Trik - Betrayal in Rule

Trik awoke in the morning. There was a half-light seeping into the loft from cracks between the timbers of the walls. Durben lay beside him asleep under a sheepskin blanket. He had slept through the night, while Trik had had slept little and awakened early. Trik crawled around Durben and stepped down the ladder from the loft.

Nob was sitting in his chair beside the fireplace as Trik stepped onto the floor of the cabin. The mage was plucking leaves from a strange plant in his lap and placing them in a bowl in the stand beside the chair. Nob did not look at Trik as he walked over to him. “You know you can’t win,” said Nob.

“What do you mean?” asked Trik.

“I have divined the future,” said Nob. “A terrible fate awaits you, and your precious Emperor.”

Trik sighed. “You were never that good at the Old Arts,” he said.

“You speak proudly for an exile,” said Nob. “Tell me, why do you suddenly throw in your lot with humans.”

“I have lived too long in the Empire to see its end,” said Trik.

Nob’s eyes focused on the plant in his lap, and he fiercely plucked the last remaining leaves from it. “You shouldn’t have brought the boy into this,” said Nob. “You know that.”

Trik’s expression hardened. “It was his father who sent him,” he said. “The Emperor would not have believed me, had I gone to Rule alone.”

Nob snorted. “You truly believe that Rodorick can do anything now?” said Nob. “He is as helpless as a baby in Mortimer’s hand.”

Trik’s eyes narrowed on Nob. “You still hate Rodorick,” he said.

Nob turned away and did not look at Trik as he hissed, “yes.”

“He was only doing what he thought best when he dismissed you from court,” said Trik.

“His father would have disagreed,” said Nob, turning to Trik. “But I suppose the time for that advice has passed, along with his dynasty.”

“Rodorick did what he thought was best for the Empire,” said Trik.

“Himself, you mean,” said Nob. He dropped the last of the leaves into the pot. “He did it to secure his throne. And look what has come of his decision.”

“Is the spell ready?” asked Trik, glancing down at the pot of leaves.

“Yes,” said Nob, lifting the pot off the stand. “Wake your young friend.”

“I am awake,” said Durben, standing on the ladder. His eyelids were still heavy from sleep. “What have I missed?”

“Nothing of importance,” said Nob.

Durben stepped beside Trik and looked down at the old mage. “I remember my father telling me stories about magic,” he said. “He said magic is an evil thing.”

“I suppose then you won’t accept my help,” said Nob, glancing at the young lord.

“I only meant magic itself,” said Durben, “not you, Mage Nob.”

“Mage Nob,” repeated Nob, and he laughed. “Once, that was my title. Now I am only Nob.” He took a granite pestle from the stand and began to smash the dark leaves in the pot with it. When the leaves were crushed he set the pestle aside on the stand and looked at the two before him. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Trik.

The old mage whispered some strange words, and then he blew upon the crushed leaves in the pot. The residue from the leaves wafted over Trik and Durben.

“Mint,” said Durben, and he smiled. “It smells of mint.” He was surprised, however, because his voice was not his. He looked down at his hands. They were the hands of a soldier in Mortimer’s army. He wore a red cloak and leather armor, and there was a dagger in a scabbard hanging from a leather belt around his waist. He looked at Trik. The elf was adorned in a red cloak and silver armor, and he wore a silver helmet on his head. The body of the elf had changed in appearance as well, to resemble one of Mortimer’s people. His hair was short and curly, and his skin was brown. It was only his eyes that remained as they were before, blue-green and glowing with elven light.

“You are disguised,” said Nob, and he groaned as he got to his feet. “My work is done.”

“You have my thanks,” said Trik.

“You shouldn’t be so pleased,” said Nob, looking up into the eyes of the elf. “It is a bad spell.”

“Will it last long?” asked Trik.

Nob shook his head. “Impossible to say,” he said. “I should think a few days at least.”

“Then we leave now,” said Trik. He turned to Durben. “We have much to do.”

Nob walked up to Trik. “I have one more gift for you,” he said. “I penned it this morning.” He reached into his dark robe and withdrew a scroll. “Mortimer’s men will interrogate you at the city gate.” He handed the scroll to Trik. “Show them this. It is a copy of military orders.”

Trik looked over the handwritten lines on the scroll, carefully reading the words there. When he was done, he nodded. Then he turned to Durben. “We leave now,” he said.