Per Jankayla’s instruction, the wyvern had been fitted with harness and a kind of saddle, but Durog was hesitant to put much faith in the apparatus or in the beast’s cooperation. He wasn’t certain, even now, how he felt about riding a mount that could easily turn on him and remove his head with one snap of its jaws. Still, the wyvern would prove a valuable tool in his war against the humans, and what choice did he have? If he backed out now, it would appear as weakness and he would cut his own throat before he showed Jankayla any kind of fear.
“You needn’t worry.” Grisnal looked if he could read Durog’s thoughts. “The wyvern will remain in control as long as you hold the talisman.”
The talisman, little more than a bit of soapstone carved in the likeness of the beast, dangled like a charm from a leather thong that Grisnal held in his hand. It seemed little protection from so heinous a monster.
“Take it,” Grisnal said, “take it and become master of the beast.”
Durog clamped his jaws together as he reached for the talisman. Grisnal slapped it into his palm, clasping his hand tightly and moved close enough that Durog could smell the little wizard’s fetid breath.
“Speak the words. You must speak the words.”
Durog bared his teeth, but Grisnal appeared unafraid. “Say them now.”
Durog said the words, ancient words in the language of the first people, words as old as the worlds themselves. They had been difficult to memorize, but Jankayla insisted that his life depended on saying them correctly.
“Again,” Grisnal said, and Durog repeated the words. Then he said them a third time, to complete the spell and make it true. Grisnal released his hand. Durog looked down to see the talisman resting in his palm, a small imprint of it in his flesh where the wizard had pressed it into his hand.
“It is done.” Grisnal stepped away. The wyvern shook its head as if it had been struck a blow, then turned its baleful gaze on Durog.
“You are no sorcerer,” Jankayla said soothingly. She moved past him, running her fingers across Durog’s chest. Her touch made his skin crawl and a sudden chill prickled his skin. “But even you should have no trouble exerting your will over the beast now that you hold the talisman.”
Her usefulness to him was almost at an end, and the desire to throw her from the cliff, or better yet, to tickle her with his knife, was strong in his mind. Durog put the leather thong around his neck, watching as Jankayla moved to stand beside the wyvern.
She ran her hand along the creature’s neck. “The sight of you mounted on this lovely creature will inspire your troops and bring terror to the people of Nachtwald.”
The wyvern turned its head, watching Jankayla with one large reptilian eye. Its long tongue darted out and back again.
“When I was young,” Jankayla said, “the mountains near Illatus were full of wyverns. They nested in the crags and high places above the plain, preying on livestock and unwary children. At first the dark elves hunted them for sport, but then they began to realize their value. Some enterprising warriors stole caches of eggs and brought them back to our city. They raised them from hatchlings and trained them, much as one would train a horse. Soon the sky was full of dark elf riders on wyvern mounts, armed with great lances and shields. There were legions of them, the Sinthari they were called, and none could stand against them.
“Until Aedon,” Durog said, watching the sorceress.
“Until Aedon,” Jankayla echoed, but she did not rise to the bait, or even look at him. Her eyes were on the wyvern, admiring it, as if it were a lost kitten, much loved, that had returned home after a long absence. Not that Durog had any knowledge of kittens other than that they were tough to catch and stringy to eat.
“Before I am done,” Jankayla said, her voice turning to ice, “the sky will be filled with wyverns again and dragons as well. I will summon Ashendraugnir back from the deathly realm of Tironed-dum, and with his return, others will wake, and woe to the world of men when they do. Together we will rain fire and death on all of them.”
Durog licked his lips, tasting the blood that was to come. Maybe he wasn’t done with the sorceress after all. If she could do all that she said, the world would be better for him and his kind. The orcs of the Dark Lands had served more than one lord over the centuries. Why not a mistress? Just as long as none of them forgot who he was, that it was Durog who ruled the orcs, and Durog whom they had to thank for the carnage and the spoils they were about to enjoy.
A thin sliver of sunlight peeked out from beneath the mass of dark clouds covering the sky, the barest wink of Padrayon’s great eye, and then it was gone. Durog scratched unconsciously at the thin crust of blight on his forearm. Horns began to bray in the clearing below and the chiefs began shouting and calling orders. Orcs and goblins began to form up in their various ranks, grumbling and cursing, flinging insults at each other all the while.
“It’s time,” Durog turned to face the sorceress.
Grisnal bowed, as best he could with his humped back, and gestured to the wyvern with one hand. “Your mount awaits.”
Durog took a deep breath and strode forward. Jankayla smiled as she offered him the reins. She could, no doubt, sense his fear and apprehension, but there was no hesitation in his movements. Durog took the reins from her hand and threw himself into the saddle laid across the beast’s scaly back. His stomach lurched and the world swam beneath him, but he swallowed his fear like he would a noxious drink. He was Durog, Warlord of the Orcs, soon to be King of the North and master of the skies. He tightened the reins in his hands, gripping the sides of the wyvern with his thighs, and looked down at the sorceress.
“By day’s end we will reach Nachtwald,” Durog said. “By nightfall we will begin the assault. The humans are weak! They will not last the night. When morning comes, I will have their city and I will have the Golden Phial.”
“So you shall,” Jankayla’s lips curled into a smile. “And tonight Maenovar’s face will be hidden and the forces of darkness will be at their peak. I will awaken Ashendraugnir from his long sleep, and then, everything will change.”
Durog let a low growl escape from between his fanged teeth. “See you on the other side.” He dug his heels into the wyvern’s flanks and the great beast unfurled its wings and leapt over the side of the cliff, taking to the air, and carrying Durog with it.
Chapter 18
Finn crouched behind a mass of fallen rock, doing his best to remain hidden while still trying to get a look at the passing army below. Portia was beside him as they both peered through a gap between two rocks, their mouths open, and eyes wide with horror. Finn had never seen so many orcs. There were indeed thousands of them, along with their goblin cousins, and they were on their way to Nachtwald. Finn had little love for his home city, only the barest attachment to the castle where he had spent most of his life, but there were people there, people like the Grumms, whom he had no desire to see slaughtered. By the looks of this army, that was exactly what was going to happen to them.
Nachtwald did not have a large garrison, and some of those soldiers had been slain or wounded in the orcs’ first attack. The city’s population was the usual complement of merchants, craftsmen, farmers, and peasants, along with a fair number of women and children. Less than half the men in the city had ever seen war and fewer still had ever wielded a weapon more dangerous than a rake or a plow. Finn suddenly felt guilty for leaving. He should have stayed, stayed and tried to fight. But what could one person do against so large a force? He bit his tongue and stayed low and hidden.
Beside him Portia had her forehead pressed against the rock and there were tears running down her face. She was likely thinking similar thoughts, imagining the terror and destruction that was about to descend on Nachtwald. Whatever the outcome of their journey, it seemed unlikely there would be a city to return to, even if they succeeded.
The two goblins, Retch and Pilfer, lay on the ground a few feet away. They were curled into little balls with their hands over their heads, like ch
ildren playing hide and seek. Ander crouched over them with a drawn knife in his hand. If either of the two made any attempt to warn their fellows, the big Northman would kill them in an instant. Loth, for his part, was just below, hidden behind a massive boulder. He had his bow in hand and an arrow knocked, ready to strike should any come their way, but what use was one bow against so many?
A shadow swept by overhead and Finn felt a sudden jolt of fear. He looked up at the gray sky, but whatever it was had already passed them by. Finn did not see the thing, but by the size of its shadow he could guess what it was—as if thousands of orcs and goblins were not enough.
Finn grit his teeth. He swallowed his fear and resumed his vigil. He had always known that the world was a dangerous place. He had grown up in a house of mourning with a father haunted by the memory of a mother Finn could not even remember but whom he slowly came to understand had died in violence. Cedric blamed the use of magic for Lady Katherine’s death, but Finn knew in his heart that there was some darker secret there and that someday he would know what it was.
Since his first meeting with Lusive Picket and his Gutter Rats Finn had begun to learn that there would always be those in the world who had wealth and power—knights, lords, and kings—who hoarded wealth like a squirrel hoards nuts. And there would always be those who did not but who wanted it, and would do almost anything to get it. Finn might have been born into privilege, but he had never felt privileged. He had never felt like he possessed anything of his own, anything that could not be taken from him in an instant, like his mother had been taken. It wasn’t until Lusive put a knife in his hand and showed him how to use it that Finn felt any kind of confidence. It wasn’t until the master thief showed him how to take what he wanted, what he needed, that Finn began to feel powerful. He may have lived in a castle, but in his heart, Finn was an orphan and a thief. He was a Gutter Rat.
Finn looked at Portia, watched her as she wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her dress. Had it not been for his sister, Finn might have run away long ago, might have joined the Gutter Rats in body as well as mind. But Portia had kept him grounded, kept him from going too far, too fast. She was his family; she was the only real family he would ever have. For her sake he would risk anything, even this mad adventure.
“What?” Portia whispered, looking up at him with red eyes.
He shook his head. “Nothing.” He touched her on the shoulder. “I’m just happy that you’re here.”
“I wish I could say the same. But I’m glad we’re together at least.”
“They’ve gone,” Ander said over Portia’s shoulder. “And we should be going too. Just keep an eye out for any stragglers.”
Finn eased himself away from the rock and scrambled up the slope to the narrow trail they had been following for much of the morning. Portia followed at a slower pace, and Loth came bounding up the hill like a goat in peacock feathers. For all of his stealth and dexterity, the elf’s attire was far from discreet, and something of a hazard when it came to hiding from large armies of bloodthirsty orcs. Ander brought up the rear, with the two goblins in front of him. Thus arranged their small company resumed their journey, their tired footsteps leading them inexorably toward Arrom’s Rock.
* * *
For much of the afternoon they scrambled over broken rock and rugged terrain. They left the river valley behind, crossing a high ridge into the foothills of the Dragontooth Mountains. Just after noon they got their first good look of Arrom’s Rock, the great table mountain rose above the forest’s canopy, an ancient monolith of stone and earth. They still had leagues to travel, but even from where they stood they could make out the broken crown of the fortress atop the mountain, the jagged remains gray and indistinct in the afternoon haze. Loth, whose eyes were by far the best, reported that he could see movement within the fortress, orc soldiers no doubt, sentries perhaps, left behind to keep an eye out for the returning army. Somewhere within that mass of crumbling ruins a fire burned, a thin tendril of smoke, visible to all, rose to meet the ocean of dark clouds that hung in the sky above.
“If their warlord sees that, he’ll hang the lot of them,” Ander said.
“I don’t think he will,” Loth said. “His mind is on other things today, and he is far away.”
They climbed down the opposite side of the ridge and descended to the forest floor. From there Portia led them along a series of small meandering streams that curved this way and that between the low hills on either side. Several hours later the ground beneath their feet began to level out and the trees grew thinner. Portia slowed their pace, and they crept along with more caution. Each of them was alert for any sign of trouble.
At dusk they came to the edge of the forest. Here a great swath of land had been cleared and burned. The ground was bare and scorched, the grass wilted and gray, and the acrid smell of charred wood and soot hung in the air like a memory of great evil. What little vegetation was left had been trampled flat, and the path of destruction led away from them, into the forest to the southwest. A light rain began to fall, turning the blackened earth to mud. Above them Arrom’s Rock rose to meet the darkening sky, blotting out what light remained.
The company moved slowly along the edge of the clearing, keeping to the trees and doing their best to remain hidden from any watchers who might be looking down from the fortress above. Slowly, carefully, they made their way around the mountain to the east, to the side of Arrom’s Rock that faced the distant peaks. The ground was wet and slick, and the cloying mud caked on their boots.
Here Pilfer and Retch took the lead, albeit reluctantly, leading them in closer to the mountain and away from the safety of the trees. Finn couldn’t help but notice how frightened the two goblins were, clinging to each other and gazing about like a pair of field mice in the midst of a farm filled with cats. Their nervousness was infectious. No one spoke, and the tension within the small company was palpable. Finn couldn’t shake the feeling that there was someone, or something, following behind, creeping up on them unseen. The sensation raised the hairs on the back of his neck, causing him to turn every now and again, but there was nothing there. Still the feeling persisted.
It was fully dark now and the rain continued to fall, soaking their cloaks and slowing their progress. The company climbed down into a shallow ravine. The ravine dipped, then rose again as it approached Arrom’s Rock. If any orcs were bothering to watch in this direction, they would surely see them coming. But no horns sounded and there were no shouts or warnings. In truth the rain was a blessing, for even if there were watchers, they would likely be under cover and not paying close attention to the land below them. Why should they be looking this way? What fear did they have of any enemy approaching from the mountains? All eyes were likely turned to the south and west, to the city of Nachtwald where, by now, the orc army had arrived. Finn did not care to guess what was happening there.
They climbed the last few yards to the foot of the mountain. Two great fists of gnarled rock jutted out from the side of Arrom’s Rock, with a gulch running between them, narrowing as it approached the rock face. Rainwater pooled somewhere above, then spilled down the side of the wall, pounding against the stone. Countless years and innumerable rainstorms had worn away the earth and stone so that it was smooth and flat.
At the back of the groove was a wall of granite that rose hundreds of feet, and it was to this spot that the two goblins led them with tentative footsteps. Finn had never stood this close to Arrom’s Rock, having viewed it only from a distance. Standing so near to the mass of ancient stone made him feel small and insignificant.
“We’re here,” Pilfer said, his voice low and frightened. “This is the back door.”
“I don’t see anything,” Ander said. “If this is a trick—”
“This is dwarves’ work,” Loth said. “And the dwarves believe that secret doors only remain secret if no one can see them from the outside.”
Pilfer crept forward, with Retch clinging to his robes. The two took a fur
tive look over their shoulders, scanning the dark woods, and then Pilfer sucked in his breath and began repeating a phrase in ancient Lunovarian. At the same time, he reached up and put his small hand against the wall. A warm light spread beneath his fingers, revealing a large symbol like a blazing sun. Other runes and symbols, invisible until now, appeared, written in fire. Then, the outline of the door was revealed. There was a groan from somewhere behind the wall as the door shifted and moved several inches. With a grinding of stone, all but drowned out by the relentless rain, the door opened.
As it swung to, Finn could see that the door was nearly three feet thick, mounted on immense iron hinges set into the stone. The opening was large enough that several mounted men could have ridden through it, and beyond the portal was a large chamber, the recesses of which were hidden in darkness.
“Now we go,” Pilfer said, turning away. “We are done with Durog’s war and must return to our home.”
“Not yet.” Water dripped from Ander’s nose and his long hair hung lank about his shoulders. “We need you to go a little further.”
“We can’t go in there,” Retch squeaked in terror, pointing at the dark opening with a trembling finger. “She is in there!”
“Even now she prepares her great magic,” Pilfer said. “
There will be no moon tonight, and the lumen of darkness will be strong...”
“That’s why we need you,” Loth said. “We have to find the sorceress before she can perform this great magic. We have to stop her, and we can’t do that unless you help us.”
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 21