The Last Whisper of the Gods (33 page)

Warburm turned his attention to the two guards, who were quietly setting up camp for another cool night in the mountains. “When we get closer to Havenham, Lamanar and I’ll leave Sorial in your care and approach the settlement together. We needs to understand the nature of the people who live there and whether they be hospitable to strangers. If the elf was right and there be a bounty on Sorial’s head, it’d be wise to keep him hidden.”

Brindig and Darrin nodded in concert. Professional soldiers, they knew how to take orders and understood that, the closer they got to their destination, the more likely it was their swords would be needed.

Sorial awoke with a start early the next morning before any of his companions were awake except Lamanar, who had last watch. It was the muddy first hour of dawn; with the sun still hidden by the mountains, the light was dim and gray. A faint mist hung in the air, waiting for the touch of the day’s first rays to dispel it.

Sorial couldn’t say what brought him to such a sudden and urgent wakefulness but the feeling of disquiet receded once he sat up. Nevertheless, he withdrew Alicia’s dagger from its sheath and got to his feet. Lamanar noticed his actions and shot him a quizzical look.

The ground beneath Sorial’s feet shifted. He jumped back as an impossibly long, serpentine head erupted through the crust, spraying dirt and pebbles in all directions. Its skin, like that of a snake only with larger scales, was a deep umber that appeared black in the poor light. Its eyes were dark and unfathomable. A whip-like tongue slithered between thin lips. The extraordinary thing about the creature, however, was its size. The mouth would easily be able to swallow a fully grown man.

The body followed, rising from the ground behind the head. At least fifty feet from snout to tail, the creature looked less like a snake once its entirety was visible. It walked on four squat legs that ended in vicious claws and its back was topped with bony protuberances that looked like irregularly cut pieces of quartz. They, like everything else about the creature, were of the darkest brown.

Sorial dropped into a fighting crouch, then froze. The instant his eyes locked with those of the monstrous lizard, he was transfixed. It was equally immobile, although strange half-hisses/half-growls emerged from its mouth every time the tongue darted out. Sorial caught a glimpse of sharp, nasty teeth. He experienced the strange sensation that the creature was trying to communicate with him, or that it expected him to communicate with it. They faced each other for perhaps several seconds, although it seemed longer, before Sorial’s companions leaped into action.

Brindig and Darrin attacked from opposite sides, staying clear of the whiplashing tail, while Lamanar placed himself between Sorial and the creature’s rows of lethal teeth. It reared, lashing out at the priest with one of its forelegs. Lamanar, expert swordsman that he was, saw a chance to strike at the belly and took it, recognizing he would pay a heavy price for such a decisive and reckless action. His blade, however, was deflected by scales as tough on the underside as they were on the rest of the creature. Lamanar’s chest had no such protection and it was opened almost to the bone by three slicing claws. The only sound he uttered was a grunt of pain as he staggered out of the way of a follow-up attack.

The guards were having little luck with their strikes at the creature’s flanks, which were impervious to their blades. Attempts to stab in between the interlocking scales were fruitless. They struck and dodged repeatedly but, although their positioning made it difficult for the giant lizard to lash out at them with either teeth or claws, their blows had no discernible effect beyond blunting the edges of their swords. The creature was largely ignoring them, however, no matter how vigorously they pressed it. It was focused instead on the injured Lamanar, whose wounds were spilling bright blood; its lunges, although effectively blocked by his two-handed parries, were driving him back.

A shot rang out, followed in quick succession by another. The creature reared, letting out a fearsome bellow of pain as thick drops of ichor spilled from the twin holes made in its left eye by Warburm’s pistols. Behind him, Sorial could hear the innkeeper cursing as he reloaded. Brindig and Darrin continued pounding uselessly at the sides while Lamanar, seemingly unaffected by the damage to his chest, closed with the lizard, risking another injury from the fearsome claws. It snapped at him and his sword caught the tongue in mid-dart, lopping off the tip. It screamed and reared again.

Another shot rang out. This one missed wide of the mark - the right eye - but even bouncing harmlessly off the scales, it was sufficient to convince the creature that it was facing adversaries capable of causing harm and pain. Using its hind legs to propel it, it leaped skyward, executed a mid-air flip, and plummeted face-down. Instead of impacting on the earth, however, it passed into it like a diver cleaving through water, the body burrowing into the rocky surface as if it was soft sand. Once the tail vanished, there was hardly any sign of its passage.

“Rock wyrm,” muttered Lamanar, dropping his sword and nearly collapsing, his breath coming in huge, ragged gasps and the front of his tunic stained crimson.

Sorial and Warburm were by his side in an instant. Darrin and Brindig took up defensive positions in case the creature returned or some other threat approached.

After ripping away what was left of Lamanar’s tunic, Warburm washed the three claw marks with water and examined them critically. “You be lucky,” he said. “It looks worse than it be. You should survive.”

“Bandage me up and give me a little time to recover my strength.”

Warburm shook his head, “You’ll stay behind. We’ll pick you up on the way back.”

“Not likely. You need me now more than ever.”

Warburm, after removing several long, stout strips of cloth from his pack, started binding Lamanar’s injuries with practiced ease. “Hale, that’d be true. Injured, you be more a burden than a help.”

“I can travel. I can swing a sword if need be. I didn’t come along on this journey to sit out the final steps because of a few scratches from a wingless dragon.”

“You be as like to bleed to death as not if you walk.”

“Sew me up then.”

Warburm looked at him dubiously. “We done got no spirits to dull the pain. It’ll hurt like shit.”

“Do it,” said Lamanar, removing the bandages Warburm hadn’t even finished applying.

The innkeeper shrugged, reaching into his pack for a bone needle and catgut twine.

Lamanar, despite his stoicism, passed out mid-way through the procedure, which made it easier for Warburm to complete the job. The seventy stitches stopped the bleeding although it gave the chest a ghastly appearance exacerbated by the pallor resulting from blood loss. Clean bandages were applied and, by the time Lamanar recovered enough to stand, it was early afternoon. Brindig and Darrin had been on high alert all morning in case the wyrm returned.

“Best not to wait here till nightfall,” said Warburm. Then, looking at Lamanar standing unsteadily while leaning against a large rock for balance, he added. “We can move off a little and make camp. We could all use a break after the exertions of the morn.”

“No,” barked Lamanar harshly, sounding like he had a mouthful of gravel. “I won’t slow or stop our progress. We have a duty and we’ll fulfill that duty.”

The one concession he allowed was for the items from his pack to be distributed among the others; with his injury, he couldn’t tolerate the straps chafing his chest. He insisted on wearing his sword, although it was scabbarded at his waist rather than slung across his back.

Despite the priest’s assertion that he wouldn’t slow the group’s progress, they had to rest twice more before twilight and covered significantly less ground than they would otherwise have. A glance at Warburm’s face told Sorial of the innkeeper’s concern.

Lamanar wasn’t bearing up well. Although he didn’t complain, it was obvious that his strength was at a low ebb. His skin was pallid and clammy. He drank water but refused food. When his chest was exposed to change the bandages, a foul odor emanated, and there was puss mixed with the drying blood.

No one said anything, but some things didn’t need to be spoken. Even Sorial, who had never before seen a mortal wound, knew it was only a matter of time before the number of companions would be reduced from five to four.

King Azarak awakened early, his sleep troubled by concerns about what was transpiring to the south. Somewhere in The Forbidden Lands, the hoped-for future savior of Vantok was making his way toward his destiny while darkening storm clouds gathered. Meanwhile, within the borders of his city, the rule of law grew weaker. The Temple’s authority was crumbling. Only those of the stoutest faith hadn’t renounced their belief in the gods. The strong preyed on the weak and Vantok’s newly formed militia struggled to stem the criminal tide. In fact, if the rumors were true, some of the worst offenders were officers. Azarak had faith in his top generals, but they were overwhelmed by the demands of their duties and weeding out “bad seeds” was difficult. Their task would hopefully become easier with the incorporation of seasoned fighting men from Obis. If nothing else, discipline would be improved, although he worried that resentment would fester.

Next to him, enveloped in peaceful repose, was his lithe queen-to-be. He regarded her with a mixture of fascination and affection. Lying on her back wearing nothing but the thin silk of a top sheet, she appeared so very, very young. Yet her delicate appearance belied a sharp intellect. She had come to Vantok uniquely prepared to ensnare a king and the solitude of wearing the crown had encouraged him to succumb to her charms. Five years was a long time to be alone. Myselene wanted to share his burden and he desired the companionship of an equal. None of his other suitors, and there had been many over the years, had come close to matching her qualification. They had offered the pleasures of the night to compensate for their indifference regarding the process of governing. Myselene promised so much more.

The betrothal contract was finalized. Surprisingly, it had taken only a few days to resolve the details - an astonishingly short time that was testimony to how badly both sides wanted the agreement. All that remained to make it formal were the requisite signatures. Today, Azarak would officially propose to Myselene and, after her acceptance, he would scrawl his name on the document, which would then be carried north by Obis’ vice chancellor. The wedding ceremony would be held when King Rangarak could arrive with her dowry. With Widow’s Pass closed during Winter, the large contingent would have to come by way of Earlford, a route that added five-hundred miles to the trip. Although fast riders could cover the distance in four weeks, the king’s entourage would be slower. The current hope was that having the ceremony shortly after the Midwinter carnival, which would begin in about twelve weeks, would be workable. It would offer the added advantage of showcasing Vantok’s most clement weather during the ongoing heat surge.

Myselene moaned softly in her sleep and rolled onto her side. The sheet slipped to her waist. Azarak continued to watch her, his expression becoming distant. As desperately as he didn’t want to recollect similar moments with his first wife, he couldn’t stop the unbidden memories. In the beginning, he and Amenia had been so happy, or so he had thought. His final act where she was concerned, a brutal necessity of state, haunted him these many years later. Of the countless hard choices he had made since taking the throne, none had been more personally painful. By convincing himself there had been no choice, that the situation had robbed him of options, he had learned to live with his actions. His greatest concern was that the end of his first marriage might poison the seeds of the second.

Myselene was not Amenia. They were, in fact, little alike. Amenia had been a vain woman; Azarak had learned of that defining character flaw soon after their courtship began. She had loved being queen because of the adulation that accompanied the position. She had enjoyed being seen with her handsome king, adorning his arm like the brightest jewel in the room. For balls and functions, she would spend days readying herself. Matters of state had been of little interest to her. Myselene, on the other hand, wanted to be a co-ruler. She cared about looking attractive only to the extent that it validated her position as Azarak’s consort. Had Amenia been more interested in matters of government, Azarak doubted the betrayal would have occurred. She had turned to others in part out of boredom. For a queen who devoted herself to the ruling of Vantok, there wouldn’t be time to entertain a lover.

“What’s wrong?” Myselene’s gentle voice shook him from his reverie.

“Evil thoughts,” murmured Azarak, speaking as much to himself as to her. “The ghosts of my past won’t let me slip peacefully into the future.” He reached out and absentmindedly tweaked a nipple between thumb and forefinger. She shivered, then sighed and turned onto her back to provide him with easier access. The motion was catlike in its languor.

“Our future?” she asked.

He nodded. “Chancellor Toranim showed me the final betrothal agreement. Your father, or should I say his vice chancellor, has been extremely generous. Non-perishable food stocks, a small amount of gold, and enough men to bring discipline to my inexperienced army.”

“So it’s done?”

“Pending your acceptance.”

“You don’t need it,” she teased. “Princesses are property to be bartered for alliances and connections. You have my father’s agreement.”

“You know I wouldn’t wed you without your approval, regardless of what your father or my advisors - all of whom are thrilled at the prospect - have to say.”

“You had my agreement the first night I came to your bed. I knew what I was doing and what it signified, and nothing since has given me cause to regret that night or the ones that came after.”

“There are things I have to confess before anything is finalized. If, after you hear all there is to hear, you choose to return unwed to Obis, I’ll release you from any perceived obligation. These are actions in my past of which I’m not proud. Those few who are cognizant of them would council me to keep these secrets close and not speak of them. ‘Let the past belong to the past’ - I believe that’s the popular phrase. But it’s your right to know.

“If you were a pretty ornament, attractive of form but vapid, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. If your sole functions as my queen were to enhance my public image by your youth and beauty and provide heirs to the throne, you could enter our union in ignorance. But you have a quick mind and I recognize in you someone who wishes more than to be a royal broodmare. You seek to share power, not bask in its reflection. Am I right?”

“You are, Your Majesty. I will strive to lift some of the burden of rulership from your shoulders. I’ll do my duty as your consort to provide you with children and accompany you at official functions, but I want ‘queen’ to represent more than a title. And, while I don’t seek to rule alone, should anything befall you before your eldest child is eligible to ascend to the throne, I'll provide a respected and effective regency.”

“Well said.” Azarak smiled approvingly. “If you’ll have me, I’ll have you. But first you must
understand
.”

Myselene remained quiet and attentive. His next question surprised her. “How much do you know about my first wife?”

“Queen Amenia? Not much. I know she died many years ago when I was but a girl.” As best she could recall, that had been about five years ago. At the time, it had excited great interest in the court of Obis. “The servants speak well of her when they speak of her at all. I asked one of the cooks about her and she said the ‘old queen’ was beautiful and kind and... flighty.”

And faithless
. “We married when I was nineteen and she had just reached her Maturity. I rejected many more suitable brides to have her. It was always the case in our marriage, as in our courtship, that I loved her more than she loved me. I accepted it, knowing that my position as king made me desirable enough that I needed fan no more than a spark of interest to win her affection and garner her permission to wed. Still, after the time we spent together waiting for her to be of age, I’m sure she developed a passing affection for me. She wasn’t besotted, but there was something there - something I thought we could use as the foundation for a long, happy marriage.

“At the time, few in my inner circle supported my choice. Her blood was noble - her parents, dead by the time of our courtship, were longtime favorites of my father and she had more than one title to her name. But many of my advisors, including Toranim, saw her as an opportunist and disliked the lack of political ‘capital’ she brought with her. They favored a union with a foreign princess or the daughter of a powerful household traditionally antagonistic to the Crown.

“During the first year of our marriage, we seemed to spend as much time in bed as out of it, yet she never conceived a child. My memory argues that we were happy but I’ve found that, after a few years, memory can lie. Eventually, sex became mechanical and obligatory. Our goal was no longer pleasing each other but impregnating her. We slept in the same bed but no longer shared much in the way of intimacy. The pregnancy didn’t happen. The bond of closeness that grew during our early years together dissolved. We found reasons to be apart except when duty required that we appear together.

“She took lovers. I was oblivious at the time, cocooned in a false sense of security that unfaithfulness wasn’t possible from my queen but, after her death, I learned the names of several men who shared her favors. For the most part, they were casual flings and I freely admit that I bore a share of the responsibility for her looking elsewhere. As attentive as I was in the early days of our marriage, I became cold and distant as matters of state weighed me down and the expected child didn’t come. Amenia was the kind of woman who craved adoration and, when she no longer received it from me, she sought it elsewhere. Most of the affairs were forgivable and she was discreet enough to keep them secret from all but a few close confidantes and her maid. But then she went too far. There was one liaison - her last one - that could have proved worse than scandalous had it become public knowledge. In fact, had word of it gotten out, I might no longer be sitting upon Vantok's throne.

“At the time, Vantok’s relations with Basingham had deteriorated near to a state of undeclared war. We blamed them for inciting bandits to rob our merchants’ caravans and retaliated by paying mercenaries to harry and burn their outlying farms. Their ambassador to Vantok, a suave sycophant named Ravensforth, seduced Amenia and they began an affair that lasted the better part of a season. Not only did she share his bed but she revealed details about the militia’s campaigns. She became pregnant with his child while I was routing bandits in Basingham’s employ.

“At first, when I learned of Amenia’s pregnancy, I was overjoyed. But it soon became apparent there were problems with the dates. When she claimed to be a season with child, her healers argued she was approaching half-term. This aroused my suspicion and I commanded Toranim to conduct an investigation. He uncovered the sordid truth and brought me evidence to damn Amenia beyond all doubt. I wouldn’t have acted as I did had there been any hope for her innocence. But she had been careless on this occasion, too careless...”

He bowed his head for a moment, remembering the bitter day when he had decided Amenia’s life would be forfeit. This wasn't a memory he wanted to dredge up but, for Myselene's sake and the sake of their marriage, she deserved to know the truth. This wasn’t about Amenia. It was about him and the kind of sacrifice he was willing to make for his city.

“Toranim and I decided Vantok would be best served if news of Amenia’s treason didn’t become public. So we acted. I obtained a rare and undetectable poison. On the appointed day, I administered it to her before we retired for the evening. That same night, a highly skilled group of ‘patriots’ broke into Ambassador Ravensforth's house. By the next morning, both were dead - Ravensforth as the supposed victim of robbers and Amenia of ‘an unexpected illness caused by complications from her pregnancy.’ In death, she was as beloved by the populace as in life. No one knew, or even suspected, except Toranim and I. And now you.”

His narrative completed, Azarak looked at Myselene expectantly, trying to read what she was feeling beneath her composed features.

Her words were carefully chosen. She didn’t wish to seem callous but, at the same time, she wanted the king to understand that she was neither shocked nor dismayed by his revelation. Her father had done far worse things, some for less noble reasons. “Azarak, what you did, had to be done. Any other action, be it exiling her or subjecting her to a public trial, would have made you less of a man and less of a king. I respect what you did. It certainly hasn’t changed my mind. If anything, it’s convinced me that, in choosing to marry you, I’ve made the right decision. Now, can I ask something...?”

Azarak nodded his assent.

“Do you love me?” she asked. Although seemingly a simple question, it was unexpected. To this point, they avoided speaking about their feelings for one another. Endearments and expressions of attachment, commonplace among betrothed couples, hadn’t been exchanged. Yet now Myselene wanted to understand where she stood in the king’s affections.

Azarak didn’t answer immediately, in part because he didn’t know what to say. With Amenia, he had been in her thrall from the moment he had first laid eyes upon her. Everything was different with Myselene. He had allowed her to seduce him but their first sexual encounter hadn’t happened until after he had decided she would be his wife. She was adept but inexperienced in a way that made the game more exciting.

He wondered how she would respond to that question if he asked it of her. Would she choose the safe route and say that she had, during their time together, come to adore him? Or would she be honest and admit that she was attracted to him more for his position than for his person? With Amenia, love had made him vulnerable to manipulation and deceit. The subsequent ache had taught him an invaluable lesson. Myselene’s deepest feelings for him were irrelevant. All that mattered was that she was willing to work with him, live with him, and be his queen, companion, and the mother of his children. Love wasn’t necessary. Indeed, an argument could be made that it wasn't
desirable
.