by Mark Acres
“My lord,” the captain called, “is there nothing else we can do?”
Valdaimon waved his hand in the air with a gesture of dismissal. There was nothing any human could do for him.
He wanted revenge, but first Valdaimon decided to get some much-needed rest. A portion of his life force had been poured into the corpse of a guard and sent on an errand to the far eastern reaches of Heilesheim; the rest of his “soul,” as men would call it, had been stored in the special gem that still hung from a chain around his neck. His body reverted to dead dust as he lay in his special wooden box, filled with earth from his native soil.
It had been Bagsby, of course. Valdaimon knew that as soon as his rage had cooled enough to let his keen mind function. Now he sat in the chair, alone in the tower room, seeing and smelling the damage from Bagsby’s attack. From the bits and pieces of evidence available and what he had seen of the guards in the main hall of the keep below, he deduced the sequence of events that had led to his own sorry state.
Clearly Bagsby had distracted the guards in some way, causing the mass confusion. Then he and his group—at the end, Valdaimon had seen the elf woman and two other humans fleeing with Bagsby, even though they were much diminished in size by the elf’s spell—had somehow tricked one of the guards into breaking down Valdaimon’s locked door, the only entrance to the tower room.
The still-lingering smell of smoke and the thorough destruction wrought by the fires told Valdaimon what had happened next. The first guard through the door had triggered the magical trap that Valdaimon had set—an explosion of fire sufficient to destroy any force bursting through the door. But the wizard had anticipated that a thief might push someone else in first to set off any magical trap, which was why he had set a second trap—a lightning bolt trap—to incinerate a second group coming through the door. How that imp Bagsby was clever enough to escape the second trap Valdaimon wasn’t sure; yet somehow Bagsby had set off the trap while avoiding the destruction it entailed.
Then the little thief, with the help of that elf, had found the Golden Eggs of Parona, even though they were hidden by an invisibility spell. The elf had shrunk herself, the thief, and the eggs, and all had made their getaway down a rope out the tower window. But not before they had found a vial of holy water, blessed by the human god of love and fecundity, which had somehow survived both the fire and the lightning. They had poured it over Valdaimon’s resting body, and as a result, he had lost one eye, his right arm and hand, and the use of his mouth for intelligible speech. He had no hope of being able to cast spells without the ability to speak clearly, nor could he use any magic of real power without the ability to gesture. In addition, the explosions and fire had destroyed his roomful of magical components many of them quite rare: bits of mandrake root, the blood of a vampire long since destroyed, eyes, bladders, dried feces and dried brains from over three dozen rare creatures, and a collection of body parts from humans known to history for their… misbehaviors. Some of these were replaceable, but some were not. And that did not take into account all the priceless books, scrolls, and parchments the wizard had accumulated in this, his second-best study.
The worst of it, though, Valdaimon realized, was that now Bagsby had the Golden Eggs of Parona—with the secret of all-powerful fire from the sky hidden somehow within them—and he, Valdaimon, was momentarily powerless even to pursue this puny mortal who had so offended him!
Then, there were the political repercussions to consider. Valdaimon dreamed back over the past century—how, at the height of his powers as a wizard, he had maneuvered for decades to bring Heilesheim to its present pitch, of military and political development, and the forefathers of the present king, Ruprecht, to the Heilesheim throne. He remembered the countless plots and ploys, the endless string of minor spells and enchantments, the thousands of insults, impolite stares, sneers of disgust, and royal rebuffs he had suffered—all from mere mortals who were not worthy to be his slaves. He remembered his great goal—the conquest of the Holy Alliance through the power of Heilesheim, and then the unleashing of the unbelievable power of fire from the sky when he had solved the secret of the Golden Eggs. At last he would dominate the entire earth, and there would be no power of human, elf, or god that could stand in his way.
But now all this was cast in doubt. He could not even appear in the presence of the king in his current state. The young egomaniac would sneer, laugh, and despise him—and the Baron Culdus, general in chief of the Heilesheim armies, would take Valdaimon’s place as the decadent king’s most trusted adviser.
Powerless! He, Valdaimon, powerless! The old wizard’s face contorted again with the pangs of unbearable rage.
A fluttering of wings sounded from the narrow window that peered out from the tower room. Valdaimon did not turn around to see what caused the sound; he knew. He closed his one eye and let his mind wander—only a short distance—over to the window. There, his mental essence entered and merged with that of the fat, filthy crow whose landing was the source of the sound. Through the eyes of this, his familiar, he saw his own decrepit body slumped in the chair—deformed, defiled, and powerless.
Of course the crow had returned as soon as its master was wounded. The magical force that had bound it to the wizard remained intact, and the spell remained in force, even though the wizard could cast no new spells. Now, Valdaimon’s mind blended with that of the cunning creature, recovering its memories. It had followed and followed and followed Bagsby, right until the little thief had taken his booty and headed south. No doubt he would make for the River Rigel, Valdaimon realized, and the cover of the forests on its banks.
The lowly crow dared to think a thought.
The master, it thought, in the vague form in which it could think, tilting its head to one side to study more carefully the unfamiliar cast of the familiar body of its lifelong owner, feeder, order giver, and veritable god.
A god! The thought struck Valdaimon like a thunderclap.
As fast as thought, Valdaimon forced his mind back into his hapless body. Of course, the obvious solution to his dilemma was to possess another body with his own life force and then, with his powers of speech and gesture restored, perform magic as he pleased. But the higher magic would still be denied him. The correct pronunciation of the words, the subtleties of the hand movements, the balance of tensions throughout the body required for the casting of truly great spells, required a lifetime—-or several—of training. No mere borrowed body, no matter how tightly controlled, would be capable of the tasks that would confront Valdaimon in the weeks to come. Only his own body would truly do. But a god could heal that body.
Valdaimon shuddered. As a wizard he had, even in mortal life, eschewed religion; and in his present undead form, he was considered an abomination by almost all the gods of the Heilesheim pantheon. And certainly no god of the Holy Alliance would assist him.
But there was one god who was not so... particular. There was one god who reveled in the cracking of skulls, the shedding of blood, the destruction of life, and the desolation of entire countries—a god who would tolerate any evil so long as his own power was enhanced, a god to whom even the undead could turn, so long as they had some bargaining chips: Wojan, the Heilesheim god of war. He would strike a bargain with the god of war and get his body back. And then he would engulf the damnable Bagsby and his elf—and the whole mortal world—in fire from the heavens, and become himself an immortal king!
“Caaaannn uh goourd,” the old wizard shouted. “Caaann uh goord!”
There was a clank of metal footsteps on the cold stone steps up to the tower room, and in due time the panting captain of the guard presented himself, carefully averting his eyes from the unbearable sight of this disgusting creature who had the king’s favor. Through a series of violent gestures and unintelligible exclamations, Valdaimon made the lowly human understand that he should prepare the guard troop to move out. Valdaimon was returning to Hamblen, to the p
alace of the king.
Ruprecht of Heilesheim gazed down from the window of the great council chamber in the palace of the former king of Argolia. He watched with amusement the curls of black smoke, seeking the sky above the burning city. The pitiful squeals of civilians, many being beaten or worse by his rampaging army, brought a smile to his thin lips. The booty of Clairton had been given to his army as reward for its great victory—a move calculated to improve morale and inspire love for the man who would soon be the ruler of the entire known world. Still smiling, the thin, pale wastrel turned from the window and shook his long, greasy black locks.
“You see, my dears,” he said to the assembled female prisoners, “your fate could be much worse than providing entertainment for a man who is nearly a god.”
The women had been carefully selected for His Majesty’s pleasure from among the fairest of the ruined city by loyal officers who, knowing no favors would come from their general-in-chief, were only too glad to court them from their decadent king. In response to his words, the women nodded fearfully.
“Take them to be prepared for us,” Ruprecht snapped to the captain of the guard, who kept a wary eye on the chained Clairton wenches. It was easy, the guard knew, for a petticoat to hide a dagger. “We will have a great feast tonight, thanks to the stores of Clairton, and these will attend our pleasure.”
The guard nodded, turned, and with barked order ushered the prisoners from the king’s presence.
“And send for Culdus,” the young king called out, flopping over the arms of the great chair upon which the king of Clairton had once sat while dispensing his wisdom and justice.
“No need,” the deep voice of Baron Manfred Culdus thundered from the doorway. “I am here. Sire, a word with you....”
“Indeed, Culdus, I would have a word with you,” the king snarled, his lips twisting into a sneer. “I gave the booty of this city to the army....”
“Which I begged Your Majesty not to do,” Culdus snapped back. “This behavior undermines discipline, which has been essential to the success we have so far enjoyed.” The stocky, grizzled warrior removed his great helm, tucked it beneath his left shoulder, cradled it in one arm, and bowed from the waist. “I, of course, intend no disrespect,” he added quickly, seeing the familiar gleam of cruelty rising in the king’ s eyes.
“Then do not offer what you do not intend,” Ruprecht screeched. “When I offered booty, I did not give leave for the destruction of this city. It may yet be a source of interest and pleasure for me. You will stop this destruction.”
“Nothing, Your Majesty, would bring me greater pleasure.”
“Except, perhaps,” Ruprecht teased, “the conquest of the Duchies, and the occupation of this land up to the borders of Parona? And the investment of the borders of the Elven Preserve?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. I had come to report that once we are finished with our… duties here in Clairton, the army should move at once to consolidate the Duchies. And Valdaimon must proceed with his promise to establish civil administration in all these lands. With your permission...”
“Granted, granted,” Ruprecht said with a casual wave of his hand.
“I thank you, Sire,” the general-in-chief replied. The old warrior turned and strode quickly from the room. For once, an interview with the king had gone better than expected—probably because Valdaimon wasn’t around. Where the old wizard might be only dimly worried the general. He had fresh conquests, and growing difficulties of morale and supply, to occupy his mind.
The Temple of Wojan was the largest of the temples of Hamblen. Its smooth, gleaming, white marble walls soared over ninety feet, curving slightly to give the overall structure—some three hundred feet square—the appearance of a huge marble box that was bulging at the sides, ready to explode. The flat roof was crowned with a massive marble sculpture of the god himself that reared another forty feet toward the heavens. The construction had taken three hundred years; the sculpture had occupied the talents of two generations of the kingdom’s finest artists.
Wojan appeared in battle array, his muscular legs protected by grieves, his loins girt about with a simple leather skirt, and his rippling chest protected by a small, round shield made of wood and banded with metal. But his right arm was raised high, the muscles so taut that even the carved veins could be seen from street level, the right hand grasping the deadly battle hammer with which he was about to strike the imaginary enemy to his front. The god’s face was a portrait of barbarian rage. His large eyes glared out from squinted lids, his wide nose was capped by flared nostrils, and his lips were drawn back in contortions of anger to reveal the broad, divine teeth. The god’s hair, a thick mane longer than shoulder length, flowed backward, blown by some invisible wind. Clutching the enraged divinity’s sandaled feet, two sharp-toothed, grinning demons gazed out with glee upon the anticipated destruction of the god’s foe.
This imposing structure, which dwarfed mere men to nothingness, sat at one end of the largest square in the capital, the Square of the Gods—a huge open plaza surrounded by the principal houses of worship of all the deities of Heilesheim. The sole approach to this vast, holy area was the Royal Road, which linked the square to the royal residence and fortress, slightly over a mile distant. The entirety of this paved way was lined with sculptures of the kings of Heilesheim, extending back to the kings of legend who hand-forged the realm from the internecine squabbles of numerous barbarian tribes whose very names were now forgotten save in the appellations of these ancient kings.
The front of Wojan’s temple faced across the square to the Royal Road; its outer courtyard, which was all the average worshiper ever saw, occupied one full side of the square. From the courtyard, a series of thirty low steps rose gradually to the great flat doors, themselves twenty feel high, which were the only entrance to the massive structure. The doors themselves were of polished, dark hard-wood, of a type not known in the land but imported from the forests of the far north. The wood had been transported by sea to the great port of Hamblen, where its arrival had been the occasion for a municipal holy day. The wood was later overlaid with gold leaf, on which panels of friezes depicted scenes of Heilesheim’s battle glories from the days of old—when the kingdom was young, and many lands that now considered themselves loyal portions of the heartland were recent conquests.
The gold did not glitter in the moonless sky of the early summer night—not this night, as Sigurt stood alone in the empty square, a tiny, solitary figure gazing upward at the mass of stone erected to the glory of destruction. Normally, the sight of the temple was enough to absorb Sigurt’s spirit; his very being would be caught up in the contemplation of something so much greater than himself that any personal worries were simply no longer possible. But that particular calming magic did not work for Sigurt tonight.
The priest lowered his gaze to the worn flagstones of the great courtyard. His eye caught the wide, thick, fancy strip of gold brocade that ran along the hem of his holiest white robe—a robe of heavy linen laid over with pure silk. A simple belt of similar material was tied in a single knot at his waist, while his chest was ornamented with the great, broad, purple-and-gold surplice studded with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, which could be worn only on high holy occasions or at the command of the god himself. Beneath these ceremonial vestments, Sigurt wore the traditional garb of the god: sandals, greaves, and a short leather skirt. His own hair was short, but a wig created a black, flowing mane for the high priest. On the left arm of the white robe, the figure of a wooden shield was cleverly created by a combination of embroidery and tiny gemstones, and in his hands the high priest carried a ceremonial silver war hammer—the symbol of the divine weapon with which Wojan had conquered the Olden Ones and brought glory, order, and the mission of empire to the great kingdom of Heilesheim.
Thus adorned, the high priest was said to be the visible presence of the god himself. If that were true, Sigurt thought, then great
Wojan himself must be uneasy tonight, for I surely do not trust the course the god has laid out before me.
Of all the citizens of Heilesheim, only the temple priests were aware that tonight their high priest stood in the vast, empty square in holiest garb, prepared to perform a series of rituals granted by the god so seldom that two generations had been born and passed away since the last such ceremony was held. That ceremony, a ceremony of healing for the then-king Wilhelm the Great, had been a scene of great public ritual and the occasion for a three-day holiday when the king’s health was recovered. Tonight’s ceremony was a secret, a secret that could be divulged only at the risk of one’s life.
Sigurt had reluctantly made the necessary preparations. The entire interior of the temple, down to the last cell occupied by the lowliest acolyte, had been ceremonially cleansed. Secret offerings of vast treasures in gold, silver, jewelry, weapons, and gems had been anonymously donated to the temples of all the gods whose rank was sufficient to earn them a place of worship on the great square—for the power to heal was not one of Wojan’s usual powers, and the war god was forced to call upon his siblings for the divine words that could restore health and wholesomeness to flesh.
Then there had come the dreadful sacrifices. Beasts of every type and description—from the lowliest creeping thing to a great ape reared from birth in the bowels of the great temple for just such an occasion—had been taken in the dark of night to the small, modest temple of the war god’s most powerful brother, Raggenolm, the god of the dead. There they were sacrificed, one by one, a gift from Wojan to his proud brother’s realm. This was not part of the usual healing ceremony: these special sacrifices were intended to secure Raggenolm’s cooperation in transmuting the healing magic of the other gods so that it could apply to the flesh of one who was not alive—and not entirely dead. At the climax of these ceremonies had been the human sacrifices, warrior prisoners taken from Argolia: a dozen Argolian knights. These had required the participation of Sigurt himself, making him the only high priest of Wojan to personally slay a warrior since the worship of the god had begun in the mists of the past.