Abruptly realizing that the newcomer possessed eyes to make contact with, Maldoch became privy to the closely guarded secret that sight abnormally ran in the Serpentwearer lineage. “You can see me!” he exclaimed.
Stilling his movements, the Gnome ruler locked weak, but functional, eyes on the astounded wizard. “I see things both wanted and unwanted,” he said cryptically, hastily averting his gaze afterwards. Absently swirling a finger around the spiral birthmark blemishing the back of his left hand, he confirmed, “I am Aln. You've met Tuk already."
"Not formally."
"He is High Priest of the Dragonslayer Sect."
Bringing his famed perceptiveness into play, cultured from centuries tramping all over Terrath as the ultimate people person studying the Fellow Races in great detail, Maldoch divined the source for Tuk's wishy-washy leadership. Nominally Underland's second most prestigious native, Tuk headed a Gnome faction in decline whose waning influence stemmed from the incontrovertible travesty that they had in earlier times hunted the object of their adulation and conferrer of their political muscle to extinction. It was akin to whalers harpooning the last whale, killing the species and with it their livelihood. That the Dragonslayers existed nowadays to play a part in Gnome society amazed the mage.
"You don't dress the part, Tuk,” Maldoch accused him.
"I go for the understated look. Beautifying the body seems pointless when living in the dark,’ replied the Gnome, directing an oddly covetous sidelong glance Aln's way missed by the Serpentwearer, but noticed by the observant wizard.
"You weren't brought here to discuss Underland dress sense, Maldochus,” interjected Aln. “There are matters of greater seriousness to weigh."
"Then why wasn't I brought before you sooner?” How many days have elapsed since our abduction?'
"Six nights have passed following your retrieval,” said Tuk, stressing the Gnome difference in perception.
"During which time I have been taking counsel and debating,” admitted Aln. “I do not take my position lightly, nor make decisions hastily."
"You certainly do not,” remarked Tuk, bitterness and vexation souring his tone. He helped Aln take his seat on a cushioned stool opposite their resentful guest, assuming a standing position at his shoulder.
"Omelchus warned of your coming."
Unsurprised by the Serpentwearer's declaration, the news still rocked the goodly wizard's composure. Beaten to the punch by his ratbag brother yet again, more than the outcome of the portentous race war looming rested on this meeting. Maldoch unnaturally feared for his own safety.
"You played host to him as well?"
"His head, anyway,” revealed Aln. “Some moons ago he said to expect you to come calling, though doubted your chances of actually making it this far.” Blessed with excellent Gnome recollection, Underland's chief explicated, “He referred to you as ‘a talentless hack that lucks his way through life'."
Eyes flashing indignation, the spellcaster freed his tongue, making a mockery of J'tard's heroic self-control. “Then you do my brother's bidding, holding us captive until his arrival in the flesh. So much for Gnome neutrality. I guess everything west of Good is bad."
"Underland bows to no Topsider!” That avowal came from Tuk, arousing Maldoch's suspicion. “Feuding wizards may be forces to be reckoned with aboveground, but down here Gnome desire prevails."
Aln took back helming the conversation. “What my priest is saying is that wizardly overtures are meaningless. Omelchus and his witch shepherd Goblins. You are babysitter for the other races. Who amongst your lot ever cared for my people before now, when you entreat Underland help? Were we that unworthy of spellcaster attention? Omelchus approached me with grand talk of Gnome involvement swaying the outcome of this friction between the races aloft. Do you argue a similar case?"
Outsmarted once more by his sibling sorcerer without Omelchor even being present, Maldoch attempted to salvage what he could from the mess he had sunken into. “A better proposition than his bullying,” he offered. “Omelchor is infamous for coercing others into participating in his madcap schemes. I give you the freedom of choice without intimidation."
"To choose what?"
"Whether to do the right thing."
"Which brings us back to your will, Maldochus. That is what you're steering us towards, is it not? You are assembling a company to go questing and have come seeking the Gnome quota."
"For being so far off the beaten track, you are commendably well informed. Do I have Omelchus to thank for that as well when we eventually do lunch?"
"You are as shrewd as each other,” remarked Tuk. “What's in it for Underland?"
"A revival of everything you once held dear, Dragonslayer."
"There's only one thing I hold in esteem above all else and that lies even beyond the reach of enchanters, unless you've a spell to resurrect the dead."
Maldoch chuckled. “You'd be surprised at what a magician hides up his sleeves."
Getting back to the main topic, Aln stated, “Coming all this way to Underland to recruit a Gnome for your cause is time wasted, Maldochus. The affairs of the world topside are its own, not ours. Bellu gerant alii—let others wage war."
"The Elves thought similarly once, then came to realize that the antics of the Fellow Races can and do encroach on their forest and seas. Given time, Underland will be affected in the same way. Supposing Carnach wins the coming war, what becomes of your subterranean hideaway?"
Tuk laughed cockily. “Goblins fear to tread here."
"Arrogance will be your undoing. If successful conquering Carallord, do you imagine the Goblins, heady with victory, will continue leaving you unmolested in their backyard? They aim to purge Terrath of every other race, nation by nation, until only they remain."
Shock whitened Aln's pink face. “But Omelchus—"
"Promised you immunity? Get real! Carnach will consume Underland as a Harkie devours a rattorn."
"We are no pushover!” stressed Tuk.
"Dump enough rocks into a hole, it fills up. Only the combined might of Anarica and Carallord, abetted by Elven, Troll, and Gnome contributions, will prevent Carnach overrunning the rest of Terrath. Join the fight, provide me with the assistance I require, and in doing so brave a resumption of the old ways."
Exasperated, Aln snapped, “What are you referring to by that?"
"An impossible dream, Exalted One,” derided Tuk.
"But one you won't readily dismiss, High Priest. Even you cannot deny the attraction of breathing life back into the Dragons."
His minuscule eyes widening at such an unattainable prospect, Aln looked to his spiritual advisor for comment. Sensing the Serpentwearer's unspoken demand, Tuk flicked his goofy ears in botheration. “I say it's an impossibility. Aln's cloak is festooned front and back with the teeth of the first and last Draco respectfully. Their time passed an age ago. How can anyone earnestly claim to instigate their miraculous return?"
"Ab ovo resurgam."
"From the egg I shall rise again.” Tuk needlessly translated Maldoch's assertion from Ancient Speak into the Shared Tongue, mouthing the revelational words as if they were a holy mantra. “What knowledge do you withhold from us, Maldochus?"
"The Bord Taht'laern is more than legend."
"You know this for a fact?"
"Indicators point to its existence."
"What pointers?"
"The prophecies of Trolls and Men, for starters."
Tuk snorted in derision. “I put no stock in Topsider ramblings."
"Then what if I told you a certainty, that I chanced upon a living, breathing Wyvern undiscovered these many centuries."
Aln drew in a sharp intake of breath, matched by Tuk's rapid inhalation.
"And where there's a surviving female Dragon exists the genuine possibility of an egg,” Maldoch artfully concluded, planting the seed of hope and aiming for it to flower into aspiration.
"We have only a wizard's word, Exalted One,” Tuk pointed out, “
and that is scarcely reliable."
"I must retire to deliberate. Momentous contemplations await me,’ announced Aln, edging off his stone stool, Tuk gripping his elbow supportively.
"Do not drag your feet,” counseled the wizard. “Time waits for no creature. Events are rapidly drawing towards whatever conclusion the fates hold in store. If we are to secure a peaceful destiny, we must act soon."
"Maldochus, the prosperity of Underland is my sole priority. You shall have my ruling when I make it,” Aln said irksomely, shuffling out of the chamber through the curtained backdoor.
Whirling all of a sudden, Tuk swept behind the wizard, surprising him. Abruptly gagged by a leather ball stuffed into his mouth then secured with a cloth strip knotted tightly at the base of his skull, Maldoch could do nothing but glower ineffectually as the amazon guards re-entered the chamber in answer to Tuk's bark, surrounding the mage's hot seat.
"So far you've been well behaved, wizard. But I suspect impatience will rob you of your manners. Omelchus instructed on how to best muzzle your incanting.” Grabbing Maldoch by his beard, Tuk's eyeless face pressed close, contorted with malice. “I wanted you executed outright to appease your smarter brother, but Aln the Weakling was too timid to make that call. He wants all the facts to consider ... they'll only confuse his addled mind further. Don't worry, though. With Elb's help, I'll bend the old fool's ear in counsel and secure your death warrant, plus the Troll's. And then we broker a deal with the necromancer and his concubine to guarantee Underland autonomy."
Helpless in a hopeless predicament, Maldoch could only squirm in protest, Tuk's gloating transforming into grating laughter.
"Take heart, Maldochus. You will have a few nights grace before your throat is slit. Aln is notoriously indecisive. It takes me ages to make up his mind for him."
—
Lashed by waves battering the rugged coastline from which it jutted, the rocky headland presided over neighboring craggy islets and sea stacks defying the unrelenting surf, transient victors in the timeless tug-of-war between land and sea. The derelict tower crowning that cliff top seemed an extrusion of the salt-encrusted stone, to all appearances spewed up by the bedrock as an afterthought. Etched against an overcast sky roiling with stormy intent, the stark ruin clawed fearfully heavenwards, oppressed by the ominous clouds.
Approaching from landward trudged a Goblin and Elf, weary after crossing 100 leagues of undulating, trackless stone country driven by the basic need to find shelter. Attached to the mainland by a scrawny neck of rock, the resonant surf responsible for narrowing the natural bridge echoing off the adjacent cliffs in booms reminiscent of thunderclaps, the unlikely journeyers paused on the threshold of the peninsula, daunted by the turbulent sea and sky.
Taking in the untidy heap of crumbling walls eroded by the ages, Garrich felt overwhelming relief at finding the relic fortress on the windswept shoreline going only by Parndolc's drunken reckoning. Luck played only the smallest part in his navigating, since this was the only manmade edifice dotting the Frigid Coast and impossible to miss from several miles away.
"Conjurers Keep,” he reverently pronounced, that simple name encompassing a heritage of spellcaster residency. “End of the road, Ayron."
"If indeed we were on a road,” carped the Forester, brushing the travel dust off his cloak. “This is your ideal hideout? A rundown castle with more draughts than a Dwarven alehouse."
"It does have a great ocean view."
"I'm not fond of the sea, Losther. I'm a tree Elf, remember."
Leading the way, Garrich headed Ayron across the bridging rock, the crashing waves hundreds of feet below juddering the ribbon of stone and hastening their tired steps. Coming to a wary halt before the gateless archway leading into a courtyard choked by weeds, the remnants of what few perimeter walls still standing crusted with mosses and lichens, a sense of ancient wonder awed the pair.
Unencumbered by the confining nature of human time perception, Ayron viewed the dilapidated brickwork discerningly through dreamy eyes, glimpsing the antiquity lying beneath its weathered surface. Picturing the fifty-foot tower in its architectural heyday soaring skywards, gulls wheeling about the ascendant stonework in which magics were long ago wrought, the farseeing Elf was subjected to the contrasts of majesty and mystery. Blinking languidly, the ruins returned to the deserted shell shared by Garrich, a weathered shadow of its former glory forgotten by all but the elements.
"By human standards this wreck is ancient,” remarked the Treesinger, oddly concerned. “When did wizards last reside here?"
"Parndolc's always vague about dates,” returned Garrich. “I gathered that the Keep, original home of the spellcasting fraternity, has been unoccupied for the longest time."
"It shows.” Ayron scanned the treeless cliffs with disdain. “There is nowhere else for us to go?"
"Not unless you fancy clambering aboard a berg out in the Bay of Ice farther up the coast.” Garrich huddled beneath his cloak, the windblown sea spray gusting sporadically from the northwest stinging the exposed skin of his reddened face. The rapidly closing summer barely warmed Terrath this far north on the jagged shore.
"I should be thankful for the modicum of greenery present, stingy as it is,” grumbled Ayron, advancing gingerly into the courtyard overgrown with thistles.
Garrich made to follow, only to have the Forester wave him back. “What's the hold-up? Vegetation not up to scratch."
Glancing worriedly at the teasing Goblin, frown lines marring his deceptively youthful countenance, the stopped Elf struggled to put his uneasiness into words that whispered on the bracing sea air. “I sense life here ... a presence greater than rudimentary plants. But it feels artificial, as if—"
Ayron never completed his thought. Unnoticed, a creeper webbing the inner courtyard wall coiled and sprung to life, shooting tendrils that snaked swiftly around the perturbed Elf's ankles before curling up his legs. Seconds later the leafy climber wrapped around Ayron's waist, quivering with energy as it rose higher.
Unlimbering his broadsword in order to conduct urgent pruning, Garrich shouted, “Hold still. I'll do some trimming!"
"And risk you lopping off a limb or worse? No way, Garrich. I'm very attached to all my body parts!’ Typical Losther reaction: hack at trouble with a sword.
Reluctant to sheath his heavy-handed pruning knife, Garrich watched mortified the rustling creeper constrict about the unresisting Forester's chest, putting the squeeze on Ayron. “What do you want me to do then?"
"Watch and learn"’ advised the Janyler. Suppressing the natural response to struggle, he bowed his head, regulating his uneven, nervous respiring into steady breaths. From deep within his psyche, employing a basso tone rich in primal timbre at odds to his normal lilt, Ayron tunelessly intoned, “Onsee, fadir elmar. Kem dun're akti. Kem porsek tika. Skay gwa unish.” The twining stems and bristling leaves stilled and quieted. “Yabo. Skay nopag unish.” Then retracted, falling away from the murmuring Treesinger.
"That was magical,” Garrich mumbled admiringly. “I've heard of talking to the animals, but never to plants."
Shrugging, Ayron stepped free of the retreating creepers. “A good gardener communes with nature."
"What did you say to the vine?"
"Go to sleep. Nothing more spectacular than that."
"It worked.” Garrich stared at the creeper settling back into place upon the broken wall, decorative and harmless again. “From what snippets of it I managed to catch, the language you chatted in sounded foreign."
Smiling enigmatically, Ayron only nodded. His silent refusal to elaborate spoke volumes of Elven secrets. Predating even the Ancient Speak articulated by wizards, Gnomes and ghostly Dragons, the antediluvian tongue permitted Wood Elves to converse elementally with Mother Earth. Such a talent was not to be shared with the likes of Garrich's birth race.
"I should have anticipated this,” muttered the Elf, “sensed earlier the magic infusing the creeper, warding this place."
&n
bsp; "Is Omelchor behind it?"
"The spell animating the plant is protective, not malevolent."
"You can tell the difference?"
"An evil plant won't listen to reason. I suspect it was magically enhanced to act as a deterrent and discourage unwanted visitors."
'You think it was left in place just as a watch-plant?"
"Anything more than that, it surely would have suffocated me."
"Sounds like Maldoch's doing. He thrives on being annoying.” Returning his sword to its scabbard, Garrich dithered.
"Enter, Losther. I promise the nasty weed won't bite."
"That's not worrying me. I'm wondering what other enchantments might be lurking, waiting to be tripped."
The Elf cocked his head, tapping into an imperceptible realm of sensations. Attuned to auras unreadable to the common layperson but exclusively accessible to natives of Lothberen, Ayron distinguished nothing else untoward and told Garrich so.
The Goblin sighed. “That's a relief."
"Don't be too hasty. I'm limited to only sensing plant-based magics. But I can say for certain that the creeper is the only enchanted greenery hereabouts.” Seeing Garrich's reluctance was not allayed, Ayron reasoned, “Traveling here was always chancy. What's one more risk added to that?” When that failed to motivate the Goblin, he pointed out the obvious. “Look at me. I haven't triggered anything else."
Taking a steadying breath, Garrich edged forward. Thistles suddenly seemed a minor inconvenience. Nerves prickling with anxiety, he stepped carefully into the courtyard as if walking a tightrope over a bottomless canyon. Concentrating fiercely, putting one foot after the other, sweat beaded his furrowed brow. Making it to Ayron unharmed, his relief tangible, Garrich was subjected to the Forester's acerbity.
"You are such a girl, scared of a teensy bit of earth magic."
"Seeing wizard spells firsthand, you should be just as jumpy as me."
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