“No, you condemn me, just as you condemn all my kind for merely existing,” Rhonin quietly returned. He took another bite of hard biscuit, then added, “Yes, my lord, I cast a spell, but one only designed to communicate along the distances. I sought advice from one of my seniors on how to proceed on a mission that has been sanctioned by the highest powers in the Alliance . . . as the honorable ranger here’ll vouch, I’d say.”
Vereesa spoke even as the knight’s eyes shifted to her. “His words bear truth, Duncan. I see no reason why he would cause such damage—” She held up a hand as the elder warrior started to protest, no doubt again pressing the point that all wizards became damned souls the moment they took up the art. “—and I will meet any man, including you, in combat, if that is what it takes to restore his rights and freedom.”
Lord Senturus looked disgruntled at the thought of having to face the elf in battle. He glared at Rhonin, but finally nodded slowly. “Very well. You have a staunch defender, wizard, and on her word and bond I will accept that you are not responsible for what happened.” Yet the moment he finished the statement, the paladin thrust a finger at the mage. “But I would hear more about your own experience during that time and, if you can dredge it from your memories, how you come to be dropped in our midst like a leaf fallen from a high tree. . . .”
Rhonin sighed, knowing he could not escape the telling. “As you wish. I’ll try to tell you all I know.”
It was not much more than he had related prior. Once more the weary mage spoke to them of his trek to the wall, his decision to try to contact his patron, and the sudden explosion that had rocked the entire section.
“You are certain of what you heard?” Duncan Senturus immediately asked him.
“Yes. While I can’t prove it beyond doubt, it sounded like a charge being set off.”
The explosion did not mean that goblins were responsible, but of course, years of war had ingrained such thoughts into even the head of the wizard. No one had reported goblins in this part of Lordaeron, but Vereesa came up with a suggestion. “Duncan, perhaps the dragon that pursued us earlier also carried with it one or two goblins. They are small, wiry, and certainly capable of hiding at least for a day or two. That would explain much.”
“It would indeed,” he agreed with reluctance. “And if so, we must be doubly vigilant. Goblins know no other pastimes than mischief and destruction. They would certainly strike again.”
Rhonin went on with his story, telling next how he fled to the dubious safety of the tower, only to have it collapse about him. Here, though, he hesitated, knowing for certain that Senturus would find his next words questionable, at the very least.
“And then—something—seized me, my lord. I don’t know what it was, but it took me up as if I was a toy and whisked me away from the devastation. Unfortunately, I couldn’t breathe because I was held so tight, and when I next opened my eyes—” The wizard looked at Vereesa. “It was to see her face.”
Duncan waited for more, but when it became clear that his wait would be fruitless, he slapped one hand against his armored knee and shouted, “And that is it? That is all you know?”
“That’s all.”
“By the spirit of Alonsus Faol!” the paladin snapped, calling upon the name of the archbishop whose legacy had led, through his apprentice, Uther Lightbringer, to the creation of the holy order. “You have told us nothing, nothing of worth! If I thought for one moment—” A slight shift by Vereesa made him pause. “But I have given my word and taken that of another. I will abide by my previous decision.” He rose, clearly no longer interested in remaining in the company of the wizard. “I also make another decision here and now. We are already on route to Hasic. I see no reason why we should not move on as quickly as possible and get you to your ship. Let them deal with your situation as they see fit! We leave in one hour. Be prepared, wizard!”
With that, Lord Duncan Senturus turned and marched off, his loyal knights following immediately thereafter. Rhonin found himself alone save for the ranger, who walked to a spot before him and sat down. Her eyes settled on his. “Will you be well enough to ride?”
“Other than exhaustion and a few bruises, I seem in one piece, elf.” Rhonin realized that his words had come out a little sharper than he had intended. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’ll be able to ride. Anything to get me to the port on time.”
She rose again. “I will prepare the animals. Duncan brought an extra mount, just in case we did find you. I will see to it that it is waiting when you finish.”
As the ranger turned, an unfamiliar emotion rose within the tired spellcaster. “Thank you, Vereesa Windrunner.”
Vereesa looked over her shoulder. “Taking care of the horses is part of my duty as your guide.”
“I meant about standing with me during what might have turned into an inquisition.”
“That, too, was part of my duty. I took an oath to my masters that I would see you to your destination.” Despite her words, however, the corners of her mouth twitched upward for a moment in what might have been a smile. “Better ready yourself, Master Rhonin. This will be no canter. We have much time to make up.”
She left him to his own devices. Rhonin stared at the dying campfire, thinking about all that had happened. Vereesa did not know how close to the truth she had been with her simple statements. The journey to Hasic would be no easy gallop, but not just for the sake of time.
He had not been entirely truthful with them, not even the elf. True, Rhonin had not left out any part of his story, but he had left out some of his conclusions. He felt no guilt where the paladins were concerned, but Vereesa’s dedication to their journey and his safety stirred some feelings of remorse.
Rhonin did not know who had set the charge. Goblins likely. He really did not care. What did concern him was what he had quickly passed over, even misdirected. When he had talked of being seized from the crumbling tower, he had not told them about having felt as if a giant hand had done so. They probably would not have believed him or, in the case of Senturus, pointed at it as proof of his communing with demons.
A giant hand had saved Rhonin, but no human one. Even his brief moment of consciousness had been enough to recognize the scaly skin, the wicked, curved talons greater in length than his entire body.
A dragon had rescued the wizard from certain death . . . and Rhonin had no idea why.
6
“So where is he? I’ve little time to waste pacing around in these decadent halls!”
For what seemed the thousandth time, King Terenas silently counted to ten before responding to Genn Greymane’s latest outburst. “Lord Prestor will be here before long, Genn. You know he wants to bring us all together on this matter.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” the huge man in black and gray armor grumbled. Genn Greymane reminded the king of nothing less than a bear who had learned to clothe himself, albeit somewhat crudely. He seemed fairly ready to burst through his armor, and if the ruler of Gilneas downed one more flagon of good ale or devoured one more of the thick Lordaeron pastries Terenas’s chefs had prepared, surely that would happen.
Despite Greymane’s ursine appearance and his arrogant, outspoken manner, the king did not underestimate the warrior from the south. Greymane’s political manipulations had been legendary, this latest no less so. How he had managed to give Gilneas a voice in a situation that should not have even concerned the faraway kingdom still amazed Terenas.
“You might as well tell the wind to stop howling,” came a more cultured voice from the opposite end of the great hall. “You’ll have more success there than getting that creature to quiet even for a moment!”