Part 33 (1/2)
With them were a half-dozen men in varied costume. Not a one spoke. Each seated himself on the graveyard gra.s.s.
”This's the right place,” Haaken muttered.
”Who are they?” Ragnar asked, terrified. Gundar, luckily, had fallen asleep during Michael's story.
Trebilc.o.c.k kept his sword ready. He was wondering too.
”The Prime Circle. The chief sorcerers of the west,” Haaken whispered.
Cold steel fingers stroked Ragnarson's spine. Fear stalked his nerves. It was a dark day when this group covened, putting their vicious grievances in abeyance. ”One's missing,” he observed.
When last they had gathered it had been for Baxendala, to greet the eastern sorcery with their own.
An implacable enmity for the Tervola was the one thing they had in common.
”He comes,” said the mummylike being called Kierle the Ancient. His words hung on the air like smoke on a still, muggy morning.
An inhuman scream clawed the underbelly of the night. Torchlight momentarily illuminated the undersides of vast wings. A rush of air almost extinguished Ragnar's brands. Anxiously, he lighted more.
The flying colossus. .h.i.t ground thunderously. ”G.o.dd.a.m.ned clumsy, worthless, boneheaded.... Sorry, boss.”
A middle-aged dwarf soon strutted into the light. ”What the h.e.l.l is this? Some kind of wake? Any of you bozos got something to drink?”
”Marco,” said a gentle voice.
The dwarf shut up and sat. Ragnarson rose, extended a hand. The newcomer was an old friend, VisiG.o.dred, Count Menda-layas, from northern Itaskia. Their lives had crossed frequently, and they almost trusted one another.”We're all here,” Varthlokkur observed. ”Marshall....” ”Who was that on the winged horse?” VisiG.o.dred asked. Everyone looked puzzled. Including Varthlokkur, who should have understood.
Ragnarson caught it, though. He remembered seeing a winged horse over Baxendala missed by everyone but himself. He remembered thinking the rider was a mystery which needed solving.... But by someone else. Even this convocation couldn't excite him for long.
Varthlokkur went on. ”Marshall, I tracked bin Yousif into Trolledyngja, where he had overtaken Colonel Balfour. He's back in the south somewhere now.”
Since Bragi didn't ask, Haaken did. ”What happened?” ”I don't know. Bin Yousif was thorough. He didn't even leave a shade I could call up. But he got something, fast as he rode south.”
”Michael,” said Haaken, ”tell the wizards your story.” Varthlokkur was in a state before Trebilc.o.c.k finished. ”s.h.i.+nsan, s.h.i.+nsan,” he muttered. ”Always s.h.i.+nsan. They've done this to force me to obey. How is it that they always cloud my mind? Must be something they did while I studied there.... Was she well? Was she safe? Why Argon?
Why not s.h.i.+nsan? Marshall, what'd you do with the jewel? That we must unravel if we're to repulse O s.h.i.+ng again. It won't be just four legions this time.”
His words gushed. The man in the golden mask-he must be one of O s.h.i.+ng's craftiest Tervola-had conjured one h.e.l.l of a dilemna for Varthlokkur.
Dull-eyed, staring at Elana's grave, Ragnarson handed him the casket. Varthlokkur frowned, not understanding Bragi's la.s.situde.
Haaken touched his cloak diffidently. He beckoned VisiG.o.dred, led both a short distance away, explained Bragi's problem.
Behind them, having grown bored, Zindahjira created b.a.l.l.s of blue fire, juggled them amongst his several hands. He threw them into the air. They coalesced into a whirling sphere which threw off visible words like sparks flying from a grindstone.
He was a show-off. A loudmouth and a braggart. For some quirky reason, he liked being called Zindahjira the Silent.
The blue words were in many languages, but when they queued up in sentences they invariably proclaimed some libel on VisiG.o.dred's character.
Their feud was so old it was antique. What irritated Zindahjira most was that VisiG.o.dred wouldn't fight back. He simply neutralized every attack and otherwise ignored the troglodytic wizard.
VisiG.o.dred ignored him now, though his a.s.sistant, the dwarf, made a few remarks too softly to reach his master's ears. Zindahjira became furious....
This sort of thing had driven Ragnarson to distraction in the past. It symbolized the weakness of the west. The wolves of doom could be snuffling at the windows and doors and everyone would remain immersed in their own petty bickerings. Right now Kiste and Vorhangs were threatening war. The northern provinces of Volstokin were trying to secede to form an independent kingdom, Nonverid. The influence of Itaskia was the only stabilizing force in the patchwork of little states making up the remainder of the west.
It was hard to care about people who didn't care about themselves.
VisiG.o.dred and Varthlokkur came to an agreement. The former returned with Haaken.
The other went to the Mausoleum of the Kings.
The Prime Circle watched in silence.The necromancy didn't take long. Neither woman had been dead long.
Even now, with ghosts walking, Michael Trebilc.o.c.k showed no fear. But Ragnar whimpered.
That alerted Bragi. He drew his sword. What devilment...?
He recognized the wraiths, saw the sadness in their faces, their awareness of one another. ”Have you no decency?” he thundered, whirling his blade.
Invisible hands seized him. His weapon slipped from numbed fingers, falling so that it stuck in the soft graveyard earth. The hands compelled him to face the ghosts.
A voice said, ”Settle it. Finish it. Make your peace. Slay your grief. A kingdom can't await one man's self-pity.” It was no voice he knew. Perhaps it was no voice at all, but the focused thought of that dread circle.
Both women reached out to him. Hurt crossed their faces when they couldn't touch him.
He was compelled to look at them.
There was no hatred, no accusation in his Queen. She didn't blame him for her death. And in Elana there was no d.a.m.nation for his having failed her, in life or in death. She had known about Fiana. She had forgiven long before her death. In each there was a stubborn insistence that he was doing himself no good with his morbid brooding. He had children to raise and a kingdom to defend. All Elana asked was that he try to understand and forgive her, as she had done for him.
He had forgiven her already. Understanding was more difficult. First he had to understand himself.
He believed he had always done poorly by women. They always paid cruel prices for having been his lovers....
He tried to tell Elana why he had buried Rolf Preshka near her....
She began fading back into her new realm. As did Fiana. He shouted after one, then the other, calling them back. Fiana left him with the thought that the future lay not in a graveyard. He had maneuvered himself into a Regency. Now he must handle it.
Kavelin. Kavelin. Ravelin. Always she thought of Ravelin first.
Well, almost. She had allowed Kavelin to come second occasionally, and had paid a price, her belly ripped by the exit of a thing conceived in the heart of darkness. That darkness was responsible for Elana, too. And two dozen others. His friend Mocker....
Something could be done.
Tendrils of the anger, the outrage, the hatred which had driven him during his ride from Rarak Strabger insinuated themselves through his depression. He glanced round, for the first time fully grasped the significance of this gathering.
203.