we recruit for the first day of spring.”
“And what am I to tell the soldiers who want revenge for the murder of their general, the men on board that ship, and those we lost at Kilsney?”
“I was coming to that,” the king said. “Investigations on the assassination of General Carter have come to nothing. They were incapable of finding this Tirk. I am dissatisfied. I want you to follow it up personally since you were the first on the scene. The command of the soldiers will temporarily go to the Deputy of Arms upon his return from Kilsney.”
“If he returns,” Varren muttered. “I was informed that our army was in disarray and that some had surrendered.”
“Then we should pray for his safe return,” Samian said simply. “Archis, I want you to find out who ordered the murder of General Carter. Use any means necessary. Whatever gold you need may be taken from the treasury. I don’t want the Ronnesians to get away with it.”
“They won’t,” Varren said resolutely.
“As for the men wanting revenge for their fallen comrades, it will have to wait until the spring. They can stew their anger during the winter and channel it into their training. Don’t mistake me, Archis,” he added sternly, “they will have their chance to avenge their brothers, I promise you, but we will not act when the Ronnesians expect, nor will we do it in a cloud of rage. We will plan this very carefully, and we will win.”
Varren nodded, then, without waiting for further orders, turned and headed for the door. He went over the facts in his mind as he strode through the corridors of the castle. Miriam, the prostitute who had done the deed, had been a local woman. Tirk’s accent, however, had betrayed him as being a Ronnesian, one who was familiar with Delseroy. There were very few of those left in the city now. However, Varren did not believe that Tirk was the brains behind the assassination. Something about his manner suggested that he was merely a contractor. Therefore, unless he had returned to report to the client, Tirk could still be in Delseroy, reveling in the aftermath of his success. One thing was certain, however – Tirk’s days were numbered. As far as Varren was concerned, the man was already dead.
He hastened up one floor and strode along a corridor to Eron Galenros’s quarters. His only hope of finding Tirk’s exact position, and quickly, would be to allow Galenros into his mind to see the face of the man he was seeking. That way, the seer could locate him through the sight.
As expected, Galenros was in his sitting room. Varren found him seated in the only chair in the room with his pitch-black eyes open. Varren stood before him and waited for a few minutes but the seer did not return from the sight, so he sat cross-legged on the bare tiles opposite and waited patiently. He was thankful for the hot coals still flickering in the grate.
Galenros was a strange man, for he tended to keep his quarters relatively bare when he could have furnished them richly. There were no paintings or tapestries adorning the walls, no carpets covering the stone floor and no ornaments on the grand mantlepiece. But as the seer had explained once to Varren, there was no reason to decorate the rooms when he did little in them but sleep. Galenros was more likely to be found reading or contemplating his visions in the castle gardens or library.
An hour later, Galenros stirred and his pupils returned to their normal brown hue. He ran his hands through his white hair, then turned his eyes to Varren.
“You have been waiting long, I think,” he said, shifting slightly in the chair. “I believe you have something to ask of me.”
“You’re right,” Varren said. “Are you able to help me?”
“The times are rare when you come to me for help, Archis, but I am always willing. Whether I am able, however…”
“I need to find someone.”
“Can you see his face?”
Varren nodded.
“Give me your hands.”
Varren raised them and the seer took them in his own. They both closed their eyes and Varren pictured Tirk in his mind. Sharing a vision with a seer was a draining exercise, but Varren was confident of his strength. He could sense Galenros scrutinizing Tirk’s face in Varren’s mind before images began to take shape. He saw the man driving away from the South Gate with his cart loaded with possessions. Tirk flicked the reins and spurred his horse on, glancing behind him every few moments as though to reassure himself that he was not being followed. Varren rose up from the scene and began to circle. The land stretched out below him like a map. It would only take Tirk an hour to reach the Great Northern Forest.
He felt the link between himself and Galenros sever and gladly pulled back from the vision as it began to fade.
“Nomanis Tirk…” Galenros said thoughtfully. “He is on his way to Rhóhn to buy passage to Tolersley, then on to Kaledros. I sensed he was afraid of being followed but also elated at some past event.”
“Yes. I must leave immediately if I am to intercept him,” Varren said, standing. “There’s a small farmstead on the edge of the forest I am familiar with. I will go there and make for the road. Inform the king where I have gone should he ask.”
“Good hunting,” Galenros murmured, his eyes growing black once more. “I will monitor your progress. Keep your mind open for my advice.”
*
The cart had become stuck on the track and Tirk had leaped down to urge his horse forward. His face was red with frustration and exertion; beads of sweat trickled down his forehead despite the chill of the wind. He had been pushing at the wheels for a considerable amount of time with little success.
Varren watched him for several minutes, circling him silently, sizing him up and properly assessing his character. Though it was dark in the early hours before dawn, he still insisted upon approaching shrouded in a spell of invisibility. The last thing he wanted to do was give Nomanis Tirk the chance to run.
“Stupid beast!” Tirk shouted, his lantern hanging from a tightly clenched fist. “Move!”
“In a hurry, are we?” Varren asked close to the man’s ear.
Tirk spun around, petrified. The lantern slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. The flame flickered weakly, then went out. His frightened eyes looked straight through Varren’s body to the night-covered plains beyond.
“Who’s that?” Tirk whispered.
“I know what you’ve done, murderer.”
“W-what? I’m no murderer! Who are you? Where are you?”
“I am in your shadow and will be until the day you die.”
“Show yourself, coward! I-I have friends nearby! They’ll come if I shout for them!”
He is lying, Galenros’s voice whispered in Varren’s mind. He is alone.
Varren released his hold on the enchantment and dropped it from his shoulders. He materialized right in front of Tirk, making him shriek. The man stumbled backward but tripped over his own feet and fell. His shout startled his horse, which tried to bolt but the cart was still firmly lodged in the ditch.
“Traitor,” Varren said, looming over his victim.
“No!” Tirk cried. “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!”
“Yet you know of what I speak.” Varren raised his arm from the folds of his cloak and a thin coil of blinding light shot out from his outstretched fingers. The spell hit Tirk’s neck and quickly entangled itself around his throat. Varren could smell the scent of burning flesh as the spell tightened.
“Who hired you?”
“An infantryman!” Tirk gasped, his hands grasping at his neck. “He went by the name of…of Gatennev!”
He is lying again, Galenros’s voice hissed.
“Don’t play with me, Tirk,” Varren said angrily. “General Owen Carter was brutally murdered by a prostitute, and she confessed to me that it was you who ordered the assassination.”
“She’s lying! The little bitch doesn’t know what she’s talking about!”
Varren regarded his victim contemptuously. He did not need Galenros’s prompts; he could feel Tirk’s essence spewing lies like a dam bursting its seams. The traitor really thought he could hide the truth from Archis Varren.
“You know who I am, don’t you?”
The man hesitated, then nervously nodded.
“I have enough to send you to the gallows, Tirk, but I would like you to confess.”
“I already told you! I didn’t do it!” Tirk insisted, his eyes wide and pleading. “Why would I have him killed? I’m not a businessman, nor do I have any political stakes!”
“Ah, you’re wrong about that,” Varren said, probing the man’s thoughts. “You do have political stakes, but not in Delseroy. You are a man of Te’Roek, true to only the queen of the Ronnesians, and a murderer!”
“No!”
“Your mind gives you away, Tirk!” the sorcerer hissed. “I can see all your lies and truths there in your head. Pathetic. By my authority as lord magistrate, I sentence you to death. Do you have anything you wish to say?”
Tirk looked as though he was about to cry. His hands still grasped at the spell that bound his neck. Varren had never seen anyone so pathetic. The man had lied feebly and it was now time for him to pay the price. The people of the empire, the army especially, had been waiting for the man responsible for the general’s murder to be brought to justice. His sentence was death but Varren would use no wrenches, racks, whips, hot irons or sharp metal instruments to extract the confession. He would use only magic.
While holding onto the first spell with his right hand, he raised his left and summoned another spell. Flames began to flicker around his fingers and he smiled.
“For your crimes, you will not die quickly. I will make you suffer and, in that time, you will learn remorse for what you have done. You Ronnesians have had your last chance.”
“They will praise my name for what I did! Without a skilled general, who will lead your armies? Who will bring you victory?”
Varren released his spell in a wave of unnatural fire that sent pain coursing through Tirk’s limbs, though his skin remained untouched. Varren could see the agony in the man’s eyes as though thousands of tiny knives were piercing and ripping his muscles.
“Stop! Please!”
“I am giving you the chance to confess. Tell me truthfully who hired you and I will be merciful.”
Another wave of scorching fire hit the traitor and Varren tugged at his first spell, tightening the loop around Tirk’s neck. The man’s eyes began to bulge and he gasped for air. Varren’s own face, however, remained unmoved. He watched, expressionless, as Tirk crumpled with the lack of oxygen and clawed at his neck to free himself.
You have him, Galenros said, his whisper holding traces of amusement.
Tirk looked up with frightened eyes and nodded frantically. Varren relented and the spells dissipated. The man collapsed onto his front in the dirt and it was some time before he had the strength to rise to his hands and knees.
“Talk,” Varren said, looking down at him with disgust. “You do not know the extent of my abilities, but I have already given you a taste. It is up to you whether you risk lying to me further. Believe me, it will make a difference.”
“It – it wasn’t an infantryman,” Tirk said between sharp intakes of air. “It was someone higher than that.”
“I know. Go on.”
Tirk looked unwilling to say any more but Varren pressed his palms together and then drew them apart slowly, forming a ball of flickering white flame. Tirk’s eyes widened and he staggered back, fearing Varren would release his spell.
“As I said, you will receive clemency for any information you give me.”
Tirk nodded anxiously and then rose to his feet. “I was commissioned by the mayor of Te’Roek, Lord – ”
“Challan?”
“He had one of his men seek me out and arrange an audience. He offered so much money, I couldn’t refuse him.”
As the man told his tale, Varren probed his mind. Tirk was desperately trying to concentrate on his memories, trying not to miss any detail, the fear of death hanging over him. After a while, the sorcerer held up his hand and Tirk fell silent.
“Your order came from Mayor Challan, which means there is a great possibility that it came from the very top.”
“Queen Sorcha?” Tirk exclaimed and frantically shook his head. “Oh, no! No, it can’t have been. The mayor was adamant that she remain ignorant of the details!”
“Regardless, he may have had her unofficial blessing.”
Varren watched the man carefully, searching for any signs of deception. He found none. Tirk truly believed that the queen of the Ronnesians was innocent of this crime. Varren, though, remained unconvinced.
“All right,” he said, straightening to his full and impressive height. “You have said all you can have to say. Stand up.”
Tirk, foolishly believing that he would now receive his freedom, clambered to his feet eagerly. Varren looked him up and down, his face laced with contempt.
“I have no further use for you.”
“Then you will let me go?”
Varren laughed mirthlessly. “Let you go? Are you insane?”
With that, he raised his boot and kicked Tirk in the stomach, flinging him into the dirt. Before the man recovered, Varren strode over to his sprawled figure and brought a foot down heavily on his left knee. There was a terrible crack and an agonizing cry. Varren glowered at him and proceeded to crush the right knee as well. The following scream pierced the silence of the sleeping world around them. The horse stirred with unease.
“I will make you beg for death!” Varren cried. “I will make your throat hoarse from screaming!”
Strings of blackness issued from his fingertips and he lashed out, whipping them at the man’s unprotected flesh, flinging streams of blood into the air. Tirk tried to crawl away, pulling his useless shattered legs behind him. But Varren leaped after him and, raising his boot once more, crushed one of Tirk’s elbows, bending it backward. The resulting scream left his ears ringing but he was not yet finished with the Ronnesian. Varren tucked one foot under the man’s stomach and flipped him onto his back, drawing more cries from his lips.
“You…you said you would show me mercy!” Tirk gasped, tears streaming from his eyes.
“Your wounds aren’t fatal but the animals that have heard your cries will be quick to find you. They won’t care if you’re alive or dead. They’ll rip your body apart and you won’t be able to stop them. But I am merciful. I will deliver you from this world.”
Tirk attempted to speak but a bout of coughing silenced him. From the hatred in his eyes, however, Varren could imagine what he had wished to say. He crouched down beside the Ronnesian and slowly drew the jeweled dagger from his belt. He raised the weapon and let Tirk see the sharp edges of the perfectly crafted steel blade. Then he stabbed once, twice, three times into the man’s side. Tirk screamed, his voice already growing hoarse. His undamaged arm attempted to ward off the attacks but his strength was quickly failing him.
Varren looked down at what he had done. A pool of blood was spreading around the dying man and soaking into the earth. Varren found an unstained corner of Tirk’s ripped tunic and wiped his dagger clean. After replacing it in his belt, he slapped Tirk across the face to wake him from his pain-induced trance. The Ronnesian’s bloodshot and unfocused eyes opened slowly.
“I hope the realm of the dead finds you well,” the sorcerer said quietly, clasping Tirk’s bloodied face. “Your associates shall be joining you soon.”
From his palms, he released a surge of hot magic that delved into every inch of Tirk’s skin, muscles and bones. Tirk’s limbs twitched from the impact, from his face right down to his feet, like a ripple on water. He took in one last, rasping breath, then he was dead.