by Doug Niles
“Now—dump oil! Toss the torches!” Cedric’s voice strained not with fear, but with volume; he would betray none of the terror he felt. He gripped the sword of his father, silently daring the creature to come within the weapon’s reach.
But first would be the trial by fire. Cedric watched as the hot oil shimmered as it fell through the air, splattering across the creature’s head and torso, outlining the black body in a slick, dense layer. Its flesh, closer up, looked more like rock than iron, the captain decided, fully conscious that neither substance was especially vulnerable to fire.
Dozens of burning torches tumbled downward, tossed by courageous men waiting upon the battlements. They smoked and sputtered through the air, and when they contacted the oily form of the monster, they ignited the liquid fuel almost instantly. A huge wall of flame roared up into the air, driving the soldiers back momentarily.
Within mere moments the gigantic form was engulfed in flame, but if it felt any discomfort from the intense heat that burned the faces of the Solamnics, it gave not the slightest indication. Instead, the monster cocked one mighty fist and delivered a crushing blow to the heavy planks of the drawbridge. Cedric heard boards splintering and felt the groaning collapse of that massive barrier as the tower itself swayed under his feet.
“Rocks! Drop them—now!” cried the captain, despair growing.
Immediately the huge baskets that had been poised on the rampart toppled forward, spilling their heavy loads downward. Large boulders struck the monster’s head, torso, and arms—but even the heaviest of these simply bounced away without causing any visible harm.
Even under this barrage, the monster continued his pummeling, smashing the raised barrier again and again. Soon pieces of timbers, then whole beams, broke free to burst or tumble out of the way. The creature reached through the gap to seize the heavy portcullis, the second barrier to the gateway, and yanked at it. With a single, massive effort, the monster ripped that barrier aside; the iron grid, which weighed tons, was simply jerked off its mounting brackets. The monster tossed the heavy portcullis aside as though it were a toy. It fell across the moat where it would serve as a bridge for the following ogre troops.
Now the way into the gatehouse was clear. Men gathered above the murder holes, ready to stab downward with long pikes in a valiant effort to pierce the monster from above. But instead of advancing, as Cedric and the other defenders expected, the beast paused, turning its attention to the stone wall to the right of the open gate. With a series of heavy blows of those great fists, it shattered the masonry and crumbled the wall.
The captain sprang to the side as he felt the ground start to give way under his feet. Other men were not so lucky; at least a dozen soldiers toppled downward as the creature hewed a gap right through the outer wall. Cedric heard their pathetic screams as they fell directly on top of the creature—sounds of panic that were quickly silenced by death. The elemental giant crushed the defenders with swatting blows of its hands and feet, shot fiery blasts at them out of its eyes, roared flames out of its gaping mouth.
Still, the giant clawed at the wall, pulling down another great section, rubble and stone spilling into the moat, filling it, piling onto the plains beyond and also tumbling into the deep courtyard. More bridges were created across the moat. More of the rampart fell. Both Kingfishers—among many other warriors—fell to their doom, Cedric saw. The veteran captain fell back to safety just as another section of the wall flew away.
Only after the elemental giant had hacked apart a gap more than a hundred feet wide did the monster enter the courtyard of the gatehouse. It kicked through a company of archers—those few men who had survived the shower of rock from collapsing walls—and Cedric realized that it would shortly decimate those men, cross to the far wall, and smash down that barrier as well. With that, the route into Solanthus would be open.
Now, however, the creature appeared to hesitate, whirling back to peer at the only fragment of the outer wall still standing. Sir Cedric and a few brave survivors were standing there, waiting. The captain dutifully raised his blade, the sword that was the legacy of his father’s fathers’ fathers. He felt the heat of those coal-ember eyes as their inhuman gaze fastened upon him, and the monster drew back a boulder-sized fist.
“By the Oath and the Measure—you shall not pass!” cried the Captain of the West Gate.
He hurled himself from the parapet, his sword extended. The blade struck the monster’s face … and shattered in a fiery burst.
Sir Cedric himself met exactly the same fate.
The gatehouse was now a ruin—a great fan of rubble spilling out from the shattered wall, filling the moat, and making a passable, if rugged, path for the first company of ogres. Ankhar felt a sense of admiration and awe, mingled with no small measure of terror, as he witnessed the great destruction wrought by the elemental king.
Already events were moving beyond the half-giant’s control. After smashing the outer wall, the drawbridge, and two of the tall towers flanking the West Gate, the elemental king had advanced out of sight. Ankhar hastened forward, keeping pace with Hoarst and Bloodgutter, just to the rear of the first company of ogres. The drums were booming now, and the commander unconsciously matched his own gait to their increased cadence. He saw rocks flying through the gap in the wall, and watched in wonder as the top of another formidable tower began to sway. It eased to the left then tilted back to the right. When it swayed again, it just kept going, plunging from Ankhar’s view. A few breaths later, a great cloud of dust billowed into the air, rising far above the height of the wall.
There were some humans remaining on the flanks of the breach, he noted. Their counterattacks started with desultory arrow volleys, a few longbowmen recovering their wits and courage enough to snipe at the block of ogres, while the packed warriors struggled over the broken ground within the gap. Even this light fire was effective, as the steel-headed missiles inevitably struck home among the close ranks, the heavy shafts striking with enough force to drive their razor-edged tips through shields, armor, and bone.
With startling speed, the archers reorganized, and as the ogres put their heads down and surged toward the breach, concentrated volleys of arrows began to shower the front of the formation. Ogres fell, crippled, writhing, or stone dead, and the next attackers stumbled and dispersed as they veered around the obstacles formed by fallen comrades. The attack slowed as the ogres raised shields in a vain attempt to halt the lethal shower. Half of the first company had dropped, and more were dying with each relentless volley. The survivors hesitated, some glancing back toward the safety of their own lines.
Where was the monster, the elemental king? Ankhar wondered, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the creature amidst the melee.
“Charge, you miserable cowards!” roared Bloodgutter. “Carry this place by storm—or die trying!”
He lunged ahead, ready to personally lead the assault, but Ankhar laid a restraining hand on the ogre’s shoulder. “I need you alive,” the commander told his captain, who looked at him furiously.
The situation was equally maddening to Ankhar. He could see the gap, the huge breach in the wall leading right into the city! But how many warriors would he have to sacrifice in that breach? The carnage would be horrific.
And still there was no sign of the elemental king. From the broken, rocky ground rose a din of ogres howling in pain, bellowing commands and challenges, while the humans on the wall shouted and cheered. Behind it all, the drummers kept steady cadence. Ankhar turned to Hoarst, who had come up beside him and was now looking at his commander questioningly.
“Call him back!”
The Thorn Knight shook his head and looked at the wand. “The wand will allow me to direct him away from us, but it won’t summon him.”
“Where did he go all of a sudden?”
“He could be slaying ogres now, for all we know. He is gone from my sight, too.”
Hoarst’s insolent tone, under other circumstances, would have sorely tried
the half-giant’s patience. As it was, he glowered at his lieutenant then snorted in exasperation.
“Laka!” he bellowed, looking around anxiously in the smoky, dusty chaos. “Where are you?”
“I am here, my son.” He was surprised to see that the old hob-wench was, in fact, right behind him. “What is your command?”
“The king has moved too far away from us. Open the box; bring him back.”
“As you wish.” Laka immediately knelt and gently placed the ruby box on the ground before her. Slowly she lifted the lid, and as she did so Ankhar felt a chill penetrate his skin—like a wind from the Icereach that had wafted all the way to central Solamnia. It was the glacial sensation of someone opening the door to a long-cold tomb.
Beyond the ruined gatehouse, Ankhar saw that the murky air was churning, the smoke and dust was gathering like a tornado, rising into a dark funnel that stretched to loom over nearly all the city, challenging even the granite massif of the Cleft Spires in its grandeur. The sound that accompanied the churning air was that of a howling gale, the kind that drowns all speech, uproots the trees, and drives men and beasts to seek shelter.
But Ankhar stood firm, planting his fists on his hips, leaning forward slightly to brace himself against the building force of the funnel. He blinked, wiped a hand across his tearing eyes, and tried to peer through the murk. Bits of debris pelted him, stinging his skin, and his great cape flapped behind him. Laka nearly tumbled backward, but he put his big hand on her back and held her firmly, all the while staring into that gusting gale.
There it was, finally: a hellish glow of fire billowing and brightening within the interior of the cloud, drawing closer and growing more intensely hot as it neared. The half-giant could feel the fire against his skin now, and at last he could make out the returning shape of the elemental king, which towered high above the army commander. It slashed back and forth in obvious fury as it fought the confinement of its magical bonds.
Hoarst also stood fast, raising his wand to admonish the king before they were immolated. Laka laughed shrilly, a cackle of pure pleasure, as she held the lid of the box open. Slowly, thrashing in palpable frustration and fury, the immense column of stone and flame writhed and condensed and contracted, sucking slowly downward until, with an abruptness that left them gasping for breath, it vanished into the stone-covered box.
In the abrupt silence, Ankhar shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Laka showed no hesitation, however; she slammed the lid.
The king of the elementals was back in his prison, and the outer walls of Solanthus were breached.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMERGENT DANGERS
The manor in Palanthas was dark again, except for the enchanted glow in the central room, the alcove off of the wizard’s laboratory. Here Coryn stared into the white porcelain bowl, studying the surface of slightly bubbling white wine. The bowl glowed with its usual pearly incandescence, but now there was a green tint to the light in the shadowed room, a viridescent light that emanated from the small emerald the wizard held between the thumb and index finger of her right hand.
That stone was poised above the liquid, and the viridescent light served to illuminate the murky figure revealed. Even as though seen from a great height, the broad shoulders and looming size of Ankhar the half-giant were recognizable. Beside him stood his two most dangerous allies: the Thorn Knight who had served Mina during the War of Souls, and the hobgoblin who was never far away from the hulking army commander.
Coryn had spent much of the last year observing Jaymes’s adversaries, ever since she had finally discovered that emerald was the element most inclined to reveal Ankhar to the magic of her scrying spell. She had watched him in his camp and on the field, studied his mannerisms and relationships. She had watched his captains too. Gradually Coryn had discerned that the Thorn Knight served Ankhar because he was greedy. The half-giant had claimed much booty from the sacking and plundering of Garnet, Thelgaard, and smaller towns, and he shared generously with the powerful magic-user. Hoarst had taken his treasures and teleported them away to some as yet undetected trove.
The hob-wench, with her feathers, tattered cape, and hideous talisman, was a different matter. There appeared a deep bond between the withered old crone and the huge half-giant, but Coryn had yet to figure out what that connection was based on. Of the pair, the wizard was inclined to think the witch-doctor was the more dangerous because her motives were more obscure and in some way, she seemed to act out of love. Greed could be thwarted and diverted, possibly even outbid, Coryn knew, while love had a way of holding to its course.
For nearly an hour, the white wizard had stared in horror, using her scrying spell to watch as the fire giant tore through the West Gate of Solanthus and into the city beyond. She had seen hundreds of brave fighters die, all in vain, trying to stop the horrific creature. She had watched as the monster ignored arrows, rocks, flaming oil, and plunging spears, striding through each attack while barely taking notice of the humans’ exertions.
The destruction within the walls of the city was terrible. The stone structures inside the gatehouse had been smashed to rubble. When it reached the first block of wooden domiciles, flames exploded from the monster’s mouth, and tongues of fire spewed forth to ignite the buildings instantly, rising to an inferno within a few breaths. People had streamed from the crowded structures in abject terror, while others—too many to enumerate—had perished in the conflagration. The monster had continued its rampage through a market, where precious few sellers were still at work. Even so, the stalls had erupted, and small stockpiles of wool, timber, and oil in casks had swiftly burned to ash.
Beyond the market stretched another neighborhood of crowded wooden buildings, blocks and blocks filled with people. Coryn pressed her hand to her mouth in horror as she watched the creature approach these dwellings. Then, unaccountably, it halted. She noted the resistance, the manlike limbs flailing as the beast struggled to press forward, but instead it was dragged almost physically backward, through the still-blazing wreckage and the shattered gatehouse, where Ankhar’s ogres hastily withdrew before it.
Finally it vanished into a mere box, a ruby prison that apparently could contain a magical creature that was far bigger than the box’s obviously small confines.
“An elemental,” she whispered to herself. “Somehow he has gained control over an elemental.”
But this was not just any elemental, she understood. She had dabbled with the magic used to control those extraplanar creatures, had felt the searing heat of a fire elemental and known the willful taunts of one spun from air. She knew the flooding power of pure animated water and the crushing strength inherent in the bedrock of the land itself. But she had never beheld a creature of such power, such size—one that embodied all four of the mighty elements. It was as if Ankhar had captured the lord of all elementals and was now wielding it as a weapon at the behest of his army.
She stared again into the clear white wine. The bubbles had mostly dissipated and the outline was gray, but in its center she could see the ogres advancing now to claim area around the smashed gatehouse. The brutes tossed boulders into piles, formed a makeshift barricade, erected a wall of planks as protection from the defenders’ arrows, and clearly established a strong front within the very walls of Solanthus. Once that makeshift fortress was secure, Ankhar would be able to move more of his force into the breach, and she could guess what was next: a fresh attack with the elemental king in the lead.
There was no time to waste.
Coryn set down the stone and stood up. When she opened the door to the alcove, the glowing bowl immediately grew dark. Emerging into her laboratory, she pulled down a thick tome from the shelf above her desk and started thumbing through it with one hand. With the other, she rang a small bell.
She found the spell she was seeking just as Rupert knocked quietly on the door. Marking the space with the tip of one of her slender fingers, she looked up. “Come in.”
“Yes, my lady
. How can I help?” asked her servant and loyal friend.
“I need to go away for a few days. Have Donny collect my cloak and boots. I’d like to have a little food—not much. Oh, and you can empty the wine in the scrying bowl.”
“Of course,” Rupert said, advancing quickly toward the alcove. He paused, looking at her questioningly. “Is everything all right, my lady? That is, you seem rather upset.”
Coryn grimaced. “Everything is not all right. The war has taken a turn for the worse. Unless I can get Jaymes and the army of knights on the move immediately, I am afraid Solanthus is doomed.”
“I am sure you will meet with success, my lady,” Rupert declared smoothly. “And I trust that you will be back in time for the lord regent’s ball?”
“Ball? Oh, damn, I forgot about that. When is it, again?” She was annoyed to be reminded, but knew it was imperative she attend the gala function. Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne was capable of many surprises, often unpleasant ones, and an occasion where the eyes of all Palanthas, including the city’s considerable diplomatic community, were upon du Chagne, was just the kind of opportunity where he needed to be monitored. Coryn wanted to be there to make sure he didn’t announce any new policies certain to harm the war effort.
“Yes, I’ll be there,” she snapped, realizing she had to hurry. “But that means I’ll have to get out of here in the next few hours. So we all have work to do.”
“Of course, lady,” Rupert agreed, bowing slightly before he entered the alcove. By the time he came out carrying the porcelain bowl, Coryn was so engrossed in reading her spell that she didn’t note his departure.
Dawn broke over the Compound. A thick gray mist hung in the air, grimly mingling with the cloud of smoke that lingered from the blast that killed Salty Pete. Jaymes awakened shortly after first light. He dressed quickly and made his way through the nearly silent manor. Sally, red eyed and grief stricken, tried to intercept him with tea, but he merely shook his head and strode out of the house into the cool day.