Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Chapter 18
Caer Tuatha

“It is finished,” Reinheiser declared triumphantly. He held up a small splinter of wood notched into an angular design on one end.

“Wonderful.” Mitchell scowled, pacing back and forth, his eyes darting anxiously about like some cornered animal. The long wait had played badly on Mitchell, eating at him. During the day, the pair had found no chance at all of getting out of the valley, for Ryell, or one of his cronies, seemed always about, watching their every move. And at night the pair remained locked in their rooms. Mitchell’s mood seemed particularly surly this night, Reinheiser noted, and he knew why: earlier that same day, the captain had seen DelGiudice escorted from the mountains to freedom. “Well, what is it?”

“A key to our door, of course,” Reinheiser answered, smiling widely.

At first the answer didn’t seem to register with the distracted man, but then his face blanched and he spun toward Reinheiser. “Where the hell did you get that?”

Reinheiser laughed casually. “Did you really think that a locked door could defeat me? Come now, Captain, you must show me more respect.”

“But how?”

“I formed a mental image of the guard’s key and merely copied it,” he answered, matter-of-factly-though in truth, even Reinheiser wondered how that picture of the key had come so clear in his mind.

“It won’t do us any good anyway,” Mitchell grumbled, clutching stubbornly to his negative attitude. “There are guards outside the door. We’d never make it out of the house, let alone the valley.”

“Do not worry, Captain. There are plans to take care of them, I believe.”

“Will you quit talking in riddles?”

“Not yet,” Reinheiser said with a laugh. “Consider it just a call in the night.” His voice trailed away mysteriously. “Patience, my friend, patience. We cannot leave yet. There are arrangements to be made and you have much to learn.”

“What are you talking about?” Mitchell demanded.

“About the arrangements, I am not, as yet, sure,” Reinheiser explained. “But I can tell you with certainty that you must do as I say when we are before the court of Ungden if you wish to attain the lofty goals you desire.”

Mitchell scowled, but Reinheiser could be even more stubborn than the big man. The physicist had learned a great deal about Ungden from his talks with Ardaz, and he knew that one wrong word from the captain when they stood before that merciless ruler would cost them both their lives.

So Reinheiser held firm, took the upper hand, and forced the concessions. In the end, Mitchell had no choice but to agree to Reinheiser’s demands. Above the fact that Reinheiser had the key and that only he could read his map to get through the secret passes out of Illuma, the physicist made it quite clear that he had some plan brewing to take care of the guards.

On Reinheiser’s insistence, they got right to work, spending the rest of that night and most of the next morning rehearsing scenarios and questions they might encounter at the court in Pallendara. Reinheiser went over the same questions repeatedly, stubbornly, forcing Mitchell not only to provide the correct answers, but also to show the proper, subservient demeanor.

And whenever the captain slipped, even a bit, the physicist got in his face, poking him and scowling at him.

Mitchell didn’t like it, not one bit.

And as they progressed, the wait became even more trying for Mitchell. Now that he had found some direction and purpose to this adventure, he desperately wanted to get on with his grand plans.

When their rehearsals at last reached a point satisfactory to the physicist, Reinheiser asked not to be disturbed and spent entire days in calm meditation, making the passing hours seem even longer. Mitchell reasoned that the physicist was finalizing their plans for escape and knew he should leave him alone, but his patience was worn away and he constantly peppered Reinheiser with the redundant “When?”

On a dark and windy night two long days later, the captain finally got his answer.

A few stars peeked through breaks in the black clouds that rushed overhead. Arien’s ancient house creaked and moaned against the swirling gusts, and the single candle in the room flickered from the drafts. Reinheiser sat motionless, trying to block out the snores of his sleeping companion and attain the relaxed state of his meditative trance: a difficult task, even for Reinheiser’s disciplined mind, for the man was agitated, as close to the edge of his control as he had ever been.

Then a soundless call beckoned to him. In both fear and excitement, he rose and crossed the room to the captain, his shadow dancing in the unsteady light like some monster in the blurred background of a nightmare. “Come, Captain,” he whispered, “tonight we are called to leave.”

Groggy and not quite comprehending, Mitchell climbed to his feet and began pulling on his clothes while Reinheiser gathered together a torch and two small packs he had stashed under his bed. A trace of mist seeped in from under the door and hung about the floor. Indeed, a ground fog shrouded the entire valley, a very strange mist that had floated in suddenly, a few minutes before.

“Hurry, Captain,” Reinheiser encouraged. He slid his key in the lock-it fit perfectly, as he knew it would-and opened the door a crack to view the hallway. Satisfied, he swung the door wide and pushed the still lethargic captain out into the hall.

Mitchell perked up immediately, shattered from his sleepiness by the staring face of an elven guard. He raised his arms to defend against an unexpected assault, but the guard made no motion toward him. In fact, the elf made no movement at all, not to blink or even to breathe! A few feet away, another guard stood rigid in the same comatose state.

“What?” the astounded captain gawked, turning, as always, to Reinheiser for answers.

Understanding that the favorable situation wouldn’t hold for long, Reinheiser cut Mitchell’s questions off before they could really begin. “Do not ask about things that are beyond your comprehension,” he replied with a pretense of authority, as if he was an intricate part of these strange events. But in truth, the physicist’s understanding of all of this was no greater than Mitchell’s-only Reinheiser had known of the stasis before he opened the door.

Mitchell nodded and pushed Reinheiser ahead. “I’ll just take this one’s sword,” he said, grinning.

“No!” Reinheiser scolded, and once again he wondered if the benefits of keeping Mitchell around outweighed the aggravations of the captain’s endless stupidity. He accepted with a resigned sigh that, as always, he would have to lead the captain by the hand to get them through. “Take nothing, disturb nothing. If we are fortunate, they won’t know that we are gone until the morning. Now, quickly, let us be on our way. We have only a few minutes to get out of the valley.”

They hurried down the hallways and out of Arien’s house, passing several elves as they darted across the misty city, a couple out for a midnight walk and three dancing in a small clearing. But these, too, were held in time, frozen in mid-step and mid-pirouette.

Soon the two men were deep inside the maze of tunnels, straining their eyes in the torchlight to read Reinheiser’s map and counting their steps and the side passages. The eerie mist flew from the valley then, as silently and swiftly as it had come, and the unwitting elves resumed their guarding and walking and dancing as if nothing had happened.

The physicist’s calculations proved accurate, and the two had little trouble finding their way through the tunnel. When the lower exit came into view, Reinheiser put out the torch so as not to attract any unwanted attention in the open night, leaving himself and Mitchell stumbling blindly down the side of the mountain. They finally made it to the silver archway, their adrenaline pumping with the exhilaration of success, and raced across the field of Mountaingate as quickly as they could. Turning into the southwestern pass, they felt a rush of freedom as the rolling plain spread wide before them.

Mitchell punched his fist into the air. “We did it!” he growled with delight. “Think of it, Martin, the next time we see that wretched city, it will be at the head of an army.”

Reinheiser ignored Mitchell’s babbling. “That must be the Calvan scouting party,” he said, pointing to the south where the light of a distant campfire broke the even blackness of the horizon. “I believe we can get there under the cover of the night.”

The distance proved a bit farther than Reinheiser had figured, and the sky in the east had taken on the lighter shade of predawn when the two at last came upon a grassy mound, the encampment set on its flattened top. The fire in the center of the camp had died down to glowing embers, and around it lay the blanketed forms of sleeping men, their horses tethered and standing quietly a short distance away on the south side of the hillock.

“These are soldiers?” Mitchell snickered. “They don’t even know how to set a guard.” But even as he spoke, he and Reinheiser felt the sharp tips of spears against their backs, and the supposedly sleeping men within the camp sprang to their feet, short swords drawn and ready. They stood tall and straight in coats of silvery mail and black cloaks, their small black bucklers bearing silver inlays of sharks.

“Right again,” Reinheiser whispered sarcastically.

“Silence!” one of the Calvans commanded. “Thieves speak only when they are told to speak.”

“We’re not thieves,” Mitchell said.

“Silence!” the Calvan ordered, and the man behind Mitchell poked him with his spear.

“We’re not even armed,” Mitchell protested in a low growl, which drew him a second jab. With the efficiency of trained professionals, two of the swordsmen sheathed their weapons and ran up beside the intruders.

“I am Bracken,” the Calvan leader continued, a weathered man with salt and pepper hair and a steeled, angular face. “Commander of the First Scouts of Pallendara. As the representative of Overlord Ungden in the northern plains, it is within my power to try and execute you where you stand.”

“For what crime?” Mitchell cried, his tone telling Reinheiser that the man was on the verge of an explosion-an outburst that would likely get them both killed.

Bracken, to his credit, remained calm. “To approach an official military patrol without proper request and permission is a primary crime against the Edicts of Ungden,” he recited.

In his stubborn pride, Mitchell was again about to protest when Reinheiser silenced him with a determined nudge. The physicist had recognized a ring that Bracken wore, a black pearl set in gold, and knew better than to argue with this man. Ardaz had warned him of this same symbol during their many discussions. A man who wore such a ring belonged to the Warders of the White Walls, an order of knights that had come into being long before the days of Ungden the Usurper. The sole inspiration behind this band’s existence was to act as efficient and unemotional instruments for the will of whomever sat on Pallendara’s throne, and their dedication to their creed was absolute. They were few in number now, and older, for few had joined the order in the thirty years of Ungden, but, according to Ardaz, who had seemed quite certain on this point, the fanaticism of those that remained had not ebbed, even under the reign of the tyrannical new Overlord. Wearing that ring proved that Bracken was a dangerous man who had to be handled delicately, and Reinheiser knew that meant keeping Mitchell’s mouth shut.

The guards were soon satisfied that the two intruders carried no weapons. However, the man searching Reinheiser did find the parchment and quickly presented it to his commander. Bracken inspected it carefully, recognizing it as some sort of map, though the physicist’s symbols and notations remained unintelligible to him.

“What is this?” he demanded.

Reinheiser scratched his chin. It was time for him to gamble a little, and he knew he would have to word it just right. He looked around at the other Calvans. Young and naive, ambitious pawns to a perverted king, they would be of no use to him. Only Bracken with his insight founded on years of experience could comprehend the weight of his forthcoming statement. Reinheiser eyed the Calvan leader purposefully. “I beg you forgive our ignorance of your foreign laws,” he began.

Bracken cocked an eyebrow; a good sign, Reinheiser noted.

“We came to you only to present you with that map,” he explained. “A gift for Ungden, rightful Overlord of the city of men, from the survivors of yesteryear.”

The Calvan leader didn’t flinch. Eyes boring into the physicist, he slid the parchment into an inside pocket of his cloak and nodded knowingly. Reinheiser smiled in the arrogant assumption that his ploy had saved them, but in truth, this patrol had been sent north not to find Illuma, but in search of the ancient ones. Ungden, or someone in his court, was already aware that the days of the foretold prophecies were at hand.

Assured that these were indeed the men Ungden had sent him to find, Bracken now pondered the implications of delivering them to Pallendara. A crisis approached, and these men would help Ungden through it. Bracken’s devotion to his oath was on trial, and not for the first time since Ungden had stolen Ben-galen’s throne. But the Warder’s oath was his strength, and the order his purpose for living. This decision, like all of his choices, had been made forty years before, when he had sworn in to the Warders of the White Walls.

“Prepare the five swiftest steeds,” he commanded. “We shall escort these intruders to Pallendara, where Overlord Ungden may decide their fate.”

Soon they were off, galloping swiftly across the endless sea of green fields. They did not treat Mitchell and Reinheiser badly, did not bind them as they rode, for the Calvans were not evil men, but Bracken left no doubt of the pair’s status as prisoners, and whenever the party stopped for a rest, their hands were tightly bound.

Normally the ride to Pallendara from Mountaingate would take a full nine days. Too long for Bracken, who, sensing the urgency of this journey, drove his charges and the prisoners to their limits. They rode their mounts hard long after the sun had set each night and rode off again before the next dawn. They passed many farmers out in the fields for the springtime planting, never even slowing down to answer the questioning glances, and they made their evening camps as far from any dwellings as possible.

Impatient to come before Ungden, Mitchell and Reinheiser accepted the exhausting treatment stoically, though their bodies were hardly used to such physical punishment. They were indeed relieved when, on the afternoon of the fifth day, the salty smell of sea water saturated the air.

As they topped a final rise, the last expanse of the Calvan plains opened before them. Far in the distance, beyond the southern shore of Aielle, the blue spray of the Atlantic blurred the line of the horizon. Just below the men, at the end of a long, narrow bay, several groupings of houses lay spread out around an immense white fortress: Pallendara, which the elves called Caer Tuatha, the City of Men. Bracken halted the party for a moment at this fine vantage point, for even at this distance the magnificence of the great city stirred him.

Five tall towers dominated the structure, two beside the massive gatehouse in the front, two at the corners of the back, facing the bay, and one in the center of the city. She had been built as a tribute to the artistry of man, a bastion of security dedicated to preserving at all costs the inspired works, and even more, the spirit of creativity and appreciation, which distinguished mankind as a race worthy of the blessings of the Colonnae. A conglomeration of beauty and comfort, the epitome of the best that man had to offer, Pallendara had stood as such for over a thousand years. But three decades of an unlawful king’s paranoia had exacted a heavy toll. In the bright days before Ungden, the heavy iron gates were thrown wide day and night, an open invitation to all who would come to partake in the celebration that was this city. Only once in the history of Pallendara, at the time of the coming of Thalasi and his mutant army, had the gates been barred. Now, under the Usurper’s wary eye, they remained closed to all, and grim-faced soldiers stalked the parapets.

Reinheiser noted this impressive defense as the party trotted the last approach to the walls. He laughed inwardly, realizing that this overblown exhibition didn’t put forth the show of strength that Ungden no doubt envisioned. Quite the opposite, it revealed the insecurity, and thus the weakness, of the throne. The physicist also noted Bracken’s sigh when the banner of Ungden, a gray shark on a black background, came into view waving high above the city. Like many of his peers, Reinheiser realized, from that expression and the words of Ardaz, Bracken preferred the old shield of Calva, four white bridges and four pearls on a sea-blue field. But it was not within the privileges of the Warders of the White Walls to question the decrees of their Overlord.

Bracken gave a call of recognition to a soldier on the roof of the gatehouse and one of the great gates cracked open enough to admit the horsed men in single file. A short tunnel, its walls lined with arrow slits and its ceiling interfaced with murder holes, led to the open courtyard of the fortress, and Mitchell and Reinheiser uneasily suffered the curious and dangerous stares of many concealed guards as they paced their mounts through. A final portcullis cranked open when they neared, and the captain sighed audibly as they left the passage of horrors and came again into the sunlight.

Reinheiser could only imagine the glory Pallendara had once attained as he looked around him now. A tangible pall hung over the city, a gray fog of lethargy, where men kept at work out of duty and fear, not love. The people they passed stayed huddled and closed, with their eyes down in front of them to watch their own measured steps. Everywhere, engines of war dominated the view: a massive catapult belittling a three-tiered fountain, and ballistae mounted on the bases where proud statues once stood. Even the unemotional physicist felt a pang at the lost wonders this city must have known.

Bracken hurried them through the streets, revealing similar feelings and also, perhaps, a bit of embarrassment.

Nonetheless, a redundant stream of images dogged the trip as they wove around battlement after battlement, one line of defense after another. Every corner carried the same grim facade, and the group seemed to be going in circles.

Finally they dismounted, and a climb of a hundred marble steps brought them to the golden doors of Pallendara’s Throne Hall. Apparently the party was expected, for the guards immediately swung the doors open and escorted them inside. A red carpet led them through the halls and into a long chamber cluttered with statues and sculptures, its walls overlaid with tapestries and paintings; the finest works in all Calva thrown together into a muddled hoard of greed.

The court of Ungden the Usurper.

At the far end of the hall, on an oversized throne of gold and jewels, sat the Overlord. To his left, hunched over and leaning on a cane, stood a man in a white robe, its hood pulled low to conceal his face. Behind the throne, a line of soldiers in the silver and black uniform of the city waited at the call of their Overlord. Everything before him matched the court that Reinheiser had envisioned, everything except for the Overlord himself.

Reinheiser had anticipated an older version of Captain Mitchell, a brutish warrior who had bullied his way to power. But Ungden hardly fit that description. Slender and delicate, dressed in brightly colored silks with a ruffled collar and puffed sleeves, and overdecked in jewelry, a ring on every finger, two on some, and three on one, and several bracelets that clanked noisily with his every move, he seemed more a child dressed in a mature man’s clothing. Indeed, from a distance Reinheiser could hardly believe that this figure was old enough, given the years that the simple arithmetic from the day of his ascent to power would indicate. But when the physicist drew near, he recognized this as an obvious illusion of vanity. Powder lessened the wrinkles on Ungden’s face and a black wig hid his graying hairs.

Reinheiser tried to hide his surprise at the sight, but it seemed impossible to him that this man who had wrested the throne of a proud and mighty people was, by all measure of his reckoning, a fop.

When the party had settled before him, Ungden threw a leg over one arm of the throne and incessantly strummed the other with meticulously manicured fingers like a bored and impatient child.

“My lord,” Bracken said, bowing low, “I found these men on the foothills of the Crystal Mountains. I brought them here that you might judge if they indeed be the ancient ones the scouts were quested to find.”

He presented Reinheiser’s map to Ungden and moved off to the side.

Ungden scanned the parchment quickly and without much interest, then turned it over to the robed man beside him, who tucked it away in a deep pocket without even looking at it. After the two conferred in whispers for a moment, Ungden focused his gaze upon Mitchell.

“Your name,” he demanded.

“Mitchell, Hollis T. Mitchell.”

“Well, Hollis T. Mitchell, tell me about this map.”

“My friend, Martin Reinheiser, could probably tell you more, Lord Ungden. He penned it himself.”

“Ah, yes, I am quite sure that he could,” Ungden replied calmly. “But I asked you.” He offered no further explanation, as if his simple request contained an indisputable logic to end any further debate. And in this, his Throne Hall, surrounded by his armed and dangerous guard, it certainly did. The Overlord was no fool, and his counsel well informed. Just by the way the two men had presented themselves, it was obvious that Mitchell was easier prey on a verbal level than Reinheiser, and if these strangers were withholding secrets, Mitchell was the more likely of the two to slip up.

The captain proved a more worthy adversary than he looked, though, and with Reinheiser’s coaching behind him, he knew what to say.

“That map, Overlord, will guide you to your greatest foes, the elves of the second mutation.”

Ungden’s eyes flashed and he started forward in his chair. He caught himself almost immediately and reclined back with feigned calm. The robed man beside him didn’t react at all, as if Mitchell’s declaration had come as no surprise.

“And why do you freely give me such a map?” Ungden asked suspiciously. “Surely you must realize the worth of such information. Why do you offer it for nothing, when a king’s treasure might have been yours?”

“Two reasons,” Mitchell explained. “First, it is right that you should know where to find and deal with these mutants.” He paused for a moment, trying to remember the way Reinheiser had phrased this rehearsed speech. “The elves are impure, a stain upon the race of man, and like you, I seek to purify the race. I believe that was fate’s purpose in bringing us, the ancient ones, to Aielle.”

Hidden under the cowl of his robe, the wizard beside the throne grinned in amusement.

“Second,” the captain continued, “I do ask for something in return.”

“Then you are a fool,” Ungden said with a chuckle, “for I already have your information. You have nothing left with which to bargain.”

“But I do,” Mitchell argued. “I have myself.”

Ungden gave Mitchell a sidelong glance, and Reinheiser nodded in satisfaction that he had coached the captain well.

“Explain, then, your worth to me,” Ungden demanded.

“What I ask in return is a position in your army,” Mitchell replied. “A position of high rank, that I may aid in the purification of the race of man. That is my destiny.”

Ungden lifted his eyebrows at this suggestion. “And what am I to tell my officers when I appoint an unproven stranger among them?”

“Tell them that a lord is coming from another place and another time,” Mitchell replied without hesitation. “A great warrior who knows much of combat and will help lead Calva to victory over its hated foes.”

The wizard leaned over and whispered something to Ungden, who nodded in agreement. “What is the name of this place that you are from, this nation that called you a lord?” he asked.

“The United States of America,” Mitchell replied proudly. “The mightiest nation that this world has ever known.”

“Indeed,” Ungden said, obviously unimpressed by what he, the Overlord of the grandest nation in Aielle, perceived as a preposterous claim. “And there you were king?”

“No, not king, but I commanded the army for the king, and by his will, so that he would be free to attend to other matters of state. Millions were at my disposal, Lord Ungden, with weapons beyond anything you can imagine.”

“Millions,” Ungden mocked sarcastically, imitating the captain’s excited tone, but his robed adviser whispered to him again and his taunting smile disappeared. He sat quietly for a moment, trying futilely to compose himself in light of the confirmation from his aide that such an empire had indeed existed.

“My forces are under the able command of Persomy, First Warder of the White Wall,” Ungden explained. “He is bound to me by an oath of loyalty that cannot be doubted and he carries out my orders without question. And he does so very well, I must say. So you understand that I really do not need another commander.”

Mitchell’s face twisted at Ungden’s unanticipated refusal.

“However,” Ungden continued, “my good friend Istaahl has advised me that perhaps you will indeed prove a valuable asset to my army. Therefore, Hollis T. Mitchell, I commission you temporary Undercommander of the forces of Pallendara and the nation of Calva, reporting only to Persomy and to myself. The permanency of your position depends on how we fare against the night dancers, for you and Persomy shall meet this very day and draw up our plan of attack.”

“Thank you, Overlord Ungden,” Mitchell stammered through a broad grin. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Ungden narrowed his eyes, obviously disapproving of cockiness in an inferior. He leaned forward in his throne and eyed the captain directly, showing him a wicked smile. “Be assured, Undercommander,” he explained with deadly certainty, “that I shall hold you solely responsible if we fail.”

No longer smiling, Mitchell needed no explanation of the implications of Ungden’s promise.