The Wizard's Fate

Chapter 14

By night the sky over Daltigoth was ablaze with light. The tremendous orange glow blotted out the gentle light of the stars. To an onlooker leagues away, the city might seem to be burning from end to end, but Daltigoth blazed only with revelry. From the Inner City to the scruffiest dive on the canal, everyone was honoring the memory of their past emperor or paying homage to the new one by feasting, drinking, and dancing.

So large was the throng of the elite-warlords, wizards, courtiers, and foreign dignitaries-the banquet in the Inner City was being held outdoors in the plaza. No hall in the palace was large enough to hold all the guests.

An army of trestle tables had been set up between the palace and the garden surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery. Torches stood at the ends of the tables, and masses of servants labored to keep the emperor’s favored guests well supplied with food and drink. An entire herd of imperial cattle had been slaughtered for the feast, along with no fewer than ten thousand fowl.

The palace kitchens were not sufficient for the great quantity of food to be prepared, so firepits were built in the alley between the palace’s north facade and the Inner City wall. There an army of cooks labored. Stripped to loincloths against the searing heat, they roasted whole steers, turned spits containing a hundred chickens, and stirred cauldrons of simmering vegetables. Wine tuns as tall as ogres were hauled up from the cellars and tapped on the palace steps, and hogsheads of beer were put at the end of each row of tables.

At the imperial table, Ackal IV dined with his wives, children, and royal siblings. Tol was favored with a seat at the table facing the imperial table. Miya and Kiya had joined him, as had Egrin and the other members of the morning’s honor guard.

The night air was cooler now, as summer waned into autumn, but the heavy coronation finery worn by the diners, the great quantities of wine and beer they consumed, and the leaping flames of the torches combined to overheat the scene.

The gathering was earnestly merry, with a few notable exceptions. Chief among the melancholy was the new emperor himself.

Ackal IV sat in his oversized chair, listlessly taking in the fantastic scene. Gray-faced and sweating, his earlier vigor had faded under the great weight of his new position. As regent, Amaltar had ruled the empire for twelve years, but no matter how much power he’d held, it had always been wielded in his father’s name. Now he was emperor in truth. There was no one above him, no other name to invoke to settle disputes. Everything rested on his own shoulders. The Ergoth Empire was a prodigious burden. Another man might have reveled in the glory, in the unbridled power that was now his to command. Ackal IV looked miserable.

The emperor’s apparent gloom infected Tol’s mood, or perhaps it was the quantity of beer he had drunk. Between toasts offered by the Dom-shu sisters on his left and salutes offered by the warlords on his right, Tol was imbibing much more than usual.

Valaran was seated only steps away from him, yet she might as well have been perched on the red moon. Cool and regal amid the raucous celebration, she seemed totally unruffled by the loud talk and the oppressive heat of torches, braziers, and open hearths. Tol itched to stalk across the narrow gap separating them and take her for his own, as he had Tarsis or the Blood Fleet.

A stinging blow on his back snapped Tol out of his glum preoccupation. Hojan had come up behind him and given his commander a comradely whack.

“My lord!” Hojan said, weaving a little on his feet. “We’re having a friendly dispute. Give us the benefit of your wisdom!”

Tol grimaced. “If I can.”

“Which is more important to a commander: training or instinct? Bessian, Manacus, and Urbath say training is more important. Illando and I say instinct.”

“And Varnacoth?”

Hojan waved a dismissive hand. “He’s too drunk!”

Tol leaned forward and looked down the table. “What does Lord Egrin say?”

Disdaining to wait for an overworked servant, the marshal had gotten up to fetch himself a trencher of bread. “The most vital characteristic of a successful commander is luck,” Egrin tossed over his shoulder.

“I agree,” Tol said.

Hojan’s ally Illando said, “But, my lord, luck is so random. How can a conscientious leader count on it?”

“He can’t, but a wise commander fosters his own luck. You must be able to seize upon any sudden change in fortune or any weakness in the enemy.”

“Was your training of no consequence then, Lord Tolandruth?” asked the squat, muscular Bessian.

“No, he was just lucky,” Kiya said. The men laughed, and she raised her voice, expanding on her claim. “Lord Tolandruth is the most fortunate man I’ve ever known. If he’d stayed a farmer, he’d have the best crops in the Eastern Hundred. If he’d become a cobbler, he’d have sold more shoes than anyone in Ergoth. Because he took up the sword, he became a famous general.”

“That’s too simple,” Hojan protested. He steadied himself by planting a heavy hand on Miya’s shoulder. Fastidiously, she lifted it off. He wobbled a moment then firmed his knees again.

“Truth is simple,” said Kiya. “That’s what makes it hard to take.”

Egrin carried his bread back to his seat on Tol’s right. “What do you say, my lord?” the marshal asked.

“Kiya’s right. I’ve been very lucky.” Tol popped a hunk of rare beef in his mouth. “I was lucky to learn a great deal from Lord Egrin and all the warriors at Juramona, who were also my teachers. Some, like Marshal Odovar, taught by bad example, but I tried to learn from them all and to put what they taught me to the test in battle.”

He warmed to the topic. “Some common wisdom was invaluable. Some was arrant nonsense. For example, when deploying foot soldiers against cavalry, I-”

A commotion among the guests interrupted Tol. All heads turned in the direction of the disturbance to see Mandes, whom had been absent from the festivities up till now. He was advancing along the lane between the tables. Richly clad in deep blue velvet, he gazed straight ahead, ignoring the merry chaos around him. When he reached the imperial table, he bowed to Ackal IV.

Tol’s fingers closed into fists. By the emperor’s order, no knives or forks were allowed at the banquet (the meat was carved into bite-sized pieces by the cooks before it was served). The order was meant to protect him, but now it spared Mandes, who otherwise would have found Tol’s dinner implements buried in his heart.

“Your Majesty sent for me?” the sorcerer said smoothly.

“I am weary, and my heart is heavy,” Ackal IV said, sighing.

“Your Majesty has had a trying day.” Mandes held out a gloved hand. A many-pointed star of flawless crystal appeared on his palm. “The stars of heaven descend this night to pay you homage, sire.”

Mandes set the ornament on the table before the emperor. It was pretty, but hardly remarkable amidst the splendor of jewels and ornate decor. Smiling slightly at Ackal’s lukewarm response, Mandes clapped his kid-covered hands. With each clap, the small star enlarged, growing to bushel-basket size. Empress Thura, seated next to her husband, gasped and applauded.

Mandes levitated the spiky ornament from the imperial table down to the pavement. He clapped his hands once more, and the glass star expanded again. The crowd around the imperial table exclaimed at the performance.

From their place far down the high table, Oropash and Helbin did not bother to hide their disapproval. Magic was high art to them, not meant for sideshow entertainment.

In addition to all his other violations of the wizards’ code, Mandes now was cheapening their craft merely to amuse the emperor and his guests.

The Mist-Maker spread his arms wide and mouthed silent words of power. The transparent star rose slowly into the air. With a tilt of his head, Mandes set it turning on one point. Catching the torchlight, the spinning star flashed and scintillated, throwing rainbows of light over the admiring crowd.

More than a little tipsy, Tol leaped to his feet. Miya clutched his arm, trying to stop him. Kiya broke her sister’s grip and cut off Miya’s protests.

Oblivious to the danger that threatened him, Mandes was embellishing his act. He put the tip of one finger to the bottommost point of the whirling star, as if balancing it there. Many in the crowd laughed. Ackal IV smiled.

All laughter died when Tol approached. The grim expression on his face spoke volumes, and someone in the crowd yelled, “Take him, Tolandruth!”

“Liar! Betrayer! Murderer!” Tol declared.

Suddenly, the star exploded. With a sound like discordant music, brilliant shards rained over the nearby tables. Mandes threw an arm over his face. Tol did not do so fast enough, and a shard cut his right cheek.

A hush fell over the plaza and all eyes went to the emperor. Far from being displeased, Ackal IV looked more alert and interested than he had all evening.

Mandes was livid. “How dare you interfere with the emperor’s diversion,” he said, drawing back from Tol. “You might have injured him, breaking the crystal orb!”

Tol wiped the line of blood from his cheek. He saw a dark object lying on the ground amid the broken slivers of glass. Mindful of the sharp shards, he bent down and picked it up. It was a lump of lead, formed into a plum-sized ball.

“Lord Tolandruth did not interfere,” called out a strong, clear voice. “I did!”

Striding down the lane between the tables came a dark-eyed young man with curly black hair. He was dressed like a foundryman in leather apron, gauntlets, and leggings. To his surprise Tol recognized Elicarno, engineer and builder of machines. He was trailed by eight young men similarly attired.

Elicarno carried a strange and complicated device. It had a heavy wooden stock, shaped for grasping at one end. At the other end, two pivoting arms stuck out nearly at right angles to the stock, their free ends connected by a thick cord, like a bowstring.

“Master Mechanician, what’s the meaning of this?” Despite the disruption, there was no anger in the emperor’s challenge. Plainly, he did not find Elicarno’s sudden arrival unwelcome.

Elicarno halted a few steps away and bowed with a wide sweep of his free arm.

“Your Majesty, my apprentices and I come to wish you a long and happy reign. I bring you this hand catapult, the latest project from my workshop.” He set the device on the imperial table.

“So it was you who shattered Mandes’s star?” Ackal IV asked.

Elicarno admitted it. He’d broken the glass star with a single lead missile loosed from his hand catapult. Mandes puffed out his chest, ready to bask in the emperor’s outrage.

“Remarkable,” was Ackal IV’s comment.

Mandes deflated visibly as the emperor fingered the tightly twisted skein of cords that powered the throwing arms. When the bowstring was drawn back, the skein was compressed further, imparting power to the arm.

“What is its range?”

“Aimed range is a hundred paces, Majesty, but it can loft projectiles up to two hundred paces.”

Tol asked, “Can it throw darts or arrows?”

“With some adjustments, yes.”

At Elicarno’s nod, Tol picked up the hand catapult. It was weighty but well balanced. The engineer explained he should tuck the butt end against his right shoulder and aim by holding the stock level with his eyes.

From his place below the emperor’s wives, Prince Nazramin remarked loudly, “Ingenious. Just the thing for knocking pigeons off the battlements. No more soiled statues!” Some in the crowd greeted this remark with titters.

Elicarno’s black brows knotted, and Tol could see the retort forming on his lips. Nazramin was not the sort to take sharp words from a commoner, so Tol forestalled any reply by quickly asking how the device worked. He grasped both sides of the cord, and pressing the butt into his hip, he tried to draw the bowstring back. However, the skeins were very strong, and he succeeded in pulling the bowstring only halfway toward the catch-hook set in the middle of the stock.

“Allow me, my lord.”

Elicarno looped the string over an iron hook attached to his broad leather belt. Bending forward, until the stirrup on the front of the catapult was resting on the floor, he put his foot in the stirrup. By straightening his back, he pulled the bowstring across the catch, where it held.

Mandes, furious at having lost the emperor’s notice, could remain silent no longer.

“How long are we to listen to this tradesman?” he protested. “Your Majesty, by rights he should not even be here-”

“I will listen as long as I like,” came the mild reply.

Mandes’s gaze flickered toward Nazramin, hoping to find an ally, but the prince was busy downing a large goblet of wine.

Fixing a bland smile on his face, the sorcerer smoothed his blue velvet robe. “As Your Majesty pleases, always,” he said. “We all know what interesting toys Master Elicarno makes.”

“Toys?” the engineer exclaimed. “I’ll show you a toy!”

He took the lead ball from Tol and loaded it into the catapult. Holding the device high, he turned swiftly, searching for a target. A bronze statue of Ackal Dermount II on the palace promenade caught his eye, and he squeezed the release bar under the catapult’s stock. The bowstring hummed, and the small gray ball flashed away. A heartbeat later, the projectile hit the bronze torso with a metallic plunk. The statue rocked from the impact.

“That lead ball just penetrated bronze plate a finger’s width thick,” Elicarno announced. “The target was over sixty paces away. At forty paces, I can pierce iron armor. With the improved version of my hand catapult, projectiles will go through an iron cuirass at two hundred paces!”

“Sacrilege!” Mandes said, pointing dramatically to the ruined statue. “You desecrated an image of the emperor’s ancestor!”

“It was a terrible likeness anyway,” Ackal IV said.

During the polite laughter that greeted his sally, the emperor began to cough. He couldn’t stop. Thura rubbed his back, her round face creasing with worry.

When he finally regained his breath and lifted his head, blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. Those nearby gasped, the murmurs of concern rippling outward through the ranks of notables. Thura wiped the blood away with a linen napkin.

“Your Majesty!” Mandes said, taking advantage of the silence. “Permit me to say these claptrap machines are not worthy of your attention! Leave such mechanical trivialities to the gnomes. The Emperor of Ergoth can rely upon the swords of his brave warriors and the magic of his loyal sorcerer!”

If Mandes hoped to win the sympathy of the assembled warlords with his remarks, he failed. Even the dullest soldier present could see the value of Elicarno’s invention, and many of them had been on the receiving end of Mandes’s spells and potions. Not a word was spoken in his support. Mandes’s eyes kept darting to Prince Nazramin, but he was engaged in a murmured flirtation with the ladies seated on either side of him.

Elicarno bristled. “Claptrap? Trivialities? Bold words from a weaver of mists and concocter of poisons!”

Pale blue eyes narrowing, Mandes raised a hand, fingers spread, a conjuration forming on his lips. Tol grasped the engineer’s arm, as though to restrain him from further heated words, but in fact to grant him the secret protection of the millstone. However, the agitated expostulations of Chamberlain Valdid reminded Mandes where he was, and he ceased his spellcasting.

Instead, he drew himself up haughtily and stated, “You slander me, Master Elicarno. I demand an apology!”

Elicarno’s reply was brief and pungent. Courtiers gasped to hear profanity spoken in the emperor’s presence, but the warlords guffawed. More heated words would have followed, but Ackal IV, looking wan, called for silence. Although he shivered visibly, sweat had formed a sickly sheen on his forehead.

“Neither of you is a Rider,” he said hoarsely. “Dueling is forbidden to the common born.”

Sorcerer and engineer continued to exchange fulminating looks, but their anger turned to surprise with the emperor’s next words.

“Still, I see no reason why your skills cannot be tested against each other. We shall have a contest, a match of magic versus mechanics.”

Excited whispers buzzed through the assembly. Valdid, hovering at the emperor’s elbow, asked, “Is that wise, sire?”

“Let them test their strength with their creations, not by shedding each other’s blood. The empire needs both magic and machines to be strong. Let the champion of each try conclusions against the other.”

Ackal IV pushed himself to his feet. The assemblage of courtiers and warriors likewise rose.

“The contest shall take place on the Field of Corij, two days hence, at five marks past dawn.”

Elicarno and Mandes bowed their heads, signifying their acceptance.

Leaning heavily on his chief wife, Ackal IV told Valdid the celebration should continue, though he was retiring. Everyone waited in respectful silence as they withdrew.

When Ackal IV reached the top of the palace steps after a slow, painful climb, Tol shouted, “Long live the emperor! Long live Ackal IV!”

Thousands of throats took up his cry. The emperor turned and acknowledged their salute with a brief lift of one hand, then he and Thura vanished into the palace. Tol had hoped to speak with Valaran at some point, but when their ailing husband withdrew, protocol demanded the imperial consorts retire as well. With a swirl of crimson silk, Valaran entered the shadowed palace.

Freed of the presence of imperial dignity, the feast immediately grew louder and more raucous.

Mandes slipped away as Egrin, the Dom-shu sisters, and Tol’s officers came forward to meet Elicarno. Miya in particular seemed quite taken with the hand catapult. She and Elicarno spent the rest of the party talking earnestly together. Tol remarked to Kiya that he’d not known Miya was so interested in machines. Kiya said it wasn’t engines that held Miya’s attention so much as the engineer.

Tol invited Elicarno to stay with them at the villa, citing Mandes’s treachery. He wouldn’t put it past the sorcerer to make an attempt on the engineer’s life before the contest.

Elicarno agreed. He’d long suspected Mandes had been behind the strange, crippling arthritis that had afflicted his old master practically overnight. The illness struck just after Master Wurdgell had argued with a prominent courtier over a fee the courtier refused to pay. The courtier, Elicarno explained, was known to be one of Mandes’s clients.

Midnight had come and gone when Tol and his party finally left the continuing celebration. They recovered their weapons at the Inner City gate while they waited for their horses to be brought. As he and his apprentices had no horses, Elicarno accepted Miya’s offer to ride double with her.

Elicarno told his apprentices to return to the workshop and prepare for the coming contest.

“What should we prepare, Master?” asked the eldest.

“Everything. Tools, timber, the portable forge, ingots of iron and bronze. I want to be on the Field of Corij one mark after dawn!”

The trip back to the Quarry District passed in silence, surrounded as they were by the celebrations ringing through the streets of Daltigoth.

Nazramin rose from the tangle of bedclothes. The chamber was stifling. His head swam from too much wine and his throat was dry as dust.

Pulling on a robe, he slipped out, stubbing his toe on a table leg before reaching the door. The resultant shower of curses did not wake the two women snoring softly on the bed behind him. He couldn’t remember their names. They were the sisters-daughters? — of an ambitious courtier and had sought him out at the feast, eager to curry favor.

He’d found them amusing enough at first but loathed the sight of them now. He’d have the servants throw them out at daybreak.

In the antechamber, he went to a small table that held a pitcher of cider, several cups, and a tray of breads and sweets. Servants replaced the food on the tray regularly, knowing better than to allow their master to discover anything stale or less than perfectly presented on the tray.

The tart cider stung his throat as he gulped it down. He was about to refill his cup when he noticed a strange shadow moving on the wall in front of him. Spinning, he flung the cup at the fireplace.

The brass cup clanged against the stone hearth. Mandes easily ducked the awkward throw.

“How dare you come here unbidden!” Nazramin snarled. “Get out!”

“Please, Your Highness! Be not hasty!” said the sorcerer, holding up his gloved hands in a placating gesture. “We have common cause against these upstarts, Tol and Elicarno! If you will lend me a few men, Highness, I could chastise them properly!”

“I’d sooner throw my men off a cliff. Master Tol has taken the engineer under his protection. He’ll be vigilant. Armed assassins won’t get within bowshot of either of them.”

Nazramin drank greedily from the heavy brass pitcher, cider trickling down his cheeks. Sated at last, he slanted a dangerous glare at Mandes.

“You are not welcome here, Mist-Maker. Get out.”

“We are allies,” Mandes insisted.

“You are my hireling, not my equal!”

Hefting the brass pitcher in one hand, Nazramin advanced. The flickering firelight was the room’s only illumination, but it plainly showed the violence in the prince’s eyes. Mandes sidled out of reach, beseeching his former patron to listen to him.

Without warning, Nazramin relaxed. He dropped the pitcher carelessly to the floor. Cider dregs splashed onto the intricately woven wool and silk carpet.

“The peasant was at your house last night, did you know?” he said. “He came there to kill you.”

Mandes nodded. He’d been told as much.

The prince snorted. “He would have slain you tonight, in front of the entire coronation party, had not Elicarno diverted him. You should be grateful to Master Soot-and-Gears. He saved your cowardly carcass.”

“No one spoke up for me at all,” Mandes muttered.

Another snort. “You’re hardly well loved, sorcerer.”

“After all I’ve done for those lords and ladies-the troubles I’ve handled for them-and they just sat there, gawking, while I was threatened! Even the emperor failed me.”

Nazramin’s eyes narrowed. “He seems to have recovered much of his will. What happened to your spells?”

Mandes explained that Ackal IV had been spending an unusual amount of time in the Tower of High Sorcery, which had helped to restore some of his equilibrium. “His recovery is only temporary, Highness,” the sorcerer added.

From a squat vase in a corner of the room, Nazramin drew a hefty cloth bag. He tossed it at Mandes’s feet, and the contents clinked loudly.

“The balance of your fee.”

“Highness, your brother still lives and reigns. My task is not yet done.”

“You’ve done enough. Amaltar won’t last long on the throne. Besides”-the prince smiled in a most unpleasant fashion-“something tells me you won’t be in Daltigoth much longer.”

Mandes, fingering the bag of money he’d picked up, froze. “What do you mean?” he stammered.

“You’re finished here, sorcerer. Surely you realized it yourself, tonight. You’ve gone too far. None of your wealthy ‘friends’ is willing to be your patron. Master Tol thirsts for your blood, and the engineer will do his best to shame you on the Field of Corij. When that happens-”

Mandes flinched hard, and Nazramin’s smile widened.

“When that happens,” he repeated, “your only recourse will be exile, unless you wish to face the tender mercies of the farmer or any of the several hundred other worthies in the city who hate you for what you’ve done to them.”

The cold words were like a judgment. Mandes shivered, but he was not finished yet. Drawing a deep breath, he straightened his back and declared, “That tinker will never beat me!”

“Care to wager on it? That villa of yours is quite handsome.

Want to hazard your house against my gold that Elicarno humiliates you?”

Mandes’s hard-won composure failed him, and his gaze dropped. Nazramin laughed harshly.

“No? Well, no matter. When you’re gone, I’ll claim it anyway.”

Mandes looked utterly bewildered. His empire was crumbling, and he couldn’t begin to understand why. The prince, his most powerful client, was exploring the food on the tray with a casual hand, ignoring him completely.

“I know many compromising things about this city’s nobles,” Mandes whispered desperately. “I will speak. I will tell all.”

Nazramin made a disgusted sound. “Open your mouth, and I’ll see your tongue cut out before you finish your first word.”

This was no idle threat. Nazramin would likely do the deed himself-and enjoy it.

The sorcerer pulled the shreds of his dignity around himself and backed away. His dark blue robe blended with the shadows by the wall.

“Don’t be too smug, cruel prince. I can see your future,” Mandes said. His form began to fade away. “You will gain what you most desire, only to have it taken from you, bit by bit. Your own blood will strike you down, and the last thing you see in this life will be the eyes of the one you have wronged most…”

Nazramin uttered a loud, vulgar exclamation, but Mandes was gone, dissolved into the shadows by the hearth.

The prince tied the belt of his robe with angry, abrupt gestures. The Mist-Maker was obviously flinging false prophecies in hopes of saving his waning prestige. When Nazramin wore the crown of Ackal Ergot, his enemies would know true fear. Already he had a list of those who would not long survive his coronation. The list grew longer with each passing day.

He returned to his bedchamber. The rasping female snores and tangle of pale limbs in his bed filled him with revulsion. He strode back across the antechamber and flung open the doors to the upstairs hall.

The walls rang as Nazramin bellowed for his servants. Soon the calm was shattered again by the shrieks and protests of his former guests, driven out into the night with whatever bedclothes they could grab.

An uneventful day and night passed at Rumbold Villa. A steady stream of Elicarno’s apprentices came and went, bringing their master reports on the progress of the many projects underway at his workshop. The shop was in the New City, between the Old City and the canal district. A three-story barn-like structure housed Elicarno’s workshops on the ground floor, storerooms and studies on the second, home quarters on the third. Forty-two apprentices worked under the engineer; most were young men from provincial cities like Caergoth and Juramona.

Tol had taken an immediate liking to the brash engineer. A few years younger than Tol, Elicarno bristled with energy and enthusiasm. Like Tol, he was of low birth and had gone far by hard work. In between visits from his assistants, he, Tol, Egrin, and the Dom-shu sisters talked about what they’d seen of the wider world. Elicarno examined Number Six with keen interest, having never seen steel before.

Although based on common iron, steel required a forging process said to be so laborious only a few such blades were made each year. The dwarves fashioned small quantities of the hard metal mainly for their chiefs or to trade to the Silvanesti.

The day after the coronation, they were all enjoying dinner in the villa’s elevated garden. Late day sun washed the wooden table and benches in warm light as Elicarno described how his most successful invention, the rapid loading lever for catapults, had helped defeat a warlike clan of dwarves in the northern Harrow Sky Mountains. This brief campaign had occurred as the war with Tarsis raged. A small force of Riders under Lord Regobart’s nephew Heinax, accompanied by a corps of catapulteers trained to use Elicarno’s rapid loader, had caught the recalcitrant dwarf band in a high canyon and wiped them out.

“With my loading lever, a team can loose ten missiles where one used to go,” Elicarno explained.

Egrin shook his head. “It’s a sad thing for brave warriors to be slain by soulless machines.”

“There’s no honor in such a fight,” Kiya agreed. “Not for the victors or the victims.”

Elicarno’s black brows drew down in a confused frown. “Honor? Bravery? I thought the purpose of warfare was to win, inflicting the most damage on the enemy, while preserving your own men.”

Egrin was an old-fashioned warrior and proud of it. Kiya had been raised a warrior of her forest tribe, with all the sentiments of the primeval Dom-shu. Tol respected their beliefs, even if he thought them outmoded, and so made a diplomatic remark about progress. Miya, unburdened by considerations of subtlety, loudly proclaimed Elicarno’s point of view the only correct one.

“Pah!” her sister retorted. “You favor the speaker, not his words!”

Tol smothered a smile. Whatever Miya’s beliefs about the purpose of war, Kiya’s shot had been a true one. The younger Dom-shu hadn’t left Elicarno’s side all morning. Her fascination with him was all the more striking since, in all the years she’d been with Tol, she’d never shown a particular interest in any man. Tol loved Miya like a big sister and wanted her to be happy. Kiya was plainly put out by the whole situation.

Talk turned to the coming contest.

“The test must be a problem both magic and machines can address,” Elicarno mused. “Perhaps shifting a large boulder or erecting a length of wall.”

“Nothing so constructive, I’d wager,” Egrin remarked, tugging gently at his beard. “If I were you, Master Elicarno, I’d form my plans around destruction. His Majesty has always been taken with displays of power.”

It was true. No matter how subtle his purpose, Ackal IV usually favored overwhelming force to achieve his ends.

Taking their advice to heart, Elicarno decided not to bring a broad assembly of materials to the contest. Instead, he would have his men disassemble one of the larger catapults, outfitted with his famous rapid loading lever, and carry that to the duel, along with two wagonloads of missiles.

The character of Elicarno’s opponent was the next topic of conversation. Mandes was a wily and powerful sorcerer, but his repertory was limited, Tol advised the engineer. His specialties were mist and weather spells and potions. No matter what form the contest took, Mandes would be determined to win at any cost.

“Will he try to harm Elicarno?” Miya asked. She appeared ready to take on the sorcerer herself should that happen.

“He won’t try that in front of the emperor,” Tol said, “but expect a low blow. Win or lose, Mandes will strike back, whether a day later or forty.”

His sober warning cast a pall over the dinner. Elicarno withdrew to his room in the villa and spent the evening chalking calculations on a piece of slate. Miya stood watch over him at a distance, keeping interruptions to a minimum. As for Tol, he spent the night patrolling the grounds.

The sun set and night spread over the capital. A crispness flavored the air. Autumn was coming on cool wings, bringing with it the promise of many changes.

Despite the cool night, the day of the contest dawned sultry, with gray clouds clotting the morning sky. A heavy rain drenched the Field of Corij just before sunrise. Comprising several acres of flat meadow north of the city, the field served as a practice and training ground for the imperial army, and the heavy sod was much cut up by the hooves of thousands of horses.

True to his promise, Elicarno arrived one mark past dawn with his forty-two apprentices. They brought with them six wagonloads of material-timbers, metal brackets, and a league of cordage neatly wound in heavy hanks.

Under the master engineer’s watchful eye, the apprentices fell to assembling a great catapult of the type Elicarno referred to as a “two-armed ballista.” This proved to be a much larger version of the hand-held device he’d used to shatter Mandes’s crystal star. Two throwing arms installed sideways were set on a cross-shaped frame. This in turn was placed on a pedestal of stout timbers, so finely balanced a single man could pivot the heavy ballista in any direction.

Although the catapult was of unusually high quality-the wood seasoned and smoothly planed, and with iron brackets on every joint-the true curiosity lay in Elicarno’s loading device. Attached to the rear of the ballista were a pair of tall levers that pivoted on the frame itself. Hooks on the levers grabbed the thick bowstring, drawing it back when long ropes attached to the levers were pulled by a gang of apprentices. When the trigger was tripped, the bowstring sprang forward, propelling the missile (in this case an oversized arrow). Springs pulled the levers forward, and a wooden cam caused the hooks on them to lift and snap over the bowstring again. With a loading team hauling smartly on the lever ropes, the machine could be swiftly cocked again and a fresh dart laid in the launching trough. Operated by a strong and smart company, the ballista could throw a storm of missiles in a very short time.

At the appointed time the emperor arrived, accompanied by a large entourage of courtiers and warlords. A pavilion had been raised along the edge of the field, and the imperial party took their ease there while servants dispensed cider and sweetmeats.

Tol and Egrin rode over to pay their respects. They dismounted and surrendered their weapons to the bodyguards. Striding through knee-high grass, general and marshal made their way to the pavilion.

As they saluted the emperor, Tol was surprised to see Valaran had come. Gone was her usual court attire of flowing gown and starched headdress. She was dressed from neck to heels in dark green huntsman’s attire cunningly reworked for the female figure. A flat cap of velvet graced her head, with a single peacock feather raking back from the crown. The only imperial consort present, she stood at Ackal IV’s right hand, sipping cider from a porcelain cup.

Inclining his head to her, Tol said, “Highness. I am surprised to see you at something as coarse as a duel.”

Her green eyes blazed over the rim of her cup. “This is no ordinary combat, Lord Tolandruth,” she said. “Magic versus machinery-there’s a true contest!”

She was still the same Val, insatiably curious.

“Master Mandes has not shown himself,” said the emperor, shifting in his wide canvas chair. His face was flushed, his eyes rimmed with red. “Will he cry craven, do you think?”

Valdid, standing at Ackal IV’s left hand, did not think so. “He’s waiting to make an entrance, Your Majesty,” was the old chamberlain’s opinion.

So it proved. Only moments later, a peal of thunder rumbled across the sky, though no lightning had been seen. All looked up. Over the distant forest of city rooftops was a streak of cloud. White against the mixed gray of the unsettled sky, the wisp expanded and came boiling directly toward the Field of Corij.

“Here he comes,” muttered Valdid.

A thrill of concern raced through Tol. By rights this duel should be his-he had been gravely wronged by Mandes many times and should have dealt with him long ago. Did Elicarno realize what danger he was facing?

When eight legs appeared below the surging column of cloud, Tol wondered if any of them truly knew what Mandes was capable of. The legs churned as though galloping through the air. Strangely, the front pairs did not match the rear ones. The four legs in the front line were feathered in white and bore great talons. The rear four were covered in tawny fur.

Wings appeared, beating in unison, and two amazing beasts dropped from the clouds: griffins, harnessed to a white, egg-shaped coach.

The Ergothians gaped. Griffins were exceedingly rare, and this fine, fierce pair bore the markings of royal Silvanesti heritage. Only the Speaker of the Stars owned griffins with snow-white eagle plumage forward and golden lion hide behind.

The coach they drew had no wheels, only a pair of long skids on its underside. The fantastical conveyance swept overhead, turned, and came back, landing gently as an autumn leaf before the imperial pavilion.

Shaken by the spectacle, the guards were slow to muster on the plain between the aerial coach and their emperor. By the time they had, Mandes was emerging.

He looked as dazzling as his transport. Dressed entirely in cloth-of-gold, he wore a skullcap carved from a single piece of lapis lazuli. His gloves were of woven gold thread, and in his right hand he gripped a tall, black oaken staff, inlaid along its entire length with esoteric symbols in silver.

Walking through the flustered guards, Mandes spread his arms wide and halted before the emperor. He bowed his head.

“Your Majesty, your humble servant is here,” he said in a manner neither humble nor servile.

“There’s no mistake about that,” Ackal IV replied dryly.

Valaran exclaimed, “Where in the world did you find a pair of matched griffins?”

“In Silvanost, Highness-a gift from the Speaker of the Stars.”

“For services rendered?” Tol said bluntly.

“Just so, my lord,” was the sorcerer’s cool reply. “I performed a bit of rare art for the Speaker, and in gratitude he presented me with Lightning and Thunderbolt.”

Valaran began to ask about the care and feeding of griffins, but her father cut her off. Valdid urged the emperor to commence the contest.

A runner was dispatched to bring Elicarno. The engineer soon arrived, flanked by Egrin and Miya. Kiya limped behind the trio, a dour expression on her face.

Elicarno had washed and donned clean clothes that morning, but his work assembling the ballista had left him grease-stained once more. The tousled engineer looked the very antithesis of Mandes’s gilded splendor.

When everyone was arrayed before him, Ackal IV charged the combatants.

“You are here to try your purposes against one another-Mandes’s magic against Elicarno’s machinery. As you are both valued vassals of the empire, I will tolerate no harm directed by either of you against the other. This is a contest of power, not a duel to the death. Is that clear?”

Each man assured the emperor of his understanding. Ackal gestured to Valdid.

The chamberlain directed everyone’s attention to two sturdy posts being raised on the field by gangs of soldiers. Each post was a freshly cut elm tree trunk, four steps tall and two handspans thick.

“Those are your targets,” Valdid declared loudly. “The first man to destroy his will be the winner. The deed must he accomplished from a distance-the greater the distance, the greater the merit earned.”

He paused dramatically, then cried, “Commence!”

Elicarno sprinted to his waiting men. “Jacks and levers! Move the beast around and bear on the target!”

His apprentices jammed long levers under the frame of the catapult and began heaving it around. The engine could swing on a pivot in any direction, but the lay of the land prevented Elicarno from using his loading device effectively unless he turned the machine.

While the engineers grunted and shouted, Mandes walked quietly away from the imperial pavilion, golden robe rippling out behind him. Softly, he intoned the words of a spell. A dark cloud began to form over his head.

The engineers had the catapult in position. Elicarno called for a quadrant and plumb line, to make sure the frame of the device was level and true. When he was satisfied, he chose a straight, sturdy dart from a pile of similar missiles and laid it in the launching tray. An assistant banged on the thick end of a wedge jammed under the ballista’s arm. With each blow, the plumb line swung more and more to the perpendicular.

“There!” Elicarno set the trigger mechanism. “Draw the weapon!”

Eighteen strong young men hauled back on the loading levers. With a loud clack, the hooks dropped over the bowstring, and the device began to ratchet back.

Meanwhile, Mandes stood alone in the trampled grass. The sorcerer’s hands were over his head, gloved fingers flexing ever so slightly. The steady drone of his voice carried to the pavilion. The black cloud that had formed over his head was now hovering above his target, growing larger and larger.

“Steady!” Elicarno shouted. His men quickly cleared away from the ballista, now poised and cocked. The power captive in the skeins could take off a man’s head if he got in the way of the bowstring.

The trigger line was a simple length of cord, surprisingly light to trip so large a device. Elicarno wrapped the line around his hand. After a heartbeat’s pause, he pulled the trigger.

Cords shrieked, timbers thrashed, and the bowstring sprang forward. Everyone in the pavilion felt the shock of the machine through the soles of their feet. The dart, two paces of turned hardwood with a solid bronze head, whistled through the air. It sailed over the target post.

“Down, three taps!”

Elicarno’s man pushed the elevation wedge out with three distinct blows of the mallet. The ballista was reloaded, a second missile thrown. This one landed half a step in front of the post, burying itself in the rain-softened soil up to its fletching.

“Up, one!”

A column of light, brighter than a sun, lanced down from the cloud Mandes had conjured. It struck the target post and exploded. The resulting thunderclap rocked the entire assembly, collapsing half the emperor’s pavilion and setting the tethered horses rearing and neighing in terror. Tol felt a glare of heat on the left side of his face. His skin crawled, and the muscles beneath surged of their own accord. Blinded, he flailed one hand and felt Kiya’s strong arm.

The flash faded and vision returned. A veil of smoke drifted across the Field of Corij. Mandes’s target was now only a charred, smoldering stump.

Looking a trifle singed, the sorcerer presented himself to the emperor. Valdid and assorted palace lackeys were struggling to erect the collapsed portion of tent, while Valaran brushed ash and bits of blasted turf from the emperor’s shoulders.

Mandes bowed, straightened, then declaimed, “My target is gone, Your Majesty. I have won!”

Ackal IV held up a hand. “Master Elicarno, can you continue?”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” the engineer shouted, even as he rubbed the dazzle from his eyes.

With the ballista ready, Elicarno loosed another shot. The great arrow struck the center of the post, burying half its length through the elm trunk.

“Rapid, commence!”

The catapult’s arms threshed, hurling a second dart into the target. With a concerted shout, the loaders cocked the weapon again, and another missile was launched. More followed. In short order, Elicarno had deluged his target with forty darts. At times as many as a dozen missiles were in the air at the same time.

The whack of the catapult and the thrum of flying projectiles made a horrible menacing noise.

When Elicarno finally called a halt, no part of his target remained visible. The bronze heads of forty missiles had reduced the wooden post to a scattering of splinters.

Ackal IV rose from his seat, and Valaran braced him. Together, they inspected the targets, starting with Elicarno’s. Valdid, the imperial bodyguards, Tol, Egrin, and the Dom-shu sisters trailed behind.

When the emperor came to Mandes’s charred target, the sorcerer was standing proudly beside it. Ackal IV extended a pale, spotted hand to touch the still-smoking wood.

The silence lengthened, and the tension built. At last the emperor shattered the calm with two words.

“Elicarno wins.”

The engineer’s apprentices let out a wild shout of victory, and the courtiers began to talk excitedly about what they’d seen. Above the din a plaintive cry soared.

“Why, Majesty?”

Mandes hurried after Ackal IV, who was returning to the shade of the pavilion.

“Sire, I struck first, and I destroyed my target before this-this-person managed his first hit!”

The emperor halted and regarded him with unsympathetic eyes. “Your target is not destroyed. Some of it remains. Strike again. Call down the lightning and remove the last vestige of your target.”

Nonplussed, Mandes stammered, “As…as Your Majesty commands. We should remove to a safe distance, then I shall resume my invocation-”

Ackal IV looked beyond him to where Elicarno stood with his apprentices. “Master Engineer, destroy the wizard’s target! Immediately!”

Without hesitation, Elicarno commanded his helpers to swing the ballista around. They aimed down the loading tray and let fly a fresh dart. Ten more followed, pulverizing the stump while Mandes was still gathering himself to begin his lightning spell.

The emperor and his party were only five paces from the target. The loud whir and thump of missiles drove Mandes, Valdid, and assorted courtiers and servants to the ground in terror. Ackal IV remained steadfastly on his feet, with Valaran holding his hand.

A few paces further away, Tol also kept his feet. He was proud of Valaran for standing in the face of Elicarno’s missiles, but prouder still of his imperial patron. Prince Amaltar had never been the bravest of men, but he had apparently reached a limit with Mandes.

Echoes of the bombardment finally died away. Those on the ground picked themselves up.

Ackal IV said, “My forces must be ever ready to strike and must strike hard. No enemy will wait for his foe to make ready, and no battle is ended until the enemy has been completely destroyed. Do you see? Magic is a powerful art, Mandes, but on the battlefield, it must give way to machines-and the men who command them.”

Elicarno’s apprentices shouted and clapped each other on the back. Several seized their master and hoisted him onto their shoulders. The whole group paraded around the ballista, chanting, “Elicarno! Elicarno!”

The sorcerer stood up, his gloves and the front of his golden robe smeared with mud. His defeat, and the emperor’s implacable logic, left him speechless.

“Go from my sight,” Ackal said. “You are no longer our councilor.”

As Mandes stood frozen in shock, Tol whirled and hurried to the pavilion. Justice had been delayed far too long. Mandes no longer enjoyed the protection of his imperial patron. Tol would retrieve his saber and kill the evil sorcerer at last.

“Don’t!” said a breathless voice behind him.

He turned, fury gathering on his face. Valaran was running toward him, moving easily in her huntsman’s togs.

“Don’t,” she repeated.

“I’ll have his head!”

“Fool! Disgraced or no, he is not to be trifled with!”

He said nothing else, just turned away with a savage scowl and resumed his race to the tent. Long-legged Valaran passed him and planted herself squarely in his way.

“Stand aside, Val!”

She took a long stride forward, placing them nose to nose, and looked him squarely in the eye. “I love you, Tol,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I will not watch you die.”

He was so thunderstruck he forgot his thirst for vengeance. Surrounded as they were by servants, court functionaries, soldiers, and friends, her confession meant all the more to him, for the courage it had taken to make it.

Mandes had recovered from the shock of losing his royal patron and was hurrying to his griffin coach. Ackal had turned his back on the fleeing sorcerer, a last gesture of dismissal.

“Arrest him,” he told his guards then walked away, back toward the pavilion.

The guards tried to obey, but Mandes flung two silver vials on the ground in front of them. There was a silent flash, and every man fell to his knees, blinded. Mandes reached the door of his coach.

“Hear my prophecy, Emperor of Ergoth!” he shouted. “What you have will be divided among those closest to you! You will perish in poverty and shame!”

“You insult the throne of Ergoth!” Valdid said, “Tolan-druth, seize him!

Tol had been working his way up behind the sorcerer, taking advantage of his distraction. However, the chamberlain’s cry alerted Mandes, and Tol abandoned stealth to rush the sorcerer.

Elicarno and his apprentices stormed in as well. Mandes flung up his hands, and a blast of wind drove them back. Two of the brawny young men crashed into Tol, knocking him flat.

While his foes were thus hampered, Mandes ducked inside the coach and slammed the door. The griffins reared on leonine legs and uttered strange cries, sounding neither feline nor avian. They galloped away, wings working hard. In only a few bounds, they were airborne.

Elicarno tried to elevate the ballista to send a dart at Mandes, but the machine could not follow such a swiftly moving target. Meanwhile, Tol was hurrying to the emperor and Valaran, worried Mandes might try to avenge himself on his former protector.

His fear proved well founded. In the coach’s wake a whirlwind arose, flinging men and horses aside like dead leaves. The imperial pavilion was yanked from its moorings and took wing, soaring into the sky like a great bird. Tent stakes and lines swept over Ackal IV and Valaran. Tol pushed the emperor out of harm’s way, then grabbed Valaran and pulled her to him, turning his broad back to the flailing lines. Tent poles whacked him between the shoulders. Falling, he twisted to keep Valaran out of the mud. They landed hard, and her weight drove the breath from his chest.

“Let me go,” Valaran hissed, struggling in his arms. “People will see!”

By the time Kiya and Egrin had pulled them to their feet, Mandes was rapidly receding into the northern sky. His impromptu tornado had swept the sky clean of clouds, and sunlight flooded the muddy field.

“Thank you for saving my consort, Tolandruth,” Ackal IV said, coming up to them. Valaran returned to her husband, surreptitiously lending him her strength.

Mandes was gone, but no one standing in the Field of Corij doubted that the danger he represented was still very real.