EXILED Wizard of Tizare Read online

  Still, there was no one else she’d rather have beside her in the hours to come.

  The plan ... It had all sounded so possible when looking over the papers in her father’s chambers. But now, the odds seemed overwhelming. How could their three small bands succeed where an army would fail?

  She scolded herself then, walking beside Paralan, the others trailing at what she hoped was a natural distance. If she started questioning everything they were sure to fail.

  Part of the difficulty was her physical discomfort. Instead of her simple kilt and her sword, she wore the flowing robes of a courtesan, eager to convert the warm night into a healthy cache of coppers.

  Already randy-eyed young mrem were following her—discreetly, of course—but definitely eager to see where she was going.

  They’d have a ways to go, she thought with a smile. But she was glad to see that her appearance, enhanced by a few streaks of color in her otherwise golden fur, was working the proper spell.

  If she could just keep them at bay until the twin moons made their appearance.

  Then, just when they reached the northern entrance to the palace grounds, she’d begin the small charade that would, the All-Mother willing, lead them into the palace itself.

  She looked behind as her crowd of admirers grew and grew.

  •

  The fabled White Dancers! Though Falon had heard about them, usually mentioned in hush tones of respect, still it was an amazing sight to see them take their positions in the gardens just outside the palace.

  A crowd, quiet and well-behaved, had formed, talking quietly among themselves, waiting respectfully for the performance.

  Except that even Falon, highland bumpkin that he was, knew that what the troupe would do went beyond mere ‘performance. ‘

  They told the tales of history, sang the song of the mrem, made the lessons of the past live once again, and brought the warnings of the future so close the audience could feel it.

  He wasn’t sure he could keep his mind focused on his objective. The three guards he had selected mingled in the crowd quite effectively, disappearing almost. Falon just hoped that they would be there when he needed them.

  He had argued for including the White Dancers in their plans. Who better than they to help expose the fraudulent king and establish Falon’s rightful, if improbable, claim? But Rhow had grown silent, concerned, shaking his head as he moved onto other topics.

  Falon kept off to the side, watching the Dancers take their places. He thought that the head of the troupe looked over, recognizing Falon even though he quickly turned away.

  But no matter. They started moving through the garden, taking broad steps, landing gently on the pads of their shoeless feet. The audience grew hushed.

  “This is the time,” the chief Dancer said in a surprisingly gentle voice that nonetheless carried in the open space as clearly as if it had been a yell.

  Immediately behind her, four of the Dancers came together, twisting their bodies into terrible shapes. “This is the time,” the chief Dancer repeated, spinning, her sheer white kilt creating a smooth blur with her brilliant white fur.

  Falon, totally and immediately absorbed, came closer, as did his accomplices. It didn’t worry him—they had plenty of time.

  The group of contorted Dancers joined hands and legs, and became one.

  It was an ugly shape, and the audience muttered, confused by the unexpected action. But then a slow rumbling started to build up as first one, then many people began to repeat a word.

  “Liskash ...”

  Yes, thought Falon. Of course. He couldn’t see it before because he just saw the individual Dancers. But now, it was so clear. The Dancers had made a liskash, lumbering on its legs, toward the chief Dancer.

  “The time—here—” she said spinning.

  The liskash came up to her, and she seemed to slow, then waver, and it reached out for her.

  The audience gasped—and it startled Falon. It’s just a dance, he thought.

  But no. It was more than a dance. The White Dancers did more than carry messages and tales. And they were surely doing more than that now.

  It was a warning. And some of the Tizarians were visibly disturbed. Falon checked for his confederates. They stood, much like the others, open-mouthed, watching this strange dance.

  The message was so clear! Liskash are coming. ... But the thing that scared Falon was the sheer ferocity of their dance. And more—the size and power of the White Dancers’ creation of a liskash.

  Falon didn’t even realize that he had begun fingering his sword during the performance.

  He looked up, checking for the first faint glow as the twin moons broke the horizon.

  Hurry, he once again prayed. Let this night begin …

  So that it might end.

  THE CROWD was nice and large now, Caissir observed, but he couldn’t put them off too long with such pithy displays of magic. This was Tizare, after all, one of the great cities. Even the bedraggled group in front of him would expect better.

  He looked over his shoulder. The sky was still dark, he noted with disappointment. But there, yes, he thought with a smile, just at the edge of the palace itself. The tiniest sliver of a glow. In minutes the tiny crescent of the first moon would break through.

  Caissir looked back at his audience, searching for Elezar. Caissir gave Elezar a quick wink—the prearranged signal—before resuming his patter.

  “Yes, and now I’ll begin one of the most incredible, mystifying displays of—” he grinned at the audience “—you-know-what, that anyone has seen.” The crowd laughed at his political joke, chuckling to themselves, even as they looked over their shoulders for any sign of the king’s secret police.

  No such worry, Caissir knew. Tizare was, if anything, loose. Magic, even real magic, was tolerated.

  “Yes, but I’m afraid that I will need an assistant, someone ...” He was looking through a thicket of hands. “Yes, you,” he said picking one of Rhow’s guards out of the crowd. “Now, just step behind this curtain,” Caissir said, parting a creamy black piece of material that acted as his backdrop.

  A bit of fiddling with the curtain, just for effect, and then some earnest distracting by grabbing at some items on the table. “By the most powerful wizardry, I declare you ... gone!”

  Caissir quickly snapped the curtain down, and the crowd gasped and clapped to see nothing there but the palace walls.

  Well, thought Caissir, they might live in a great city but even the village bumpkins usually saw through that bit of business. Perhaps his act was better than he thought.

  His confederate, meanwhile, had rolled completely away from the booth and had surfaced in plenty of time to watch his own vanishing.

  Caissir grinned. The moon broke the crisp line of the palace walls, bathing the rich indigo sky with a gentle, diffused light. He licked his lips.

  Alas, he thought. Much too brief a show.

  “And now—” he said, bringing a series of goblets out on top of the table.

  “Yes, now we’ll put an end to this!” the voice screamed out. And the crowd, just a moment ago all grinning and expectation, howled out in alarm.

  Caissir stepped back, his eyes wide with fright.

  •

  It was almost dark down here. The northern wall of Mineir’s palace was well away from the attractions of the marketplace and the festive courtyard at the palace gates.

  Still, Taline was pleased to see that she had done well for herself. A healthy contingent of mrem, eager to spend some delicious moments with such a beauty, trailed behind her. A few were even bold enough to come right up to her elbow, making enticing proposals that mostly involved dumping the rest of the group.

  “Soon,” she smiled, teasing, excited despite the terrible danger to come. She saw the small entrance to the palace up ahead, marked by a lonely
outpost manned by a trio of guards. From the rutted tracks carved into the dirt she walked on, it looked to be the main delivery entrance.

  She saw that she had plenty of company here.

  Other Tizarians were using this quiet stretch of songomore trees that ran parallel to the wall as a quiet, secluded rendezvous. The night was filled with the sounds of vigorous rutting, the soft mewling as lovers nibbled at each other.

  A few of her potential customers dropped away, perhaps to pursue easier sport, or perhaps daunted by the gloomy darkness of this part of Tizare.

  She stopped and turned.

  For a moment she didn’t see Paralan, and she almost panicked. Then she picked him out, lurking near the back like any other randy soul.

  She looked away.

  The crescent moon brought a pale glow to the darkness here.

  She turned back, licking her lips, moving her body slowly, issuing a promise to any and all who watched.

  “So now,” she said with a smile, “Who shall be first?”

  •

  No one at Lord Rhow’s knew anything about watching kits. That much was obvious to Ashre.

  As soon as the guards had delivered his dinner and guided him to his room, he was left all alone.

  Which suited him just fine.

  He waited a bit, strolling anxiously around the massive bedroom, before opening the heavy wood door and peering down the long hallway. He heard voices—laughter, and the low rumble of talking—but they came from far away. The hallway was empty, and if he was going to get going, he had to get a move on.

  He stepped out, smiling to himself, then started down the hallway very slowly, almost casually. It was best not to arouse any guard’s suspicions should they see him.

  Just need to pee, I could tell them. Oh, there is? Right in my room? So sorry. ...

  Or he could pretend he was hungry, or lonely, or whatever. Anything, just as long as he got off this main corridor.

  Because he had done more that day than simply watch the others checking the guards and devising their plans (and he was sure surprised at Caissir—his ideas were wonderful). No, he had done one other thing.

  He had made sure he knew the layout of King Mineir’s palace. Maybe he knew it even better than they did. After all, he had spent most of his life dodging down corridors, through rooms, and out open windows.

  The hallway was still deserted. It probably helped that some of the guards were off with Falon. He started to relax, but then he heard steps coming towards him, heavy steps.

  He looked around for someplace to hide. There was nothing. The footsteps were closer, climbing up a few steps to the hallway. There was a door, just to his left—and he ducked in.

  At first the room seemed empty. A pair of candles cast some light in the room, but it was dark and shadowy. He put an ear up to the door, and heard the steps jangle past. They were wearing full armor.

  An odd touch, thought Ashre. He waited till they were well past.

  And he heard voices behind him. A she-mrem ... and then a mrem. Talking quietly, laughing to each other.

  More sounds that Ashre knew all too well.

  Then ... a few words, quite clear. Mineir ... battle ... surprise. Then the mrem said Falon’s name, and he laughed, a cruel sound that made Ashre’s fur stand on end.

  The mrem stood up, and Ashre heard him say something about more wine.

  Quickly, Ashre grabbed the door handle and sneaked out.

  He stood outside the doorway, his heart beating like a drum, more confused than ever. He wished he could have heard more. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good for his friends.

  He hurried down the hallway, taking the curved steps at its end two and three at a time, convinced that he had to do this, had to disobey Falon.

  He never was any good at following rules.

  The stairs led to a small waiting area. Ashre looked around, before seeing the small door off to the side. He ran to it, hoping that it would be open. He pulled on the metal bar, but it didn’t budge.

  “Come on,” he hissed, biting at his lip, tugging on the heavy metal handle. Then, “Please!”

  As if in answer, the bar budged, sliding just a bit ... enough of a movement to let him know that he’d be able to open it.

  More voices! And the same clanky footsteps ... Coming right towards him, from a corridor just over his shoulder.

  He pulled on the bar with all his strength. It popped up, rudely, making a loud clanking sound.

  He wasted no time sliding into the dank staircase, and shutting the door behind him,

  Close now, he thought. If only Falon would believe his story.

  He went down these stairs cautiously, watching it grow lighter as he reached the bottom.

  The stairs opened up suddenly, and he was looking at a great room. Here were rows of swords of every size and shape. There were claw swords of all lengths attached to the wall. And a whole rack of lances, all of them bearing the same intricate designs. To the back, Ashre could see machines whose purpose he could only guess at. They were dark, hulking shapes, with enormous cups that could catapult boulders through space.

  And the oil, barrels and barrels of it, lined up against the wall, filling the room with a smell that made his nostrils twitch.

  The weapons room! With such an armory, Rhow could conquer half the great cities.

  And maybe, thought Ashre, that was exactly his plan.

  There were a few guards down here, milling about, watching over this great stockpile. Ash began to walk casually around, whistling, letting them know he was here.

  “Ho, there,” one burly guard called out. “And just what do you think you’re doing down here?”

  Ash flashed what he hoped was a winning smile.

  “I couldn’t sleep ... and Lord Rhow suggested that I might like seeing—”

  At the mention of Rhow, the guard seemed to straighten up, sucking in his ample belly.

  “Why, sure, young kit. Explore all that you want. And if there’s anything I could help you with, just let me know ....

  The guard backed up, and Ashre walked by him, strolling past a line of crossbows, and then racks of armor.

  Ashre sniffed. It was as if they still smelled of battle, of blood. He reached out and touched one suit. ...

  And quickly snapped his hand back. There was death here. Not all mrem get to return their armor themselves, he thought. And suddenly, this exciting room became, for a moment, a place of terrible sadness.

  He began to paw through the armor, watching the guard relax, and finally return to his duties.

  Throat armor. A claw sword. And yes, maybe a dagger.

  That’s what he needed.

  None of it too heavy. All of it familiar to him.

  If only it was enough. ...

  And if only he was in time.

  He whistled, as he gathered his weapons.

  •

  The crowd around the White Dancers was immense, so large that Falon lost sight of Rhow’s guards completely.

  He’d have to just hope that they’d be there when he made his move.

  But even he was held fast by the terrible tale told by the Dancers.

  It had started out as a warning, a very clear warning to the people of Tizare, of the invasion to come from the East. But they made it an immediate danger, something almost upon them.

  Some of the weaker souls in the audience actually turned away, horrified by the images of the carnage to come.

  But then it got worse. The Dancers, acting as messengers, brought tales from the surrounding villages, tales filled with a horrible beauty as they spun around and portrayed the last moments of whole villages before the eastern invaders arrived.

  Not a sound was heard in the audience.

  Nothing, save the occasional tear.

  But oh
, the moment they told the story of the small farmhouse, the lone wife, the young kits ... Falon thanked the All-Mother that Paralan wasn’t with him.

  His own tears fell freely, silently. The dance seemed to go on forever, lingering with excruciating beauty on each detail of the life of the small farm. The chilly mornings, the noises of the beasts eager to be fed, the kits rolling around on the dusty ground, playing, laughing....

  Waiting. For their daddy to return from the desert.

  Falon turned away, and he could hear the audience sobbing, all of them trying desperately to muffle their tears.

  He took one step toward the gate, then another, trying to ignore the words of the lead Dancers, blocking the vivid images their subtle movements created.

  His hand closed around a curved dagger.

  Please, be here, he prayed, hoping that the Dancers hadn’t so devastated Rhow’s mrem that they would forget their role.

  But then he saw one, then another of the guards and he knew he wouldn’t be alone.

  The guards at the gate took no notice of his approach.

  They were, like everyone, completely absorbed by the spectacle.

  It would have to be fast, he knew. Any prolonged confrontation would only bring the attention of other guards out mingling with the crowd.

  He eased himself right against the wall, and started digging around in a small sack, as if looking for official papers.

  And Falon took a quick glance to see how many guards there were.

  Four, at least that many milling about the opening. Perhaps a few more inside.

  Not too many, he hoped.

  He stopped rummaging around, and looked up, giving Rhow’s mrem the prearranged signal.

  The gate guards saw nothing.

  Falon slid out the elegant curved dagger. Assassin! his mind suggested, once again.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  And he moved, quickly, smoothly, not giving his chosen target a moment to respond. The blade slid into the gap between the guard’s chest armor and kilt, smoothly piercing the fur and skin. When it was in deep; Falon ripped up, pulling, tearing, killing. ...