The Final Night

Tex woke early enough to watch dawn creep over the horizon. He watched for smoke and other signs of movement ahead and was rewarded with a dim haze of road dust rising above the rim of mist-swaddled hills. He followed the course of a broken, weed-eaten path that had once been a road, still dotted in places with the worn remnants of the old paving stones. The light of day brought with it a new, invigorating air, a sense that despite the many alien things he had seen the substance of this world and his own were of one kind like two pots that had once been the same lump of clay, shaped perhaps by different hands and fired in different kilns but not irreconcilable with one another.

The land before him was peaceful with large stretches of emptiness, places where cities could have flourished had there been the material to people them. He came to a gap in the way where a bridge had long ago fallen into a stream and waded across, enjoying the chill of the clear, sweet-tasting water. No others crossed paths with him and he wondered whether the locals avoided him or if this place truly had been abandoned and left to whatever poor dregs were unable or unwilling to evacuate for some other more auspicious province. Then, towards noon, he spied the outline of ruins. A slight adjustment to his course brought him near enough to see a wall reduced in places to the outline of its foundation, gaps where age or a conquering army had opened a breach, and beyond those absences the empty shells of what few buildings yet stood. It had once been a large city, judging by the length of time it took to put it behind him, and it was not the last such exuviae encountered that day, for the land was studded with abandoned dwellings like needles in a pincushion.

The lengthening shadows of late afternoon greeted him with assurances his path was the right one. The natural undulations of that hilly country had brought him to a ridge overlooking a broad expanse of salt flats where a lake had withered to nothing and over the tops of the tall, hardy prairie grass could be seen the dark motes of people on foot. That much he could have hoped for. But beyond, throwing plumes of dust into the evening redness, a troop of cavalry galloped in silence, the manes of their destriers flowing like banners in the wind. They had ridden hard to make the rendezvous and reined in to meet the travelers on foot, some one hundred horsemen in all.

The new arrivals ushered Asphodel and Neteth onto the spare mounts they had brought up from the frontier fort, horses that fared worse than other beasts of burden in rough terrain but could cover vast distances in a short time. Few countries used them for much beyond courier duty, these easily frightened creatures that shied and stamped their hooves at the unfamiliar scent of their new riders. Still, the centurion leading the troop had answered the summons as swiftly as he was able. The message had been short and uncompromising and the response appropriately immediate. With Amar it would have gone considerably faster and in his absence certain compromises had become necessary. Rather than flying home, this alternative would have to do.

Menepatros climbed into a saddle hardly deserving of the name, being little more than a fold of tough leather with a coarse, red and white blanket draped over for padding. The remaining two sorcerers mounted up and he motioned for one to double back toward the mountains. The other, a young and ambitious man, Hazar of House Togarmah, was to proceed with Menepatros to Horon, and the horsemen and captives with them. In the following hours mage and swordsman alike kept a close watch on their unwilling companions, Menepatros noting with surprise and grudging respect the prince's calm demeanor. It was not the look of one meekly resigned to death, but something altogether different and more dangerous, serenity undergirded with deadly resolve.

The prince couldn't wriggle off the hook, of course, not this late. Menepatros wondered if he fully understood his situation, but he must. Royalty and intrigue were too closely linked for the younger man to remain unaware of his own mortality, to assume rescue must occur simply because he willed it. Even so, there was some air about him that provoked Menepatros's instincts and a cloud of concern hung over him all day. He knew of Pazugesar's reputation for ruthless cunning and wondered if the son had inherited any of the king's deadly qualities. Such things often eluded the heir, to the terrible regret of the country, but not always.

They rode over the wild and fallow ground between settlements, rolling hills that in places were naked flint for lack of topsoil, through fens with their mossy carpeting and down a sandy bank to the bed of a nearly dry river, trotting four abreast through ankle-deep water where the air was thick with humidity and smelled richly of vegetation. So they continued, stopping at night and when they needed to water the horses, until Horon stood in the red glare of dusk as the soldiers kindled the campfires, looking forward to the morning. Only a few hours separated them from their destination, a reality that alloyed the hope in Menepatros's heart with a small but unwelcome element of apprehension.

He expected his father the king of Nar would make a show of it, hold some trial before the court and conclude with an appropriately dramatic execution. Asphodel and Neteth, witness and defendant, and the one who spirited them away would be hero for a day. Menepatros considered this with less satisfaction than he had expected. Thus, once the sun was gone and the world laid open to the blizzard of stars in their immortal constellations, he walked to the fire where those two sat, waving aside the soldiers there. Though uncertain they obeyed, as he knew they would. He wanted this conversation to be between them alone, for certain questions had occurred to him along the way, questions he may not have another chance to ask. He sat, noting how the others watched him warily, silently asking himself why the witch acted as though she herself were under threat. Almost as though her allegiance had shifted, though Menepatros dismissed the thought. She too stood to profit from what was to come, provided she played along.

 For a sour moment all were silent, unwilling to speak or perhaps unable to think of suitable words. Menepatros cursed himself quietly for not considering it sooner, consoled only by the knowledge of the effect his presence had on others. They would be unnerved, he knew. Off balance. And so he breathed deeply, looked to the foreign prince, and began what would prove to be the turning point of both their journeys.