CHAPTER NINETEEN
In vain, Shireen, blood sister of the long since assassinated Michal
the Great, pleaded with the Dark Mage to come to bed. Ragund had been pacing
the chamber floor half the night already.
“Astor!”
Ragund curled his lip and flung an accusing glance at his wife as if it were
all her fault that things were not going according to plan. Indeed, he had to
confess, things were a mess. That fool, Radik had lost Heron. Even so, it hardly mattered. The krill leader
had redeemed himself in Ragund’s eyes a thousand times over by capturing Michal
and the elves…only to lose them too.
“Grrrrr!” he gritted his teeth and paced even harder.
His thoughts
turned to young Michal. It was inconceivable that he, Ragund, had not known
Galia’s son had been transported from the motherworld and was, even at that
very moment, a pawn of immense value in Astor’s oily hands. It stood to reason
that Galia’s son had to be worth more than her grandson. Or did it? True, Michal
was a first son, but no less a motherworlder for that. Heron, on the other
hand, was not only direct bloodline, but also pure Mamelon stock.
The Dark Mage
shook his head. There would be time enough to settle that little riddle once
the Tomb of the Creator was rediscovered and he, Ragund, was on top of the
situation. He shook his head again. Myriad reflections bouncing off a balding
pate shot darts of light in all directions.
“Come to bed,”
Shireen purred seductively.
Ragund
continued to ignore her, as puzzled as he was angry. True, Astor was no mean
adversary. But neither were his, Ragund’s powers, any less a force to be
reckoned with. Hadn’t he even coerced
the spirit of Ca-an to his own ends? Yet, Astor had defeated him at every turn
so far. Not only had the White Mage been alerted to young Michal’s existence
before he, Ragund, had the slightest inkling, but he had managed to smuggle him
though a Time Gate with total discretion.
At the same time, he had successfully contrived to divert attention from
Galia’s son by encouraging his adversary to home in on the grandson. Such a
simple ruse, yet it has worked.
Ragund ground
decaying gap-teeth and fumed. Not only was the interloper abroad in Mamelon,
but also in the company of a Keeper, for Ri’s sake! It was small
consolation that he had easily penetrated each of that idiot Ricci’s
pathetic warding spells although to precious little avail. They continued to
elude him; elves, motherworlders, even an itinerant Nu-gen! Nor did he entirely
blame Astor for that. “Elves!” he raged.
It was a myth, even among most elves, that their powers were confined to
the Forest of Gar. The elf king and
queen would be aiding their kin in ways that he could only guess. It is a slippery thing, elven magic. You
never know which way it might turn or when it will strike next.
His first
error of judgement, Ragund reflected miserably, had been to rely on Bog
Folk. But they, too, were unpredictable
although they had never failed him in the past.
All things considered, bog folk were stupid; pliable, but stupid.
Krills, on the other hand, were a different species altogether. The Dark Mage scowled. He had expected better
things from Radik. The krill leader was shrewd. It is unlike Radik to be caught off guard unless…
Ragund stopped
pacing and stood quite still. He could have underestimated Astor and the elves,
he supposed. But hadn’t he taken them into his calculations, matched them ruse
for ruse, even handed Astor the Keeper on a plate, thinking to distract him? Astor’s fondness for females was legendary.
It was even said that he had once been taken with La, the elf queen. Nor, so
the tales went, had she rejected his overtures. While there was no disputing
the female Bethan’s strategic importance in the dying planet’s salvation, her
role lay in a conclusion of events that stretched far ahead. She was of no
immediate importance, as far as he could determine. The fact that she had fallen in with a Nu-gen
was an unexpected bonus. Ragun permitted himself a wry smile. Poor Astor, it
must have come as something of a shock to have an ignorant tribesman, of no
status or consequence whatever, upset his plans. He resumed his pensive pacing.
Why, Ragund
kept asking himself, had his attack on Fah-y-Noor
failed? Hadn’t he unleashed more dark energy than he thought possible? True,
Radik had done well to capture all five refugees. How, then, had they made
their escape with such apparent ease while he, mage that he was, remained
unaware of anything amiss until it was too late? Has
Astor have entered into an alliance of sorts with the elves? But that was impossible. Neither would
willingly share so much as a single grain of magical power with the other. “How
then…?” he growled, and spat on the floor.
Questions to which he should know the answers but did not filled his
head to bursting. How? Why? He spat again. “Who…?”
Abruptly, he
ceased his funrious pacing. At the same time, he flung Shireen a look of such
baleful malevolence that she, for her part, felt compelled to slide her voluptuous
form under black satin covers and draw them over her face.
“Druids…!”
Ragund spat a third time.
To be continued
