by Vance Moore
*****
Kamahl breathed and was struck by deja vu. Buried twice in one battle.
"I am no mole," he muttered.
The warrior coughed and tried to turn over. He could not.
Pressure prevented him from more than breathing. Even his head was locked in position, his cheek pressed against stone. The barbarian could remember the dragon falling and the crab getting in his way.
"I despise seafood," he muttered. More sensations intruded, and he could feel multiple small points of pressure digging into his back. He remembered the crustacean's armor and realized that he must be trapped under it. He tried to move again, his muscles bunching in agony, but nothing shifted. He remembered the great dragon falling as well and with a shock understood that two great beasts lay atop him, their mass making a mockery of even his powerful muscles. It was a miracle that he was not pulped as well. The cobblestones underneath him seemed jumbled, and over the smell of the dragon and the crab he detected strong odors of mold. He could hear the dripping of water and the scuttle of a rat. The street must have collapsed under the weight and crushed a sewer. The stench of filth was the stench of life, and Kamahl laughed before coughing spasms ended his momentary merriment. To owe his life to a poorly constructed drain.
The barbarian wondered if anyone would rescue him. He remembered the disregard of the lieutenant and the crabs and hoped he could count on the Cabal forces. At the very least, someone would have to take care of the giant corpse.
"Perhaps they will enchant it and have it walk away." The crab might weigh over a thousand pounds, but he was sure that he could get out without the tons of flesh holding the shell in place. He imagined a giant undead monster crushing the crab and the life under it into oblivion as it tried to rise. Kamahl thought of his killing blow. He realized that with no intact spine, it was unlikely that even raised, the monster would be able to move. It seemed colder somehow.
The tremendous ringing of magical energy made him believe that he was dying, and new planes of existence called to him. Then his senses located the source of the power. A locus of exultation, a shout of birth, it lay some distance away. His mind demanded he move, run to the source, but his body stayed relaxed, impotent under the great weight. His thoughts grew hazy as the energy retreated. He had sensed this before, though it wasn't as strong. The treasure room! He recalled the sphere behind the sword. Someone else must have seen its value and called forth its essence. His mind swirling, he tried to imagine what champion might hold it now. It was harder to think, the air thicker. He could not call power, the pressure on his body seeming to squeeze the magic out. Just a few more minutes of rest and them he would cut his way free. After all, a victory without being alive to enjoy it seemed pointless. Just a few minutes more…
The sound roused his attention at once. The rhythmic cuts of a sharp edge into flesh transmitted themselves through the corpse. He might have been gathering himself for a few minutes or for days, but he shouted loudly, pushing the sound out despite aching, compressed ribs. There was a pause in the beat and then it resumed, louder than before.
The leathery scrape of scales signaled the shifting of the dragon's mass. Pressure spiked and eased as the giant corpse slumped to the side. Shy beams of light peaked under the crab's shell, and the crunch of metal in chitin showed the worker was near.
"Have a care," shouted Kamahl trying to shift the beast above him. It gave a little, though it still seemed pinned down on one side. "The crab is right on top of me!"
A great hand wormed its way under the shell and another joined it. The knuckles went white as the shell lifted a fraction. The barbarian forced his complaining body to lift as well, and the additional force flipped the crustacean to the side. Kamahl reeled at the release of weight, and the light left his eyes watering. Seton stood, his sides heaving, with a bloody axe beside him. As the barbarian moved out of the shallow depression, he could see Cabal servants advance on the crab, sledgehammers falling as they smashed armor and threw fragments into a nearby wagon. Other servants with huge cleavers attacked the dragon's corpse, a steady stream of bloody lumps of flesh falling to the street. The meat went to other carts, and some rumbled toward the arena.
"Waste not, want not." Seton laughed as he came closer to Kamahl. The barbarian allowed himself to lean on the giant.
"What happened?" the mountain fighter asked, speaking with difficulty from his chapped lips. He waved a water carrier over from his round of the Cabal workers.
"What happened?" the centaur replied incredulously. "You are standing in the largest open- air butcher shop on the continent, and you ask what happened? As if you missed a few seconds of a play?" The simian face writhed with suppressed merriment.
"I don't mean this," Kamahl said irritably, dismissing the battle, his triumph, and his near death with a wave. "What force cried out so loudly long after the dragon fell?" The centaur moved away from the other workers.
"The Cabal presented a prize to Lieutenant Kirtar for killing the beast," he whispered. "When he held it in his hands, it released such power that all the city was stunned by it. He left for his camp and soon after went north. Word came of other attacks by forest creatures, and the Captain called him away." The centaur knelt, bringing his mouth closer to the barbarian's ear.
"They say the Master of the Games has disappeared, punished for giving away such power. He has gone to feed the beasts I wager. I heard the ambassador's servants tell a Cabal officer that Laquatus would be leaving the city shortly for 'consultations.' " Seton looked over the destruction and the blood running into the gutters. "What happened here is merely the beginning."
Kamahl thought of the prize that he desired given to the Lieutenant.
"They rewarded Kirtar for killing the dragon?" he said hotly. "They gave him what was rightfully mine, and he has run away north." He began to pace, his injuries momentarily forgotten. He ran to the pit where he had fallen, shouldering aside the workers. Kamahl went to his hands and knees, looking determinedly over the ground, ignoring the complaints from offended servitors. Seton followed and quelled the comments with a frown. Kamahl stood suddenly, his great sword in his hand. The long blade whipped through the air, the dragon blood burning away in a trail of smoke.
"I will go reclaim my prize from Kirtar," the barbarian said, steel ringing in his voice. "1 will have my reward though the entire Order stands in my way."
CHAPTER 9
The early morning dew made the grasslands a jeweled vista, the sun's rays glittering off the small droplets. The rider nudged the sides of her steed and set it through the tall grass.
The woman looked alertly over the landscape, the slight fold of her eyes hiding some of the intensity of her observation. Her black hair trailed down her back, bound in a long rope by silvered ornaments. One arm rested on her saddle pommel, encased in leather and steel. The bracer's ancient power was temporarily quiescent. A tall asymmetric bow tilted forward in its case, the fine wood of the box repelling the morning moisture.
The unicorn ran easily, its gait almost gentle but covering ground faster than a horse could run. Its horn glinted, the delicate spiral supported by steel laminated and magically bonded to its skull. The mount's saddle was a tangle of straps, and the rider's legs were half-enclosed by the stirrups.
The need for such careful securing was obvious as the unicorn turned at an incredibly sharp angle, altering its run in response to a nudge from its rider's knee. Dirt showered as the steed accelerated, its enchanted hooves casting pebbles and dirt clods up into the air like slings.
The loudest sound was the jingle of the woman's scale mail and the slap of the long cavalry sword against her back. A field of tall wild flowers lay in a depression, and she directed the steed toward them. The tension was obvious in her first strokes as she tried to loosen her muscles. The first cuts took great swathes of flowers as she struggled for precision. She turned the unicorn in a tight circle almost peeling her out of the saddle. Again she went through the flowers. Now the sword
strokes took single blossoms, and she nodded in satisfaction at her skill.
"If only the forest beasts were as easily understood and directed," Pianna, Captain of the Order, whispered to herself. For weeks, animals from the west appeared and acted unpredictably. Solitary beasts that naturally subsisted alone now roamed in large groups. Skittish herd animals became insanely aggressive. Beasts plowed through the fields and villages of man doing destruction but only sporadically, leaving some settlements completely alone while only a few miles away numberless herds destroyed everything. She sent messengers to druids and other holders of wisdom, but no answer issued from the forest, only more animals that pursued some unknown path or goal. The purposeless attacks were becoming the Order's crucible.
For years she had extended the Order's message of new unity, and now it was being put to the test. Unfortunately, it was a test the organization was failing. The raids continued despite her best efforts. There seemed to be no plan or direction to the strikes. Animals and monstrous plants appeared at villages and struck out in frenzy. Sometime the attacks stopped before much was destroyed, even if a hamlet had no real defenses. Other times the assaults continued until all was destroyed and the inhabitants were dead.
The Order-sponsored militias were swept away by the unrelenting aggression. For a second, Pianna regretted the lack of war machines imposed by the Strictures. In the past, mechanisms might have turned such assaults without casualties. Her losses were precious members of the Order.
"But such machines breed more destruction and contempt for life because they are so easily replaced," she reminded herself. The legend of Urza provided a chilling lesson of the madness artifacts led to. Armies of unquestioning automatons fought wars for centuries, stripping the world down to a husk from which it was still recovering. Even after a century, there were still vast fields of machines being found, the rusted and crushed instruments of a world's destruction. Each one an opportunity for evil, to be rebuilt until an unquestioning army might march again. The Order might be beleaguered, but it was still a living expression of noble ideals.
She fingered the sword at her side, her hands running over the pommel worn smooth by generations of commanders. It had belonged to one of the original members of the Order, a symbol of authority transferred from leader to leader, its steel in service for hundreds of years. But it acted on the choices of its wielder. It was an extension of her soul, not a free- ranging engine of destruction. Her skill was what controlled it, and before every fight she dedicated her life and ideals to the Order. If it could act on its own, such a servant would dilute her involvement in her soul's journey.
In such a case, she would throw it in the crusher that very second.
The crushers were devours of the past, great engines the size of a manor, their interiors filled with swinging hammers and blades. Their power derived solely from the great wheels turned by knights and squires. The engines were an extension of the individuals like a sword, or so the captain told herself. Pianna hoped that the machines were not corrupting the Order even as they tried to save the world. Those artifacts and instruments of the past, which had led the world so astray, were committed to the bowels of the device, ground between wheel until only small scraps remained. What was left was sold to blacksmiths and tinkers. What corrupted the world was devoured by the forge and rendered into simple blades and pots. Those items of unusual lethality were melted down and cast into ingots, the metal bars hidden in Order fortifications or dropped into the deep waters of the ocean. Better to rely on one's own humanity than sacrifice it for soulless fighters.
The unicorn's hooves carried her far as she ruminated, and her shadow on the ground lengthened. On the horizon a line of trees was visible, stretching several miles across. The mount accelerated as the captain used her heels, her hands checking her equipment as they leaped forward. The wood lay in a section of the plain, exposed like an outrunner of the forest. The copse was only a few miles across, but the trees soared hundreds of feet into the air.
Villages grew nearby, and races of all description tried to make a living through the forest's bounty. Those brave enough harvested the wood, depending on the isolated nature of the grove to prevent attacks from dangerous animals found in the forest proper. But Pianna had recently received disturbing reports of animal attacks and missing villagers. A small detachment of the Order followed behind her but farther west. The captain continued alone to question the heads of the villages about these recent occurrences.
The forest was a wall, and she still saw no sign of the villagers. Where was the smoke from cooking fires or signs of timber wagons working the forest's edge? It had been years since she came this way, and perhaps her trail sense had misled her. The road might have shifted or the loggers moved to new ground. She doubted such rationalizations and drew her bow from her case. The laminated layers of wood, horn, and metal were smooth in her hands. She checked the tension of the string, and her pluck sounded almost lyrical as the various components vibrated and provided a rich tone. Her spirit settled, the single note calming her worries. Her quiver was full and her bow strung, her mastery practiced and ready. She moved laterally along the forest edge, the sure hooves of her steed laughing at fallen trees and gullies. Still no sign of life, and she nudged the unicorn to a faster pace.
Howls seemed to rise from the ground as she rode around a green peninsula. The stumps in the clearing revealed a deep cut into the forest. Dozens of dire wolves ran from the forest, joining the giant pack that surrounded an isolated tree. In the branches of a giant pine, a group of loggers waved their distress. A grove of whisper trees sighed softly in the breeze, their branches swallowing the yells of the men and the screams of the horses.
Whisper trees grew in small numbers, and somehow the movement of their branches muffled sounds. Such groves were notorious for traps, but a lively market in paneling that absorbed noise was in high demand in the larger cities. Men of wealth lined homes to cut off the bustle of the town, introducing pastoral quiet in the most densely packed markets. Plotters and conspirators paid a premium to line rooms where their councils might be kept from prying ears. Prisons were said to have rooms where the screams of starving and tortured souls were never heard.
But now the loggers might pay the price of their craft. She knew that there would be guards to protect the loggers somewhere nearby. Harvesting trees from the forest was dangerous and often disturbed creatures that only well-armed fighters could discourage. Her own troops were across the forest, and Pianna doubted they would arrive in time. Only the vagaries of the afternoon air had allowed her to hear anything at all.
There were still loggers scaling the lone tree, trying to get out of reach of canine teeth. Ropes swarmed with men as a circle of wolves around the trunk contracted. The rotten gaping wound on the tree's trunk explained why it had not been harvested. A lurch of the bare branches suggested that it could not bear its current crop of panicked men for long.
Most of the wolves seemed little interested in the men, rooting through the wagon scattered and overturned in the clearing. Red jaws howled silently as the beasts rose from feasting on the draft animals still in their traces.
Members of the pack leaped from the tumbled wagons, dragging away equipment as they worked furiously. Whatever the animals were looking for, Pianna could tell that they were not finding it. Now the mass of animals seemed to find new energy and converged on the few men still fighting on the ground. A few loggers swung their axes and heavy chains, giving their fellows time to ascend the ropes.
The number of men on the ground shrank, but each successful retreat made the rearguard's job more difficult.
Her arrow was laid and launched in a heartbeat, the shaft driving through the ribs of a wolf to drop it in its tracks. Others followed, her shoulder muscles rolling as she sent missiles flying. The wolves did not turn as she killed the rear animals. The whisper trees masked her attack, allowing her to slaughter at will. However, the wolves did not cease their attack, and she watche
d a logger get dragged down. The dire wolf was the size of a small pony, and the man came apart like a sickly rabbit as the canine head tossed his body. Pianna could hear no screams thanks to the surrounding trees.
Power flowed through her veins and into the threads of metal in her bow. Her bracer glowed brightly as she let loose another arrow. This one flew to the head of the pack, and its discharge was blinding, the flash leaving wolves writhing as their eyes tried to adapt. The loggers were blind as well, and one went down, tripping over a rolling wolf. The animal did not attack, but the man's own axe laid his leg open. His enemy's lolling tongue lapped at the blood as everyone's vision cleared.
Pianna drove the unicorn closer, more magic singing through her bow. Now the projectiles swelled until they seemed javelins, nailing the wolves to the ground. The animals still did not react, bizarrely intent on the men on and around the tree despite the ample carrion everywhere. The captain drove her steed into the rear of the pack. The unicorn's horn dipped and punctured sides as the pair tried to turn the attack from the loggers. Finally, her slaughter made the wolves react in self-preservation. The beasts spun and tore at her, but the Order leader's magic rose as a shield.
Golden light encased Pianna's legs and the unicorn's sides as she tried to draw the pack away.
Her steed was a kicking and screaming demon, its hooves shattering skulls and ribs as the wolves tried to overwhelm them. The captain swore as she saw there were still loggers on the ground. She rose in the saddle and fired back toward the tree, killing a beast tearing off a logger's leg. Two wolves leaped as she provided covering fire to the final men. Power still flooding her bow, she swung it like a stave. It struck, destroying the animal's ribs. The other beast's jaw stopped inches away as the unicorn twisted its neck with a sinuous grace, stabbing its horn deep into the wolf's side and piercing the heart. The weight of the forest hunter nearly toppled her steed, and the equine weapon flared with power as it shook the corpse free.