by JW Webb
Surtez was young and brave, as were his men. But they were just soldiers and therefore expendable. He was of high family, so his reputation and honour were at stake, and Surtez’s heart was steel, for he believed he was nearing the edge of greatness. Besides, there was no going back now.
With that last thought in mind, Surtez snapped at his men, ordering them to command their nerves and make ready to enter the dead city. They had no idea where to look, but Surtez was as methodical as he was thorough. Nor did he fear ghosts, knowing that the Emperor secretly worshiped the ruler of this place. Morak’s people would let the Ptarnians be—so Callanz had assured his captain.
They reached a broken door opening on a shadowy passage; the wind shrilled through it like empty laughter. Weapons in hand, one hundred Ptarnians filed into the city. Not a single one came out.
***
A lone figure watched the Ptarnian soldiers enter the ruins. He had no idea who they were, but assumed them to be enemies his three hundred Groil could easily deal with should need arrive. In and out, quick and clean: that was Rael’s objective. Find the spear, deliver it to Caswallon, and take the gold, and then ready himself for ruling Kelwyn. At last, a kingdom fit for one such as he.
Risky and dangerous? So what? Rael excelled at this kind of work, and Caswallon had given him precise instructions on where he suspected the spear to lie. At the very bottom of the lowest hall, somewhere beneath those crumbled ruins down there.
He crouched and made to stand when a soft sound stopped him. Rael slid behind the rock again close by the path, and from there witnessed Zallerak hastening down the steps. Rael recognised the crazy warlock who had caused such havoc in his castle and again in Port Sarfe. The warlock called Zallerak. Caswallon’s enemy, and his too.
This changed things. Rael must needs be careful. He watched as Zallerak faded into the shadows below, and then he returned to where the Groil waited, snarling and grunting, a hundred yards from the path.
With them were seven chosen men fresh from Crenna, including Cruel Cavan, his finest fighter and most trusted captain. Rael had insisted on having these Crenise with him, and Caswallon had agreed that they couldn’t rely solely on Groil.
Rael flicked a finger at Cavan, and his huge grizzled captain joined him a few yards away from the others.
“We’ve got company. I need you to send a bird to Caswallon.”
Rael reached inside his cloak and pulled out quill and paper, both branded with his special ‘R’. On this he imparted his message for the sorcerer and then passed the paper to his second.
Cavan nodded, and without word returned to where the horses stood tethered. With them was a mule, two cages of birds strapped to its flanks. Caswallon had insisted Rael keep him well informed, something for which Rael was now grateful.
Cavan plugged the paper into the seal given them, spoke the three rune words as he tied the plugged message to the pigeon’s foot, and then loosed the bird up into the sky.
Caswallon’s runes awarded that pigeon uncanny speed, allowing it to shoot up arrow straight, clearing the predatory questing claws of the numerous circling vultures and buzzards patrolling the thermals high above. Once clear, the spell-aided pigeon arced west and shot like lighting toward Kella City, reaching the palace inside an hour.
***
“I NO LONGER SERVE YOU, MORTAL.” The voice tore inside his head like a rusted razor, and he screamed, spilling wine and sliding from the throne to lie slumped and shivering on the mosaic floor. Gribble blinked at him.
“Something amiss?” the Soilfin asked whilst picking tooth with claw. Caswallon didn’t reply. It was all he could do to keep his breath even and stop himself from screaming again. This had not been a good day.
Three separate newsflashes had blasted him like virtual thunderbolts: first, Gribble’s eager report of events at Car Carranis; then, the news that Bitch Queen Ariane had tricked Gonfalez and arrived alive and well in Kelthara; and then the recent message from Rael Hakkenon informing him that Zallerak the Aralais warlock was at large in Ulan Valek.
And added to all that, when he summoned Vaarg, the dragon refused him. Even now, Caswallon’s head and ears rang with the metallic din of Vaarg’s mocking laughter. It seemed to Caswallon now that all those around him had played him for a fool. Paranoia and fear entered his veins for the first time in years. How had it come to this when he’d been so close to ultimate victory?
To his right, Gribble snickered from his lair under the table, his pet Soilfin mocking him too. But Caswallon still had his lore and self-conviction. Slowly, inexorably, he willed self-control and positive force back inside his head. He was still stronger than anyone else. Must hold positive. What had happened had happened. Now to fix it and move on.
“Come here!” Caswallon clawed his aching limbs back onto The Glass Throne. From there he stared imperiously at the Soilfin. “I’ve a job for you, shitling.”
“Not interested.” Gribble spat something grotesque and chunky on the floor; it slimed forward six inches and then lay still. “I don’t work for you any more either.”
“What did you say?” Caswallon rose to his feet and hurled the goblet at Gribble, who shunted sideways and blinked at him.
“No need to get nasty!” Gribble hopped back under the table and stuck his tongue out at Caswallon. “Situations change—is all. I got offered a better contract, less flights and more flesh. Nothing personal, Mr Caswallon. Just business.”
“By whom?” Caswallon’s eyes narrowed to furious slits of coal.
“Ain’t it obvious?”
“Your old boss?” Caswallon considered blasting the goblin to cinders with a mind bolt but he currently lacked the strength. “Tell me I’m right.”
“I’m back with the old crew, yes,” Gribble hissed at him. “Vaarg too. That dragon had no intention of working for you. He was just waiting for old Burnt Face to return. And now the Dog-Lord is back, and rumour is he’s more horrible than ever.”
“And you’ve been keeping this from me all this time? I thought us friends who trusted each other!”
“I’m a Soilfin, not a puppy. What did you expect? If you want a friend get a frigging cat.” With those last words Gribble hopped out from under the table and skipped across the floor.
“I’ll take my leave now, Mr Caswallon. It’s been epic.” Before Caswallon could respond, the Soilfin had fled noisy and urgent through his custom-designed goblin-flap, and then on through the double doors leading to atrium outside, with Caswallon too exhausted to even contemplate stopping him.
“Good bloody riddance!” Caswallon shouted at the gaping hole whence the goblin had vanished. In his eagerness to leave the throne room, Gribble had taken half the flap with him, and bits of timber and screws clung to his wings.
Once free of the palace, Gribble shook those wings free of dust and clutter and then without further ado, launched his scrawny body skyward. No time to lark about; there was Big Shit happening in the mountains.
Caswallon felt the last ounce of energy flee his weary bones. He would shout a retainer to go get more brandy, but the Groil had eaten them all. And at present the Groil were either near Kelthara under Flail Six Hands, or with Hakkenon in the mountains.
Kella City was almost deserted; a skeleton crew of three hundred Tigers slouched on the walls, and all the citizens who dared had fled to Kelthara to join the rebellion. All that remained in the royal city were hungry hounds and broken scattered bones.
After sprawling on his glass throne in abject misery for several minutes, Caswallon gathered his aching limbs and ventured to the kitchens. Once there, he made a plate of beef and horseradish and retrieved a large flask of expensive brandy. Small comfort, but it would help soothe his rattled nerves.
Back on the throne again, Caswallon placed the gold crown he’d recently had fashioned by the city’s only living goldsmith on his head and closed his eyes. A whim, the crown. It helped convince him he was legit, and at times like this Caswallon needed a little clarific
ation along those lines. Time to recharge. He was both physically and mentally drained, like a gourd with all its juices sucked out. It had been a very unpleasant day, and Gribble’s desertion had hurt him unexpectedly hard. Caswallon was not overly blessed with virtues, but he had been fond of the Soilfin.
Still, all was not lost. The Assassin wouldn’t let him down. Once Caswallon had the spear he could deal with the likes of Morak and Vaarg, whatever they were up to. And Gribble too, should the shitling show his goblin face again.
Beef eaten and brandy flask slurped half dry, Caswallon felt strong enough to take the long cold climb up to the Astrologer’s Nest—the highest tower in Kella’s Palace. Once there he drained the rest of the brandy and uncorked a bottle of port he’d kept in a closet to warm his blood. Then, when he was ready, Caswallon took to gazing into the crystal globe for the first time in months.
***
Zallerak entered the gloomy passage leading to the mines beneath Ulan Valek. In the distance he could hear the heavy footfalls of the Ptarnian soldiers. Zallerak had little doubt why they were here. Ptarni’s cities lay hard under the shadow of the Urgo Mountains, and long had its people had paid homage and worship to Morak’s kin— driven to it by fear and rumours.
Obviously, some bold prince of that land had got it in his head to seek the spear himself, and therefore sent a unit of crack commandos go get it. Fools! No mortal could survive the secrets of this fortress. Even for Zallerak it was touch and go—and he at least knew the traps and hidden spell nets. And then there was the guardian at the lower door.
Zallerak held enough pace to move swiftly yet keep his distance from the Ptarnians. He stopped once, hearing voices behind him, but soon dismissed them as echoes reverberating through this ghastly place.
It was icy cold down here, and the walls were sleek with slime and frozen weed. Zallerak carried his spell-spear in both hands, the tip glowing with just enough light to allow him to place one foot safely in front of another.
Stairs and passages led off from the main shaft in complex junctions. Zallerak’s memory served him well, taking him far beyond and below where the Ptarnians struggled to find their way in the subterranean maze.
But behind Zallerak, the Groil knew the way too, for they had been spawned in this place. Slowly they gained ground on the unsuspecting Aralais, as Rael and his men strode silent behind. Rael suspected traps, too, and was happy for the Groil to fall prey to them first.
Zallerak entered a passage leading to a steep, sheer stairwell, which in turn descended in tight spirals. Dizzyingly down it wound. Zallerak’s hands stung from the icy touch of the rusty rail, the only way he could steady himself and not fall into the abyss below.
For almost an hour he descended, finally reaching the wide, plateau-like hall that exited at eight gates. Zallerak took the seventh without hesitation. He stopped, recognising the silent guardian standing voiceless and tall. A giant Groil, its hide was encased in obsidian armour, and its features were hidden by a iron helm spiked at the crown. This guardian called “The Silent One” was the first Groil spawned from the Urgolais. It had been posted here since the days of the endless war and had never slept.
Zallerak muttered the words he’d used millennia before, and The Silent One saw him not and thus allowed him pass. Next, he entered a wide passage leading to a great iron gate dripping with black tendrils of ice. Again, Zallerak murmured a spell-rune, and the gate rattled and creaked ajar.
Quickly he stole within, his spear tip allowing just enough light to find the trapdoor at the far end that led down to the final passage, beyond which Zallerak suspected the spear lay.
He took a deep breath and forced his nerves to remain calm as he lifted the trapdoor and dropped silent within. It was there that he felt it first: the fear and the menace. An alien terror emanating from Golganak’s essence. So it was here! Zallerak steeled his nerves as best he could and followed the rancid stench of fear until he reached the wall where the ancient weapon rested.
There he stopped, seeing a figure standing beside the spear.
“I got here first,” smiled Morak, as his servant, the dragon Vaarg, fell upon the wizard like rocks from a cliff.
Chapter 28
Kelthara
The messenger caught up with Ariane’s army just before they entered Kelthara. He gave his name as Greggan, a sergeant in Lord Halfdan’s Wolves, and the news he brought had Ariane shouting for joy. As they approached Kelthara’s walls, the queen turned in her saddle and yelled back at her riders.
“Happy tidings from the north—the King of Leeth is dead! Car Carranis is saved!” The queen’s news spread through her army like bush fire, fueling every soldier with renewed zeal. What marvellous timing, thought Ariane.
Just the tonic my army needs.
“What of Corin an Fol?” she asked the messenger in a quieter voice. Greggan had told her Halfdan had ordered him leave the moment they turned the day against Leeth. Greggan had ridden at speed for three days, his intention to reach Wynais, and by sheerest chance he had seen Ariane’s army approaching from the distance. After his spyglass revealed the queen’s features, Greggan had counted his blessings and spurred his horse on for the last couple of miles.
“Last I saw he was on the walls of Car Carranis, a very pretty lassie in his arms.” Greggan thanked Cale, who was offering him water on pretense of not eavesdropping.
“Oh, I see.” Ariane changed the subject. She wasn’t in the mood to hear about Shallan, though she was glad her cousin still lived. “What happened up there—Greggan, is it?”
“Greggan it is, Your Highness.” he took a slurp and tossed the water skin back at Cale, who caught it deftly and continued listening in. “’Tis rather complicated,” Greggan explained, grinning at Cale.
“It always is when Corin an Fol is involved.”
“We call him ‘Lord Corin’ now,” Greggan said, and Ariane rolled her eyes, whilst Cale looked impressed.
“Elanion help us,” the queen muttered under her breath.
Ahead, the city gates drew close, and a shout announced they were welcome within, the Keltharans having got word via scouts of Queen Ariane’s approach.
“Explain swiftly and best you can, Sir Greggan; I need to be prepped so I can spread cheer among those poor souls in yonder city.”
“I’m only a sergeant, Your Highness,” Greggan said, but went on to tell her all about the carnage at the Gap: the Ptarnian army, the Rorshai charge at their ranks that morning, and the ensuing devastating result.
“That was valiantly done,” Ariane said.
“Lord Corin again, and his Rorshai mates. Tough bastards those Rorshai, good drinkers too.” Greggan told of how the enraged Ptarnians had attacked King Haal’s rear, resulting in both huge armies almost wiping each over out through the course of that long bloody day. “Redhand escaped with a handful, but I doubt we’ll hear from him for a while.”
“What a victory! Elanion be blessed!” Ariane raised her eyes to the slate sky overhead and mouthed a silent “thank you” to her goddess. “And thank you too, Sir Greggan,” she smiled at the grizzly-faced messenger with the missing teeth.
“Go see Captain Tarello back there and he’ll ensure you’re well rewarded with ale and food this evening. I don’t know what state Kelthara is in but we have our own supplies. You’ve made my day, Sir Greggan—may the goddess bless you too!” With a hideous smile, Greggan thanked her and guided his horse back to where Captain Tarello rode close behind.
The gates swung back, allowing her riders to enter the city. Ariane saw lean, hard faces staring at her with quizzical eyes. Kelthara in winter: a dusting of snow on the ground and small fires offering little heat to the huddled citizens gathered in clusters at street corners.
Dogs prowled and snarled up at them as Ariane’s army filed inside the city. Three miles south, the first of Gonfalez’s Tigers ranged into view, whilst north in the woods, the rest of the Groil under Flail Six-Arms approached with snarling fangs and clashing
steel.
A thin man with shrewd eyes greeted Ariane as she dismounted inside the gates, handing the reins to Cale, who had entered the city beside her. The rangy individual introduced himself as Pol Darn, self-appointed leader of the Keltharan rebellion against Caswallon.
“We slew the Groil inside the city,” Pol Darn told her with defiant eyes. “But others lurk in the woods north of here, and I fear Caswallon has sent many more.”
“You have done well,” Ariane smiled at the Keltharan leader. “To hold out so long against that tyrant. Your city must have endured a great deal of hardship and loss.”
Pol Darn nodded. “We’ve paid a heavy price, Your Highness. Most of the nobles are dead, the Groil killed many, and commoners too. People in this city have lost everything—especially hope, living from hour to hour. We’ve little food left and lack the strength to hold out much longer.”
“You have been brave and strong, but we are here now, and Kelthara will hold as long as it has to.” Ariane’s smile left no room for argument. Pol Darn merely shrugged at her words.
“We have brought supplies and fuel, enough to offer some cheer amongst your people.” Ariane had ordered each of her soldiers carry as many supplies as their horses could bear without losing speed over distance. “We have only to hold out for a few days before help arrives.”
“What help?” Pol Darn shook his head, too tired to believe her words.
“Beyond hope, Car Carranis has held against the attacks of Leeth. Against all bets, the barbarians have given up, allowing General Starkhold to send aid our way. I’ll fill you in with the details later.”
“'Tis good to hear,” Pol Darn looked nonplussed, “but it will take more than a garrison from Car Carranis to overthrow Caswallon.”
“Maybe so, but I’ve not lost a battle yet, Pol Darn. I do not intend this to be my first.” Ariane softened her tone, seeing how exhausted this man looked. Goddess alone knew what horrors they’d endured in this city since Caswallon’s rise to power. “Please be kind enough to show me your defenses,” she added with a smile.