The children learned Aranic with a satisfying speed. How potent the malleable mind! He’d expected it to be impossible to teach Lak anything at all, but she surprised him. Her accent vanished as swiftly as he could correct her antiquated pronunciation, and soon, she was a great asset in teaching the children.
Lak had forgotten nothing of her former life of scholarship, and her understanding of the Aranic roots of Tonipatrua was stronger than even Charlot’s. Whenever he could not quite explain something, she could conjure a shadowy image of the thing, so richly detailed it took their breath.
Charlot had seen many illusionists in his time, but none could approach the masterful creations Lak could create with the Asyndagrim. She could summon entire scenes from shadow, a dozen shady characters talking at once within scenery wrought in countless shades of gray.
The deeper Charlot looked into the details, the richer they became, and because they were creations of magic, his failing eyes were no barrier to his appreciation. With delight, he’d observed aphids crawling on the stem of a rose deep in the backdrop of a scene, with still smaller ants racing around them. Such profligacy of minutiae! What a marvelous mask. It was all too easy to forget its terrible power.
The journey back to the Crimson Citadel took nearly twice as long as the way out, for there was no desperate rush. Often, the party would slow to a stop when some interesting point of conversation cropped up, or simply to appreciate a particularly splendid view.
Few parties could have had such a luxury in the northern wilderness, but Charlot knew the landscape well. He carefully charted their course through the territory of the least-hostile wendigs and gave a wide berth to a few particularly dangerous lairs. A few times they were shadowed by raiders or stalked by a trio of shadowcats, but none would chance attacking a party in the company of a silverpaw bear.
They stopped along the way to peer into the blue waters of Lake Azure where silvery eels danced beneath perfectly still surface. They took a detour north to get to a strand of the Wimmaweeg Forest that was particularly rich in fungi.
Every few paces, Charlot had to chastise Korak to keep him from eating mushrooms with potentially calamitous effects. Tame as he seemed, Charlot did not want to find out how certain mind-expanding mushrooms might affect the gargantuan bear.
He took the time to replenish his own stores of certain particularly rare and desirable mushrooms, explaining at length to the children how they could safely be collected, pointing out the species to avoid at all costs.
Each time they rested, Charlot would leave a fish or a choice piece of meat suspended on a high branch where it could not be missed from the sky. When the party had traveled on and her master’s attention was elsewhere, the gyrfalcon would swoop down and sniff at the morsel, cautious of any adulterant. When she found none, she would gulp it down gladly. Charlot’s designs were far more subtle than simple poison.
By the time they reached Fraughten, both children vastly improved in Aranic. It took some effort to conceal his pleasure in their progress. He could not have them getting full of themselves, especially Shaharzarat.
He was making progress with Siyabros as well. The young wolf had learned to sit each time he was instructed and would stay where commanded nearly half the time. Whenever he faltered, Korak would huff at him, as if outraged the wolf could not understand such simple instruction.
Having one tame beast accelerated the training of another, and Charlot suspected when Siyabros met the silver wolves at the Crimson Citadel, his progress would accelerate greatly.
Charlot had paced their journey so they would arrive at Fraughten at noon. Though he expected no trouble, he still wished to see as well as possible in case there were any unexpected complications. The news he brought would not be welcome.
“Watch this,” Charlot grinned to the children.
Again, Charlot worked his glamor to appear as the old wandering priest, and again Flaccaro reluctantly appeared as no more than a mundane staff of black oak. The war dog snorted, unimpressed.
The town was a welcome sight after such a long journey, with its wide lanes and tidy cottages painted with blue varl. How different it was from the muck choked-streets of Billibee with its ramshackle buildings all crammed together!
Now that he knew to look for them, the signs of the Manatramord’s involvement here were unmistakable. The use of blue varl to repel rodents, the great distances between the barns, outhouses, and homes. Someone with a solid grasp of drainage and sanitation had plotted out this town, and they’d had the authority to make their plan stick.
The villagers had not lost their awe of the bear who’d eaten so many of their former masters. They kept a healthy distance as the party made their way to the town square and dismounted, stiff and weary from their long ride. Korak’s tail wagged as he sniffed the air. Someone was baking in one of the cottages near the square. Charlot lifted a hand to the curious villagers and gave a kindly smile.
“Blessings of the Wanderstar upon you all!” he called out, squinting at the indistinct faces. At last, he found one that was familiar, a large woman with tired eyes who dared to approach Charlot’s menagerie.
Millian wore a thick leather apron with pitted gloves tucked into its strap. Charlot watched her movement carefully, gauging how she’d healed from the vicious whipping.
“You found your thief!” Millian said with a smile of genuine relief. At once, Charlot realized she had never believed that he was seeking an apprentice and thought he meant to kill the boy all along. He was slightly outraged, but who could blame her? He’d certainly done enough damage the last time he was here.
“Thanks to the Laughing Star, where all roads cross. Young Sylas here has renounced his life of crime and pledged his life to her service! Likewise, we rescued young Zara here from the clutches of the Sun Cult! They meant to burn this innocent girl as a witch!”
Millian’s eyebrows rose. Charlot had spent some time deciding what he would say about the showdown in Billibee. The tale was bound to find its way here. He spoke loudly so that all could hear him, “Fortunately, the Star shone on us. I was able to rescue Zara here, and the pretender met an awful fate!”
At his side, he could see Shaharzarat scowling at the diminutive he’d used in place of her name but did not want anyone puzzling out her origin. He’d cautioned both children not to speak in town, and they heeded his warning.
“Why’s he got a Wyrth dog with him?” a man called out from the edge of the square.
“I found a cohort of legionnaires north of Billibee! Korak here made short work of them! I tamed this war dog, observe! Lak, sit!” Charlot commanded, and Lak sat on her haunches, giving him a look of unvarnished hatred. Confused, Siyabros did the same.”
There were whispers all around the square. War dogs fought to the death and would not serve another master. Charlot had to keep himself from grimacing. If he was not careful, news of his so-called miracles could easily get out of hand. The last thing he needed was a pack of troublesome pilgrims showing up at his citadel and building shrines and whatnot.
“What of Fraughten, how fares this lovely town?” Charlot asked.
“We overcame the shants and tore down their tawdry altar. The Sun Cult is welcome here no longer,” Millian said, and Charlot nodded. He’d seen as much in his scrying pool.
“What of young Berto, is he well?”
“Bedridden, but better with each day. Already, his hair has begun growing back.”
“Superb!” Charlot clapped his hands together. “What a great fortune the boy could be saved.” Charlot put the slightest stress on saved, and Millian did not miss it. He wanted his past deeds fresh in her mind when he brought her these tidings. “I have brought you a gift, here!” Charlot said, producing a bundle of purple-black mushrooms tied together with string. Millian’s eyes lit with recognition.
“Nyantamic! Surely you’ve saved someone’s life with this gift. We must get these in vinegar at once. Come with me!”
“Children, wait here, please. Keep an eye on Siyabros. Everyone! The bear is friendly, the wolf is wild yet! Keep your distance!” Charlot called out to the villagers who had gathered around to gawk.
Indeed, Siyabros had his ears flattened when a few brave children crept closer for a better look at the giant bear. Charlot hoped everyone would have the good sense to obey his orders.
* * *
Charlot followed Millian into her cottage and was surprised to find the war dog followed him in through the open door. Lak settled onto her haunches before the hearthfire, casting a shadow across the cabin.
“Out of the light, you! It’s already dim enough in here,” Charlot protested, and Lak resettled herself, always keeping her eyes on Millian. The leader of Fraughten turned her eyes from the dog to Charlot, and it was clear she was not happy to see either.
“The vinegar…” Charlot reminded her of her pretext, and she rustled about on her workbench until she found a jar for the Nyantamic mushrooms. She sliced off the stems and inspected the undersides of the caps with the point of her knife.
“There are no necrotrophs,” Charlot said. He was not surprised when she checked over every cap in spite of his assurance. When she was satisfied, she set the caps into the jar and poured in black vinegar to the brim, careful to let no air remain within as she sealed the lid with wax.
“What are necrotrophs?” Lak asked when the sealing was through. Millian was startled, and her hand shot to her chest. No doubt this was just what Lak had intended. Millian backed up against the workbench and grasped for the knife.
“Stop. You are not in danger,” Charlot commanded. He turned to the war dog, who had formed a shadowy mouth to speak. “What is the meaning of this? Why have you revealed yourself?”
“I know this woman,” Lak growled. “She one visited my prison but would not set me free. Care for this one, she is more than she seems.”
“I am well aware of that,” Charlot said dryly, rubbing his forehead. The damnable sïthur had upset his careful plans. Confound that shade!
“You fool!” Millian hissed. “You freed the demon!”
“The prison beneath the river was crumbling. It was only a matter of time until she broke free on her own. I have taken it upon myself to engineer a more enduring solution to the problem,” Charlot explained, scrambling to improvise.
“Utter idiocy! If you haven’t the power to banish this one, you should never have set it free!”
“I never did set her free,” Charlot said, an edge to his voice. “Lak is far more of a prisoner under my power than she ever was sealed beneath the river. Now, enough of this frippery. This sïthur is the least of your problems.”
Millian stared at the war dog, eyes locked on the mouth of dripping shadows. Her upper lip twitched with discomfit, and Charlot wagered it would take the woman some time to come to grips with the situation.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Necrotrophs are parasites that infect other fungi,” Charlot explained to Lak, to fill the dead space in the air. “In the case of nyantamic, if the caps were infested with them, instead of pickling into a superb cure for many types of insect-borne illness, the nyantamic would ferment until the jar exploded, releasing vapors that kill with a single whiff.”
“Fascinating. Could you make a weapon out of it?”
Now, it was Charlot’s turn to be discomfited, he felt the blood draining from his face. For a moment, it was as if he was back in Adder Vale, watching the black mists roll into the valley. He clutched his hand into a fist and forced the memory away.
“Gas is a terrible weapon. Fickle and as dangerous to the wielder as the target,” Charlot said, a catch in his voice.
“But imagine it delivered by catapult! Bombarding a fortress with casks full of the stuff,” Lak persisted, and he was about to command her to be silent. But then he could not help but envision it. Legionnaires in their heavy plate mail, clawing at their helmets with gauntleted hands as the poison filled their lungs. Dying in droves, whole cohorts snuffed by a weapon they could not even see. He could feel it locking into place, another piece of the puzzle.
“Swallow the stars. It could be devastating against heavy armor. Already, I can see how it could be made a weapon of war. The necrotroph mass acts like mother of vinegar. You could have a hundred casks going at once, with a valve on each, and a flask collecting the noxious vapor. What’s more, you wouldn’t simply fling casks. You’d use a bellows to concentrate the fumes, and then when the vessel burst, the pressure causes them to erupt and disperse the poison over a greater area.”
The pair were aglow with the excitement of the dire idea, and they’d almost forgotten Millian. She was horrified at their plotting. Charlot was reminded that this was no simple village witch. The woman was an agent of the Manatramord. All that they said and did here would make its way back to her order. If they decided Charlot was a threat to their schemes, they could be a terrible adversary.
For a dark moment, he wondered if he ought to silence her before she could report back to the black monks. But he discarded the thought almost as soon as it arose. If their agent vanished and their plans for Fraughten were upended, the Manatramord would investigate.
If he wanted to keep his name out of the story, there would be no choice but to extinguish the whole village, and even that would point to the Crimson Citadel. There were only so many men on the Arc who could simply eradicate a village in an afternoon. Always, murder led to murder. He was down in it now, and he would have to try another tact.
“The time has come to dispense with all pretense. I know all that I say will make it back to your masters. I have captured Lak because I intend to destroy Urth’Wyrth.”
“What?” Millian choked. “Are you joking?”
“No. I am resolved,” Charlot said gravely.
“You’ve gone mad,” she said softly, fear backing her voice. “The demon has taken you over.”
“Ha! In her dreams and nowhere else. I have aspired to destroy Urth’Wyrth for a long, long time. This is all part of a grand plan that began long before you were born.”
“A grand plan to destroy an entire city-state? To defeat the greatest empire the Arc has ever known?” Millian spat.
“Debatable,” both Charlot and Lak said in unison, and man and dog turned to each other and each nodded in appreciation. How alike they were at times! Yet, now was not the time to spring into a debate on whether the Golden Age of Aran or the Unlimited Empire of the Limitless Light had been grander in their heyday than the Wyrth Dominion.
“The destruction of the Wyrth Dominion is exactly what I intend, and furthermore, I shall succeed.”
“Utter madness.”
“In your position, I’m sure I would think the same. Feel free to report as such to your masters. Now, the day is getting late, we must be going.”
“Wait! You said the demon was the least of my worries,” Millian said.
“Of course! I’d nearly forgotten,” Charlot trailed, though certainly he never had. “The magus who imprisoned Lak will come seeking to challenge me. His name is Ytrios, and he intends to destroy this village and kill everyone in it to try and lure me into battle.”
“What!?”
“I’m afraid it is inevitable. I would advise you to gather the villagers and begin preparations to abandon Fraughten at once.”
“We can’t simply leave. The villagers have crops in the ground. This is their home.”
“A home these people imprudently built in the shadow of the Crimson Citadel. This outcome is as inevitable as if they’d built their town upon the shore at low tide. You must convince them to flee.”
Millian struggled to take in all the woe he had laid on her. She drew a deep, ragged breath he was fairly sure would return as a scream, but she only hissed it out slowly through her teeth.
“I spent four years of my life preparing to take control of Fraughten. Four years of this simple guise! Four years of kowtowing to fools for the sake of this dismal hamlet. I was scourged for it!”
“Yes, I recall that. Four years or forty, all works are eventually undone. Unless your order has the power to dispatch Ytrios, the end is at hand.”
“How easy for you to say!” Millian hissed.
“It is indeed easy. I have failures that were decades in the making. You can simply find another town.”
“No, I can’t! We don’t simply hide away in a tower and let the world rot. The Manatramord works for a better world, and Fraughten is a part of our plan for Norta. I must hold it. How do I know you haven’t made up this whole thing?”
“Show her,” Charlot bid lack.
Suddenly, the room was alive with crawling shadows, and at the center of the scene, Ytrios the mageslayer formed from the darkness. At his feet were two sobbing forms, nude and quivering in agony. Lak perfectly captured the sadistic glint in his eye, the incipient madness trembling in the muscles of his emaciated face as he tormented the wretches.
The illusion was superb, and again, Millian’s hand clutched at her heart. Charlot wondered if she could take the strain. The shadowy figure of Ytrios turned his gaze toward Millian, looming larger and larger.
“Enough!” Charlot demanded, and the shadows fell apart.
Charlot did not need to argue further. He simply waited for her to come to the conclusion he desired. At last, she slumped into a chair and threw her head in her hands.
“I don’t have the authority to convince them to leave. If I tried to uproot these people, they would not go. Some fool would speak against me and tell them there is no threat, and they would cast me out because it’s easier. Then, they’ll all die.”
Charlot nodded. That was exactly what would happen.
“Can you not simply kill this other wizard?” she asked, raising her eyes to him. Now, they had hit the stage of bargaining.
“I certainly could, and I intend to. Eventually. But my sight is failing, and until I have found a way to restore it, I cannot wage a magewar in unfamiliar territory.”
All at once, his stratagem became clear to her. She drew back with distaste.
“There are one hundred and twenty-three people in this town. You gamble them like a counterfeit coin.”
“A facile comparison. If I had no regard for the townsfolk, I would not give you any warning whatsoever. Certainly, I am not happy with the town’s proximity to the Citadel.”
“You’re using them to get what you want, that’s all.”
“Oh, did your order spend decades incubating this little town out of overflowing charity? How many Fraughtens have the Manatramord seeded? How many bold villagers have you raised free from the yoke of hopeless peasantry, awaiting the day you could unite them under a single banner and try to seize control of the lake once again?”
He watched Millian’s eyes carefully, wondering how close he’d struck with his hypothesis. From her silence, he was certain he’d nearly pierced the heart of the matter.
“Now, imagine how much easier that goal should become if the Wyrth Dominion fell.”
“Easier? Are you mad? It would plunge the whole of the Arc into chaos and spawn a dozen wars at once.”
“When you’ve swallowed something truly awful, an emetic is required,” Charlot said, tossing a glance at Lak. The dog’s dark eyes stared back. Neither of them would ever forget the night of their meeting. “I can think of no better circumstances for your order to seize control of the narrative.”
“With you as its head? Is that what you’re driving at?”
“Ludicrous! I’d sooner embrace the Void than rule anything or anyone. If your order is so keen to rule the Arc, I say have at it. I only want Urth’Wyrth destroyed. I’m all too happy to let someone else worry about picking up the pieces.”
Millian squinted at him, again not quite believing this whole thing. How sour her day had become!
“Now, when I left this town, no doubt you dispatched a message to the Manatramord. What did you tell them? More importantly, what did they tell you?”
She held up her palm, displaying the black diamond tattoo.
“We do not talk,” she said.
“How tiresome! Let me hazard a guess, and if I am right, say nothing. You informed them of my sudden acceleration of your plan to overtake the town. They were displeased but commended your initiative. They told you I had bought a particularly unpleasant book from them, Corpse-Eater would be the closest translation. My wolves collected it from atop the ten thousand steps. How close am I so far?”
“They called it Devourer of the Dead not Corpse-Eater.”
“How flowery. A bit too divergent from the Sektar’s original intent for my taste. Truly a brutal language, far deeper than the Wyrth tongues it eventually spawned. Here is what I need to know: The monk I dealt with would not tell me if there were any more works of Morsuruptir. The only reason they would sell me this one is because I demanded it by name. I learned of its existence from Broken Ring.”
“You knew Broken Ring?” Millian breathed.
“Yes, of course. Why do you look as if that’s some great accomplishment? The tales about that one are far greater than their subject. His predecessor was the impressive one.”
“Mere,” Millian breathed, a sudden childish excitement in her eyes. “Impossible, you would be—“
“Far older than you can even imagine. Yes, I knew Mere the Peerless and Merriweather the Master, and nearly every other great name that has ever rung out across the lake. Remember that when you try to hide the truth from me as if I were some senile dotard. Are you playing dumb or truly this ill-informed? I can’t tell if your order has forgotten everything important or if you’re simply too low-ranking to be trusted with any valuable information.”
How bitter a look she gave him! Whether he had guessed right or wrong, she, of course, could not tell him.
“If you need to get message to a superior…” he dangled.
“There are more books!” she spat, at the limit of her patience. “Of course, we didn’t offer the others, you arrogant prat! Sektar books can’t be scribed! We only sold you the volume because it was cursed!”
“It was only barely cursed, a trifling thing to break. And what’s this foolishness about not being able to transcribe Sektar? The Manatramord has fallen farther than I’d thought. I expect they’ll forget how to draw breath next.”
There was a snort from Lak, and the war dog’s stub of a tail wagged. How she was enjoying this! Charlot had to remind himself not to relish the power imbalance overmuch. Though he had the upper hand now, it might not always be so.
“Now, I believe I have a firm grasp on the situation. Here is what will happen. Within two week’s time, no less than three, and no more than nine, monks shall appear at the Crimson Citadel, and with them they will bring a long list of volumes I am going to furnish for you. Smart monks, not stupid neophytes. I will teach them the art of transcribing Sektar, and they will get ample practice on the volumes they have brought. Then, they will return to the Abyssimus and teach others until the grievous ignorance of this most basic scholarly task is eradicated from your order.”
“The Manatramord will not-”
“Stop!” Charlot said, holding up a finger. “Everything I am saying is inevitable, you might as well argue with the sun for rising. My generosity does not end there. I will also devise some defense for Fraughten. It’s not only Ytrios you need fear. The shants are sure to return seeking recompense. The legion is on the prowl as well. One of them potentially escaped when I destroyed their patrol north of Billibee. All sorts of unfortunate attention may be headed our way. Replacing the garrison is essential if the town is to have any hope of survival.”
“You’re the cause of all of this. I’ve had no end of trouble since you darkened my door,” Millian complained.
“Ha! When I built the Crimson Citadel there was nothing, nothing at all for a hundred leagues in any direction. I built as far from civilization as was feasible for this exact reason. Now, you have built your schemes upon my doorstep, and you say I am to blame when they all come crashing down! You’ll get my sympathy at the same time you find the end of your troubles. Never!”
She had a hopeless, drowned expression, and she shot her eyes to the door, as if pleading for him to go. He’d hit her hard. Dealing with the Manatramord was much like dealing with a demon, no place for weakness or compassion. Yet, as he looked at her, he thought perhaps the load was heavier than she could bear.
“One final thing. What brought you to Blouche River in the first place?”
“I stumbled on it. That was four years ago. I had just been assigned here. I was still trying to keep up my research, but nothing came of it.”
“What sort of research?” Charlot pressed.
“Horticultural, but as I said, it was a failure, like everything else in this godforsaken land. I sought to crossbreed potatoes that could resist the black blight. But it’s a lost cause.”
“Aha!” Charlot beamed. He rummaged in his robe and produced one of the tubers from Potato Hill.
“There was a whole hillside of these growing wild before the bear got at them. Enough remain to seed a new crop. Not a trace of blight in any of them. Let that be a lesson to you, there is much to be gained from revisiting one’s failures.”
He watched the change come over her, from darkest despair to utter astonishment.
“This…” she began, her voice quavering with emotion, “changes everything.”
Charlot nodded, leaving her to her joy. No matter the woe he had brought her, this was a far greater triumph. He headed for the door, and Lak trotted after him.