The Unwelcome Warlock

“Thank you, Chairman,” Molvarn said with a nod. “Now, all of you over here — we are going to be providing transportation to the Grandgate barracks in Ethshar of the Sands. The magic is on its way, about an hour behind me. I don’t know just how fast we will be able to move people through, it may take some time, but we can transport everyone from that city; the spell has unlimited capacity. We’re going to start with the more recent arrivals, since you’ll still probably have friends and family who can help you once you’re home. We’re also going to ask those of you who do still have homes to help your less fortunate fellows — some of you were trapped in Aldagmor for more than thirty years, and not only are your homes and families long gone, there may not be anyone left who remembers you ever existed. I know that’s hard, that it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the simple truth. I don’t see anything to be gained from misleading you.”

That elicited unhappy murmurs, but no open protest.

Molvarn gestured toward the sea of people milling about, too far away to hear. “Please tell your compatriots as they arrive.” Then he turned to the other side and announced, “If you heard what I just told the others, we have about the same news for you — there’s a spell on the way, an enchanted tapestry, that will transport you to a small shop in Ethshar of the Rocks, on Wizard Street where it passes between Center City and Highside. More recent arrivals should go first, to find their families, and we hope you’ll be able to arrange to help some of the people who were here longer.”

“Pass the word!” Hanner repeated.

Molvarn turned back toward the main crowd. “I’m sure some of you’re wondering why we don’t have magic ready to take you to Ethshar of the Spices. We’re working on it. Unfortunately, most of the existing magic we wizards use to visit Ethshar of the Spices is not suitable for this group. Please be patient. Now, my companions would like to speak.” He slid back on the carpet and rotated it slightly, bringing one of the other two passengers to the front.

This was a woman in a long maroon coat over a white tunic and maroon skirt; Hanner had at first taken the coat for a wizard’s robe, but now he saw that it was not. She cleared her throat, and started to speak.

Hanner could barely hear her, and quickly shouted, “Louder!”

She paused, frowned, and tried again. Listening required an effort, but Hanner could make out her words now.

“Lord Azrad has conferred with Lord Ederd and Lord Wulran, and sent word to the Council of Barons in Sardiron. Many of you undoubtedly came from farms or villages, and of course, if you still have families to return to, you are free to do so. Most of you, though, either worked as warlocks and have no land or trade to return to, or left so long ago that you were presumed dead, and any holdings you may have once had are gone. You need new lands.” She spread her arms and gestured at their surroundings. “This land is unclaimed. It lies almost ten leagues east of Sardiron’s borders, and well north of the Hegemony’s inhabited areas. This was a battlefield of the Great War that changed hands many times, far from the major trade routes, so it had not been settled by the Night of Madness, and after that — well, it was uninhabitable, until now. We are about sixteen leagues from the outermost villages of the Hegemony. There are no roads, no houses, nothing but wilderness — but it’s good land, with enough water, and moderate summers. Yes, the winters can be hard, but they aren’t as fierce as in Sardiron or Tazmor or Srigmor. Lord Azrad, with the provisional consent of Lord Ederd and Lord Wulran, is offering all this land, from this point south and west to the borders of Sardiron and the edge of existing farms, to anyone who cares to claim and work it. He assures you that roads will be built, and that supplies to survive the winter and make a start will be brought in. He suggests that raising beef cattle would be profitable; you already know that the lands north of here are home to dragons, and strange as it may sound, those dragons will buy your cattle, through human agents. I will be in charge of settling anyone who wants to work these lands; a group of advisors is on the way to assist me.”

“I don’t want to stay in Ethshar!” Fanria protested. “I’m Sardironese!”

Hanner was unsure whether the woman on the carpet heard Fanria or not, but the third rider, a man in a green wizard’s robe, was straightening up and cupping his hands to his mouth.

“Ie ban Bergen fin Aldran!” he shouted.

Fanria had turned to Hanner to voice her objections, but now she whirled to face the man on the carpet.

“Ie shtarfur Rada Garafai al yez, be kardin bar Kor Azrad!”

“Is that Sardironese?” Hanner asked.

“He says he’s speaking on behalf of the Council of Barons, but only provisionally; it was Lord Azrad who actually sent him,” Fanria replied.

That seemed to be a lot to fit into the one sentence, but Hanner had always heard that Sardironese was more efficient than Ethsharitic. Northerners didn’t like to keep their mouths open any more than they had to; it let in the cold air.

“His name is Bergen Aldran’s son,” Rayel added.

No one had specifically said it was Sardironese, but the translations from the two Aldagmorites left little doubt.

The green-robed wizard launched into a speech now, and Hanner made no attempt to follow it. He knew some Trader’s Tongue and a few words apiece of three of the dead languages wizards sometimes used in their spells, but found Sardironese completely incomprehensible. The scholars said it had originally been a blend of Ethsharitic military slang of three hundred years ago and one of the languages spoken in the old Northern Empire, but to Hanner it was gibberish. He waited patiently while Bergen spoke and the Sardironese in the crowd listened intently.

At last the speech ended.

“What did he say?” Hanner asked Rayel.

“He said...” Rayel paused, obviously trying to switch from thinking in his native tongue to thinking in Ethsharitic. Then he continued, “He said the Council of Barons is still debating the situation, but the Wizards’ Guild stands ready to transport us to Sardiron of the Waters, once permission is granted. If we don’t want to go to the capital, the Guild is also talking to the Baron of Aldagmor about sending some of us to his keep, just the other side of the dragons’ territory. He says the Baron — well, it’s the grandson of the man who was the last baron I knew about, and he’s very different. The old baron was obsessed with mining; he thought the hills must be full of gold. The new baron is more interested in trade. There isn’t much farmland available, but we can probably find work. It’s all still pretty vague.”

“Still, they’re trying,” Hanner said.

“Yes, they are,” Rayel agreed. “But it’s...it’s very confusing.”

“It is,” Hanner acknowledged.

It was confusing — but it was encouraging, as well. The Wizards’ Guild and Azrad VII had responded with gratifying speed, and seemed to have been surprisingly thorough. Old Azrad the Sedentary, the current overlord’s father, would never have been this effective, especially not after Lord Faran’s death.

So everyone from Ethshar of the Sands or Ethshar of the Rocks would be sent home, and anyone who wanted to settle down on new land as a farmer would be welcome to do so, and arrangements were being made to send all the Sardironese home. That would take care of thousands of the former warlocks; Hanner didn’t have any real idea of the exact numbers, but thousands.

But it wouldn’t be all of them. It wouldn’t help him.

He hoped the wizards and the overlords would get to the rest of the former warlocks soon, before the weather turned any worse.

Chapter Twelve

“You know,” Vond said, as he looked down at his capital, “there really isn’t any reason to stay here.”

“This has been the heart of the empire for fifteen years, your Majesty,” Sterren protested. “Moving the entire government would be —”

“I don’t want to move the government,” Vond interrupted. “I’m talking about me.”