Zellohar

by Chris A. Jackson

  Jundag rankled as his own argument was used against him. "Why do you not ask your god to light up the room for you?"

  Shay's back stiffened and he straightened to his full height, his annoyance evident. Avari tensed for another battle of wills between the two men. But as the priest turned to face them, his mouth quirked into his irresistible smile.

  "Jundag, it would give me great pleasure to instruct you in the catechism and wondrous powers of Tem the Balancer, but I am afraid we are rather busy at the moment. Avari?"

  Avari pulled the glowing dagger from its sheath, sending a sheet of white light into the gloom, but even this brilliance was lost in the cavernous space beyond the portal. All they could see was the faint shadow of a large mound. Shay peered within, shading his eyes from the glare of the dagger.

  "Stay here," he said, curiosity edging his words. "I want to check something."

  "Don't go too far," Avari warned.

  Shay crept into the room. Avari watched the gloom envelope him until he was merely a darker shadow among shadows. She saw him bend to retrieve something then head back toward the door. His return was preceded by a soft chuckle, and he held out his prize for his friends to see. A large lump of dark stone sat in his palm.

  "Coal, to supply the forges. The chamber is truly vast!"

  "And here I thought it was a pile of treasure," Avari joked, nudging Jundag.

  "Humph," the tribesman snorted. "If this is the most interesting thing we find in this keep, I may die of boredom."

  Their tension seeped away with the large man's dry humor. Shay dropped the coal back inside the door and stooped to wipe the dust from his boots so he would not leave tracks. Finally, hands and cloak thoroughly smudged, he joined the others and they moved on.

  The curious little figure shadowing the companions eased into the light of the braziers as they disappeared around the curve of the hallway. Retrieving the lump of coal, the figure ran deft fingers over the stone, breaking off a small chip to rub between thumb and forefinger. He waved the chip under his nose, sniffing the delicate aroma.

  "Not just coal, elf, but a diamond in the rough." The throaty whisper was barely louder than a falling leaf. "What elves know o' stone could fit betwixt the ears o' a gnat."

  He chuckled softly, the sound too faint for any ears but his own. Slipping the coal into his satchel, the figure moved on, his short, broad silhouette dissolving once again into the shadows.

  CHAPTER 18

  Lysethra's fingertips tapped the cool, smooth surface of the onyx table shaped in the hourglass contours of the city. The light of the rose quartz glow-crystal levitating over the table added little cheer to the council chamber, or her black mood. In an insolent display of derision, Calmarel scraped her steel-shod boot across the table top. The sound grated on Lysethra's nerves and she cast her sister a cold stare as they waited for the meeting to begin. Of course, her icy glare did no good; it never did. Calmarel was, after all, Calmarel.

  Usually, each clan had only one representative on the council: the clan patriarch or matriarch, be they warrior, priest or wizard. Clan Darkmist was unique, as Lysethra and Calmarel held joint dominion. Their respective skills and personalities complemented one other well, allowing them extra leeway in discussions, and eliciting much jealously from the other clan leaders.

  Nine of the ten remaining chairs were occupied by those resentful monarchs. Lysethra studied them in the crimson spell-light, delving deep into the eyes of their supposed compatriots, trying to fathom the thoughts behind the neutral miens. Grimlord Keff of Clan Blackstone was the eldest and would soon be succeeded by his daughter, but for now, he was still powerful and worth watching. The deathmages Que-xeralla of Clan Hydramane and Yevondell of Clan Dirgewell were constantly bickering, with Grand Assassin Sulla of the Shadowknives taking first one side, then the other, depending on which best served his own purposes. Druellae of Clan Gorgoneye was perhaps the most obvious rival of the Darkmist Clan; each claimed victory in a bloody inter-clan war dozens of generations ago, before the formation of the council, before the Dark Union. The Ravendooms, Kazakks, Zygmores and Darkenmoors were smaller clans; consequently, their opinions were frequently overlooked. For although the council charter proclaimed equal privileges and responsibilities for all clans regardless of size or wealth, power was indeed canted toward those with the greatest resources and influence.

  In ages past, before the formation of the council and even before Xerro Kensho, the clans of the Dark Gods had lived in constant competition with one another. Shunned from most cities throughout the seven kingdoms, they dwelled in remote places, each practicing their own rituals and petty magics, worshiping their deities and waging their wars. Then came the day the Dark Gods tired of the petty squabbles. A Fargmir—a demonic messenger of great power—was sent to each clan to demand that a truce be called. Most clan monarchs had refused, knowing they would lose power in the union of such ancient enemies. Those monarchs died horribly. The Fargmir were relentless in meting out their masters' wishes, and their masters wished that the children of the Dark Gods be united. So efficient were the Fargmir that one entire clan was wiped from the face of the land. The clan's demise was enough to bring the others together in a tenuous union.

  The Fargmir brought the clans together in bold new cities, some in remote places, some in the caverns of the deep earth. They established a ruling council for each city then left them to govern themselves under the dire threat that, if they failed, the Fargmir would return. But, although each council had the responsibility of upholding the peace in their city, there was still an ingrained hatred and distrust between clans. This the Dark Gods tolerated as long as attrition among the competitors was not too severe.

  Lysethra brought her gaze home to her sister and cringed; Calmarel's face hung in a bored and contemptuous half-sneer, her long, black-painted nails clicking impatiently against the polished leather of her boot. The urgent and unexpected summons to council had annoyed her, and she took advantage of her privileged seat to display her displeasure. But unlike her more prudent sister, Calmarel's attention was focused only upon the woman who sat at the head of the table, the council mediator.

  As every city of the Dark Gods had a council, each council had a mediator. The mediator was the most powerful member of the council; none dared to dispute their decisions, for they had direct communion with all five of the Dark Gods, and wielded fell powers from each. In Xerro Kensho, this lofty position was held by a clan monarch who had given all—position, power and even name—to attain the title of Mediator. Many strove to attain that title, but few actually did. Those who failed the Dark Gods' rights of ascension were not spoken of, their fate unthinkable. This was the position to which Calmarel aspired.

  If only Cal would keep her temper and her tongue in check! Lysethra thought. She is too impatient and impulsive, just like father was before—

  "Children of the Dark Gods," the mediator's voice rang out around the chamber, silencing the whispered conversations, "this meeting has been called so that we may confirm certain information that has been brought to our attention, information that may affect our city and our plans for the future."

  Lysethra started, glancing at her sister. Calmarel sat quietly, her arrogant expression unchanged. The younger priestess didn't even flinch when the mediator called out their names.

  "Sisters Darkmist, it has been rumored that your brother, Iveron, has been released from his confinement within the mountain of Zellohar. What have you to say to this?"

  Lysethra's reply was cut off by Calmarel lurching to her feet, her fist pounding the table, eyes flashing like black fire.

  "Who started this rumor?" she demanded, raking her gaze across the faces around the table. When it finally settled upon Druellae Gorgoneye, the other returned the stare with a smoldering smile. The Darkmist priestess sneered back, her fingers caressing her thorned chain and spider medallion. The mediator, however, was not going to let intimidation rule at her table. In a low, ominous voice,
she repeated her question.

  Lysethra glanced at her sibling, but Calmarel just flopped into her seat, propping one steel-toed boot upon the table to tilt her chair back, content to let her older, more diplomatic sister now take control of the conversation.

  "Forgive my sister, Mistress Mediator, but she is startled, as am I, that this information should be known outside our household. We received the message only recently and were contemplating how to interpret the news." Lysethra was now in her element, her smooth words working a more subtle magic than any spell, soothing their adversaries into subjugation. Whereas her sister had the ability to incite the council and glean information as their passions were unmasked, Lysethra's talent lay in pacifying them as she allayed their fears and lulled them into a false sense of security.

  "Truthfully," she continued, "we were not aware that the fate of our brother would be of interest to the council. If you remember, the council washed its hands of Iveron's affairs after his imprisonment." Several of the council members nodded in agreement, and the mediator herself looked as if she were content with the explanation. But Calmarel hadn't finished.

  "And, my sister and I are quite capable of handling Darkmist business, so keep your pointed little noses out of it before they get bitten off!" The last she addressed expressly to Druellae.

  That did it, Lysethra thought resignedly as she slumped back in her chair and listened to the council's explosion of opinions.

  "Quiet!" The mediator reasserted her dominance, silencing the arguments. "The council is right to question Iveron's intentions, as they may interfere with our plans. If he retained enough power to sustain his own life and that of his contingent so long in such a prison, he may present a serious impediment. Lysethra and Calmarel, I charge you to meet with your brother and discover his intentions. When you return, we will expect you to communicate your findings to the council. If he is sane after nearly a century locked inside a mountain, convince him to appear in person before us so he may be questioned. That is all."

  The bustling throngs of Xerro Kensho melted away before the two ebon-clad sisters, parting in respect and fear. The passages buzzed with activity as representatives of dozens of races scurried to their appointed tasks. Even a few visitors from the Nine Hells strode these halls, exuding the arrogant air that was typical of all demon-kind.

  Lysethra's silence weighed heavily upon her slim shoulders. She had no wish to air family business in public, but her simmering anger finally reached the boiling point.

  "How could you upset them like that?" she hissed at her sister. She kept her gaze straight ahead, her voice low, mindful of unfriendly ears and eyes. "I had calmed them. They were on the verge of forgetting the entire matter!"

  "Oh, Lysethra, you really are such an innocent sometimes! Druellae would never have let us get off that easily." Her expression hardened and her voice lowered. "She has a spy in the castle; someone intercepted the eyrie master as he brought the message from Iveron. Who could it be?"

  The ensuing silence allowed Lysethra to regain control and realize that her sister was right. Clan spies were a fact of life, but the idea of a Gorgoneye spy within the walls of Castle Darkmist was intolerable.

  "We will make this work to our advantage, sister elder," Calmarel said with confidence, forestalling her sibling with a wave from her hand. "Don't worry, I will find the spy. Ah, but our trip to see our dear brother! If Iveron believes that we bring tidings from the council, he won't dare harm us. And who on the council will know differently if we deliver his regrets at not being well enough to attend a meeting? Yes," she declared as she picked up her pace to cover the final steps to their ancestral home, "this may work out very well indeed."

  CHAPTER 19

  The hooked dagger struck sparks on the stone beneath Avari's feet as she jumped to evade the slashing blade, and she finished the fallen orc with a quick sword thrust. Whirling, she blocked a jagged saber with her shield; the force of the impact numbing her shield arm. The waglok wielding the saber pressed forward, trying to overpower her, its greasy braids whipping across her face. The thing's bat-face was a horror of needle teeth, a moist, upturned nose and huge yellow eyes. It bellowed and gnashed at her, pressing hard against her shield, its fetid breath in her nostrils.

  Exactly how this fiasco had started was a blur. Coming upon a pair of opposing doors lit by several braziers, the companions had decided to open the one on the left, proceeding with all caution. Even caution is no guarantee, however, and hell broke loose as the door behind them was flung open. Several angry orcs, a few larger wagloks, and a smattering of goblins had poured forth in a flood of harsh cries and sharpened steel.

  Only Shay's quick reactions and the stout rings of his chainmail had saved his skin. Bearing the brunt of the attack, as he was in the rear, his hammer had lashed out as he spun around, striking the flat of the leader's blade, smashing through it and the toothy visage behind. The waglok dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, but a barbed spearhead caught the priest's robes and jerked him into the midst of the enemy. His hammer rose and fell in a blur, smiting armor and flesh, but not fast enough to fend off a bruising sword thrust. The thick fingers of another waglok had wrapped around the stunned priest's neck, but the offending limb was cleaved at the elbow as Avari and Jundag's flashing blades took the attackers by storm. The tribesman had jerked Shay out of the fray by the collar, depositing him in a heap. The enemy's initial advantage had waned, but the three were still badly outnumbered. Only the confines of the corridor saved them from being surrounded and out-flanked.

  Now, swallowing in an attempt not to vomit at the waglok's abhorrent breath, Avari spied an orc on her right lunging in with a short stabbing spear. In a desperate move, she shifted her stance, sweeping the waglok's right ankle with a sideways kick, then twisting to let its weight carry the motion through. The maneuver wasn't enough to take her adversary completely from its feet, but it did intercept the orc's spear. Six inches of steel protruded from the huge beast's chest, the point thumping into her shield. The brute's eyes widened in surprise as it grasped the spearhead, then toppled over. Having killed its superior officer, the befuddled orc stared at the falling corpse just long enough for Avari to complete a full extension thrust through the creature's leather cuirass—to wedge her blade firmly between two splintered ribs.

  Horror ripped the breath from her lungs as another blade descended toward her sword arm. She released her grip, jerking her hand away just in time to avoid losing it. She reached for her dagger, dealing a kick to the elbow of the orc that had nearly lopped off her hand. As its sword clattered away she slammed her shield into its face and spun toward her next opponent. She had forgotten the dagger's enchantment.

  Light exploded onto the scene as she unsheathed the blade. The beasts gasped in surprise and pain, blinking and throwing up their hands to shield sensitive eyes. The distraction allowed Jundag to even the odds with a few quick thrusts. Shay's voice rose above the din, his tone steady as he chanted harsh, unfathomable words. A handful of glittering dust arced beyond Avari and Jundag, scattering among the enemy. As the spell took effect, the creatures started to stumble, dropping their weapons as their eyes rolled back and they slumped to the floor, stunned senseless.

  Two beasts escaped the incantation. One, a squat creature hefting a huge axe, squared off with Jundag. The other, an orc spearman whose weapon had been shattered, dropped the broken haft and ran squealing up the corridor.

  "Don't let it escape!" Shay shouted, swatting aside the grasping hands of a dying orc with his hammer.

  Avari was over the treacherous hurdles of fallen bodies even before his words registered, racing after the beast. She took aim and threw the glowing blade.

  "Damn!" she cursed as the dagger struck the orc's shoulder. The injury was serious but not crippling; the orc screeched in pain and stumbled, slamming into the wall, but ran on. The dagger clattered to the floor beneath the broad red stain, lighting her way as her quarry lurched around a corner. Avari
's longer stride brought her around right behind, her raised shield crashing into the creature with all the force she could muster.

  The orc had no chance. Another broad red stain marked the wall where it struck. It fumbled for the knife at its belt, but the toe of Avari's boot doubled the beast over, and its face left a sizable dint in her shield as she straightened its posture. As it slumped, she grasped the orc's bristly hair, jerked it forward and slammed it into the other wall. Tusks shattered, but she drew the slumping orc back and bashed it against the wall again.

  Avari was considering a third bash just for good measure, when a door she hadn't noticed opened and a small mountain of hair-covered muscle stepped into the corridor. Avari's jaw dropped; this new adversary was half again her height, and probably four times her weight. It held an immense spiked club in one ham-sized fist. Short tusks thrust out from its deformed, pale face, and stringy, straw-like hair fell over the sloped forehead. Her father's stories had always been accompanied by detailed descriptions, and now one of those nightmares stood before her. It was an ogre.

  Her heart beat a full score as they stared at one another, the hulking brute squinting in the light from Avari's fallen dagger. A quizzical look spread across its brutish features, as if to ask "Why are you smashing one of my orcs against a wall?" When the obvious answer finally penetrated the beast's sloping forehead, it took a step toward her, cutting the twenty foot distance between them by a third.

  Avari reacted automatically, wanting only to put something —anything—between herself and the advancing horror, and having only one thing at hand. The half-dead orc made a poor projectile, but served to draw the ogre's attention as Avari spun and sprinted back the way she had come. Orc bones crunched as the ogre swatted the meaty missile aside, not pausing in its pursuit. The now very dead orc impacted with a splat, its few remaining unbroken bones shattering before it slid to the floor unnoticed by its commanding officer.