The sorcerer winced inwardly upon hearing his name. The voice calling it was entirely too familiar to him. Evard stepped quickly away from the entrance to Zinas Mound from which he had just emerged and strode purposefully toward the primary entrance into the Epitaph. Much of the Vaughban Guard, one of three elements making up the Northreach Army, were encamped around the base of the Epitaph. He had the faint hope he might lose himself of pursuit amid the confusion of the five thousand warriors still sorting themselves out after their long march from the Drachvald.
It was a hope quickly crushed.
“Master Evard!”
“Yes, apprentice … uh…” Evard knew the man’s name but wanted to at least pretend that he could forget it.
“Acolyte Tren,” the young sorcerer in training said, falling into rapid step next to Evard. “I’m serving under Mistress Norn.”
“How fortunate for Mistress Norn,” Evard replied dryly. He had encountered this particular parasite far too often. Out of the several hundred acolytes being trained in the depths beneath Desolis, he wondered if he were actually being plagued by this sycophant or if it just seemed that way because the mere sound of his voice was annoying to him. “Is there some purpose in your finding me or is this just a coincidence of the stars?”
Evard kept up his rapid pace, slipping between warriors and even a few tradesmen who were trying to sell the soldiers some of their goods. The hoarse shout of voices, punctuated with occasional bursts of loud laughter or swearing, made it difficult to hear, but it did not prevent the acolyte from speaking.
“My mistress asks if any further progress has been made toward the shaping of the ogres,” the acolyte begged. There was an implied accusation in the question that Evard had not done enough to move the experiment forward.
“You may remind your mistress that I am not counted among the Obsidian Central Circle,” Evard replied with as much patience as he could muster. “Indeed, you may remind her that I answer to the Central Circle only, and not to any of its individual members.”
“My mistress is most keenly aware of that, Craftmaster,” the acolyte continued as he kicked and stumbled for a moment over a helmet. The soldier began to swear loudly at them but, realizing who was passing, quickly choked back his words. “She wishes me again to express her regrets at the early passing of your mother and looks forward to the day when you may ascend to her place in the Central Circle.”
Evard held his tongue. His family had been at the center of the Obsidian Empire for four generations. Markus Dirae himself had written down the Prophecy of the Obsidian Eye at the edge of the Destiny Pool. He had ascended to the Central Circle and taken the place of his master upon his passing. His son, Doran, had followed to take his father’s place as Obsidian Eye. His daughter, Malam, came to the council upon Doran’s death and retained her own family name in marriage as a symbol of the dynasty she hoped to build. His mother’s death had been a most carefully orchestrated event and was as plausible in its appearance of accident as it was convenient for the ambitions of several remaining masters and mistresses of the Central Circle.
Their one problem, however, was Evard, the son of Malam. His inevitable ascension to the Central Circle threatened the place of any grand master or mistress who might ally themselves with him. At the same time, none of them wished to cross him. As a result, the seven-member council that was the Central Circle and from which the reigning Obsidian Eye was sanctioned and elevated to position of emperor or empress, was more than willing to utilize his talents and fortify their position of authority so long as it did not threaten them personally. Evard was a prince of the Obsidian Order, whose influence was unquestioned despite his having no clear authority from the Central Circle, nor any single member of that council to whom he answered.
It was an awkward position for Evard, and he had long been searching for a way of distinguishing himself in such a way that the Central Circle could no longer deny him his rightful place in the Circle—as soon as a vacancy could be arranged.
“Convey to your mistress my appreciation at her concern for my future,” Evard said. He noted with gratitude that they were approaching the gates of the Epitaph. The stone on either side of the entrance had been reworked into representations of dragon heads, each facing one another as stone guardians of the inner reaches of the Obsidians’ might and power. The acolyte, he believed, had no authority to pass these stone sentinels, and Evard would soon be rid of his questions. “Tell her also that the problems with reshaping the ogres continue. More slave subjects will be required for the experiments.”
“My mistress would be most grateful for any increased diligence you might exert in this matter,” the acolyte said quickly, also noting their approach to the gate. “And, as the craftmaster appears to be on urgent business, may I inquire on my mistress’s behalf how she might help you in your current efforts?”
“No, you may not,” Evard said with relief as he strode between the statues and into the darkness beyond.
CHAPTER
7
Chamber of Souls
Evard’s steps were familiar to him. They brought him past the Sentinels that lined the long hallway of the Maw, every step taking him farther beneath the Epitaph. They carried him into the Cavern of Night where the Old City’s layers were exposed around a funnel of stone piercing deep beneath the mountain. Obsidian Falls could be heard more than seen in the darkness, its waters roaring on his left as they tumbled down the northern wall. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, the only illumination coming from the lamps lining the Long Stair on the opposite side of the enormous cavity. It formed a great, descending arc back and forth along the eastern curve of the natural shaft plunging into the darkness beneath him. He could see movement down that staircase: another line of slaves being forced down the steps toward the laboratories of the Obsidian reshapers. Their flesh and bone would be twisted into forms and purposes more suited to the objectives of the Obsidian Cause: the will of the Central Circle and the vision of the Obsidian Eye.
If, Evard reflected, it worked.
And, as caveats go, it was a very big if. The truth was that Obsidian magic, despite its roots in the ancient Fall and generations of study, remained an imprecise and largely unpredictable craft. Its power unquestionably emanated from the shards that plunged violently from the sky at the time of the Fall, rending the Earth and transforming its features. Yet despite the presence of this power in the world for centuries, and the many decades in which the Obsidians had been studying and practicing to understand and harness its seemingly limitless capabilities, the power itself remained a mystery and its effects volatile and mercurial. Even when the Obsidian craft-sorcerers managed to stumble upon a magical configuration that gave reasonably consistent results—such as the shaping of elves—and even when those forms proved to be stable as living creatures, they had proven to be difficult to maintain under any kind of discipline. Most forms simply failed, ending either in misshapen creatures at best, or agonized monstrosities lashing out at their shapers in the throes of their suffering.
Despite all that, the Central Circle had been adamant in the continued research into shaping the living into a powerful army of creatures under their command. Evard wondered if it was because refugees and captives were easy to conquer but difficult to control. Transforming them into monstrous creatures that fought for you rather than against you, perhaps, seemed like solving two problems in a single stroke.
It’s just as well they don’t know what awaits them, Evard thought as he stood at the top of the Acolyte Stair, the nearer staircase that descended into the Cave of Night. The legend taught to the acolytes was that these steps followed the original path taken by Heb-Shar, the first Obsidian, when he first found the towering stone butte he named Epitaph and followed the siren call of magic through a crack in the stone wall and down into the darkness below. Evard glanced at the stair and, with a shrug, stepped up onto the stone railing and leaped out over the plunging shaft below.
He murmured into th
e darkness and felt the rushing wind around him slowing. Magic was precious, and the expenditure would cost him, but he was in a hurry and did not want to appear at his appointment as though he had rushed to arrive. The air around him got cooler, and the lamps of the grotto floor below him were drifting closer. His feet touched gently to the stone just as he murmured again to release the spell.
He looked down another stair, this one straight as it led to a series of landings. To the left of the staircase were the Cascades, the lower part of the underground Obsidian Falls, tumbling over rocks. Evard stepped easily down the stairs, passing a number of acolytes and several craftmasters along the way. At last he came to the courtyard at the foot of the stairs, and gazed out over the mirror-still surface of a lake.
This was Fate’s Lake, where Obsidian magic was first forged. Of course, the actual shard from which the magic emanated was now known to have fallen more than a day’s ride to the west of the Epitaph, but somehow its powers were carried by the channel of an underground river to this place. It was easy to imagine magic flowing from this hidden lake underground and, in fact, it was easier to channel the powers of magic here than from the surface. It was, he reflected, why he felt so free in using his powers to float down rather than walk the distance. Here, at least, he could recover quickly.
He would do so too, but first he had an appointment to keep that, he suspected, would be much to his purpose.
Evard turned and glanced up at the Obsidian Keep. It was set into the cavern wall, its polished black stone gleaming in the faint light of the lamps.
In this place, he thought, my ancestor stood by the Destiny Pool. In this place my forebearers built the foundations for an empire of sorcerers who would bring order to a world in chaos. This is mine by right. My destiny. My fate.
Beyond these final gates lay the heart of the Obsidian Empire.
“A dark heart.” Evard smiled to himself as he strode into the keep.
* * *
“Ah, my dear Evard.” The voice was nasal and high-pitched, echoing slightly in the large hall. It came from a tall, thin man in a crimson robe with golden filigree patterns embroidered throughout its cloth. “What has brought you to extend this invitation?”
The Chamber of Souls was a large rotunda with an upper gallery supported by a colonnade. Below, accessed by the single stair, was a stone floor at the edge of which sat seven high-backed thrones. The gallery had been used in previous decades for witnesses to the proceedings of the Central Council, but since the departure of Evard’s mother, the council had not seen the need for any further general witness to their proceedings.
At the top of the stairs stood Doran Valsond, a member of the Central Circle. It was rumored that he was incapable of growing hair on his head at all. His appearance was skull-like with sunken hollows beneath prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Those eyes, however, were of a most pale blue that was at once both startling and piercing.
“News, my lord of the cabal,” Evard replied. “News that has come to me that you will find most profitable.”
“Evard,” Valsond said, stepping softly down the narrow staircase that descended from the gallery into the round room. “How could I decline?”
“Indeed.” Evard nodded as the sorcerer came to stand before him. “You could not.”
“I see that the rest of the cabal was not included,” Valsond observed, glancing around at the empty chairs.
“I thought our conversations were best kept between us,” Evard replied.
“Are we meeting here, Master Sorcerer,” Valsond continued, “because the words spoken in this chamber remain in this chamber?”
“The Chamber of Souls?” Evard doubted with raised eyebrows. “The names of every Obsidian Eye who had served and every member of the Central Circle who has ever served and died in our cause—betrayed or otherwise—are inscribed in these walls. Surely, the very name of this place would suggest that they are taking an interest in the results of their handwork.”
“The past does not concern me,” Valsond said with a wave of his hand. “The dead are gone. My thoughts are on the future, as should yours be also, my friend.”
“I assure you, my lord, my thoughts are very much on the future,” Evard observed quietly. “As in I prefer to have one—a future, I mean.”
“A most sensible attitude,” Valsond agreed. He stepped over toward his chair, the second from the right of the one designated for the Obsidian Eye, and sat down on it. “You certainly are a man with a destiny.”
“Do you know that for a fact, my lord?” Evard asked coolly.
“If you are asking if I saw it in the Destiny Pool, you know that is not possible,” Valsond replied. “Only the Obsidian Eye may gaze into that artifact and be able to sort through all the pasts, presents, and futures that converge there. No, I’m speaking of the man Evard Dirae, whose rightful place on this cabal has been denied him by those members whose jealous hearts have prevented him from attaining the greatness his family name deserves.”
“Those other members, you mean,” Evard corrected.
“Yes.” Valsond sniffed. “Precisely.”
Evard nodded casually and stepped over to the chair opposite where Valsond was sitting. He ran his hand along the upper edge of the chair as he spoke. “You are wrong about one thing, my lord: the past should concern you very much.”
“I fail to see why.” The lord sorcerer chuckled.
“Because very often the past is the gateway to the future,” Evard countered. “Take the Avatars, for example…”
“Avatars?” Valsond laughed heartily. “That old ghost story? Really, Evard, you surprise me.”
“Yes, my lord, that old ghost story,” Evard continued. “It’s a lie, a fable, and a myth. But it is a story that is told and known in every city-state to which we have laid siege. It’s sung around every refugee campfire, and it’s whispered among the slaves.”
“So what of it?” Valsond leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands out before him. “Let them believe that their nonsense heroes will return to save them.”
“But what if we were those heroes?” Evard asked quietly.
“You’re not making sense.” Valsond sighed in a way that showed he was getting bored.
“I know a man in the service of General Karpasic,” Evard continued. “I have just gotten word that during the siege of Midras, he discovered an artifact that, by all indications, is a sword once used by an Avatar.”
Valsond gazed back at Evard for a moment with a questioning look. At last he responded. “You’re out of your mind … or he is … or both of you are.”
“I am not trying to tell you that this blade he found is actually from an Avatar.…”
“I should hope not!”
“But what does it matter, so long as our enemies think it is a relic from an Avatar?” Evard concluded. “If we, the Obsidian Empire, are the bearers of the Avatar’s might of old, who will stand against us?”
“But it is nonsense,” Valsond said slowly.
“And yet, what does it matter,” Evard said quietly, “so long as our enemies are foolish enough to believe it? A sword can slay a single soul … a symbol can cause thousands of souls to lie down before us.”
“And by us,” Valsond said, “you mean you and me?”
“We are the only ones in this room,” Evard said, slipping into the chair opposite Valsond. “Send me to Hilt, and I can retrieve this souvenir for our use.”
“Hilt?” Valsond snorted. “Why Hilt?”
“My friend is with General Karpasic’s force and is currently being resupplied,” Evard said, failing to mention that it had taken him considerable effort to arrange the army to be ordered there through other members of the cabal. “Hilt is where he and this sword will be waiting for me.”
CHAPTER
8
Treacherous Paths
Within a few days’ march, the army under General Karpasic’s command had reached Kiln and, with barely a moment’s hesitation, h
ad passed it. The village proved to be a miserable collection of buildings clustered around a central stockade. The self-styled warlord within seemed almost eager to surrender the place to the protection of the Obsidian Army after word had come that Midras had fallen to the south. Kiln, however, was beneath the notice of General Karpasic; the place would have cost him more to secure it than he could gain through plundering it. So, in sad wonderment, the mighty warlord of Kiln was left to watch the great army pass by his town.
Syenna returned from a scouting sortie ahead of the advance. She pointed out to Karpasic a less-traveled road that led to the northwest. It departed from the main trade routes that followed the Shimano River to the northeast in the direction of Port Crucible before intersecting with the east-west trade routes. Following the main roads meant that the army would have to take a circular route to its objective. Syenna assured him that the less-traveled road would more closely follow the roots of the Blackblade Mountains with an easy ford across the River Cascade, and thereby saving them nearly a week’s march in getting to Hilt.
The perpetual storm above the Blackblade range appeared on the horizon a full day before the peaks themselves were evident. Dark and roiling, the black clouds rose so high into the air that the tops seemed to flatten against the dome of the sky. They seemed like an angry, living thing with sporadic pulses of lightning beating somewhere deep within.
By the next day, the saw-toothed peaks of the Blackblade Mountains themselves were evident. The enormous, towering granite showed the same slanting thrust from north to south. This was violence on an unspeakable scale, where the rock had been torn up out of the ground into a dark and forbidding wall, five thousand feet above the prairie floor.
Syenna had been proven correct. The wide ford at the River Cascade was easily traversed, and within another day they had rejoined the western caravan route.
All they had to do was follow it west into the forbidden canyon of Hilt.
* * *
“Well, Jester, have you ever seen the like of it?” Aren grinned as he rode alongside the teamster on the wagon.
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