Hederick the Theocrat v-4 Read online

  Eban shot a blue-eyed glance toward Marya. "How about you?"

  Marya shook her head. "Same as him. Nothing. Something's not working."

  "Maybe the desk is broken," Olven theorized despondently. "Or the chair."

  "And you concentrated on Hederick, both of you?" Eban demanded. "The whole time?"

  "Yes, on Hederick, and only Hederick," Olven and Marya said together.

  Eban looked down at the parchment and then at the long crane's feather drooping from Olven's sweating hand. Most of the feathery portions had been stripped away from the quill in Olven's agitation. "Maybe that's it," Eban said. He patted Olven's shoulder, as though the red-haired youth were the elder of the two. "Let me try."

  Marya snorted. "He and I have years of experience beyond yours. You're practically still a child. What could you possibly try that we haven't thought of?"

  Olven groaned. "Give it up, Eban. Your willingness to help is laudable, but we're doomed." He rubbed his eyes and continued his lament. "I'm going to end up back home, selling hot potatoes and sausage from a pushcart. I just know it."

  "And I'll have to go back and marry the butcher," Marya added. "He has six kids." She went white and closed her eyes for a moment. "By the gods, I'll never have time to read a book again!" She slid down the end of the bookshelf until she was seated despondently on the stone floor.

  Eban ignored them both. He pulled at Olven's arm until the elder man heaved himself out of the chair and made way for the youth. One pair of black eyes and one pair of brown watched hopelessly as the youth settled against the chair's cushions, took a deep breath, let his head fall back, and appeared to go into an open-eyed trance. Eban's voice startled them then, for there was nothing dreamy about it. "Perhaps you were concentrating too narrowly," he said, "in thinking only of Hederick. History- even the story of just one person-consists of more than events that happen directly to one man. Maybe we should widen our thoughts."

  As the other two watched pessimistically, the youngest member of the trio reached forward and grasped a new quill. Eban dipped the tip into a ceramic pot of black ink, placed it just above the paper, and waited. He made no sound. Olven and Marya held their breath. Soon the pen began scratching on the parchment.

  Chapter 3

  Two score men and women stood motionless in tbe fog, tbeir white robes clinging in the dampness. The setting could have been day or night, north or south, pinnacle or plain. The mist muted everything to colorlessness.

  At the center of the circle stood the only figure wearing other than the robe of a mage. He was also the only one carrying a sword. Homespun shirt, dark shift, patched leggings, and dusty boots covered his tall frame. The man appeared to be in his seventies. Unbent and powerful despite his age, he held in his arms a woman so slender and weak that a casual observer might wonder whether she still breathed.

  She was at least eighty. Yet even in her sleeping frailty, it was apparent that once she had been a great beauty. The woman, too, wore the white robes of a mage of Good.

  Tarscenian held Ancilla and quietly surveyed the circle of mages around him. When he finally spoke, the fog muffled his voice.

  "Ancilla argued for three days before the Conclave of Wizards," Tarscenian said, "and when they still refused to help her, she collapsed. She is weak." He paused, unwilling to say the words that would put voice to his worst fear. "She is dying."

  The other mages knew Ancilla had spent decades trying to stop the fanatic Hederick from realizing his ambition to lead the Seeker religion-and, ultimately, all of Krynn. He had installed himself as High Theocrat of Solace. Now Hederick was hoping to so impress his gods that they would admit him into their pantheon as a deity. He called himself The Chosen One and considered himself the special favorite of the Seeker god Sauvay.

  "Hederick has the Diamond Dragon of the White Robes," Tarscenian said.

  The men and women inclined their heads. Ancilla had received the Diamond Dragon when she passed the Test that made her a white-robed mage. Hederick had taken it from her. It was a sad irony that the artifact of the White Robes now protected one such as Hederick from their magic.

  "Doubtless you have tried stealing the artifact back," the elven mage Calcidon said.

  Tarscenian nodded assent. "To no avail. That if hy Ancilla wanted to enlist the help of the Conclave oi.. iz-ards, including all Neutral and Evil mages."

  "And the Conclave of Wizards refused her," Calcidon mused. "Even those mages allied with good."

  "The White Robes were somewhat willing," Tarscenian said. "The neutral Red Robes were unsure, and the Black Robes of evil were absolutely set against any action."

  Strands of mist coalesced and whirled around Tarscen-ian and the others as though the fog expressed some of their agitation.

  "What interest could the Black Robes have in supporting a man who would gladly see them all burned?" Calcidon asked. "They are mages, after all. Like us, they favor the Old Gods."

  The mage Benthis spoke next. "Refugees have been arriving from the far north with tales of strange armies, mercenaries, and nefarious creatures," he said. "Mino-taurs. Hobgoblins, goblins, and worse. There's no logic to the rumors, unless a source of unheard-of evil is behind such a military undertaking." Benthis looked Calcidon straight in the eyes. "An evil on the scale of a deity."

  The elf frowned. "You are suggesting…"

  "Takhisis herself."

  "The Dark Queen!" Calcidon laughed. "Oh, surely one of the Old Gods would not intercede on Krynn…" The elf halted, taken aback by the intent looks of the other mages. The last time the Old Gods had interceded on Krynn, the resulting debacle practically destroyed the world. Three centuries earlier, the Cataclysm had drained seas, created oceans and deserts where none had been before, and killed hundreds of thousands of humans, elves, dwarves, kender, and other beings. All because a human, the kingpriest of a faraway city, had aspired to godhood.

  Calcidon, wearing a mask of elven calm, turned to Tarscenian. "The Conclave has refused to help you, but two score white-robed mages hear your tale now. What do you seek of us?"

  "Hederick is slaughtering scores of mages," Tarscenian replied. "All of you have lost someone dear to Hed-erick's Inquisition."

  Indeed, it was true, the mages agreed, nodding to each other. In the past three months, Hederick had leveled dozens of vallenwoods. The Solace trees were sacred to the followers of the Old Gods but merely another source of firewood to the Seekers. Hederick was employing goblins and hobgoblins as spies and assassins. The goblins in turn had enlisted other evil creatures to assist them.

  On the land cleared of vallenwoods, just north of Solace on the shores of Crystalmir Lake, Hederick had built an opulent temple. The High Theocrat called the temple Erolydon, which meant "scourge of heresy" in Old Abanasinian. There Hederick had set up the headquarters of his Inquisition. Anyone caught using magic was deemed a heretic, according to the Seeker faith, and thus was subject to execution, which came both swiftly and mercilessly.

  Benthis, surveying the assembled White Robes, noted the melancholy expression on the face of the elven mage. "Even you, Calcidon?" he murmured. "I thought you and yours never ventured forth from your cozy elven nest in Qualinost. Who have you lost to Heder-ick's Inquisition?"

  "A cousin," came the tight-lipped answer. "And you, Benthis?"

  The hawklike visage softened. "My sister."

  Other mages chimed in. "Hederick executed my brother." "My friend of twenty years." "My partner."

  "What do you want of us, Tarscenian?" Calcidon repeated.

  "Ancilla gave me instructions before she addressed the Conclave," Tarscenian said. "She feared she would fail-once more-to persuade them. And she worried she would be too frail afterward to summon you herself."

  Tarscenian chose his next words carefully. "Ancilla discovered a way to collect the powers of willing mages, and channel them through her own willpower. She thought that with such unusual strength at her disposal, she could at last wrest the Diamond Dragon away f
rom Hederick. In turn, she planned to use the artifact to defeat him."

  "Take our powers?" Benthis cried. "That's unacceptable. Where would that leave us? Devoid of magic at a time when Hederick is sending spies and kidnappers all over Krynn to capture spellcasters! You'd leave us unprotected against this tyrant?"

  "Ancilla found a means to shelter you," Tarscenian explained. "If you will transfer your powers to her, the vallenwoods will shelter your bodies and nurture you until the Diamond Dragon releases you."

  A flurry of protest, led by Benthis, rippled through the gathering. But as Calcidon and the rest of the wizards intoned the names of the loved ones lost to the Inquisition, one by one the opponents backed down.

  Benthis tried one last argument. "If Ancilla fails, what happens to us? What if she dies despite our combined powers?"

  "I cannot say for certain," Tarscenian said. "You will be part of the vallenwoods, but whether you will die or stay in the trees for years-or forever-Ancilla could not foretell."

  Benthis gazed around the circle. His look met only obdurate stares. "And we all must be part of this?" he asked.

  "All who are present now," Tarscenian replied. "Or the spell will not work."

  Benthis closed his eyes. At last he opened them and attempted a weak smile. "If it comes down to dying at Hederick's command or perishing inside a vallenwood, I suppose it ultimately makes no difference," he conceded. He wiped the damp from his forehead with his sleeve. "I loved my sister. I'm with you."

  For the rest of the day, Tarscenian led them through the steps Ancilla had forced him to commit to memory. When all had learned the spells and movements, he spread his cloak on the ground in the middle of the circle and laid Ancilla upon it. Then, because Tarscenian was but a minor spellcaster, he backed out of the circle, leaving the wizards to do their work.

  Calcidon led the spell. "Shiriff intoann ejjitt," he intoned.

  "Borumtalcon," the mages replied.

  They raised their hands and lowered them in the prescribed movements. Each wizard inscribed upon the fog a different portion of the magical traceries. The gestures of their fingers left blue, green, and red lines on the mist. Ancilla had stressed that each segment of the total was crucial, but to Tarscenian, each mage's work appeared to be nothing but errant scribbling.

  The fog began to glow. The white robes gleamed like burnished silver.

  "Bilum merit ayhannti," Calcidon sang in his elven tenor.

  "Achet shiral pescumi. Relaquay," came the chanted reply of the group. The men's voices rumbled. The women's tones floated like feathers.

  Suddenly the forty robes glittered like diamonds. They scattered light until tears streamed from the mages' eyes. Ancilla had been adamant: the mages' eyes must remain open, whatever their inclination to close them against the brilliance.

  "Ayhannti, shiral liwix xhalot." Calcidon sang on. "Polopeque."

  The shine that had transformed the robes now leaped out of the cloth as though it had life of its own. The glitter shone silver and white. Ice blue appeared in the swirling fog. The lines that the mages had traced formed into figures-a tree, a dragon, a lance, a crown.

  Then they muted to nothingness.

  The mist evaporated around the ring of mages and intensified above Ancilla's still form. The air filled with the clattering and chiming of bells.

  "Shiral liwix trassdiv dhellil" Calcidon shrieked the words. Yet the other mages could barely hear him over the noise from the twisting tendrils of fog.

  "Reveese rou ripow nad borrah rou carpeh," the mages shouted in unison. "Reveese rou ripow nad borrah rou carpeh!"

  The fog enveloped all the mages. The light from a thousand stars exploded within the circle. Wooden bells, silver chimes, steel cymbals could be heard. Some of the mages began to bleed from the ears. Others cried out with pain and made as if to clap their hands over their eyes.

  Then all disappeared. The fog vanished with them, revealing a late-afternoon mountaintop without tree or living beast.

  All was silent.

  At that moment, Ancilla shivered and awakened. Her green eyes stared blankly at Tarscenian for a moment. "I am alive?" she finally whispered. "They agreed to help us?" At Tarscenian's nod, the old woman accepted his hand and stood. She wobbled at first, then supported herself without aid. Ancilla waved away Tarscenian's arm.

  "By the Old Gods, Tarscenian, the power!" she whispered. "I have the might of two score mages inside of me."

  Her companion waited while Ancilla composed herself. She closed her eyes, and her lips moved, but Tarscenian could not divine whether she spoke spell or prayer. After a few moments, Ancilla seemed to gain some control over the magical forces raging within her.

  "This is our last chance, Tarscenian," Ancilla said resolutely, looking up at her longtime friend and companion. "We go now to Erolydon-to challenge my brother.

  Chapter 4

  Pounding and shouting at thc front door of their treetop mansion in Solace shook the Vakon family from their beds just after midnight. Jeffers, the manservant, was the first to the door, but Ceci Vakon, mistress of the home, followed a short distance behind.

  "Is the master home?" Jeffers whispered to Ceci. He clutched a small axe of the variety normally used to chop kindling.

  She shook her head. "Mendis isn't home yet. Perhaps something has happened to him."

  A resonant voice boomed through the locked door. "Death to heretics!" Ceci recognized the booming bass voice as that of the high priest of the Seeker temple in Solace.

  "High Priest Dahos!" she whispered. "And Hederick's

  goblins. What are they doing here?"

  Jeffers's face was young, pale, and defiant. "I'm the only man in the house," he said staunchly. "I will protect you."

  "No. This must be a mistake," Ceci replied. "The High Theocrat promised us protection. Open the door. I'll speak to them."

  The young servant followed her orders but kept the small axe in view and stood stubbornly in the doorway next to his mistress. Clutching her lacy nightrobe at her throat with one hand, she surveyed the tall, robed Plainsman and the half-dozen goblins who ranged on the walkway just outside the door. Behind them was nothing but the forty-foot drop from the walkway to the forest floor. The Vakon home, like most in Solace, was built in the branches of a vallenwood tree, linked to the other treetop buildings by snakelike wood-and-rope walkways.

  "What do you want?" Ceci demanded. "It's the middle of the night, Dahos. You've frightened my servants and my children."

  Dahos inclined his head, and replied. "The High Court of the Seekers of the New Gods in Solace has convicted you and your family of heresy, Mistress Vakon." The formal tone could not mask the gleeful triumph in his dark eyes. "We are here to take you into church custody. Come outside."

  "I will not!" Ceci Vakon retorted. "There's been a mistake. We are under the protection of the High Theocrat of Solace. My husband will take care of this misunderstanding in the morning. Now go!" She turned on the ball of one foot, dismissing the dark-robed priest with a toss of her head.

  Thus it was that she missed the signal that passed from Dahos to the six goblins. A half-dozen maces and spears came up to the ready.

  But Jeffers saw. He drove his shoulder into Ceci's side

  and sent her sprawling onto the walkway. He lifted his axe. He never got a chance to use it.

  Out of the darkness flashed a spear-hurtling sideways, like a long-handled sword, not point forward like an ordinary spear or lance. It was a movement peculiar to the Plainsman tribe from which Dahos hailed. The weapon slashed above the maces of several chattering goblins and cut through the manservant's neck like a cleaver through a round of cheese. Mendis Vakon's young sons piled into the room in time to see the loyal servant's head spin over the railing of the aerial walkway. His body crashed to the doorstep. Ceci Vakon and her children screamed in terror.

  Several months ago, the cacophony would have brought dozens of neighbors running to their aid, but no one appeared now. All of Solace
cowered under the boot heel of Hederick, the new High Theocrat of the treetop village.

  "Yellow Eyes, take two goblins and empty the house," Dahos snapped at one of the goblins, whose broad nose twitched at the smell of Jeffers's blood. "There may be other servants within. If they resist, kill them. If not, bring them along. They'll bring more money to Erolydon's coffers. Find the daughter. Assemble them on the walkway, next to the railing, with their backs to the drop."

  It was a complicated command for a goblin, but the one called Yellow Eyes was smart for that species. The leader of sorts, he scurried to obey. The high priest turned toward the far walkway.

  "People of Solace!" he shouted into the darkness. "Bear this in mind! This is how Hederick, High Theocrat of Solace, rewards heretics and other sinners!"

  Ceci Vakon, her young sons, teen-age daughter, and serving maids lined up on the walkway. The goblins scrambled through the dwelling, gathering platinum candlesticks, jeweled chalices, polished steel serving plates, and anything else that seemed valuable. The rest of the furnishings they destroyed.

  "These precious objects will be better used in the holy setting of the temple Erolydon than in the lair of heretics," Dahos proclaimed. "We will consecrate them first, of course."

  "My husband will avenge this!" Ceci snapped. "What are you going to do with us-pitch a woman and children off the walkway, pious coward that you are?" Ceci's daughter burst into tears, but her mother continued her brave but foolhardy speech. "My husband will have your head for this, High Priest. He'll go to the Highseekers Council in Haven! We are under Hederick's protection, I tell you!"

  "Silence!" Dahos thundered.

  Yellow Eyes flourished a short-handled sword before Ceci's face. Discomfited as much by his rancid breath as by the violent gesture, she clamped her mouth shut and glared at the smelly creature. Her children swarmed around her, but the goblins forced them back into line.

  Then Ceci heard the screams in the distance. Loons, she thought at first. But the only loons in Solace would be nesting out at northern Crystalmir Lake, out of earshot. Along with the screeches came the unmistakable thrumming of wings. The strange sound grew nearer.