The Heavenly Host

Exador sat there staring at Randolf for several long moments. Several very long, very uncomfortable moments as Exador watched Randolf sweat. Finally, when it looked like Randolf could take it no more, Exador suddenly burst out laughing, slapping his thighs and bending over in his chair in a completely uncharacteristic display of mirth.

“Gods above and below!” Exador wheezed when he had finally stopped laughing hard enough to breathe in some air. “Me? An archdemon? That is incredibly rich! Oh, I cannot believe it! I have never been so flattered in my entire life!”

Randolf stared at his magi. Clearly, this was not the response the archimage had been expecting. Exador got up, still bent over from laughter, and moved closer to the archimage, clasping him on the shoulder. Randolf could see the tears of laughter running down Exador’s cheeks.

“Truly, my friend, you have made my day!” Exador hugged him. “You have no idea how funny this is! I think this has to be one of the best moments of my life.” Exador stood up, wincing as he placed his hand on his side, obviously tending a stitch from laughter. “To think the entire Council of Wizardry, including that fool Lenamare, thinks that I, Exador of Turelane, am an archdemon!” He shook his head. “This is just too rich! No wonder everyone was looking at me so oddly.”

The mage started pacing to work off his laughter, his smile wider than Randolf had ever seen it. “I think I shall enjoy their tiptoeing and fearful gazes a bit longer before disabusing them of this ludicrous notion!” Exador turned and grinned quite broadly at the stunned Randolf.

Chapter 102

^{DOF +6}

^{Late Afternoon (Murgatroy Time) 16-03-440}

Tal Gor El Crooked Stick trudged down to the stream to fill his leather water bag. His scrying exercises were using up a lot of water, and this meant he had to spend an inordinate amount of time trudging back and forth from his small tent to the stream. This in turn meant he was spending quite a bit of time in pain. The weight of the water basket on the end of his carrying staff put quite a bit of strain on his bad leg. Once again he cursed the fates for allowing him to live after he had failed to kill the wyvern that had mangled his left leg. If he had died like Dar Oth Non, Sep Tar On and Fer Bar Seth, at least he would not have to live with being a crippled apprentice shaman to a dying shaman of a less than sober bearing.

He had dreamed his whole life of being a great hunter and warrior like his father, Sal Gor El Crooked Stick; his mother, Mar An Crooked Stick; his sister, Soo An Crooked Stick; and his two older brothers, Bor Tal El Crooked Stick and Fel Nor El Crooked Stick. Okay, to be fair, he had dreamed of being a greater warrior than his older siblings. Instead, on his second hunting expedition they had encountered a wyvern that had managed to kill the rest of the hunting party before his father, who had been trailing half a league behind the young hunters for just such emergencies, had arrived to finish off the wyvern.

Horrgus Trifeather, the shaman, had been off at a trading post in Murgatroy and only the healing woman, Fesha No Al, had been around to tend him for the first two days. By the time the shaman had returned, his wounds had set in and while between the two of them, his life had been spared, he would never be truly fit for battle again.

That had been four years ago, shortly after he turned thirteen. If not for the shaman detecting a spark of spirit magic within him, he would have been reduced to being a cook’s assistant or some similarly ignoble fate. As it was, he had become apprentice to Horrgus.

He should not complain; shaman was an honored position. Even if the tribe’s own shaman was a bit — well, drunk was the only word he could come up with. He might have said “shabby,” but to be fair, the entire Crooked Stick tribe was a bit shabby and poor these days. The tribe was down to only three bands, totaling no more than 150 warriors and another forty or so children and others, including one shaman and his apprentice.

Tal Gor trudged along, waving to Feth Bar, the lad currently tasked with bringing dinner to the warg camp. The boy was pulling the meat cart, which was currently filled with several large, squirming and roiling sacks. Tal Gor smiled; the wargs were getting live meat tonight. They would be happy. They really only had the resources to capture live game for the wargs a few times a week. Most of the time they fed wargs from the scraps and entrails from the band’s primary kills. It just took too much time and effort to catch and preserve live game for them every day.