The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) (12 page)

“The Dark Citadel,” Darik said.

“Yes, the Dark Citadel is a focal point for his magic. But it doesn’t spread its power far enough from Veyre yet. Perhaps he carries something with him. An amulet of some kind.”

“But what does that have to do with the ghost lights?”

“Think of Tainara in Daniel’s chamber. How did the dark wizard control her wight? She’s too strong to send venturing into the world for long. He would need to call her back to a specific location. And if he could hold one wight there, why not others? That made me remember the ghost lights in Estmor.” He turned to Sofiana. “Ninny, you have your crossbow?”

The expression on Whelan’s face became even more grim. “There is no honor in murdering a man in his sleep, not even the dark wizard. Remember that. But I see no other alternative.” He dropped a tea bag in the bubbling water.

Darik said, “Tell me what makes you think we can kill the dark wizard? Can you just put a sword through him? Or that even if you do, it will kill him? I heard once that King Toth survived dozens of assassination attempts, like the time one of his wives slipped a cobra into his bed while he slept. “

“A valid question,” Whelan said. “Have you ever heard of Memnet the Great?” He poured the tea.

He thought Memnet sounded vaguely familiar. Hadn’t Markal mentioned the name? “A wizard?” He shook his head. “Or maybe that’s not it. A king, then?”

“You were right the first time,” Whelan said, sipping his tea. “He was a wizard and nearly immortal, his life force was so strong. Toth’s greatest enemy. Once, a century before the Tothian Wars, he was captured by enemies and beheaded. One of his pupils recovered his head and buried it in a garden in Aristonia—this was during the days when people thought it a sacrilege not to bury your dead. Six months later, a man digging turnips in the garden was surprised to see someone clawing his way from the ground. Seems Memnet’s life force was so strong that his severed head had regenerated its body and bound his ungathered soul.”

“I don’t know,” Darik said, skeptical. “I don’t think I believe that story.”

“Why not, Darik?” Sofiana asked. She sounded amused.

“Too detailed for such an old story, for one. And the part about burying it in a garden in Aristonia? I’m guessing someone added that part later to
also
show how fertile the ground was in Aristonia before it became the Desolation of Toth.”

“Oh, it’s true,” Whelan said. “I heard it from Memnet himself. See, the wizard
was
eventually killed, in spite of his great power.” He reached over his shoulder and pulled his sword from its scabbard. “Killed by
Soultrup.
The man’s soul is still bound to the sword, and until the blade is destroyed, his soul, and many others, will never know the release of the Harvester. On the other hand, they are also free of the evil bindings of men like the enemy. Soultrup is why I know Cragyn can be killed.”

It surprised Darik to hear Cragyn’s name spoken aloud. The name carried power when spoken aloud, and it occurred to him that Whelan tried to gather that power to Soultrup. Darik finished his tea and Whelan poured him another cup; it was slowly awakening him.

Something else had bothered Darik ever since Whelan told him their true goal. “Why us, Whelan? Why not take Ethan, or some other Knight Temperate? You can find stronger, better fighting companions than
me
, at least.”

Whelan nodded. “Very true. But I figured, first of all, that twenty or thirty mounted knights would draw a response as we rode toward the mountains. With so many spies in the land, there’s no way to hide more than a few people. And also, if I found the enemy well-guarded, it would be difficult to slip away undetected. I thought too, about riding in with several griffin riders, but there are too many dragon wasps to risk it. No, I decided that a small group would work best.

“As for choosing the two of you,” Whelan continued, “I brought Sofiana for the reason you just saw, Darik. In the darkness, it’s better to be quiet than to possess brute strength.” He paused. The light from the fire reflected off his face. “As for you, Darik, why
are
you here? Are you a runaway slave or something more?”

“I don’t feel like a slave anymore.”

“No, and I’ll wager you aren’t the pampered son of a wealthy merchant, either.”

“No,” Darik admitted. “I’m not sure what I feel like. Not like a warrior, though, or a wizard. Perhaps after I seek Sanctuary.”

“And yet,” Whelan said, rubbing his stubble. “Soultrup flew to your hand in Daniel’s chamber. And the Tome of Prophesy speaks to you. In fact,” he added, “Events have turned out differently than I’d predicted. Markal and I took you from Balsalom as a favor to your father. We expected a straightforward journey west, but with each diversion, your part in these affairs grew. When you spoke to King Daniel, he didn’t just listen to you, but your words ended my exile.”

“A coincidence of the situation,” Darik said. He looked at Sofiana and was surprised to see no skepticism on her face. Indeed, she appeared to believe everything her father said.

“Is it?” Whelan asked. “I don’t think so. I’m more superstitious than Markal and don’t dismiss coincidence so easily. No, I think you have some role to play, and I’m giving you every opportunity to play that role out, whatever it may be.”

He spoke with such conviction that it sent a shiver down Darik’s spine. Not so much his assessment of Darik, which was certainly wrong, he thought, but Whelan’s single-minded pursuit of goals.

Whelan put away the empty tea pot, then kicked out the fire and whistled for Scree. She soared silently from the copse of trees to land on the man’s wrist. Whelan whispered a few words to the falcon and sent it back to the trees. Sofiana tied her horse with the others. Darik strapped on his sword and made to put on his cuirass, but Whelan stopped him.

“That’s too heavy for where we’re going.”

“I barely feel it,” Darik said. That had been true when they’d left the Citadel, but by the end of the day, the armor had weighed heavily on his shoulders and he’d been glad to take it off when he went to sleep.

“Leave it,” Whelan said. “You’ll be swimming in a few minutes.”

Darik nodded and obeyed. He filed in behind Whelan on the footpath, with the girl bringing up the rear, crossbow slung over her shoulder.

They descended from the dry ground on which they’d slept, and picked their way into the swamp, careful to stay on the footpath where possible, difficult to follow in the dark. The rain diminished, then returned in strength, then subsided again. At last it died altogether. Gurgles came from standing pools of water, and a brackish smell wafted through the air. Frogs bellowed their love songs, punctuated by the haunting cry of a bird. Here and there, ghostly blue fire danced on the swamp, then disappeared.

“I don’t like this place,” Sofiana whispered.

Darik agreed wholeheartedly. He fought a shiver every time he saw the blue lights, unsure whether they were wights or something else, but not wanting to disturb the silence by asking Whelan.

At last they reached the end of the trail. It had become nothing more than a raised causeway, and now it ended in a small lake. Across the lake from where they stood, maybe a hundred feet distant, a house sat on an island. The house was a low-slung thing with a sod roof. A light flickered through the windows and a small boat rested at the edge of the island, motionless in the still waters of the lake. The three companions backtracked so they could talk.

“He’s in there?” Darik whispered, his heart pounding with nervous energy. He touched his forefinger to his thumb to ward evil.

Sofiana crowded in close, as if afraid to stand by herself. “Whatever for?” she asked.

Whelan whispered, “Yes, he’s in there. Perhaps he’s binding the wights that hide out here.”

Darik swallowed. So they
were
wights that he saw. Sofiana grabbed her father’s arm.

Whelan explained, “Something about the swamp makes it hard for the Harvester to gather souls. But he still tries. Listen!”

For a moment, Darik heard a horn in the distance, and baying hounds, but it passed so quickly that he wondered if he’d formed the sounds from the other noise in the marsh. “How do we get out there?” he asked.

Sofiana said, “We swim. You
can
swim, can’t you, Darik?”

“Not very well,” he admitted. He’d gone swimming a few times in the Nye outside Balsalom, but was not proficient.

Whelan said, “It’s not deep. You won’t have to swim until the last twenty feet or so.”

“I can manage that.”

“Good,” Whelan said. “Be quiet, but don’t dawdle. There might be snakes in the water, or giant gars that think you’d make a nice change of diet from frogs and turtles. I dropped a few stones in the water earlier, and attracted nothing, but that is no guarantee. As for the house, I don’t expect more than one or two guards. I’ll go right for the wizard unless his guards are awake. I want the two of you to wait outside and keep watch. There will be others nearby; if they come, you’ll have to take care of them.”

“How do you know he’s in there?” Darik asked.

“There is a reason my sword is called Soultrup, as you’ll learn to your regret should you ever use it to fight a living human. It’s like the Harvester, gathering the souls of its victims, like it did with Memnet the Great. It senses wights, and wights encircle the dark wizard continually. Once Markal told me that the enemy travels alone, I simply followed Soutrup’s lead. Come, dawn is near, and this is work better suited to night.”

They crept back to the water, then made their way around the lake until they no longer faced the front of the house. Sofiana and Whelan took off their boots and tied them around their necks and waded into the water. Eyeing the oily water with distrust, Darik reluctantly followed. Mud squished around his toes and something swam past his legs. The water rose first to his waist, then to his neck and at last he dog-paddled toward the island. The house stood on the island ahead of them, dark and forbidding.

At last they reached the shore. Darik cleared his mouth of the dank water, then crept up the hillside toward the house. He joined Sofiana and Whelan in the shadows at the back of the house. The house was built of dried peat, with a roof that sprouted rushes and even a few small trees. He put on his boots and discovered leeches feasting on his feet and legs. More leeches fed on his arms and his neck. Disgusted, he plucked them off and helped Whelan and Sofiana find their own leeches. When he finished, his hands were slick with blood. He wiped them on the ground.

Whelan gestured for Darik to watch the front and Sofiana to position herself on the other side of the building and watch the back. The girl nodded and crept away, while Whelan crawled toward the door on his hands and knees, below the fire light that flickered from the windows. Darik drew his sword and sank into the mud to wait. The rain came down harder.

His heart pounded in his chest as he waited for shouts. Or maybe a burst of light would explode through the door as Cragyn burned them with a magical fireball. He certainly wasn’t expecting what happened.

“Darik,” Whelan’s voice whispered. “Darik!”

Scrambling to his feet, Darik was surprised to see Whelan leaning his head out the window. “Get Ninny, then come here. Hurry!”

Darik obeyed, and a moment later Whelan let the two of them into the house, then pulled the door shut. He pointed to a figure on the floor in front of the fire.

The room was bare. A single trunk, brass bindings over a dark wood, sat on the far side of the room. A small peat fire burned in the hearth, and not all of the smoke filtered up the chimney, so it was smoky in the room. A man in a gray robe lay on the floor.
Cragyn.
Whelan’s sword dripped blood onto the floor.

Darik had expected Whelan to call to say he’d been misled, or perhaps point out some new clue he’d discovered. He could hardly believe that it had been so easy.

“You did it,” Sofiana said, reaching out to hug her father, but he resisted the embrace.

“No,” Whelan said. “I suspected when I saw him, but my sword confirmed it.” He shook his head. “The dark wizard was already dead when I found him.”

Chapter Six

Mol Khah had no doubt that his master would free him from the khalifa’s dungeon. He had assumed that Kallia would kill him immediately, but she proved too soft to be an effective ruler. Mol Khah doubted, indeed, that she would kill him even when the master’s forces attacked Balsalom. No, he would be rescued. And when that rescue came, there would be slaughter such as Mithyl had never seen.

Mol Khah was, however, surprised with the means of his rescue.

He slept in the dungeons below the palace, if they could be called dungeons, he thought with contempt. They were small and poorly lit, but clean, with regular meals and no more vermin than anywhere else. But dungeons, no matter how clean, were still prisons. The smell of urine and vomit wafted through the chambers, and cries reached his ears from those Veyrian soldiers who continued to resist. It would take harsher measures than a few whippings to break
his
army’s spirit.

His first prison guard was a short, fat man with a pathetic, quivering chin. Mol Khah amused himself by sharing convincing lies about the man’s eight-year-old daughter, a daughter whose existence was revealed through a careless conversation between two other guards. The guard ignored him the first day, snarled at him the second and third days, and disappeared the fourth, replaced by some old fool, half deaf and immune to such tactics.

Mol Khah’s only remaining pleasure came from the grand vizier’s visits, when he invented coarse details about Cragyn and Kallia’s wedding night. Saldibar kept his emotions carefully veiled and pried at details about Cragyn’s army. Mol Khah happily shared whatever he could convincingly invent.

The night Whelan, Darik, and Sofiana crept to the dark wizard’s hideout in the Estmor swamps, Mol Khah woke to the sound of his name.