TWENTY-TWO
THE MISTS ROLLED in once more with the dawn. The creeping tendrils enveloped the lower reaches of the Tower and billowed upward like smoke. Even the vast mass of the Korda was a dim shadow, rising like some spectral form of the netherworld.
Thorgrim Halfinger pulled his cloak more tightly about his thick shoulders, peering upward to catch the last glimpse of fading starlight before it too disappeared. “This cursed fog is sore greeting after such a lengthy night,” he grumbled.
He received a grunt in answer. Neither of the lords of the Fifth Wen had spoken more than a dozen words during the long watch, though the camp was rife with gossip, brought by the captain of the small schooner tied along the quay since the previous dusk.
Noted as a worthy seaman, the captain was even more famous for his laxness when repeating a tale. He told of how the holos were full of the mysterious disappearance of the Senach captive. There were a host of reasons for the sudden lapse of the myrmidon charged with his keeping. Everything from sleep draughts to poison—an embellishment without basis. None of the myrmidon had died—at least, not yet.
Treason was the primary motive, accompanied by a score of other likely possibilities, yet no evidence had been forthcoming. The matter was apparently beyond the High Justices of the Judicata, for they had laid no charges. The captive had vanished with the usual impeccability of his kind, leaving behind nothing to explain his escape.
Then there was the matter of Odrim—though any tongues bold enough to spout discourse on this subject did so in secret whispers.
Thorgrim raised his head, sighting in on the Tower’s pinnacle. It was visible but rapidly disappearing. He swore there had been a light glowing last night, even though the great doors of the Hall of Swords remained tightly drawn and bolted. This, and the watchful eyes of the Adepts, prevented anyone from visiting the Tower. Neither Thorgrim nor his comrades had suggested going up. Still, there had been something.
“By the Rim, will he never come?” Shaka was faring even worse than his brother. He detested the early morning chill of the isle in winter. “I long for the warm dry sands and the steamy jungles of my lands.”
“And I for the strong, clean winds of the mountains,” Thorgrim retorted. “All places have both good and bad. Each of us longs for the comfort of our homes, yet who can deny the call of duty—the strongest voice of all to the Sword Brotherhood.”
“He will come in his own time, this man who is yet more than man,” Roland pronounced in the manner of a seer. Of them all, he was most noted for his patience.
“Are you saying you believe all these prophetic superstitions sprouting like young shoots in the Magi garden? The Chosen One…the Saydin Mak Doom…a host of others beyond counting?”
Thorgrim lowered his eyebrows. The speaker was Shida Khan, Baron of the Second Wen. Although he was also an Adept of the First Rank, Thorgrim had never found him a favorable companion. He reminded one too much of Argus in his physical characteristics and attitude, which was often pontificating to the point of disdain. Since this did not endear him to his peers, it was fortunate he seldom left his domain. Only the summons of the Pat’Riark had moved him on this occasion. Thorgrim would gladly have suffered his absence.
“You were not in the Great Arena of Brigantia when he battled the Vanard with naught but a stick. Only Mendiko and his consort were with him, armed in like manner. I have seen nothing to match it, not even in the Korda.”
“There are many besides the Magi who also believe,” Roland added, his reply couched in a tone of rebuke.
“Ah, yes,” Khan sneered. “You refer no doubt to the great unwashed masses of the salariat. They would know. Why, next you’ll be telling me he can fly!”
Roland offered no reply and merely turned his back.
Thorgrim smiled grimly. The Code could be a great hindrance at times. They knew Khan had entered his name in the Korda’s list. Perhaps some other slighted Adept would take advantage of the opportunity to land a few blows on their behalf. And not much longer would they have to wait. Only a few more turns remained until the Great Moot. He cast another worried glance upward. If Talisman did not come soon, they would have to leave him to face his destiny alone.
Already the first rays of the sun lanced outward, dissipating the mist. It could not go too swiftly to suit him. In anticipation, he removed his sopping wet cloak and slung it over his shoulder. Their relief was already in sight, a squad of Dao N’Athair, their red robes bobbing like poppies on the gray-green fields of early morn. He would look for a place of solitude by the sea and seek the Quietus. Perhaps he could drive out the ghostly apparitions that had haunted him through the night.
Khan’s voice suddenly raised a question that gave all of them pause. “What is that strange object high up there in line with the mount?”
Thorgrim shaded his eyes out of habit since the sun was behind him. He studied the speck, for it was little more than that, though growing. It puzzled him. The movements were like beating wings. This made sense. How else could it stay in the air? It was no mechanical device of the Pentarchy. Yet rarely would an eagle or hawk stray so far from the lush hunting grounds of the mount. No, it was much bigger than an eagle and strangely shaped…almost as though something rode upon it…
“By the rim!” Shaka sputtered in disbelief. “Did you not say he would fly?”
For once, even Khan was speechless. The apparition was now close enough to recognize Ryder Talisman riding upon the back of a winged horse.
A loud hue and cry accompanied the heavy trample of feet, as others of the Watch noticed the coming of the magical manifestation.
All knew of Pegasus. His existence was no secret, for Galen had been vain enough to flaunt even the oddest of his creations. Yet few had ever seen this half-mythical creature. The populace revered both the mount and the falls, and seldom did anyone visit. Even though seen, none would have had the audacity—or the skill—to ride upon his back. And yet, achieving the impossible appeared to be the very reason for Talisman’s existence.
With consummate ease, the grinning Sword Thane guided the stallion to within a dozen meters of the stunned watchers. At that point his steed balked and refused to come any closer. Talisman leaned forward and whispered something unintelligible to the straining ears of the watchers. With a final slap on the animal’s haunches, he leapt off and landed upon the ground a few paces in front of the wide-eyed Roland.
Ryder laughed and turned to watch as the winged horse receded from view as swiftly as he had approached. “I must apologize, both for the overstated manner of my arrival and my tardiness,” Ryder said, still grinning. “It was the quickest way...and there was something I had to do before coming.” The grin slid away, replaced by a frown as he lifted his eyes to the looming Tower.
“I will first bathe and refresh myself. Then I would ask my lords to join me in the Quietus. Upon the last rays of the setting sun, I will seek what lies in the Tower.”