The Captain was not particularly worried about being discovered. The omens had been exceptionally good this night, as the omens had been good all week. She did not count that pitiful attempt at omen-faking performed by the elf. The Captain chuckled every time she thought about the waterspout, forming out of a clear blue sky with not a cloud in it. A goony bird could have seen through that!
Tonight’s omens foretold the cloud cover that hid the moon and stars and promised the rain that obliterated the sounds of a boat sneaking underneath the humans’ very noses.
And the rain came, dancing across the water in sheets. An ork stood at the prow, staring into the darkness, watching for obstacles in the estuary. The Captain did not expect any. The orks had sailed this estuary in their tall ships for centuries. They had mapped and charted every eddy and snag. The orks rowed with ease, making good time, chanting their rowing chant beneath their breaths, instead of booming it aloud. The Captain’s shaman sat nearby. At her feet were two largish lumps, covered in tarps to keep them warm and dry.
One of the lumps began to snore loudly. The shaman glanced at the Captain in concern.
“Turn him over on his stomach,” said the Captain.
The shaman did so, with the result that the snoring ceased.
“Even in his stupor, he holds on to that knapsack,” said the shaman in admiration.
“Yes,” said the Captain, “he does.”
“Is that where he hides the Sovereign Stone?” the shaman asked.
“It is,” said the Captain.
“And the other?”
“She is a Dominion Lord. It will be protected by her armor.”
The shaman nodded his understanding.
“How long will they sleep?” the Captain asked.
“As long as you want, Captain,” the shaman replied. “All I have to do is cast the spell again.”
“Good.” The Captain grunted. “Let them sleep a long time. They will need their rest…where we’re going.”
The shaman nodded, and the rest of the night passed in silence as the boat glided unseen up the estuary.
LOCATED IN THE ILLANOF MOUNTAINS, ABOUT FIVE HUNDRED miles northeast of Krammes (as the dragon flies), Mardurar was a mining town, noted not only for its gold and silver mines, but also for the fiercely independent spirit of its citizens. “Independent” was how the Mardurs viewed themselves. Others had another word for them: “outlaws.”
The mines belonged to the crown and were run by crown-appointed ministers. A posting to Mardurar had one great advantage—the person who supervised the removal of vast quantities of wealth from the mountain could do very well for himself in the process. A posting to Mardurar had one great disadvantage—it was in Mardurar.
The first problem the pampered royal official from the sunny climes of New Vinnengael had to face was the weather. The cold was unbelievable, and the snow was worse. The snow began falling in the autumn, stopped for a brief time during the three sunny months of summer, then started all over again. The natives were not the least bothered by snow or the cold. Earth magi kept the mountain passes open, so that the wealth from the mines flowed down the mountain all year long. The natives strapped sticks to their feet and slid down the mountainside or hitched up teams of dogs or elk to pull them about in sleds. The royal official sat shivering in his log house, unable to get warm.
Mardurar was home to a great many magi, far more than any other town of comparable size. Most of the miners were Earth magi, who used their talents to drag the ore from the mountain. One might think that a large number of magi would lend an air of refinement and graciousness to the town.
One would be wrong. These magi were not the bookish scholars of the Temple. Few of the miners could read or write. Most had learned their craft from their parents, who had learned it from their parents, and so forth, going back generations. The spells they used were often sung or chanted as the miners went about their daily tasks of forcing the mountain to give up her wealth. Big and brawny, hard-living and hard-drinking, quick with their fists and glib with their tongues, the magi of Mardurar considered themselves the rulers of Mardurar, and woe betide those who thought otherwise.
One group who did think otherwise were the soldiers of the Royal Army. Posted in the city to ensure that the wealth of the mountains actually made it down the mountain and not into the pockets of corrupt officials or bandit lords, the soldiers of the Bastion of Mardurar, known disparagingly among the miners as the Bastion Bastards, were as tough as the miners and just as quick and skilled with their fists.
The two had a healthy hatred for each other, but also a certain grudging respect. Brawls were a daily occurrence. But whenever there was a tunnel collapse in the mines, soldiers and miners worked side by side to dig out the unfortunate victims. As might be expected, the other large group of Earth magi located in Mardurar were healers.
Mardurar was also famous for the Meffeld Cross-road.
Located about ten miles outside the city, on the east slope of the Illanof Mountains, the Meffeld Cross-road was the junction of two major highways. One highway led west through the famous Meffeld Pass, the only route known at that time through the Illanof mountain range that split the country of Vinnengael down the middle. The other highway led to the city of Mardurar itself. The crossroads was a well-known meeting place, despite the fact (or perhaps because of it) that crossroads were known to be cursed.
Earth magi kept both highways open throughout the winter. They used their magic to create huge beings made of stone known as Earthen Killers. Animated mounds of rock, the mindless monstrosities stood twenty feet tall and were completely under control of the Earth magi. At their commands, the Earthen Killers went thundering down the road, their huge “arms” flinging snow in great clouds to the left and right, their boulder “feet” stomping the road smooth. The magi had to keep careful control over their magical creations, for the Killers were aptly named and would wreak havoc if they once got loose, stomping and pummeling any living being they could catch.
On the day that Ulaf and his band arrived in Mardurar, the highways had been newly cleared, the latest snowfall tamped down and shoved aside. Its services no longer required, the Earthen Killer was once more an inoffensive pile of rock and boulders heaped up in a mound near the crossroad, waiting to be reanimated with the next snowfall.
The stones resembled a gigantic cairn, and were a startling and sometimes unnerving sight to newcomers, particularly due to their proximity to the crossroad. Although the royal officials of Mardurar stoutly maintained that no unfortunate suicide had ever been buried at this important crossroad, few believed them.
Ulaf and his band came to the crossroad in the late afternoon. A light snow was falling, just enough to cause the horses to twitch their ears and blink their eyes when the cold flakes hit them. The snow was not going to last. The clouds were thin. Sometimes the sun would actually break through, causing the snowflakes to sparkle, dazzling the eye.
At the crossroad, Ulaf reined in his horse.
“The rest of you ride ahead into Mardurar,” he instructed. “You’ll find rooms at the Hammer and Tongs. I’ll see Jessan and the Grandmother off, then join you.”
The others departed, taking the road to Mardurar, their thoughts on a warm fire and the mulled wine for which the Hammer and Tongs was famous. Ulaf turned to his companions.
“Here is where we part, Jessan. That road”—Ulaf pointed—“leads down the western face of the mountain to the plains below. Once you are out of the mountains, keep your face toward the sunset and you will eventually reach Karnu. You will not have difficulty traveling in Karnuan lands?”
Jessan shook his head. “Many of my people serve with the Karnuan army. The Trevinici are well respected and highly prized. No Karnuan would be so foolish as to attack me.” He glanced behind him, at the Grandmother. “Or those under my protection.”
“No Karnuan, perhaps,” said Ulaf gravely. “But who knows if Karnu even still rules its own lands? We’ve heard sto
ries that the taan have been fighting to conquer Karnu. They may well have conquered it by now.”
Ulaf went on to urge Jessan to continue traveling with him and his men, even though he knew he would waste his breath, and he was not surprised that the young Trevinici refused. Jessan was determined to return to his homeland, as was Grandmother Pecwae. No matter that the journey would be long—perhaps a year or more—or that they would be traveling through dangerous territory. Wounded in body and in soul, both Jessan and the Grandmother longed for the healing powers of home.
“Very well, if you insist on going, at least accept this. I have drawn up a rough map.” Ulaf handed over a square piece of leather. Unrolling it, Jessan spread it out on his horse’s neck. “You do not want to travel too far to the north. You will run into the lands of the elves, and that would not be wise.”
Jessan nodded. He’d seen enough of elven lands to know that he wanted to keep clear of them. Ulaf went on to provide advice as to the best routes and how to avoid places where there might be fighting. Although impatient to be on his way, Jessan forced himself to pay attention. There are different types of warriors in this world, Jessan had come to learn. Not all of them need to brandish a spear and charge the enemy headlong in order to prove their courage or their worth. He had grown to respect Ulaf on their journey, and he was grateful to the man for his advice.
“I would travel with you into the pass,” Ulaf added, handing over the rolled-up map. “But I want to stop at Mardurar for a couple of days to catch up on the latest news and to replenish my supplies at the Temple of the Magi.”
“Then this is good-bye,” said Jessan. “Good luck to you. Give my greetings to the baron. I often think of him, traveling with the Sovereign Stone. He is the one who is truly in danger. I hope he fares well.”
“He will,” said the Grandmother. “He is one of the god’s favored, that one. Although—”
The Grandmother did not finish her thought. She turned her head around to stare back down the road they had just ridden. Lifting her newly carved agate-eyed stick in the air, she twitched it this way and that, so that all the eyes could take a good look.
“Evil,” she said suddenly. “Coming this direction.” She gave the stick a shake. “At least now you have sense enough to warn me ahead of time.”
Ulaf glanced down the road. He could not hear or see anything, but that meant nothing. The sound of hoofbeats would be muffled in the snow.
“A Vrykyl?”
The Grandmother shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Could the Vrykyl be following us still?” Jessan asked, alarmed.
“I don’t think so,” said Ulaf. “You no longer have the Blood-knife or the Sovereign Stone, so I don’t see how it could. Still, it will be best to find out. You and the Grandmother ride on ahead. I’ll wait around and see who comes along. If it’s trouble, I’ll catch up with you and let you know.”
“Agreed,” said Jessan, relieved. This would spare them both a long and uncomfortable good-bye. “We had best hurry.” Waving his hand, he and the Grandmother rode on.
Ulaf turned his horse’s head and guided the animal among the rocks of the fallen Earthen Killer toward a pine forest that rose up behind the rock pile. Hidden among the trees, he tethered his horse, counseled the animal to silence, then crept back on foot to the rock pile. Ulaf crouched behind the rock, choosing a position where he could see through the chinks in the stones.
Jessan and the Grandmother proceeded up the road, riding pillion. The horse bore a litter carrying Bashae’s body, wrapped in its soft cocoon. The litter dragged along the road, leaving a distinctive trail that would be difficult to miss.
Ulaf waited a long time, so long that his feet began to grow numb with the cold. He was beginning to regret having trusted in a stick. Then, just as dusk was falling, a lone rider came into view. The rider, like most travelers, was heavily wrapped in a thick, hooded cloak. If it was a Vrykyl, the creature would be traveling in disguise, so Ulaf did not pay much attention to the person seated on the horse. He was far more interested in the horse’s trappings, which were like nothing he’d ever seen, particularly the caparison, red with golden trim around the edges that had been fashioned to resemble flames.
Ulaf would have bet his eyeteeth that the caparison was magical. The rider’s cloak was stained with the mud and slush of the road. The caparison was as clean and bright as if it had been new-made that very day.
If the rider was following Jessan, he would halt at the crossroads to study the trail, trying to determine which route the Trevinici had taken. The rider did halt, but he did not look at the trail. He turned in his saddle and searched the surrounding woods with an intense scrutiny that caused Ulaf to press himself against the rocks and quiet his breathing.
Not finding what he sought, the rider remained seated on his horse at the very center of the crossroads. Obviously, he was waiting for someone.
His curiosity now piqued, Ulaf wiggled his toes in his boots to try to restore the circulation and settled down to wait also. He hoped the meeting happened soon; otherwise, he’d been walking home on blocks of ice. Times like this he wished he’d been born a Fire mage.
The rider appeared as impatient as Ulaf, for just as the sun dipped down behind the mountain, the rider began to shift restlessly in the saddle. Fortunately, neither the rider’s patience nor Ulaf’s frozen toes were tried too long. He could hear another horseman approaching at a gallop. The rider guided his horse off the road, took up a position in the shadows where he could see the stranger.
Reaching the center of the crossroad, the stranger halted his horse and looked around. He caught sight of the rider by the side of the road and said loudly, “A fine night for travel, is it not, sir. Bright and crisp.” Since the sky was, in fact, overcast, Ulaf guessed that the words were a coded greeting. His guess was confirmed when the first rider emerged from the shadows.
“Is that you, Klendist?” said a deep voice.
“Is that you, Shakur?”
Shakur! The name sent a tingle up Ulaf’s spine. Shakur was the most ancient of the Vrykyl and the most powerful. If there was such a thing as a commander among the ranks of the Vrykyl, Shakur would be it. Ulaf forgot his frozen feet.
“You have my orders?” Klendist asked.
“You are to proceed with all haste to Old Vinnengael, there to await the arrival of Lord Dagnarus. You are to arrive there in a fortnight.”
“A fortnight! Are you mad—”
Shakur handed over a scrollcase. “Here is the location of a rogue Portal. It will cut the time of your ride to Old Vinnengael. His Lordship wants you there as soon as possible, so I suggest you leave immediately.”
“Old Vinnengael,” Klendist said in grim tones. “What does His Lordship want us to do in that accursed place?”
“You will find out, but all in good time. You have your orders—”
“Not so fast, Shakur,” said Klendist, and there was an edge to his voice. “My men and I didn’t sign on to go to Old Vinnengael.”
“What’s the matter, Klendist?” Shakur sneered. “Afraid of ghosts?”
“Ghosts are the least of my concerns,” said Klendist coolly. “I once thought of doing some business inside Old Vinnengael. The treasure of an empire lies buried there. I did some investigating and decided it wasn’t worth it. There’s bahk living there, for one thing. Hundreds of them. I’m not riding into Old Vinnengael or anywhere near it until I know more about what it is I’m supposed to do once I get there.”
Shakur did not immediately answer. Perhaps he was asking Dagnarus for orders, or perhaps he was trying to outwait Klendist. If so, he failed. Klendist hung on with grim determination. Night had fallen. The two were black blobs against the white backdrop of the fresh snowfall. Ulaf tried to warm his fingers with his breath.
At last, Shakur spoke. “His Lordship says that there is no need for you to enter Old Vinnengael. Four Dominion Lords are traveling to the ruined city. He wants you to apprehend them be
fore they reach their destination.”
“Dominion Lords?” Klendist laughed. “I didn’t know there were any still in existence. Why does he want them?”
“He does not want them,” said Shakur. “He wants what they carry.”
“What’s that?”
“Something they stole from His Lordship. Do not push your luck, Klendist.”
Hearing the warning note in Shakur’s fell voice, Klendist apparently decided he had all the information he required.
“So we ride to Old Vinnengael in search of these Dominion Lords. How do we know we’re all going to arrive there at the same time?”
“The Void is with us. They will be there.”
Klendist shrugged. “If you say so. Do we kill them?”
“No, you will take them alive and you will keep them that way. His Lordship wants to question them,” said Shakur.
“Catching is more trouble than killing,” Klendist said reflectively. “I’ll expect to be rewarded accordingly.”
“You’ve had no reason to complain of your treatment in the past,” Shakur replied.
“Just tell him that, will you? Now, what do these Dominion Lords look like?”
“The Void will guide you to them.”
“It’s like squeezing water from a rock, getting any information out of you, Shakur,” said Klendist irritably. “We’re all on the same side, you know. Speaking of which, what about the gigs? What are they doing here?”
“The what?” Shakur was clearly baffled.
“The gigs. The taan.” Klendist made a gesture with his gloved hand. “We’ve spotted a group of them here in the mountains. They’re skulking about in those woods to the north.”
“Indeed?” Shakur turned his head in that direction, as if he could see through the night and the pine trees. “How many?”
“A small group by the looks of it,” said Klendist. “A hunting party, maybe.”
“Did they see you?”
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