“Oh, shove it, you debauched little pervert,” Vannor retorted, “and shove your sham concerned-citizen charade right after it. You couldn’t care less about the poor folk of Nexis. What’s eating you is the fact that these Phaerie raids are robbing your goods, shaving your profits, and ruining your custom.”
Pendral also leapt to his feet. “Well so what?” he blazed. “It’s true! And it’s affecting everyone, not just me.” He drew himself upright, sticking his massive paunch out in front of him like an indignant pigeon. “I’m not just here for myself, you know,” he went on pompously. “I represent the entire Merchants’ Guild—and we’ve had enough of your spineless refusal to deal with this situation. If you won’t, maybe we should find ourselves a High Lord who will... .”
“All right! All right!” Vannor roared. “Enough! Very well—I’ll declare war on the Phaerie. We’ll start conscripting extra troopers first thing tomorrow. Now get out of my house!”
Pendral gaped at him. By the gods, Vannor thought—it was almost worth it just to take the wind out of that bastard’s sails.
“I’ll go and report to the Guild at once!” Pendral cried. “We must issue a proclamation.”
Really, that was Vannor’s responsibility, but if it got this wretch out of his hair, he was willing to let the matter slide. It was only when Pendral had gone that he suddenly realized, with a chill of horror, what a terrible thing he had done. But before the regrets had time to take root, they were whisked from his mind, vanishing without a trace.
“Make war on Hellorin? You must have taken leave of your senses!” Parric’s voice was so soft it was almost inaudible. Having heard the announcement of the crier from the Merchants’ Guild, he’d come storming up to Vannor’s house in a blazing rage, but the tidings, finally confirmed by the High Lord himself, were far too serious a matter for mere temper.
Vannor’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve made my decision, Parric,” he said stonily.
“There’s no altering it. As High Lord, It’s my responsibility to put a stop to the Phaerie depredations—”
“Yes, but you won’t be getting carved to pieces by those bastards. My troopers may be sworn to defend Nexis, but there must be some other way? By Chathak’s bones, Vannor—I can see why you didn’t dare break this news to me yourself.—You never did have a head for strategy. An outright attack on Hellorin is a hopeless cause, doomed to failure from the outset. You’ll be wasting all those lives for nothing.”
Vannor’s face was expressionless. All the bluff warmth and zest that had formed the core of his nature had fled. What can have changed him so? The Cavalrymaster thought. That poison didn’t take his life, but it robbed us of the true Vannor, just as though it had killed him outright.
“Are you going to carry out my orders?” Vannor demanded coldly. “Or aren’t you man enough for the job? In that case, I suggest you crawl back down the neck of a bottle, and I’ll find someone else to command the Garrison.”
I’ll kill him, was Parric’s first thought—but fortunately for Vannor, his anger was so intense that it turned to ice, instead of fire. “If that’s the way you want it,” he said stiffly, “you can have my resignation right now—but I warn you, you’re making a big mistake.” Walking up to the former merchant, he looked him straight in the eye. “For once, I’m actually glad that Aurian is gone. To see you acting like this would break her heart.”
Eliseth watched from behind Vannor’s eyes as the Cavalry-master walked out of the room without looking back. If it breaks Aurian’s heart that’s an additional bonus, she thought.
Parric was busy clearing his belongings out of the Commander’s quarters that had once belonged to Forral, when Sangra walked in, looking pale and strained.
“It’s no good,” she burst out. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. I’ve just been talking to Vannor. He asked me to take over command of the Garrison—and I told him I would.”
The Cavalrymaster’s stomach clenched with a sick feeling of dread and a prickling chill crawled between his shoulderblades. Someone walked over my grave, his mother used to say—only this time, Parric knew, with a sinking certainty, that the grave would be Sangra’s, not his own.
“Parric?” Sangra was looking at him with a puzzled frown. “In the name of all the Gods, say something.”
Taking a deep breath, Parric tried to haul himself back to some sense of normality. “Sangra, you can’t do this,” he said urgently. “Whatever possessed you? You know as well as I do that the whole idea is insane. Why, you may as well tell the troopers to fall on their swords right here in Nexis, and save themselves the trek.”
Sangra went, without asking, to Parric’s table, and poured two cups of rough wine from the pitcher that stood there. She took a sip and he saw her raise a disapproving eyebrow. “It’s been a long time since you touched this filthy stuff.”
Parric glared at her. “I’m retired,” he snapped. “I can take up getting drunk again if I want to. Now you’re the one who should be staying sober.”
Sangra flushed. “If you start that business again you’re a bigger bloody fool than I thought.”
“You’re calling me a fool?” The cup of wine smashed against the wall as Parric’s temper finally snapped. “At least I’ve got more sense than to walk open-eyed into a fight against a foe who has not only magic but the power of flight!” He grabbed Sangra by the shoulders, disregarding her startled curse as her own cup fell to the floor. “Don’t do it, love. Think again. We’ll both resign—what can Vannor do? We can always go south, like Aurian did. We could hire out our swords again....”
From the bleak look that came into Sangra’s eyes, Parric knew he had already lost. Shaking her head, she covered Parric’s hands with her own. “And can the entire Garrison resign?” she asked him softly. “You know they can’t—they’re sworn to serve. And Vannor has already ordered additional conscription. Think of those troops: raw, green, inexperienced—somebody’s got to take care of them. Now that Hargorn has retired, you and I have the most experience in the Garrison by a long chalk—and if you won’t go, then I certainly must. You’ve got to understand, Parric—if I left those lads and lasses to their fate I could never face myself in the mirror again.” She sighed bitterly. “I’ve got to go—even if it is a fool’s errand. All I can do is try to save as many of them as possible.”
Parric sighed. Maybe it was my grave, after all, he thought.
“All right,” he said resignedly. “If I can’t persuade you to come to your senses, then I suppose I’ll just have to join you in your insanity. At least I can make sure you don’t do anything too daft.” Shaking his head, he reached for his sword belt and began to buckle it on. “I don’t know which of us is more insane.”
8
The Wild Hunt
Aurian stood shivering in the deserted courtyard, alone—save for the ghosts.—In the pallid moonlight, the buildings of the Academy took on the ivory gleam of old bone. The void black apertures of its doors and windows held a travesty of remembered life, like the vacant features of a skull that contained a half-familiar echo of loved features now decayed to dust; the abandoned receptacle for a consciousness that had long since fled.
A thin, cold wind sniveled and whined among the abandoned buildings, stirring shadowy movements in dark corners and tainting the air with whispered ghostly voices. Miathan and Eliseth, the arch-plotters; Davorshan and the Fire-Mage Bragar, whose ambitions had exceeded their abilities; the Healer Meiriel, lost in her insanity, who had fallen to Aurian’s sword in a faraway land ... All were here tonight, thronging the shadows, awaiting their revenge upon the one Mage who had dared oppose them ...