Part 23 (2/2)

”One was too many,” the marshal scowled, ”and a prince at that.”

”True enough.” The healer's glaze softened and it seemed as if some tension leached out of the chamber. ”But you're here for more than just rumors.”

Suspicion rose like a tide in the marshal. ”Why so p.r.i.c.kly about the monk?”

Anger flashed in the healer's dark eyes. ”Because day after day we sit here on this b.l.o.o.d.y wall, without a lick of help from any ally, waiting for the Mordant's hordes to attack, and finally someone comes to help. A monk warns us of treachery and when that treachery proves true, the king seeks to lock him in the dungeon. That's not the Octagon I serve.”

The marshal crossed stares with the healer. ”Have a care, healer.” He brooked no disloyalty to the king...but the words were true enough, so he bridled his temper. ”As I said, the king was grief-struck. A debt of thanks is owed to the monk.”

Anger bled from the healer's face. ”Sorry.” He turned toward his workbench, his shoulders hunched, a hint of weariness in his voice. ”It is hard to sit here, waiting for cartloads of wounded to arrive. Quintus shrugged, fiddling with a mortar and pestle. ”You wanted to ask me something?”

”Aye.” Now that it came to the asking, the marshal found it hard to explain. He paced the chamber, frustration riding his shoulders like a harness. ”The monk said a lot, but he also said too little.” He shrugged. ”There was never any chance for questions.” The marshal raked a hand through his hair. ”Swords I know. But demons and dark magic?” He shrugged, forcing the words out. ”Whatever comes from the north won't just be swords and spears. I need to know how to fight magic.”

Quintus stared at him. ”You should have asked the monk.”

”Yes, but that chance is lost. So I'm asking you.”

”I'm just a healer.” Turning his back to the marshal, Quintus swirled a flask filled with a pea-green potion, a puff of smoke rising from the brazier.

The marshal refused to be defeated. ”You're the most learned man among us. I've even heard tales that you once studied in the queen's great library in Pellanor. Surely with all that learning you've read something of magic?”

Quintus sighed. Setting the flask aside, he turned. ”Its true I've been to the queen's library and in all those thousands of scrolls you won't find a single mention of magic except in the bards' tales. The War of Wizards was a long, long time ago.”

”But you must know something?” The marshal's stare drilled into the healer, desperate for answers.

”It's strange that you ask. Aeroth spoke of it on the ride from Castlegard.”

The marshal waited.

”You have to understand that magic is nearly gone from the lands of Erdhe. Most people don't believe in it. So if they're suddenly confronted with magic, people either feel mind-numbing fear or wors.h.i.+pful awe. I suspect either will get you killed on the battlefield.”

”So how do I counter it?”

”You keep your wits about you.”

”That's it? That's your advice?” He would have laughed except those demon-red eyes kept haunting him.

Quintus shrugged. ”What I mean is, consider magic like a sword, like a weapon, albeit a very dangerous weapon, but like most swords it can only cut one way.”

”Explain.”

Quintus sighed. ”If the legends are to be believed, then most surviving magic is dependent on an artifact, a focus, leftover from the War of Wizards. And each artifact has a single purpose, a single magic, like being able to sculpt stone with just your mind, or summoning a fireball. But most magic wielders can only do one thing, one single magic. So once you know what that one thing is, you keep your wits about you and you find a way to block that skill so it doesn't turn the tide of battle.”

It made a strange kind of sense, like dealing with the first trebuchet. ”And if the magic wielder is killed?”

”Then the skill will be lost to the enemy.”

So wizards can be killed, the marshal took comfort from the answer. ”So what kind of magic will they have?”

Quintus barked a laugh. ”Only the G.o.ds know.”

”You must have some idea?”

”Legends are full of stories about magic. Any or all of them could be true.”

The marshal studied the healer through hooded eyes. ”And the monk didn't say anything about what we might face?”

Quintus sighed. ”There was one thing Aeroth kept harping on, something troubling. He said the Mordant collects power, and the one power he covets above all others is soul magic.”

”Soul magic?” A s.h.i.+ver raced down the marshal's back. ”What in the nine h.e.l.ls does that mean?”

”It means the Mordant can twist flesh as well as spirit. It means his army may contain more than just men.”

”I don't understand.”

The healer's face turned grim. ”The Mordant won't be bound by the Laws of Light. By wielding soul magic he can sculpt abominations. Beasts and humans melded together creating creatures of horror. Legends are rife with them. You've heard the tales and you know their names. Ogres, goblins, h.e.l.lhounds, fearsome creatures twisted by the Dark, abominations loosed against mankind.”

Something big at the window, gliding like a ghost. The marshal drew his sword, a sc.r.a.pe of steel on leather.

”Put up your sword.” The healer stood. ”It's just Snowman, my frost owl.”

Wings spread wide; a white frost-owl soared through the window, landing on a crate. Ruffling its feathers, the owl stared at the marshal, a blink of golden eyes. ”Whoooo?”

”Just an owl?” The marshal stared at the bird.

”He hunts the mountains late at night or early in the morning. It's why I leave the window open.”

Was this the owl he'd seen? It would explain why there were no rumors of shapes.h.i.+fters...but then what happened to the monk? ”I'd forgotten you kept an owl.” He sheathed his sword. ”You've given me much to think about. I thank you.” He stepped toward the door and lifted the latch.

”Lord Marshal.”

He turned back to face the healer.

”If it's true the Mordant is coming, expect nightmares.”

The marshal gave a weary nod, for his dreams already brimmed with nightmares.

29.

The Mordant A line of maroon cloaks fluttered in the stiff winter wind. Thirty knights bearing the Octagon blazon stood at the heart of the Dark Citadel, a maroon slash marring the great circular courtyard. Such a sight would have been a blasphemy were it not of the Mordant's own making.

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