Falconfar 01-Dark Lord (10 page)

"The first part of my punishment," Taeauna almost spat at him, and then pointed at Rod with the key as if it were a dagger. "The second part."

The innkeeper grimaced sympathetically, shrugged, and said, "Through yon arch, turn left, end of the passage. Match the key to the image burned into the door."

The Aumrarr thanked him with a nod, and motioned curtly with her head for Rod to precede her.

As they reached the end of the passage she stopped outside their door, peered hard at the adjacent walls as if expecting them to bristle with hidden doors, and then muttered to Rod, "Forgive my coldness. I must act the right part to keep you from being suspected of being a wizard. As an Aumrarr working off a blood-debt, I'll be expected to guard you, sleeping across the entrance to wherever you slumber."

She unlocked the door and stalked into the room beyond, hunting around it as if expecting Dark Helms under the linens and behind every curtain. A dim, dancing light was coming from a candle-end set in a bowl-shaped rock. There was a single bed, with linens and furs and a scattering of cushions, a large window with shutters and no glass, a larger wooden wardrobe affixed solidly to the wall, and two curtained-off corners of the room: behind one curtain was an ewer of wash water standing in a basin on a shelf, and behind the other stood a chipped chamber pot. The window shutters and the door could both be barred from inside the room, and the Aumrarr set bars into place without delay. Then she flung open the wardrobe doors, which were as large as the door they'd come in by, and thumped the back of its dusty emptiness suspiciously. Solid. Then she checked the floors, ceiling, and walls, tapping and sliding her fingers along the mud bricks and broad boards with a thoughtful frown. The bricks were old and crumbling; her fingertips gouged sand from them that trailed to the floor. Their mortar was firm, though, holding them securely in place.

"Find anything?" Rod asked, at last.

Taeauna rose, looking severe, and hastened to him to put a reproving finger across his lips. "Speak as if you're old," she whispered. "And come and whisper to me, like this, whenever you can. Always assume someone is right outside that window trying to hear us."

"Jesus," Rod hissed, "is this what Falconfar's become?"

"Yes. We sleep in our clothes, with our boots on."

Rod shrugged acceptance, and then stood shaking his head. Oh, he'd had knights fighting all over Falconfar, and fell monsters and nasty wizards, too, but he'd also established beautiful forest glades where faerie magic kept safe everyone inside moonglow rings, and unicorns that galloped through the air to become pegasi, and... and...

He blinked. Taeauna was beckoning him to bed with an imperious finger. Not that she looked as if she had anything romantic in mind, kneeling there atop it fully clothed with her other hand on her sword-hilt, and that stormy frown on her face.

He went to her and whispered, "Yes?"

"Now may well be our only chance to talk freely in Arbridge," she whispered back. "You have been wandering along beside me all day looking lost and upset. I know why, but is there aught you'd like to talk over, lord?"

Rod spread his hands helplessly. "Such as? You can't even name the powerful wizards, if I understand you correctly, and you know as much as I do about this 'right place' of mine, and... and—"

He broke off suddenly, snatching hold of his temper before it flared right out of control, and then hissed, "Yes. Yes, there is something. Tell me more about this part of Falconfar around us. My memory is hazy and it seems everything's been changed around anyway. So we're in Arbridge, a little valley like a trough sliced along the top of a row of hills, right?" "Right."

"And if we could stroll steadily, about a day's walk that way—er, south, more or less—is a castle I hat guards the place where Arvale ends and the road goes up over a little lip and then down the slope of the hills into the pastoral but proud kingdom of Galath, with its many knights and castles. That hasn't changed, has it?"

"The lay of the land, no. Galath, yes."

"Later. For now, if there's still a Galath with borders more or less like the old Galath, tell me the layout of things beyond it."

"Yes, lord. The borders are the same: North of Galath is wild forest; south, too, while it's bounded on the east by the same hills as Arvale lies in, only they rise into mountains as they march on south, across almost all of known Falconfar."

"The Falconspires," Rod said, remembering. He quoted the sentences he usually wrote to describe them: "Where dwell the lorn, above, and the deepclaws, in the caverns below. No one gets over that great stone wall easily."

Taeauna nodded. "Only in the west of Galath, where of old was the land of Emmer, fallen so long its songs now fade, does the land lie open to horse and hoof and cart. The River Ladruar winds there, separating Galath from Tauren, on its long way south to the Sea of Storms. Tauren is a small land of merchants and mercenaries, ruled by the Council of Coins. Walled homes, much wealth and bustle, even more intrigue and gossip."

"Yes," Rod smiled. "A nice touch, I thought; guilds richer than any of the lands around, who hire the best mercenaries and so defend their borders against Galath and Sardray."

"Nice, indeed." Taeauna's voice was so dry as to be almost sarcastic. "As you say, Sardray, grassland of the bow-riders, lies beyond Tauren."

"And beyond that?"

"Roads winding through the great wild forest, linking one smallholding to the next; Hawksyl, Darswords, and Harlhoh are the nearest. It's the way you remember it, lord; only the rulers have changed, as the Dooms extend their sway. Most of this great sweep of northlands is covered by Raurklor, the Great Forest, ruled more by the wolves than anyone."

Rod frowned. "So why, if these wizards lust so much for power, do they spend their time contending up here? Surely, in the crowded hot cities around the Sea of Storms, where I wrote that so many folk were wizards..."

"Magic, lord. Ruins. The powerful old magic lies hidden or is guarded by monsters in ruins, or buried in tombs, here, in the North. In the cities of the South every second soul can work magic, and does, but it is the dregs, the everyday spells of illusion and the passing moment and the tiny effect, not the great might they hunger for. The black-bearded Stormar..."

"With their silks and veils, great dark eyes and dusky skin," Rod completed the quotation. What he wrote became true. Whatever he wrote.

So of course to Falconaar, Rod Everlar would be the ultimate weapon.

And the deadliest tyrant.

"Is there any religion in Falconfar now?"

He certainly hadn't written any into his books.

"There were once temples and priests, long ago, but only our most learned elders and wizards remember them. They came from... earlier pens, and have faded before your fire."

"So do Falconfar pray to anyone? And for anything?"

"Many pray in secret, pleading that all wizards may die, and for deliverance from the Dooms. The worship of Aumrarr you know. Lesser wizards pray, too, for more power and that the Dooms who hunt and oppress them be destroyed."

"Oh? And to who, or rather, whom, do all these enthusiastic secret worshippers pray?"

Taeauna lowered herself from her upright kneeling into a belly-on-the-bed dive forward and reached for his hand. She kissed it, and then looked up the length of his arm at Rod.

"You."

Dark-eyed, the
ghostly head rose up out of the coffer that held the gem, and peered into the darkness, head tilted to one side as if it were listening to something. It was bald, yet bearded, a feeble glow in the crypt, and moved in utter silence.

Yet its voice sounded clearly, if a-little thin and distant, when it smiled and said, "At last."

"Right," Rod Everlar
said to the beautiful woman on the bed before him. He let out a deep breath, shook his head, and decided he didn't want to think or say more about being treated as a god just now.

"So tell me more of Hawksyl, Darswords, and Harlhoh," he said instead.

Taeauna shrugged as she slowly sat up on her knees once again. "All much the same. A lordling in a keep, ruling and protecting farms that huddle in a cleared scar in the forest. Each on its own road west out of Sardray. Ironthorn, north of Tauren and northeast of Sardray, is larger and closer to us here, and also consists of farms in the forest, but it has three keeps and three rival lords. Hawksyl for years was home to outlaws from other lands who raided passing wagons, until something—probably something sent by one of the Dooms, for the Council in Tauren denies doing so—raided them. Darswords has been deemed haunted for years; it lies in the shadow of Yintaerghast, the tower of Lorontar. And Harlhoh has fallen under the hand of one of the Dooms who has built his tower there." She drew a name in the loose folds of the bed linens. The moment Rod had read "Malraun," she clawed the cloth back into smooth shapelessness again.

"Who," Rod asked, "is Lorontar? I never wrote..."

"No, lord. Lorontar is long, long dead. He was the only Lord Archwizard before you, a great tyrant and first-feared among the Dooms before your pen was ever known to us. So evil was he that the many wizards who seek to plunder his tower all flee from it in haste, and come not back to try again. So strong was he that his spells keep his tower standing still."

She shook her head, grimacing as if recalling a bitter taste on her tongue, and added, "For centuries he did much as he pleased; no one dared oppose or defy him as he worked ever greater and darker magics. There are some who say he never died, though many tales are told of the brave warriors who dared to hew him down, many dying in that strife. Others say he perished but is not gone from Falconfar, existing still as some sort of walking dead."

She shrugged. "He has not been seen for years. I once saw mercenaries in Bhelraohwsyn showing a skeletal hand and arm in a great glass vessel amongst their battle spoils and claiming it as his. 'Twas hacked from him by their swords, they said, that turned to smoke in their hands in the doing, as they took part in his slaying."

Rod nodded. "And they've not been seen again, yes? Nor the bones?"

"Indeed, they have not. These thirteen summers, now."

"Uh-huh. And where's this Bell-r-oww-sin place?"

"On the east bank of the Ladruar, where it empties into the Sea of Storms."

Rod frowned, genuinely curious. "Whatever were you doing there?"

"A task of the Aumrarr. A secret task."

Rod opened his mouth to tell her that he'd created the Aumrarr, so she should hardly be keeping secrets from him, and then shut it again without saying anything.

Taeauna smiled at him as if he'd done something very noble, and murmured, "Thank you, lord."

Rod shrugged and proceeded to ask the next of the dozens of small questions that were now crowding into his mind. "The Dark Helms, Tay: what are they? Who commands them?"

"Taeauna, lord. They are warriors. Cruel men in dark armor, who obey the orders given them by the one who sent them: a wizard, almost always one of the Three Dooms. Sometimes their swords or their armor or even their touch imparts fell magic on foes, but that is the doing of their sender, not any power of their own. They are slayers, sometimes battle-veterans, but they are men, no more and no less."

"So this 'appearing out of thin air' business?"

"The wizards translocate them, by teleport and tantlar."

Rod frowned. "Teleport is a word I know and have written in Falconfar tales, but what is 'tantlar?'"

"Before you first wrote that word, and the wizards learned to telep—"

"Wait. Forgive me, Tay—Taeauna, sorry—but are you telling me that when I write about a new spell, it falls into the laps, or the minds, I suppose, of the three wizards? Or all wizards?"

Taeauna spread her hands in a "you're asking we?" gesture. "Sometimes, it seems so, yes. The Dooms, however, are in a race to master the most magic, so as to destroy each other. They can't wait for your next book to hand them all the same new magic; they need to gain magic their rivals don't have. So they experiment, as all lesser wizards do, seeking to craft new spells."

Rod nodded. "Slow and dangerous."

Taeauna nodded, too. "Wherefore they spend much time and effort—and the lives of their underlings: hirelings and monsters and apprentice wizards they promise magic to, in exchange for service—in exploring and plundering tombs and ruins and anywhere else they think the magic of dead wizards, old magic, may lie waiting. That's what all of this conquering holds and subverting lordlings is about: seizing control of places that might yield up magic. Thankfully, scrying magic is weak, so they must send eyes to watch us if they want to see much. More than one hold and all of the larger lands, has seen knifings and larger battles between the spies of one wizard, and the spies of another."

Rod nodded. "I've used that! The plot of..."

Then he waved that thought away impatiently, aghast at the realization that he'd written about those warring agents without ever thinking the characters might be serving shadowy wizards.

"Sorry," he told Taeauna rather tersely. "You were telling me about teleport magic, and tantlar, whatever that is, and I interrupted. Could we go back to... uh... before I wrote the word 'teleport' and the wizards soon after learned a teleport spell..."