Obsidian Ridge

by Jess Lebow

  Mariko grabbed at the wall and the floor, trying to pull herself free, but she couldn’t get a good grip. The stones were worn smooth by the claws and nails of earlier victims. All she could get her hands on were two piles of dusty, broken stone, lying at the base of the wall and beside the nearest pillar. With each failed attempt, the princess grew more frantic.

  The first spider climbed down, wedging itself now between the wall and another pillar—facing Mariko and the spider that held her down. With the exception of the tapping of their legs against the stone, neither of the beasts had made any noise. Now they both began to make a high-pitched hiss. A thick, stringy substance that looked purple in the dull light of the room, dripped from the spiders’ fangs, splashing in small puddles on the floor beside the trapped princess.

  Mariko swung her broken bit of stone again, catching the spider right in the mouth, breaking away one of its fangs. The sharpened bone clanked as it hit the floor and skidded off into the darkness. The creature let out an angry screech that echoed throughout the room. It flailed around, clearly unhappy, then reared back and dived for the princess, burying its other fang into her neck.

  Mariko screamed. She beat at the creature’s face with her fists, but it was no use. She could feel the poison pumping into her body. Her head started to float, and her arms felt heavy. Her legs and stomach cramped up, and she tried to curl into a ball.

  Looking up, the spider’s eyes seemed to waver, and the dim light in the room flickered.

  Her body went limp, and she laid her arms on the ground beside her, unable to struggle any further.

  “Claw,” she said. “Please … please …”

  With her last bit of strength, she reached to her neck, gripping the locket the Claw had given her, and undid the clasp.

  “Where in the Nine Hells could she be?” Jallal Tasca growled. This was not going well.

  First the cloakers, then the princess escaped. What else could go wrong?

  Coming around a bend in the hallway, Jallal and his guards stepped into an open room—a crossroads with passages leading off in four different directions.

  He threw his hands in the air. “Any guesses?”

  He turned to look at the others who accompanied him. None of them had been seriously hurt in the cloaker attack, but they just stared at him, not responding, clearly unhappy about their current situation.

  The scream came from the hallway to the left.

  Jallal lifted his sword and bolted toward the sound. “Come with me!”

  At the end of the passage the group entered a high ceilinged room, awash in a pale purple light. Against the right wall, a pair of huge spiders faced each other, hunched over something—or someone.

  Drawing closer, Jallal came around a large stone pillar to see the limp body of Princess Mariko, pinned to the ground by a huge spider’s fang.

  “Damn,” cursed Jallal, his anger starting to rise. “The Matron is not going to be happy about this.”

  chapter thirteen

  We’re all going to die,” Whitman muttered as he left the palace, heading down the darkened road toward the docks. He clasped his hands together, fidgeting with them on the long walk. “We’re all going to be eaten, torn to shreds by those … those vile … disgusting … repulsive … repugnant … unseemly … dirty … hairy beasts.” His knuckles were white from his own grip, and his palms were damp with worried sweat.

  As he went, his mind wandered through all the terrible, disgusting ways a man could be killed. Torn to shreds by slavering, diseased beasts ranked pretty high. He relived the scene in his head, watching from afar, as he had, the death of the entire unit of soldiers who had approached the Obsidian Ridge. He didn’t want to end up like one of them. He didn’t want anyone else to end up like that either.

  Crossing over from the dirt and stone road onto the wooden slats of the wharf, Whitman wrapped his cloak tighter around his chest. It was not particularly cold here. In fact, the damp air coming off the water was quite refreshing on a warm, spring evening. But something about the docks always gave Whitman the shivers.

  Down a few blocks, he turned into a darkened dead-end alley. At the end was a single, wooden door with a plaque attached to it. On the plaque was the relief carving of a woman, her long hair flowing around her face, a tiara on her head—the symbol for the temple of Waukeen.

  Knocking on the door, the king’s scribe waited, his eyes darting around the shadows, nervously watching, assuming someone was waiting in ambush in every corner. After a few moments, the latch on the other side slid noisily across the wood, and the door opened.

  “What are you doing here?” asked a voice from the dark interior.

  “I’m here to see the Matron,” Whitman said in a stern voice. “Let me in.”

  The door swung wide, the burly guard stepped aside, and the king’s scribe was allowed in.

  Three armed men stood in the hall. One shut the door while the other two searched Whitman, patting him down for weapons.

  “Believe me,” he said, as they checked under his cloak, “there is nothing to find. Even if I had a weapon, you’d still all be safe.”

  The men finished their search and left him be. “He’s got nothing.”

  Whitman adjusted himself, annoyed by the intrusion. “I wouldn’t know how to use it anyway.”

  “Go inside,” said the guard who had opened the door. “I’ll let the Matron know you are here.”

  Whitman did as he was told, heading down the corridor and descending a long set of steps. He had never been inside this building before, but he had heard the stories. The meetings of the underworld council took place here. For a criminal, this was a sort of a holy shrine. Every infamous figure in the Erlkazar underworld was said to have walked down these steps. Several had even died here—killed as a punishment for wronging another member of the council, or perhaps for simply disappointing the Matron.

  At the base of the stairs, four guards waited. As Whitman approached, they took hold of one huge steel door, and together they pulled it open. The heavy hinges groaned as they rotated and let the metal door swing wide.

  Whitman nodded to the men as he stepped through the doorway. A huge, wooden table dominated the inside of the room. Mage-lit stones sat in sconces on either end and in the middle, filling the chamber with cold, bluish-white light. The door closed behind him with a tremendous clang, and Whitman stepped down from the entrance to the middle of the room.

  Besides the table, the chairs, and the sconces, there was nothing else in the room, except four huge metal doors—three that led out to the corridor where Whitman had just come from, and another on the opposite side of the room. That door swung open, smooth and silent, and out stepped a woman, a tight purple robe adorning her body, a veil over her face.

  She stepped down into the room, the only noise of her passage the light brushing of her hem against the stone floor.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, taking a seat at the far end.

  “We have to talk,” replied Whitman.

  “You compromise yourself by coming.”

  “I’m aware of the consequences,” replied Whitman. “But the situation is growing dire. We’re running out of time.”

  The Matron tapped her fingers against the wood table. “This is why you came to me?”

  “Matron, we are gambling with the lives of everyone in Erlkazar. We must turn over Princess Mariko, and we must do it now.”

  The Matron stood. “I am aware of the situation, Whitman. But I disagree with your assessment.”

  “Then you are blinded by your greed. We are risking too much. The stakes have gotten too high.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “You saw what happened to the soldiers the king sent out to negotiate with the Obsidian Ridge.”

  “I know what happened.”

  “Are you prepared to let that happen to all of us? Never mind the Elixir business. Are you willing to lose every one of your followers? Every one of your associates?
Every customer in the kingdom?”

  “There are risks with every venture,” replied the Matron. “But there are rewards too.”

  “What reward? What is all of this worth to us?”

  The Matron took a deep breath. “Freedom,” she replied. “The freedom to run our trade the way we want to, without the meddling of the monarchy.” She thought for a moment. “And for control. The right to control our own destinies and marketplace without interference.”

  “You risk all of this for a little bit of freedom? For the ability to run our business without the fear of reprisal?”

  “Don’t be so shortsighted.” The Matron slammed her fist against the table. “Some of the largest conflicts in the history of this world have been over freedom. What we’re talking about here—it’s not just about a little more breathing room, or even about greed. It’s about the future. It’s about establishing a foothold here in Erlkazar, where we cannot only run our businesses, but also decide what rules we live by. Us. Ourselves. Not some silver-spoon-fed monarch who did nothing more to earn the right to govern than be born.”

  The Matron came around the table. “But I tire of this argument. It seems I say the same thing every single day, and each time I do, my conviction for our course of action just grows stronger.” She stopped when she reached the opposite end. “Is there something useful you can tell me?”

  “There is one thing.” Whitman paused, pondering his next words.

  “Well?” she said. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  “Senator Divian has been bending the king’s ear about some sort of plan she has to fight the Obsidian Ridge.”

  The Matron perked up. “Tell me more.”

  “She wants the king to try to unite all of the kingdom’s spellcasters, a convocation of mages, in an effort to counter Arch Magus Xeries.”

  “I see.” The Matron rubbed her chin.

  “The king is rightfully nervous about Xeries’s magical power.”

  “Does he think the senator’s plan has merit?”

  “He’s not sure there are enough wizards in Erlkazar to match the power of the Obsidian Ridge, but considering the alternatives, it’s the best plan he feels he’s got at the moment.”

  “He’s right. There probably aren’t enough lawful spellcasters in Erlkazar.”

  “I’m sure that’s why he’s worried.”

  “This might prove useful,” she said. “Tell the king that I can give him everything he wants—his kingdom and his daughter, both safe and sound. But there will be a cost.” She rubbed her hands together as she turned and walked back toward her study. “Tell him to turn over the Claw—to me. In return, he will get his daughter back, and we will help him fight the Obsidian Ridge. An alliance between the underworld and the throne.” She smiled. “Tell him he’ll have all the mages he needs.”

  Whitman laughed. “You know I can’t just march back into the palace and give the king a message from you.”

  “Not looking like that you can’t.” The Matron shook her finger in the air.

  The door from the outside corridor screeched open, and the four guards stepped inside.

  “But when they’re finished with you, you’ll look the part.”

  Whitman got to his feet and started to back away from the guards. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  The Matron laughed. “Tell the king you were taken, beaten, and returned with a message. He’ll believe you.”

  Whitman skirted around the table, pulling out chairs and tossing them behind him in an effort to get away. But he was too slow, and the guards seized him easily. “Don’t touch me!” he shouted, as they lifted him onto the table. “You can’t do this to me!”

  The Matron stopped when she reached the open door to her study and looked down on Whitman, held as he was against the table.

  “And next time you feel the urge to come here, against my will, perhaps you will remember today and think twice.” With a wave of her hand, the huge metal door swung closed, latching quietly.

  Whitman struggled for a moment longer, then stopped, looking up at the ceiling, away from his tormentors. The first blow landed against his ribs, sending a flash of pain shooting up his side and across his body. The second, on his cheek, knocking loose a tooth and filling his mouth with blood.

  Having control of nothing else, Whitman decided to close his eyes. The damage was going to be done, whether he watched it or not.

  “And what of the evacuation plans?” King Korox leafed through a pile of reports and correspondence. “Any progress?”

  The messenger who had delivered them stood at attention. “Those who would leave their homes are on the way south to Five Spears Hold.”

  “Unguarded?” The king raised his voice. “The northern corner of Tanistan is crawling with goblins and bandits. Little good the move will do them if they lose their lives in the process.”

  A heavy gauntleted hand landed on the messenger’s shoulder. “A unit of the regular army was sent along as an escort,” said Captain Kaden, arriving in the Magistrates’ barracks. “They will arrive safely. The trouble is we have to be prepared to defend Klarsamryn. We can’t afford to spare more than one unit as escorts, so we’re only able to move a small group of people every few days.” He turned to the young messenger. “You may go. I’ll take it from here.”

  The messenger bowed, looking more than a little relieved. “Thank you, sir.” He exited the barracks.

  “At this rate it’ll take us all year to get everyone to safety,” said the king.

  “Unless we completely abandon the city in a full-scale evacuation, then I’m afraid you’re right.”

  The king shook his head. “If we did that, there would be no way to cover our tracks. Xeries could simply follow us. Then we’d be at his mercy and away from our homes. No, if it’s going to work, it has to be done quietly.” He stopped, thinking for a moment. “And what of the court mages? Have they discovered anything?”

  Kaden shook his head. “They’ve been working through the night, but I’m afraid there aren’t enough of them to counteract the powerful wards of the Obsidian Ridge. So far, they’ve found nothing, my lord. At least nothing more than Senator Divian was able to discern.”

  “That thing must have a weakness.” King Korox slapped his hand against the wooden post of a soldier’s bunk. “If only we can find it.”

  “The arcanists are poring through the royal libraries as we speak, looking for spells that may help up learn more. Perhaps they will turn up something.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed the king. “What other news?”

  “Not much. We’ve managed to contact a few older elves who corroborate Plathus’s story. They remember hearing about the Obsidian Ridge appearing over Calimshan. No one we’ve spoken to so far actually witnessed the floating citadel with their own eyes, and all are wary of speaking about it.”

  “Have you dispatched riders to Calimshan? We need to find someone who can tell us more about this menace.”

  Kaden nodded. “Yes, my lord. They left early this morning.”

  “Good. Good,” replied the king. There were so many thoughts running through his head. Not the least of which was Mariko. What could she be going through right now? The thought of her being tortured or mistreated was too much to bear, and he had to turn his mind to something else, just to keep himself from going completely mad.

  “My lord,” said Captain Kaden, interrupting the king’s thoughts. “I know you have many important things to do, but I think it would be prudent for you to spend a little time practicing with your sword.”

  This caught the king off guard. “There is too much to do, Kaden. I will practice when this is over.”

  Kaden bowed his head. “Forgive me, my lord, but you have not been on the battlefield in some time, and a little practice never hurts.”

  The king shook him off. “I will be fine, Kaden. I have practiced enough in my lifetime for the both of us.”

  “While I’m sure that is true, I really must insist,”
said Kaden. “We do not know what dangers lie ahead of us, and the Magistrates may not always be available to look after your safety.” He paused. “I may not always be available to look after your safety.”

  “That’s why I have Quinn.”

  “Not even Quinn could fight off an entire army of those beasts. Besides, I think you could use something to take your mind off of these matters—if only for a short while.”

  Korox raised his hand to silence Kaden, but the idea of practicing his martial arts did seem like a good way to help shake the haunting images from his head.

  “Very well,” he said. “Meet me in the fencing yard.”

  “Me, my lord?” asked Kaden. “But—”

  “Yes, you, Kaden. This was your idea. Now you get to see exactly how little practice I need.”

  Chapter fourteen

  Both hands on the hilt of his sword, Korox Morkann whirled on his attacker. His adversary dropped to the ground, rolling backward and out of the way, just barely avoiding the blade.

  The king stepped in, following up with a second, quick strike. His weapon struck Captain Kaden in the ribs, and the leader of the Magistrates—no longer encased in his heavy plate mail—fell to the ground.

  “Well done, my lord,” said Kaden, lying on his back, looking up at the king. “You are faster than I gave you credit for.”

  Korox nodded. “I told you I didn’t need any practice.”

  “I’m not convinced of that yet,” said Kaden. He got back to his feet and dusted himself off.

  The king lowered the linen-wrapped bastard sword he’d been using. “Next time, son, don’t pull any of your blows.”

  Kaden rubbed his ribs, wincing. “I don’t plan to, my lord.”

  “When you are ready, we’ll go again,” said Korox. He walked to the wall of the barracks and dropped his sword against the weapon rack. He picked up a skin of water and took a big swig, wiping the cool droplets off his lips with the back of his hand. “It’s a beautiful morning,” he said, looking up at the clear spring sky draped over the southern half of Llorbauth.