Tyros blinked the spots from his eyes. “Warn me next time you do that.”
“Sorry.”
Tyros knew that Leot would forget. Leot forgot everything except his meals and his work. Tyros admired his focus but wished that same focus included Leot’s personal life as well.
He returned to his own task. Deep brown eyes surveyed a scroll written by one Neomidas of Estwilde. Neomidas claimed to have come up with a spell to change gold to steel, an interesting if not particularly useful incantation. Tyros tried to follow the older mage’s scratchy writing but failed halfway through. Finally he glanced at the date on which the scroll had been entered into the tower records. Neomidas had lived some two hundred years ago, meaning that if his spell had worked, someone likely would have noticed.
“Futility!” the Red Robe muttered. With barely checked anger, he rerolled the scroll, sealed it, and placed the parchment on the pile of rejected ones.
Since soon after the beginning of the war, Tyros, considered a most promising combat wizard, had taken to using every spare moment to pursue his pet project. Ever since he had first witnessed the use of what some considered the dragonarmies’ most potent weapons, the astonishing flying fortresses, he had worked to fathom out their secrets, hoping to redesign one for his own side. Twice he had been fortunate enough to inspect the ruins of downed fortresses, sifting through the rubble and classifying every interesting fragment for later study. Along the way, he had helped formulate several new spells and even developed a strategy to fight the enemy’s creations, winning much deserved acclaim among his peers, but as of yet Tyros hadn’t unlocked the basis on which they actually functioned. Without that knowledge, he could never repeat the experiment successfully. The realization constantly galled him.
Tyros had requested and, due to his growing reputation, received scrolls and papers from hidden libraries all over Ansalon. The knowledge and spellwork of dozens upon dozens of wizards since the Cataclysm lay available to him, but so far most had fallen into the same category as Neomidas’s ridiculous spell. It amazed him how much of the stored history of wizardry consisted of crackpot spells and notions that the authors must have thought they would later come back and revamp into something useful but never did.
“Nothing good?” Leot amicably asked.
“A brilliant deduction.” Tyros leaned back. “In the past few weeks, I’ve seen a mere handful of suggestions that come close to what I seek. A few, such as those of Borlius of Palanthas or Valkyn of Culthairai, actually broach the subject, but their research always lead to ends as dead as they themselves.”
“Borlius was a follower of Solinari. I remember his name from my teachings. He died just before I joined the order,” Leot mused.
“And Valkyn was a member of my order, now probably as dead as Borlius. Culthairai was overrun early in the war.” Tyros shrugged. “It hardly matters! From what I have read of their work, neither could have taught me much I didn’t know already!”
Leot kept his smile hidden as he listened to his friend’s boastful tones. He knew the other’s reputed arrogance. Most of the other wizards, not to mention the citizenry, avoided Tyros. Beneath the arrogance, though, Leot recognized a good and sometimes sympathetic man who, unfortunately, did not always understand how he made himself appear to others. The heavyset spellcaster remained one of Tyros’s few friends, although Leot himself had many.
If Tyros failed to recognize his faults, he did, however, realize his good looks. More than a few ladies of the Ergothian nobility had dared scandals to approach the foreign wizard sent here under treaty agreement. Northern Ergoth had sought to could keep the dangers of magic to a minimum by housing its wielders in this tower, never suspecting that they would also have to worry about their own women seeking out the wizards.
Well, one wizard, anyway. Leot knew how he looked to the refined ladies.
“What will you do now?” he asked finally.
A bitter smile crept over Tyros’s handsome features. “What is there left to do? They made it clear that these scrolls were the last ones I’d receive. The war’s all but over, Leot! The Dark Queen herself has been ousted, and most of her commanders are dead or in rout! Imagine! We fight this war, but the credit goes to a ragtag group that includes a half-elf, a couple of barbarians, and a kender, of all things! Who are these creatures? I don’t even know their names, but in the eyes of the populace, they’ve apparently saved the world and made my work superfluous!”
“I heard one of them was a wizard,” the White Robe commented hopefully. “Our kind will get some credit, at least!”
“Hmmph! Probably turn out to be some wrinkled old illusionist who stayed completely clear of the mess! No wizard’s been given due credit since Magius in the last dragon war, and even he’s always overshadowed by that knight!”
“Maybe there’ll be another war,” Leot said, trying to cheer his friend up. What fighting still remained had dwindled considerably, although word of a female Dragon Highlord somewhere to the east gathering together what remained of Takhisis’s forces had reached them recently. Still, such rumors tended to be nothing but air once they were investigated. Unfortunately for the ambitions of Tyros, it looked as if peace had broken out all over Ansalon.
Ablaze of lightning followed by a crash of thunder startled both mages. Tyros gritted his teeth. “Blasted weather!”
“It helped protect Gwynned from invasion a couple of times.”
“Who would ever be crazy enough to attack in such foul conditions anyway?” the crimson mage grumbled.
Thunder boomed again, this time so close that the tower shook.
Horns sounded, but while Gwynned had such signals that alerted its populace to terrible storms, these sounded different. Tyros stiffened, recognizing the call.
“War horns! They’re alerting the defenses!”
Leot dropped his quill. “We’re under attack?”
Throwing back their chairs, the two wizards rushed to opposite windows. Tyros flung his open and, after cursing the driving rain, peered out. Through the dark storm, at first he noted nothing but the normal appearance of the city, a bustling seaport with numerous docks and, beyond them, the crested buildings typical of the region. Four watchtowers guarded the perimeter of the main portion of Gwynned, and of these Tyros could see two. Yet despite the warning blares and torchlights, he could make out no invasion force. The sea, rough and turbulent, remained empty save for a few hardy ships returning to the docks, but they all bore the flag of Northern Ergoth.
“I don’t see anything!” he called to his companion.
“Nor anything on this end!” Leot shouted from behind him. “Could it be a false alarm?”
“I don’t know.…” Tyros stared up at the heavens, where the clouds had become so thick and dark that water seemed to come down in clumps the size of men.
He suddenly leaned out the window, unmindful of the drenching he received. Those were figures drifting down in the storm, figures with wings!
Only one creature came to mind. “Draconians! Dropping through the clouds!”
“What?” Leot appeared at his side. Both humans watched in horror as winged figure after winged figure glided toward the rooftops of Gwynned. They alighted onto some of the taller buildings, immediately trying to secure their hold.
Where did they come from? Fortunately, most draconians could not truly fly, and even if some of these invaders did have the ability, they certainly couldn’t carry so many of their lesser brethren with them. Had dragons carried them here? It was a possibility, but for so many draconians, the attackers would have needed a hundred of the leviathans.