“Never have, and I hope to say, I never will,” replied the red-faced man, though his eyes were filled with wonder.
The towering walls of the winding, narrow canyon, which moments before seemed so close as to fall upon them, suddenly opened up into a mountain bowl nearly a mile wide. General Karpasic’s army was already organizing into its encampment, but it was the site on the north side of the narrow valley that had captured their eyes.
Set back into the bow of a branching box canyon was an enormous construction site. A succession of terraces carved from the rock itself gave the impression of looking at the bow of a boat from inside. The method was ingenious, for as each terrace was being excavated, its stone was removed in blocks for construction of additional walls, battlements, and structures. Each terrace provided another level of defense, for Aren could see there was only one road leading to the top: a set of switchbacks on the left-side terraces that were not only exposed to the defensive fire from the levels above, but to archery, ballista, and magical fire from the levels on the opposite wall of the box canyon. A channel cut down through the right-side terraces, where a succession of waterfalls cascaded between sluice gates at each level and emptied into the meadow below. Undoubtedly, those sluice gates could be raised as needed to flood the approaches of each level as Aren perceived a slant in each terrace from east to west. Each terrace ended both on the east and west corners of the canyon in magnificent sheer columns of solid rock, nearly two hundred feet high. The top of the westernmost column was still shrouded in scaffolding, but part of it had been removed on the east, exposing the shaped likeness of an Obsidian warrior. When completed, they would face each other, looking down on any who dared approach.
Atop the uppermost terrace, the carved, stone framework of the great gate rose to an arched peak. On its left, the shorter side, a magnificent curtain wall had been completed nearly twenty feet in height with crenellated battlements along its crest. To the gateway’s right, the much longer side of the wall, the scaffolding was still in place, as it was far from complete. Beyond the scaffolding stood the keep itself, its lower section carved directly out of the granite mountain face. The keep, too, was almost entirely obscured by scaffolding and its associated ramps, as the upper portions were being laid by stonemasons at an unprecedented height. Numerous other buildings, some completed and others still being built, were grouped around the base of the keep beyond the defensive wall.
Aren hoped he would have a chance to speak with the master mason. What he could see only hinted at the glorious magnificence the structure might achieve. He would love to know and appreciate what the final, intended form would be. Nothing on this scale had been attempted since the Fall, and he suddenly felt great pride at being part of making it happen.
Then, as he looked closer, he could see the movement along the scaffolding, the quarries at each level, and the ramps up to them. Dark figures that moved in streams like ants, only he knew that they were not ants. These were slaves, pressed into service as the Obsidians added the conquered regions of the Drachvald.
It is the price of progress, he thought to himself even as he frowned.
“Why do they call it Hilt?” Jester asked.
“I asked Syenna that just the other day,” Aren replied. “She told me that before the Fall, there was a great battle between the Gods of Man and the Avatars. It raged all across the face of the world. One of the Avatars saw that they could not win and so, rather than fight the gods, he plunged his blade into the world, desiring to kill the thing that the gods loved most; their creation. The edge of the sword tore through the fertile lands of the world, opening a great and terrible wound. It was here, then, that the gods in their wrath stopped the Avatar and cast him back into the abyss from which he came. But the damage had been done, and the gods, in their wisdom, left the hilt of the blade exposed until such time as some legendary hero from some other nonsense legend were to come along and heal the world. That’s what that southernmost peak is supposed to be: the hilt.”
“The gods, you say?” Jester said, gaping at the captain.
“Yes,” Aren replied, nodding seriously.
They both burst into laughter.
“Well, that’s what she said!” Aren grinned as he shook his head.
Jester closed one eye as he considered the peak. “It don’t look like no hilt to me.”
“It’s a legend, Jester.” Aren chuckled. “How much sense do you really expect it to make?”
“About as much sense as anything else in this army.” Jester sighed. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Captain, I don’t have much use for legends. They don’t put food on my table, they don’t cure my wife of the plague, and they don’t give me a minute’s more peace for myself.”
“Your wife,” Aren said, looking askance at the teamster. “She’s had the plague for about, oh, what now, eight months?”
“Aye, that she has,” Jester moaned, shaking his head.
“And you sent her extra coins from your compensation every month in order to help pay for an Obsidian healer?”
“Aye, Captain, every month.”
“Eight months … That seems like an awfully long time to have the plague, doesn’t it?”
“That it is, Captain”—Jester nodded with conviction—“and proud I am that she’s put up with it this long. And, say, speaking of companions, where is your creepy little friend?”
“Monk? I have sent him to watch over my possessions,” Aren replied. “Sometimes things go missing off the wagons.”
“Never!” The teamster blustered. “If their owners are too casual with their valuable and useful items, whose fault is that?”
Aren smiled and was about to say something when the teamster interrupted him again.
“Captain! Isn’t that your scout friend?”
Syenna was approaching quickly down the length of the caravan column, waving her hand. She drew up alongside Aren, her words coming in a rush and slightly out of breath. “Captain Bennis, I bring the compliments of General Karpasic…”
“And what does the general want this time?” Aren asked.
“What he wants is to reinstate you to the command staff,” the scout said quickly. “You are hereby relieved of your responsibilities to the caravan and are ordered to report at once to the general for reassignment.”
“Now that sounds official,” Aren replied, his eyes narrowing.
“I just bring the message, Captain,” Syenna said. “Follow me, and I’ll take you to him.”
“Very well,” Aren said, and nodded.
Syenna turned her horse back toward the base of the Hilt fortress.
“So, Captain,” Jester said with a gap-toothed grin, “is this a good thing?”
“I’ll let you know,” Aren said as he spurred his horse to follow Syenna.
* * *
The general’s command tent was located near the pool at the base of the fortress. This was unquestionably a beautiful spot, although the construction work of the fortress was ongoing, and the occasional crack of chisel against rock fell down upon it from above. Aren wondered if the general had hastily chosen the spot without regard to how it might affect his sleep.
Aren glanced down at himself. He was still wearing his makeshift armor and his dusty tunic. There was no help for it; while he knew that the general would disapprove of the captain’s appearance, his equipment was still loaded somewhere in the caravan wagons. Syenna was already gesturing him into the folds of the tent. With a sigh, he patted off as much of the dust as he quickly could and stepped into the tent.
“My dear Captain Bennis,” the general gushed from his elevated throne, his thick arms open wide in a welcoming gesture. “It has been too long since we have had the pleasure of your company!”
Aren almost took a step back. He had seen this in the general before. Karpasic could be cruel, vengeful, and duplicitous with others but afterward, when he found it would be to his benefit to be on good terms with them, he would simply treat them as though not
hing had ever been amiss between them. It was a strange, twisted trick of his mind. Somehow the evils he had done to others were twisted into evils they had done to him. Those, in turn, he could forgive magnanimously and thereby turn his cruelty into benevolence. He would then forgive himself and require those whom he had harmed to forget.
Aren knew that the general was at his most dangerous when he was appearing benevolent.
“Yes, sire,” Aren replied with a slight bow. “It has, indeed, been too long.”
Aren glanced around him. Most of the command staff was present, wearing their ubiquitous Obsidian armor. Halik was among them, doing his best to avoid eye contact. Syenna stood near the door, her arms folded in front of her.
“I see you have managed to retain your prize,” Karpasic said, his eyes falling to the hilt of Aren’s sword.
“A prize, sire, that remains in your service,” Aren said carefully.
“I confess it would be difficult to determine just in whose service you are in, given your present state of dress,” Karpasic responded, the edges of his smile taking the more vicious aspect.
“My deepest apologies, sire,” Aren said quickly with another slight bow. “The caravan wagons have not yet had the opportunity to unload the—”
“It is no matter, Captain,” Karpasic said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You have been relieved of your responsibility to the caravan. An opportunity has presented itself for you to demonstrate your service to the Obsidian Cause. What do you know of the Nightshade Pass?”
“I know we are in it,” Aren answered. “It is the only passage through the Blackblade Mountains between the Midmaer Plain and the lands of South Paladis.”
“Quite correct, Captain.” Karpasic nodded. “There are no known passages to the north even beyond Port Crucible—”
“And the Hellfire Rift to the south extends as far as the Storm Sea,” Aren interrupted. “That is why the Obsidian command is building this fortress; it controls the only invasion route between Midmaer and—”
“That may not be true,” Syenna said.
Aren glanced back at the scout as the general continued. “Syenna has informed us of a local legend—something called the Paths of the Dead—that may provide additional passages across the Hellfire Rift. Should such paths exist, they would represent a serious threat to our southern flank.”
“Not to mention, that their existence would largely invalidate the reasons for building this magnificent fortress,” Aren said, nodding.
“Not to mention it,” the general said, chuckling. “Your orders, Captain, are to accompany the scout southward into the Blackblade Mountains toward the Hellfire Rift, determine if these so-called Paths of the Dead exist, then return and report your findings to me.”
Aren considered this for a moment before speaking. “General, if these mythical Paths of the Dead do not exist, how am I supposed to determine that?”
“By the evidence, Captain,” Karpasic replied as though stating the obvious.
“The evidence of something that is not there?” Aren pressed.
“Then the lack of evidence.” The general glared at him. “Must I think for you as well, Captain?”
Aren drew in a slow breath. “No, sire. So, you’re asking me to go look for a path that we don’t believe exists and only return when I can prove that it doesn’t.”
“Precisely!” The general was genuinely pleased. “And while you’re about it, I would suggest you comport yourself as a proper Obsidian warrior … properly attired.”
Aren cleared his throat. “In proper armor, of course.”
“Of course.” The general smiled, reminding Aren of a snake. “And be grateful, Captain, for this opportunity to redeem yourself.”
“Yes, sire,” Aren said, though his mouth was dry as he spoke. “And may I thank you, sire, for the opportunity.”
“Well, don’t thank me.” The general shrugged. “This was entirely Syenna’s idea.”
CHAPTER
9
Awry
“Is it night?” Aren asked.
“I’m tired enough for it to be night.” Syenna sighed. “So it might as well be.”
Syenna and Aren stood on an outcropping of rock at the top of the cliff face that overlooked the Hellfire Rift. It was, perhaps, the most inhospitable terrain Aren had ever viewed. The jagged peaks thrust upward as sharp as finely honed knives on either side of what passed for a wide valley floor of the Hellfire Rift. The rift itself was a bleeding wound in the world that never healed. Shifting pools of lava sputtered and spit molten rock into slow-moving rivers that glowed with unspeakable heat and shifted down their courses only to cascade back into crevices once more. In the far distance, through the dreamlike shimmering of the heat waves rising from the molten floor and the haze of ash and smoke, Aren could see a shattered mountain. Great plumes of smoke and ash rose from its maw, feeding the perpetual storm that raged overhead, and blotting out the sun and sky as far as he could see. Lancing webs of lightning were being woven among those terrible clouds, constantly fed by the ash and the heat from below. Any forests or vegetation that might once have been here had long since burned away, leaving only the raw stone, sand, and occasional steamy, acidic rain.
It was raw and powerful, angry and forbidding.
And promising. Aren smiled to himself at the thought. If you could master such a place as this, who could possibly stand against you?
“What can you possibly be smiling about now?” Syenna stared at him in disbelief. She wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Especially in that ridiculous armor.”
Aren glanced down at himself. He was wearing the breast and backplate of his Obsidian armor, as well as the shoulder pieces and the greaves, but had left the rest of it with the packs on the horses. His trousers and boots he had deemed sufficient from the waist down, and the sleeves of his tunic took up the space between the gaps in his armor. He gave the scout a lopsided grin. “You heard the general: a warrior in the service of the Obsidian Cause must demonstrate his allegiance with said ridiculous armor at all times. Besides, Syenna, all this was entirely your idea as I recall, including wearing this armor.”
“I suspect you’re not wearing the armor only out of a desire to please General Karpasic,” Syenna observed.
“No,” Aren said. He turned to look back into the sand grotto of the small mountain bowl just down the ridge behind them. Their five escorting warriors were busy setting up tents for their small encampment. “I think it is more out of a desire to remind them that we serve the same master.”
“Our escort?” Syenna said with a raised eyebrow. “You do not trust them.”
“Do you honestly think I like wearing this armor in this heat?” Aren chuckled darkly. “No. I do not trust them.”
“Has your Avatar blade warned you about them?”
Aren shook his head with a slight grin. “I don’t need some ancient divining rod to tell me when a man won’t look me in the eye. I have never worked with these warriors before; they weren’t under my command, and I don’t recall seeing them in camp. They have come on this outing, but not out of loyalty to me. One never knows what might happen on an expedition such as this. Accidents happen all the time, and I would just as soon not be part of one.”
“You’re rather sure of yourself,” Syenna said as she stretched the ache out of her arms.
“Well, there are only five of them, and I’ve got you at my back, so I think the odds are slightly in our favor.” Aren smirked as he raised his chin. “And your talents as a scout are quite remarkable. I’d prefer to think that finding this most fortunate campsite was more than blind luck.”
Finding the sand hollow was, Aren reflected, a fortunate thing indeed. It had formed a natural collection bowl for the recent rains and allowed them to replenish their stocks of fresh water. The pack horses, already skittish in the hot and alien landscape, were taking in the waters of the small pond and seemed to be calmed by it.
But their esc
ort was another matter. In truth, Aren had considered several times drawing the Avatar blade out of his scabbard so that he might know something about the strangers. Each time he reached for its handle, he stayed his hand, telling himself it was only superstition. Yet, even that was only partially true; there was part of him that was simply loath to draw the blade, for perhaps, he really did not want to know. The scout had mentioned that the escort had been chosen by General Karpasic himself, and that it seemed odd to her that he should be involved in so trivial a matter.
“Well, I prefer to think of that as a compliment,” Syenna said, her eyes also fixed on the warriors securing the horses farther down the ridge. “And I can certainly understand your not wanting to trust our escort.”
“Haven’t you been telling me for days not to trust anyone out here?” Aren said, turning his gaze back over the desolate, fiery vista. “Why you thought I would want to get back into Karpasic’s good graces is beyond me.”
“And I suppose you’d rather go back to being commander of the caravan?” Syenna had become increasingly irritable since they had left Hilt. “If I hadn’t spoken to the general and convinced him that I needed you for this, you’d still be back at camp, feeding the oxen and trying to laugh at Jester’s jokes.”
“Hey, I’ll have you know that those oxen are pretty good listeners when they’re well fed,” the captain said, chuckling. “And what Jester’s jokes lack in originality, they more than make up for in sheer repetition.”
“How can you be this way?” The fires of the valley below were suddenly reflected in Syenna’s angry eyes.
“What way? What are you talking about?”
“How can you not care?” Syenna sputtered. “For three days we have pushed our way through these peaks and down along the edge of this accursed rift, and in all that time and all the words between us, you haven’t said a single thing that would make me believe that you believe in anything!”
“So I’m supposed to convince you that I believe in something?” Aren asked, then shook his head. “Why should you care whether I believe in anything or not?”
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