Authors: Mark Acres
Though from the outside the place appeared to be like any of a score of other cheap taverns, none entered here without invitation. Here, swilling cheap wine and ale, debauching with some of the ugliest women of Kala, were the most ruthless cutthroats, the cleverest thieves, and the vilest assassins of the Land Between the Rivers. To enter here without invitation—and sometimes with—was to condemn oneself to the most ignoble death possible. Valdaimon realized it was a testament to his power that the room became silent as he entered and that not a single eye turned to gaze upon his person as he slowly dragged himself toward the only door. These, the worst of the worst, feared him. Only Nebuchar did not fear him—yet.
Valdaimon paused by the door. A scream came from the tiny back room, a blood-freezing scream that caused all the scum of Kala to exchange frightened, worried glances. Yet not one of Nebuchar’s followers dared move toward the tiny room, where the voice of their leader called again and again for aid in the high-pitched screams of a man totally overcome by terror. At the sound of those screams, Valdaimon chuckled. Now, Nebuchar, too, would fear him. The delayed fear spell he’d cast would wear off in less than an hour, but the memory of that fear would haunt Nebuchar for the rest of his mortal life.
Valdaimon’s chuckle broke into a full laugh as he stepped through the door out onto the dark street. The rambling tenements and taverns of the Thieves’ Quarter of Kala were illuminated by the flames that leapt skyward from the rest of the city. Shrieks, screams, and cries for help echoed through the dark streets as the troops of Heilesheim burned, pillaged, and raped their way through the once-great city that had dared to resist the will of Ruprecht. The sight gave Valdaimon a cold thrill; like Nebuchar’s screams, it was a testament to his power—power that soon the entire Land Between the Rivers would acknowledge.
But first there was more work to do. The old mage shuffled down the narrow street—really no more than an alleyway—ignoring the drunks, the staring thieves who did not yet know him by sight, and the blandishments of hookers. The Thieves’ Quarter, of course, had been spared the fate of the rest of the city on Valdaimon’s orders. There was no point in destroying people who by their very existence would undermine any resistance to Heilesheim’s rule—and thereby, his rule.
Malak, Orgon, and Barak, the three chief wizards of the League of the Black Wing, other than Valdaimon, stood at the end of the alleyway, their solemn, dark forms silhouetted by the orange flames from the square into which the street emptied. They watched as Valdaimon shuffled toward their planned meeting, a meeting that they, with some fear, had demanded. Anxiously they peered into the dark, trying to read the mood on Valdaimon’ s face as he approached. It was not an easy matter to force an issue with Valdaimon, especially an issue that might call forth his rage.
“I can’t tell what his mood will be,” Malak commented, straining to see. “He’s coming from talking with Nebuchar, who is truly an evil fox; usually people like that amuse him.”
“His mood doesn’t matter,” Barak responded in a whisper. “It can change as quickly as a cloud can cover the sun.”
The threesome fell silent as Valdaimon came within earshot. The old wizard slowly trundled his way to the end of the street, and, ignoring his longtime followers, gazed about the square, a broad smile on his ancient face, which glowed more yellow than usual in the orange flames.
“A burning city is a fine sight,” Valdaimon commented at length. “So, of course, are loyal friends. You requested a meeting, Malak. Speak. My time is short, and I have much to do.”
Malak removed his cap and shook his bushy white hair. He straightened his back from its usual stoop, brushed a bit of soot from his scarlet velvet cloak, and cleared his throat with a raspy grunt. Then the lean, thin-faced old man looked straight into Valdaimon’s face and said simply, “There is trouble within the League.”
“What kind of trouble?” Valdaimon asked calmly. “And do you speak for all three of my most trusted lieutenants or only for yourself?”
“He speaks for us all,” fat Orgon interjected. The rotund, balding figure, overdressed in a gaudy silk print tunic and a shimmering cloak of yellow satin, rested his hand on his protruding belly and smiled benignly. “We have all heard the same things from the mages of our sections of the League. For each of us to report the same... concerns would be to waste time and breath,” he said with his throaty, soothing voice.
“You waste both already,” Valdaimon replied, smiling with fake sweetness. “And you, Barak, does Malak speak for you as well?”
Barak, youngest of the three senior mages, nodded once, sharply. Quickly removing his ostentatious green hat, adorned with blue and yellow feathers, he made a short bow and spoke briefly. “Malak speaks for us all,” he said. “Our problems are the same.”
“Well, Malak, tell me of these… problems,” Valdaimon responded. “Ah, but a moment…” he added, looking suddenly playful. He quickly raised his huge staff and pointed one end toward a young man running from a burning building with two drunken soldiers in pursuit. Valdaimon breathed a single word, and a tiny yellow ball shot forth from the end of the staff, striking the man in the head. The man exploded in mid-stride. The astonished soldiers nearly fell over in their attempts to come to a halt, and gaped in astonishment at the foursome.
“Just helping you tame the locals,” Valdaimon called. “Carry on with your work.” Valdaimon flicked out his narrow tongue, wet his thin lips, and turned back to Malak. “You were saying?”
“This is a serious matter,” Malak said, thrusting his defiant jaw forward, his old rheumy eyes suddenly aflame with anger. “It is not something to be settled by a few intimidating spells. The League now numbers more than two hundred, all trained in magic, all intelligent, ambitious, and eager for the fulfillment of those promises with which you bound us all together many years ago. Your threats and intimidation have kept discipline up until now, but not even your power is sufficient to contest the entire League!”
“Is this rebellion, then?” Valdaimon hissed.
“This is loyalty—we three come to warn you before there is rebellion,” Malak rasped back. “The League grows restless. Our armies move forward relentlessly, carrying all before them. But the League does not participate in either the victories or the fruits of victory. The nobles gain glory and lands; the League is snubbed. Not once have the mages marched, as practiced, in the center of the formations of the legions. Not once have they been called upon to mount their wyverns and attack from the air, as we practiced and studied to do for many years. And while the nobles reap lands, we reap nothing.”
“Is that all?” Valdaimon said disdainfully. “Are you children to come to me with these petty complaints? Discipline the offenders, if need be; kill one or two of them in some spectacular way, and the rest will fall back in line.”
Malak’s stomach tightened and his palms felt damp for the first time in years. “The rest—” he began, then fell into a coughing fit.
“The rest,” Barak said flatly, taking up Malak’s sentence, “will fall upon us with all the magic we have taught them if we don’t give them some response other than violence and terror. They are no longer frightened, and they do not trust you, who alone have the ear of the king and of Culdus.”
Valdaimon raised his thin, pale, sooty hand high into the air. Barak visibly flinched. Then Valdaimon, grinning, brought the hand down on the top of his head and scratched his yellowish scalp with his dirty, scraggly nails.
“Well, then,” the old mage said, “I suppose we shall have to do something. Tell the League a great battle is brewing. It will take place within the next four days south of Clairton in Argolia. At that battle, the League will take its rightful place as the greatest force for war and magic the world has ever seen. It shall share fully in the spoils of victory. And more, the League shall soon thereafter share in the greatest treasure in the entire world. For I shall make available to the league the fabulous riches of the Golden Eggs of Parona.”
The three wizards stared at one another in surprise, then at Valdaimon. “That is truly wondrous news,” Malak croaked.
“Tell me,” Barak said, a note of challenge in his voice now, “how the riches of the Golden Eggs of Parona can be shared with anyone. Do you propose to melt them down and dole out the gold and gems of which they are made? Such a course would be foolish.”
“I will share the magical riches, young Barak, of which you know nothing,” Valdaimon replied. “You three think you are powerful wizards, and as men judge such things, you are. But you do not yet know what power is. Soon, you shall. Now go. Assemble the entire League here, at Kala, with the wyverns. Be ready to march north at Culdus’s order and to join the army in battle.”
Without awaiting a reply Valdaimon began to shuffle his way through the burning square.
“Take care, Valdaimon,” Orgon called after him. “The streets teem with the vermin of Kala eager for vengeance against us.”
The three men heard Valdaimon’s laugh; he did not turn his head to respond. They watched in silence until Valdaimon passed through the square and into the darkness of the street on the far side, where spurts of flame from the burning buildings occasionally allowed them a glimpse of his stooped, slowly moving form.
“That went well,” Orgon suggested. “We got what we asked for.”
“We received the promise of what we asked for,” Barak said, correcting him.
“You grow too bold,” Malak snapped, rebuking the younger man. “Valdaimon could have turned you to stone or, worse, to some undead thing, with a mere flick of his fingers. I’m surprised he showed such restraint.”
“Despite your fears and his boasts, Valdaimon knows he cannot fight the whole League,” Barak retorted. “Let us see if Valdaimon delivers on his promise. If he does, all is well. If not, perhaps the League should consider new leadership.”
Once out of sight and hearing of his rebellious underlings, Valdaimon cursed them aloud. Soon, soon, he reminded himself, there would be no need for the League, no need for Ruprecht, no need for Culdus, no need for the army, no need for anything that he did not want. And soon, soon, there would be no need to maintain this merely human guise, appearing to be a mortal with mortal concerns, even mortal fears, in order to make them his foils. With a disgusted grunt, Valdaimon waved his feeble hand in the air and vanished from the street.
In the next instant, he was standing in his study, high in the tower of Lundlow Keep, a modest stone castle only three miles southwest of the now ruined city of Kala. No candle or torch provided light in the dark, round tower room, for its user needed no light to see. His keen eyes saw every parchment, tome, vial, and beaker that littered the long wooden worktable in the center of the room. They took in the great white circle inscribed on the floor several feet away from that workbench—the circle where he would stand while casting the spell that would be the culmination of his existence, the fulfillment of his desire. He could read every sign and sigil inscribed around the interior of that circle, signs and sigils that would protect him from any form of attack. He glanced toward the hearth, where normally a fire would roar. The ashes were cold, but it did not matter to Valdaimon; unlike the mortal whose castle this had been until the arrival of Heilesheim’s armies, Valdaimon had no need for warmth. In fact, he preferred the cold.
He studied the room a moment longer, to be certain that all was in readiness. The shelves around the walls were largely empty: he had not yet had time to have all his library shipped from Heilesheim. But all the equipment he needed was here. A cold black pot hung over the hearth, emitting a foul odor. Valdaimon shuffled over to it, scooped up a ladle full of the brackish liquid it contained, and tasted it. It was done, fully steeped. He checked the high reading stand at the end of the workbench. His most precious volume lay open there, turned already to the appropriate page.
A squawk interrupted his examination of the room—his crow. The fat bird stood in a narrow window, actually an arrow slit. Valdaimon held out his arm, and the crow flew over, shedding feathers as it loudly flapped its tattered wings.
“Are you restless, too?” Valdaimon whispered to the bird. “You need not be. There is work again for you.” The mage whispered a short incantation, then spoke aloud to his black-eyed servant. “Go back to Bagsby. Seek him out. Follow him. Listen to him. Then, when his whereabouts are certain, go to Kala to the thief Nebuchar and tell him what you’ve learned,” Valdaimon commanded.
The crow squawked loudly once, spread its wings, and beat the air noisily until it was through the narrow window and flying upward into the night sky.
Valdaimon once more circled the room, double-checking that all was in readiness. Finally satisfied, he walked to a large open area between the workbench and the circle on the floor. He reached out his hand and touched the coolness of metal.
At his touch, the Golden Eggs of Parona, at last his, became visible. They rested on a block of pure white marble. Two hollows had been carved and smoothed in the top of the stone, one to cradle each of the fabulous golden eggs.
Now Valdaimon moved very carefully. From the litter on the workbench he picked up a cup made of silver, which he filled with a portion of the vile fluid from the cold iron pot on the hearth. Moving with measured steps as he intoned a singsong chant and mentally counted each step, the wizard walked back to the eggs and, as the chant reached its vocal peak, poured the vile fluid over the tops of the eggs. When only a tiny amount of the potion remained, he concluded his chant and raised the cup to his lips, draining the last of the liquid.
Valdaimon felt a cool thrill as the power of the potion took effect. All things were more clearly visible now, in their true natures, than they had been only instants before. The eggs glowed with a brilliant red aura, an aura of stunning magical energy that swirled and pulsated in patterns five millennia old. The wizard carefully walked to the reading stand and took up the large tome. The book, too, glowed with a magic aura of black and crimson—a black so black it could almost be felt. He cradled the open book in his right arm, returned to the workbench, and took up a small silver wand. The wand, too, glowed with magical energy, as did the tiny, specially cut and fashioned black sapphire embedded in the wand’s tip.