The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) (5 page)

“At this point, I’m less worried about The Lord of Water than I am about The Lord of Earth. One is a reality; the other is a future concern. There’s not much I can do from here and this is where I must remain, at least for the moment.” This is where it would all begin - the gathering of the army, the recruitment of Justin’s “special allies”, and the start of the march north.

“Are you going to summon them?”

By
them
, Justin knew she was referring to the djinn, the elemental creatures of myth whose existence had been confirmed to Justin many years ago. There were tales of fire wizards roasted alive for summoning djinn, but Justin believed there was a way to do it with a modicum of safety. It required a delicacy of touch but, as creatures primarily of the flame, they should serve The Lord of Fire. Nevertheless, he had delayed attempting a summoning because of a fear of what could happen if he was wrong.

“The time will come soon, once other preparations are made.”

“It’s too bad there are no dragons. Are you sure they’re all dead?”

“If any live, they’re beyond my reach. They are creatures of a bygone age and, unlike many so-called ‘monsters’ that continue to exist in places where men don’t venture, the dragons seem to be extinct. The last credible sighting was more than a thousand years ago. Malbranche is said to have devoted half his life to the search for one without finding it. I think we can dispense with the hope that I can ride into battle on the back of one of those mighty, fire-belching beasts.”

“And what of your other... experiment? Are you ready to try?”

“As soon as I find a worthy subject. I want this to be a public demonstration.” It was a simple thing but one that could prove to be an excruciatingly painful and potentially effective tool. Thus far, Justin had tried it only on animals, but there was no reason it shouldn’t be successful on men. All he needed was a small sample of the intended victim’s blood, no more than a few drops, and he could kill without touching by burning the man from inside out. It could be an excellent way to keep his troops in line; a healthy dose of fear was always useful when dealing with large groups of men. Justin had once heard it said that men would fight harder for a leader they loved than one they feared. He wasn’t certain he believed that. In the end, it was irrelevant. All that mattered was that they would fight. And kill. And die.

In Justin’s view, humanity couldn’t be united without massive bloodshed. His troops were prepared for what must be done. He had planned this campaign for more than a decade, ever since he and Ariel had met. She was the catalyst who had crystallized his unformed plans - ideas born from years studying under Ferguson then the seemingly endless nights after his transformation spent in musty libraries. It was a good thing that, as the third son of a duke in Basingham, he had been taught to read. Without that skill, his life would have taken a different path. He likely would have burned himself out in an orgy of hedonistic pleasure - a lightning flash like so many of history’s unremembered wizards.

“I want more heat this year,” said Justin, referring to the joint project he and Ariel had begun five years ago, a massive heat bubble that had settled over Vantok. Justin provided the fuel and Ariel used her mastery of air to disperse it in the pattern most devastating to the city. Every year, Justin stoked his fires higher and the effort took a toll on him. This year - the
final
year - he would double the effort. The result would be crippling and hopefully reduce the city to a point where resistance would be minimal. He recognized that, if he faced the full might of Vantok’s militia at the levels Ariel had reported, his army would be outnumbered. But there were ways for a small force to defeat a larger one. The heat wave was one weapon - one of many.

“It will be taxing.” Ariel voiced this concern every year, but he never listened. She had been against this protracted form of attack from the beginning. There was no doubting its effectiveness but, considering the amount of magic it required, there were other, more dramatic actions that could have been taken. Ultimately, a storm of fiery hailstones would have been less draining.

“The more we kill by drought, plague, and famine, the fewer there will be to face our army. What we do at Vantok must be absolute in its devastation. That battle must be shown as an object lesson to the other cities. Devastation at Vantok will ultimately save lives since Basingham and Earlford will then surrender more easily.”

“Not Obis.”

“No,” agreed Justin. “Not Obis. Like Vantok, that city will take effort to conquer. Syre is soft; they’ll raise the white flag as soon as they see an army massing at their gates. Obis will fight to the last man. I’ll want a Lord of Earth at my side when we stand outside King Rangarak’s walls and threaten to bring his city to ruin and put his subjects to the sword. Once Obis is gone, Andel will have no choice but to capitulate. Vantok is the key to the south; Obis is the key to the North. Fell those cities and the rest will follow.”

“They are about to be joined in marriage.” Ariel had previously informed Justin of that bit of information, but this seemed an appropriate time to remind him of it.

“What of it? The geographical difficulty of bringing support from Obis makes the alliance irrelevant. I’d be far more concerned if Azarak was marrying a princess of Basingham. Attacking Vantok with an heir of Obis as queen doesn’t mean we’ll face Rangarak’s might in the South. He wouldn’t be fool enough to send more than a token force on such an arduous journey into an uncertain situation.”

“It represents an opportunity.”

“Indeed?”

“King Rangarak will undoubtedly be traveling to Vantok for the wedding along with a sizeable contingent of men - far more than a conventional honor guard. If he was to meet his demise while visiting, hostility could erupt between the men of Vantok and those of Obis. I’m sure you can see the benefits of that as easily as I can.”

“You have a plan?”

“I do.” Ariel’s smile was hidden beneath her mask and cowl. She had given this much thought. Perhaps it would redeem her foolish handling of the situation with her brother.

Later, after Ariel had departed for a scouting expedition to the north, which would include stops at both the Havenham and Ibitsal portals, Justin began a routine inspection of the camp. Thus far, he had three-thousand able-bodied men, many of whom were too old to be effective in conventional combat roles, although Justin couldn’t afford to turn them away. Even if he swelled his army by half, he would still have fewer men than Vantok. A few djinn could make up the difference but Justin couldn’t afford to be involved in a prolonged contest. Not only did he need to crush Vantok, but he had to do it without losing a significant portion of his army. This was only the beginning of the war. He was counting on bolstering his forces with defecting militias from Basingham and Earlford, but that presupposed they were cowed by the results of the Battle of Vantok. Justin counted on magic providing the edge, but that edge would be blunted if Sorial wasn’t dealt with beforehand.

As Justin wandered the loosely organized, sprawling site where the diverse group of men who comprised his army were bunking and training, he noted how silent and wary they became as he approached and passed. That was as it should be: fearful respect for their leader. His hand-picked generals, two of whom were recruited from Obis, were in the process of transforming these nomads and city exiles into a respectable fighting force. But he needed more men. The time had come to begin hiring mercenaries. The Bloody Blades, a group of seasoned fighters who roamed the realms to the south of The Forbidden Lands, could be bought but they were expensive. At one gold apiece, it would take a king’s ransom to hire all 200 in the company, but it might be a necessary expenditure. And Justin didn’t lack for funds. Ariel could steal whatever was needed.

There was also the question of admitting women to the fighting ranks, a position Ariel advocated. There were women in camp now but their duties were to service the men, cook, and keep things as clean as possible. At last count, there were about 100 of these whores - one for each 30 men. Still, when she spoke of adding women to the force, Ariel wasn’t referring to those who fulfilled their obligations on their backs. She believed there were women who could fight as well or better than some of the men, especially the older ones, and it was foolish to exclude them because of their sex. At one point, Justin had been against this but when the army didn’t grow as expansively as expected, his resolve began to wither.

He stopped abruptly and looked around with a disapproving expression. There was something wrong. The atmosphere of the camp was too... relaxed. There was too much freedom, and freedom bred laxity. As capable as many of these men were with their weapons, they needed to learn to fight as a unit. The lack of discipline was disturbing. Locating one of the Obis generals, Justin stalked toward the man.  Recognizing the storm clouds gathering around their leader, men scampered out of his path.

“General Urgo,” began Justin, his tone deceptively placid. “Why are these men lounging around instead of drilling?”

Urgo, whose toothless face broke into a smile upon seeing Justin approach, seemed unprepared for the question. “Sir... I...”

Justin didn’t wait for a response; whatever excuse the man concocted was irrelevant. He was being well-paid to do a job that was only half finished. “Beginning today, General, I want to see these men drilling. This is an army and it must begin to act and train like one. We’re going to war and I want this force to be stronger and harder than the one we’ll be facing. If the men wish to continue to be watered and fed, they’ll perform their duties. Anyone loitering or not giving maximum effort will be subject to summary execution.”

Urgo blanched. Whatever words he had expected to hear from his commander, they didn’t match the ones that were spoken.

“See to it, General.” Justin didn’t wait to hear the man’s parting comment; he turned smartly on his heels and headed back toward the command tent.

The heat would continue to sap Vantok’s strength. His army would be ready. The djinn would be tamed. And the threat represented by Sorial would be neutralized. War was coming and there was much to do.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE MAW OF THE CRAGS

Nine days in this inn, pleasant and accommodating as it might be, was more than enough. Alicia yearned to resume the journey, but Vagrum urged caution and patience. Soon, however, their thinning purses would make the decision for them. They had departed Vantok with only a small sum of money - Vagrum’s life’s savings - and The Gateway Inn was eating away at those limited funds at an alarming rate. The self-proclaimed “first and last great resting place of the South” charged rates that would make Warburm envious. To be fair, their rooms were cleaner and more spacious, their ales and beers weren’t watered down, and they doubled as a brothel for lonely travelers.

If Alicia was looking for an optimistic slant to their prolonged delay/stay, it was that they had apparently shaken their shadow. Since the night they had arrived at the dilapidated rest-stop 30 miles down the southern road, there had been no sign of pursuit. That nameless “inn” was open to customers although it offered little more than a welcoming fire in a single, crumbling common room and an innkeeper who, like the building, had seen better days. He had grumbled about having nothing to feed them and no reasonable place for them to bunk down, but for the courtesy of throwing a few extra logs on the fire, he had demanded a couple of bronze studs from each of them. Alicia couldn’t decide whether she had been more comfortable sleeping out-of-doors or lying on the rotting timbers of the common room floor. But with the threat of hunters on their scent, such meager accommodations had been welcome.

No one had come for them that night. The next day, as the weather worsened, there had been no sign of anyone else on or near the roadway except the increasing flow of travelers headed north and south. They had reached The Gateway Inn by nightfall and had been there ever since, watching the skies spill endless cold rain and debating the wisdom of venturing into Widow’s Pass with the weather as variable as it was. Reports argued that passage through the mountains was still possible. Widow’s Pass had been closed two weeks ago following a heavy snowfall but warmer temperatures had allowed much of that to melt. Regardless, passable conditions didn’t mean a journey was advisable; travel into the mountains was described variously as “difficult” and “treacherous.”

Apparently, Sorial hadn’t come this way. They had asked everyone who passed through the inn going north or south, as well as the innkeeper, serving wenches, resident whores, and stableboys. No one had seen anyone matching descriptions of Sorial, Warburm, or Lamanar. If they had used Widow’s Pass, they hadn’t stopped at The Gateway. That left three possibilities: Sorial’s group hadn’t yet reached here, they had elected to travel north using the less mountainous Earlford routes, or they were bound for another portal. The third possibility caused Alicia the most consternation; it was also the one about which she could do nothing. If he had gone in search of another portal, he might be dead by now. She found the notion strange that he could have passed beyond this world without her somehow feeling his death, but that’s the way it was with ephemeral human connections.

Tomorrow, they would go. Unless they awaited the Planting thaw, which was more than a season away, it seemed unlikely conditions would improve to the point where a trip through Widow’s Pass could be called “safe.” In fact, if they waited another week to greet the official onset of Winter and see in the new year, the pass might be buried in snow. It was either go now or turn back, and Alicia hadn’t come this far to turn back. She would travel to the portal and greet Sorial there or wait long enough to be sure he wasn’t coming. She didn’t know how long that might be. It wasn’t a question she wanted to face.

The four were gathered in the room shared by Kara and Alicia. Soon, Vagrum and Rexall would head to the common room to hear the latest gossip and learn what they could about the path ahead while Kara and Alicia retired. Aside from the whores and serving girls (who, unlike in The Wayfarer’s Comfort, were not necessarily interchangeable), women weren’t often seen outside their private rooms at this hour. This was a time for men to drink too much ale, laugh at bawdy jokes, and get into brawls.

“How does it look for tomorrow?” asked Rexall.

Vagrum shrugged. “Hard to say. There are still groups coming through from the North, although none of the big caravans, and fewer every day. Too dangerous for the bigger wagons and becoming a risk for the smaller ones. I talked to a merchant’s guard today and he said it wasn’t too bad. Slippery in places and there are patches where the road turned to mud. The bridges - those two long, narrow passages with steep drop-offs on either side - are the most challenging, as you’d expect. They lost a pack horse and all its gear on one of ’em. But it’s passable. For now.” There was emphasis on the last word.

“It’s not now you’re concerned about,” said Kara.

“No,” admitted Vagrum. “It ain’t. We’ll get in all right and, if the weather holds, we’ll get out the other side in six days or so. They won’t be the most pleasant six days. There ain’t no inns for sleeping and we can’t go far from the road or we’ll end up in a ravine. My concern’s that we could get caught in a squall while we’s up there. If that happens, we’re like as not dead. An’ this is the time o’ the year for ’em. That merchant’s guard said he got double pay for coming on a run this late. This close to Winter, you’re gambling your life on the weather, and that ain’t the best bet.”

“But one we’ll take. We’ve got no choice. We
must
get to the portal before Sorial, and this is the only way we’re assured to do it.” Alicia spoke quietly. Her word was final. “Unless the weather changes for the worse in the morning, we leave for the pass.”

“The weather’ll be fine in the morning.” Vagrum’s experience on the road made him the best prognosticator of the skies. “After that, I’d say pray to the gods, but they ain’t hearing prayers no more.” He’d never been much of a praying man anyway, preferring to rely on his strong arm and good common sense rather than hoping someone was watching over him. He had always supposed the gods had better things to do than look out for the likes of him.

The big man’s weather forecast was good. They awoke to the first clear morning in over a week, but along with the clear came a noticeable chill. If the skies clouded now, snow would fall instead of rain. And, since it was colder in the pass, wet spots would be icing up. “It ain’t all bad,” remarked Vagrum. “The cold will harden up the mud. We ain’t gonna have to worry about getting stuck in it.” All they had to be concerned with was losing footing on a narrow portion of the trail and slipping over the edge of a cliff. Over the centuries, Widow’s Pass had earned its name.

As they set off on the road headed north, The Broken Crags loomed over them. The ground sloped steeply upward and the horses were laboring after less than an hour, their breaths streaming white clouds. Despite being bundled in a heavy wool cloak, Alicia was shivering. She cast a worried glance at Vagrum, who was in his customary place in the lead, but the big man appeared fine. He had shown signs of improvement during the time spent in The Gateway, but he was by no means back to his usual self. She was concerned about how he would hold up if they had to lead the horses. His stamina flagged quickly.

They were alone on this stretch of the road, which wasn’t a surprise. Most of the inn’s visitors were headed south and it was unlikely anyone would emerge from the pass this early; travelers this close would have pressed on at night to reach The Gateway. In Vagrum’s opinion, they might not encounter another soul in the pass - too few were willing to risk a Winter squall. There came a point when the rewards of succeeding were overbalanced by the price of failing. Having the road to themselves wasn’t all bad, especially in those places where the path constricted to allow only single file passage. If they were being pursued or shadowed, there was no indication of it, but all four were vigilant, constantly scanning the nearby terrain for any indication of others. If someone wanted to track them down, Widow’s Pass, with its lack of hiding places and alternate routes, was the perfect place to do it.

The Broken Crags were thus called because many of the tallest mountains were topped not with clean, symmetrical peaks but with jagged, irregular pinnacles that bespoke some long ago catastrophe. This close, they looked like any imposing mountain range with their crowns hidden from view, but farther to the south where they dominated the northern horizon, Alicia had come to understand the origin of the name.

As they moved into the mountains, the sun disappeared, hidden behind an unyielding wall of rock. “We won’t see direct light for days,” said Vagrum. “It’s too late in the year for the sun to get above the mountains. Out in the world, the days are short and the nights long. It’s worse in the pass and too dangerous to move once dusk begins. At best, we can expect nine hours of travel per day. That’s one reason it’ll take nearly a week to reach the other side. I musta been outta my mind agreeing to make this trip the last week of the year.”

The first two days passed relatively uneventfully, although sleeping was difficult. A small campfire lent a little warmth but, with only dead, stringy scrub to feed it, it never burned heartily enough to be truly beneficial. Sleeping on the cold, unyielding ground, with only a layer of wool between her and the icy rock beneath, Alicia thought she had never been more uncomfortable - a phrase that had regularly come to mind during this journey. They ate dried rations and drank snowmelt, which was abundant even after the recent mini-thaw. The good weather held, which was a boon but, in large part because of the road’s steepness, progress was painfully slow. At least the passage was wide - until the third day.

It was mid-morning when they came to a sudden, dramatic narrowing of the trail. The implacable rock walls to either side remained in place but fissures opened on either side of the road.  The horizontal distance between the edge of the path and the mountainside was less than twenty feet on one side and a little more on the other, but the vertical drop was dizzying. The chasms fell away into an abyss of darkness that might have been a mile deep. For as far ahead as they could see, the path was no more than six feet wide, with a surface that was slick from packed refrozen snow and ice. The edges showed signs of crumbling; only the middle four feet represented safe ground.

“They call it ‘the bridge.’ There’s another one just as bad further along. They go from the side of one mountain to the side of another, and there ain’t no way around ’em unless you can fly. When men die in this pass, it’s either here or at the other one.” Vagrum’s words weren’t comforting, nor were they intended to be.

Staring at what awaited them, Rexall asked, “How the hell do they get wagons across?”

“They use special ones - skinny and extra long. During the warm months, traders do a brisk business on both sides of the pass buying regular wagons and selling the ‘Widow Crossers,’ as they’re called, and vice versa. Each sale nets a tidy profit. And there are always plenty of laborers on hand to unload and re-load wagons for a handful of bronze studs. This time of year, any merchant thinking of using the passage had better come prepared with the right kind of wagon. Ain’t no trading past the first snow.”

“How was it built?” asked Alicia. She couldn’t fathom the effort it must have taken to form such a precarious bridge. Whether it was erected or carved, it wasn’t a natural formation.

“An earth wizard,” said Kara. “A thousand years ago, The Crags were impassable to human traffic. Everyone who wanted to move from the North to the South and the other way around had to go through Earlford, where the slope of the land is gentle and forgiving. Then an earth wizard dedicated himself to creating a passage. Widow’s Pass is in large part his handiwork. This bridge was once wider and sturdier but after enduring so much traffic over so many years, it’s begun to show its age. It was meant to be regularly maintained but the removal of magic made that impossible. Unless it’s repaired, it will eventually become unusable and The Crags will again defy human penetration.”

“How far does it go?” asked Alicia, openly gaping.

“Like this? Maybe ten miles. We should be able to make it to the other side before nightfall. One benefit of attempting the crossing at this time of the year is that we ain’t gonna have to worry ’bout encountering a group traveling in the opposite direction. That can create a difficult situation.” Vagrum paused, momentarily lost in thought as if remembering one such “difficult situation.” He continued, “The second bridge is another day’s travel ahead. It passes just east of the tallest Crag. Once beyond that, the trip gets easier and the road begins to slope downward.

“Keep a careful rein on your horses and go slowly. Don’t let them stray too close to the edges and if they slip, don’t panic. There ain’t no reason we shouldn’t be able to make it across. The people who died here were greedy, stupid, or impatient. We ain’t none of those things - or so I hope.” The glance in Rexall’s direction wasn’t coincidental.

The crossing took a little more than six hours and it represented the most harrowing time of Alicia’s young life. She spent the better part of it clutching so tightly to the reins that she developed cramps in her hands. There were no stops; the narrowness of the path didn’t allow for safe dismounting or remounting. When they ate, they did so astride the horses as the animals crawled forward. Fortunately, they were all sure-footed. Only once did a horse slip, and it was a minor incident. Rexall, whose mount it was, remained calm and quickly had the beast under control and again moving forward. The sheen of sweat on his forehead, which froze quickly in the face of a cold, stiff breeze, was the only betrayal of his nerves.