How the Blue Lady would have laughed at the sight of his ignominious defeat. He had thought that attacking when he had would catch Gwynned, fairly untouched by the war, nearly defenseless. The gold dragons should have been far to the northeast, aiding in the Solamnic advance there. So much for military intelligence.
The storm continued to rock the fleet, but Cadrio didn’t care. He had given orders to sail until they could make landfall on a tiny uncharted island far to the north of Ergoth, and that meant a journey of several days in rough seas. With Gwynned lost, he had no new plans. There was always that offer made by the mage, but even Cadrio had limits to his madness.
“Hail, General Cadrio!”
Of course, the commander thought with rising fury. One had only to think of the blasted spellcaster and he would appear.
The general spun on his heel to confront a figure who hadn’t even been aboard the Harpy a second before. “So! Come to gloat, have you?”
The tall, hooded mage spread the arms of his crimson cloak wide, as if offended by such a remark. Cadrio desired greatly to wipe the wide smile off that goateed face but knew well the danger of even contemplating it.
“General! My friend … and you are my friend, aren’t you?” When Cadrio didn’t reply, the wizard waved off the silence with one neatly gloved hand. “I come to offer my condolences on the fickle workings of fate … and renew my proposition to you!”
“This is hardly the time or place.”
Narrow, slanted eyes so blue they unnerved even Cadrio cut the frustrated commander off. The hooded mage steepled his fingers and briefly cast his gaze in the direction of the crippled citadel and the two weary dragons. “There could hardly be a better time or place, I should think, my general.”
Cadrio began to reach for his sword but thought better of it. The crimson-clad mage took the moment to pull back his hood slightly, revealing short, cropped hair the color of night, save where some gray had intruded at the temple and the goatee. A pronounced widow’s peak and narrow, pointed sideburns added to the newcomer’s handsome, if demonic, demeanor. The gray contrasted with the youthful features and personality of the man, but the general knew how deceiving age could be where spellcasters were concerned. Dealing with this one made Cadrio feel as if he risked giving up his own soul, although that had long ago been promised to his dark mistress.
The general relaxed slightly. “All right, then. Come to my cabin. We’ll discuss this in private.”
Still smiling, the mage shook his head. “No, you will come to me, my general! You know where!”
“That miserable province of Atriun?”
“Yes. You know where it is. Five days east of Lemish.”
“That’s near Solamnic territory.”
The smile grew more cold. “Yes, it is. Go there. Where the great castle stands.”
General Cadrio needed a straw to grasp after the disaster of Gwynned, and the crimson-clad figure before him had just offered a strong one. Still, he had reservations. “How do I know I can trust you? You serve an enemy, after all.”
His visitor gazed down at the crimson robes. “Is this what bothers you? This color?” He muttered a few words of power, then, looking up, added, “Why didn’t you just say so?”
A black stain appeared on the chest of the well-tailored robe, a stain that spread swiftly in every direction, devouring the crimson color. The goateed mage stretched his arms wide, the black coursing along until it had reached not only the edges of his voluminous sleeves but somehow had enveloped the tapered gloves as well.
The wizard pulled his hood forward again, revealing that it, too, had changed to black. His smile set Cadrio on edge again. “Is this a color better suited to your tastes? I can wear it as readily as any.”
“You mock the gods, Valkyn!”
“Yes, I do. So, will you be coming?”
Despite his reluctance, the general knew he had no choice. The men might fear him, but that wouldn’t prevent them from deserting to more victorious rivals. Yet, one problem remained. “Last time you said that if I were to agree, I needed to obtain a certain item for you. Just to be safe, I gave the order the locate it, but-”
Valkyn laughed. “Have no fear, my general! I know you tried to fulfill that need even while you sought Gwynned’s rich coffers, but although your pathetic draconians failed, my own servants have dealt with the task! The mage is in my hands. Your mishap proved excellent cover for their own efforts, I must say.”
“You were there?” Cadrio felt betrayed, used. Valkyn had turned his defeat into a victory for the mage from the east.
“I am everywhere, my general. You would do well to remember that.” As he spoke, Valkyn’s form began to grow misty, insubstantial. The wind and rain cut through him, dissolving the wizard as if he had been made of smoke. Despite that, Valkyn seemed unperturbed, and as the last of his form faded, he added, “Atriun, my general. Be there.…”
Silence enshrouded the Harpy. Cadrio and his men eyed the spot where the unsettling wizard had stood. At last the general broke the quiet, turning swiftly to the helmsman. “Change course! We sail west until we are out of sight of Gwynned, then turn about and head southeast to the New Sea. Now!”
The helmsman quickly obeyed. The general turned to his other officers. “Zander! Timinion! Grako! The rest of you! My quarters in ten minutes. We have plans to make!”
Spirits lifted as Cadrio marched off. If the wizard could deliver what he promised, not even the Blue Lady and her vaunted dragon would be able to match the general. Cadrio would be able to accomplish what Ariakas had not. He would conquer all of Ansalon.
He paused, gazing back momentarily in the direction of Northern Ergoth. “We will meet again, Gwynned,” Cadrio whispered.
* * * * *
Dragons. Flying castles. Draconians. All filled Tyros’s mind, spinning around again and again in the midst of a strange storm. Now and then Leot’s voice called out to him, urging him to safety, but the storm always drew Tyros back in.
And in the midst of that storm, he saw the beaked, toothy visage of the monstrous, fiery-orbed creature.…
“Aren’t you awake yet, mage?”
His eyes fluttered open. Tyros could feel the sweat soaking his body. He tried to talk, but his first words came out as a hacking cough. Someone gave him water, which finally brought him to his senses.
He remembered where he was now-a healer’s temple, along with other victims of the attack. He recalled trying to leave the day before, but he had collapsed on the steps.
For a temple of Mishakal, the place seemed fairly pedestrian. Marble columns rose high, but they were unadorned, unimpressive. Statues of a beautiful woman reaching out a kind hand flanked a set of steps leading to the high-backed chair upon which the priestess of the temple sat. Tyros had seen more impressive work in the courts of nobles. Torches in the walls illuminated paintings showing some of the legends of the goddess’s work. On the ceiling was the symbol of Mishakal, a blue infinity sign. The same sign had been repeated in the marble mosaic floor.
The victims of the attack had all been brought to the great chamber where followers of the goddess met. Most of the others regarded the temple with awe, but to a war wizard, the miracles of Mishakal seemed less astonishing than the great spells cast in battle. Still, they had cared for him here, and he was grateful.
At last Tyros turned to his visitor, who had been waiting impatiently for the mage’s attention. He was a rough-hewn veteran of many a combat. His chiseled face bore scars on one side, and his black eyes were weary of killing but willing to do it again, a man whose education contrasted to his barbarian look. He had thin hair tied into a ponytail and a short beard. His skin wasn’t as dark as that of many Northern Ergothians, but neither was it as light as those from the south. Leon matched him in girth, but whereas the white wizard was fat, what lurked behind the newcomer’s silver breastplate was muscle.