“Is that all?” the khan asked. “I show you fighting skill, and you give me carnival juggling? Gods, I have servants that can juggle better than that. Gunthar, grab some knives and show him.”
A young servant scurried forward holding a small armload of carving knives, which he soon had whirling above him. He moved in toward Arn until they faced each other, barely a pace apart, the younger man with several more knives in the air than the five that spun before Arn.
“Pitiful.” The khan roared with laughter, and his warriors roared with him, sloshing their ale in fits of mirth.
Alan felt his hand creep toward his ax as the blood thrummed in his temples. But a sharp look from his father kept him in his seat despite how he wanted to beat the insolent bastard of a khan into a bloody pulp.
Suddenly Arn moved, or at least it appeared that he moved. A rapid sequence of slapping sounds brought stunned silence as the assembled group suddenly realized that the servant boy no longer held any knives. These now resided in a tight pattern embedded in the nearest of the slowly turning pigs.
The brief hush was broken as one of the khan’s warriors sitting across from Alan rose to his feet. “A trick with a woman’s kitchen utensil. Can you not handle a real weapon?” he yelled, hefting an ax.
“Knives are my weapon of choice, not axes,” Arn said, continuing the blur of steel before him.
“As I thought.” The warrior hurled his ax at Arn. Somehow the weapon did not reach the assassin, turning as it came within the whirling circle of knives and coming to a halt with a thunk, embedding deeply in the oaken edge of the table directly in front of the khan.
“As I said,” said Arn, “I don’t like axes. Since it appears you don’t want to keep yours, I return it to your leader.”
Roaring, three more warriors rose and hurled their axes at Arn, who, shifting position slightly, sent them spinning to hack into the khan’s table adjacent to the first. In seconds, more axes were thrown from different sides of the room so that Arn spun in a tight circle, redirecting them to find their place in the line embedded in the table in front of the khan. And all the while, the whirling halo of knives spun in the air.
Three warriors now leapt from their places at the nearest table, hefting their battle-axes in a rush toward Arn. The first reached him, swinging his ax in an arc that swept down through the space where Arn had been only a second before, the weapon clanking loudly on the floor and sending stone chips spinning into the air. Somehow Arn had shifted out of the ax’s path effortlessly, while still juggling the knives. As seen through the bloodred vision of his escalating rage, Alan almost believed Arn wielded magic instead of his blades. The second and third warriors swung simultaneously, their results no better than that of the first. Again and again the three struck at Arn as he shifted subtly between strokes, moving with the grace of a jungle cat, the whirling cutlery never changing its rhythm.
As several more warriors rose to join the fray, a booming yell shook the hall. Alan stood, lifting the long table at which he sat high above his head before sending it crashing to the floor. Ripping his ax from its place at his side, he smashed it into the table’s legs, removing them cleanly and hacking the oak structure with such force that it split asunder.
“If it’s ax play you want,” Alan said, keeping his voice steady despite the way his heart hammered within his chest, “then I’m dealing. I’ll have your limbs, and then I’ll chop this castle down to form a gravestone fitting for such a pack of fools.”
Holding the ax out in front of him, Alan spun in a circle, feeling for all the world like he was part of an ancient tribal dance.
Amidst the commotion, John, Ty, Broderick, and the rangers raced to place themselves around Arn, moving into positions between him and the warriors of Val’Dep.
“So, my lords,” Arn said, still juggling the knives, “what say you? Has this been enough of a demonstration, or shall we move on to violence?”
The khan tilted his head back and bellowed rapturously, slowly rising to his feet and clapping his hands in a steady rhythm. “Young man, I salute you. A marvelously fine show of martial arts and plain foolhardiness by all concerned.”
A wave of his hand sent his warriors back to their seats, except for the ones whose table Alan had destroyed. These latter stood at attention.
Turning to Rafel, the khan extended his hand. “Truly a worthy band you lead, especially that lion of a son of yours. Shall we then feast together?”
Rafel raised his mug. “Indeed.”
“Clear a table for our guests. It seems theirs has come undone. Those of my men without seats shall eat cross-legged on the floor after the manner of our people when outdoors.”
“Khan, since my son destroyed your table, he will eat on the ground with your men,” said Rafel.
“So be it. Since the entertainment is at an end, let the feast commence.”
As if they had never been in motion, Arn’s knives were suddenly once again in their sheaths.
Lowering his ax, Alan forced his tensed muscles to relax. As he seated himself low beside the warrior who had been introduced as the khan’s son, he caught the harsh gaze his father directed his way, a look of disapproval that only stoked his anger. Alan had once again failed to exercise the self-discipline the high lord expected.
18
Kragan’s War Camp—Western Tal
YOR 414, Late Summer
At the center of his war camp, dozens of leagues northwest of the ruins of the Coldain estate, Kragan sat cross-legged on the black-on-red, spiral-patterned rug within his tent. He stared down at the fist-size scrying vase before him, the surface of the water within as smooth as glass. Jorthain, high priest of the protectors, possessed another of these crystalline orbs, each of which contained water that Kragan had drawn from a natural basin in the caverns beneath Lagoth. He had distributed these scrying vases among his key followers across the Endarian continent.
Kragan’s mind reached out for Boaa, the water elemental that he had used to fill the small globes. As he concentrated, the water within began to move, crawling up the sides of its container, forming a lens that matched what was happening inside the vase within Jorthain’s chambers. Inside the orb, a familiar room appeared. Jorthain stood near the balcony, his black robe hanging loosely from his frame as he conversed with another protector.
The sounds of their voices in that far-off room within the temple above the city of Mo’Lier vibrated the water within the scrying vase. Like a tuning fork, Kragan’s orb picked up the sounds, letting him hear the conversation between the two priests. Uninterested in the discussion, he interrupted.
“High Priest Jorthain,” Kragan said, his voice transmitted through the distant vase, “I would have a word with you.”
Jorthain turned to face his scrying vase, situated atop a black marble pedestal near the fireplace mantel, and dismissed the other protector with a wave of his gnarled hand. He stepped closer to peer into the orb. The high priest’s eyes widened at the sight that confronted him. That did not surprise Kragan. Jorthain had only seen him once since he had assumed Kaleal’s form. “My lord Kragan?”
Kragan paused to allow the other protector to exit the room, something the younger priest accomplished with alacrity after a glance at Jorthain’s scrying vase. When Jorthain was alone, Kragan continued. “Focus on my words, not my appearance.”
To Jorthain’s credit, he adapted quickly to Kragan’s intrusion. “What do you wish of me?”
“Do you know precisely where Rafel’s stronghold lies?”
Jorthain glanced at the eye suspended in a clear preservative fluid within the glass jar atop his mantel. The eye that had once resided in the face of one of Rafel’s rangers.
“I have placed a spy within Rafel’s inner circle. That spy continues to provide me with detailed information about the high lord’s location, fortifications, and army. In the Glacier Mountains, dozens of leagues to the southeast of Mo’Lier, Rafel has built a series of three forts that block the only en
trance into the valley he has claimed for his own.”
“Tell me of your preparations to destroy Rafel’s legion and kill his witch of a daughter,” said Kragan.
“Already, tens of thousands of vorgs and men have answered my summons,” said Jorthain. “Every day, the war camp south of Mo’Lier grows. The army will be ready to march by midautumn.”
Kragan’s temples throbbed. “That is too late. An early snowstorm could seal off the army’s path into the mountains.”
The wrinkles in Jorthain’s forehead grew even more pronounced. “It cannot be helped. The commanders must have time to instill enough fear into these new recruits that they can be counted on to follow orders. It will also take time to construct the siege engines that will allow the soldiers to breach or scale the fortress walls.”
“What are your protectors for? Are you afraid that Rafel’s daughter can fend off all of your priests?”
The high priest’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Many of my protectors must remain behind. I will not leave Mo’Lier undefended.”
“No. You will commit every bit of your available might to put an end to the threat that sits on your doorstep. And I expect you to direct this attack personally.”
“Long ago I pledged to support you. But I will not endanger my city nor the temple that sits atop it.”
Kragan did not speak or shout at the priest who now defied him. Instead, he focused his fury into the elemental plane of earth, seizing control of Dalg. Beneath him, the ground began to tremble and shake, a tremor that made its way into the scrying vase to be echoed in the crystal orb’s twin inside Mo’Lier. Above the mantel on Jorthain’s left, a large mirror jerked free of its mounting and crashed to the floor, spewing glass across the room. The old priest jumped away in fear.
As quickly as he had called it forth, Kragan released Dalg and let the tremors die.
The expression that had crept onto Jorthain’s face told Kragan all that he needed to know. The high priest would challenge him no more.
19
Mo’Lier
YOR 414, Late Summer
Eleven days after Rafel’s stay in Val’Dep, Arn sat astride Ax on a wooded ridge, looking through his far-glass, studying the expansive valley below. The meeting between the high lord and the khan on the day after the banquet had been productive. Although no formal treaty had been agreed upon, the khan had accepted Rafel’s offer for him to visit Areana’s Vale so that he could see its people and fortifications—a simple expression of trust and the second step in developing friendly relations between the two leaders.
Arn’s attention was drawn to a glint of sunlight from the mirror shard in the hand of a ranger atop a distant hill. He sent a quick flash of reply. Two days ago, the rangers had spotted a scouting party with a protector and nine vorgs almost a day’s ride from the vale. It was the opportunity Rafel had been waiting for.
With Arn watching from this hidden vantage point, the six rangers waited in ambush for the scouting party, while Carol provided a shield against magical attack. Rafel had ordered the rangers to allow at least two of the scouts to escape. And when they did, Arn would follow them back to their temple.
The two rangers in the valley below moved back into the wood line and began working their way toward the next hook in the valley. Beyond this, Arn could clearly see the scouting party making its way through the brush in the general direction of the vale, which lay almost a full day’s ride to the east.
Down in these low foothills, the temperature was considerably warmer than in the mountains to which Arn had grown accustomed. From this vantage, looking off to the north, Arn’s view commanded the valley for leagues, back toward the spot from which the protectors’ scouting party approached.
Closer at hand, the rangers moved into a shallow draw that provided excellent concealment and dismounted to set up their intended ambush. One ranger led the horses around to the opposite side of the hill. Two others blocked the path leading to the west, establishing positions behind a group of boulders. The remaining three knelt in protected outposts among rocky clefts higher on the hill, but within easy bowshot of the path along which the scouting party rode.
A lone vorg scout rode point dozens of paces in front of the main group. The rangers allowed this one to pass safely through the ambush. But as the main body moved into the kill zone, the rangers rose up and launched their arrows, sending four vorgs tumbling from their horses. The robed protector spread his arms, and a shimmering shield appeared around him and his horse, deflecting the arrows that rained upon him. Rafel’s men hidden higher on the hill rose and fired as the vorgs charged the two rangers who blocked the trail to their front.
Two more saddles emptied, leaving the protector and two of his vorg scouts alive. The protector gestured, and a bolt of flame flew from his fist, bursting harmlessly in the air a dozen paces in front of him. A new hail of arrows caused the priest to shift his focus to his own defense. Deciding that survival was at stake, the protector spun his horse and bolted back down the trail along which he had traveled, followed closely by the two vorgs. Rafel’s rangers let them go.
For a week Arn followed the small group as they made their way northwest through wide valleys and rolling hill country, the weather steadily becoming warmer with the drop in elevation. When the priest arose at dawn on the eighth day, he appeared to have acquired an increased sense of urgency. He and the vorg scouts soon had their horses saddled and turned north.
Their pace increased, and by the time the sun set, they had covered another ten leagues. Up ahead, Arn could see a lone hill rising in the center of the valley, a hill from which a spire rose silhouetted against the horizon. Although he couldn’t make out much detail in the fading light, he could see that hundreds of buildings draped the hill’s sides.
In the rapidly gathering gloom, campfires sputtered to life on the valley floor to the south of the hill. Judging that he had identified the objective of his unwitting guides, Arn found that he no longer needed them. He urged Ax to greater speed, moving around the three until he arrived at a position well forward of the group.
He staked Ax close to a stream and then moved stealthily back through the woods, seating himself at the base of an aging oak. The clatter of horses’ hooves on stone reached his ears, a sound accompanied by low voices speaking in guttural tones, perhaps twenty paces to his west.
Arn got to his feet and moved back through the trees, setting a course that intersected the protector’s path, letting the sounds guide him to his targets. Soon he saw them, riding in a file with the protector positioned between the two vorgs.
Arn’s hands flicked out, sending one dagger into the protector’s throat. His second dagger buried itself in the lead vorg’s left eye. Unable to see the other vorg, Arn darted forward among the rearing horses that raced past him as their dead riders tumbled from their backs to thud to the earth. The last vorg wheeled his horse away from the ambush, sinking cruel spurs deep into his mount’s sides.
The animal screamed and reared, then gathered itself on its haunches in an attempt to bring the pain of its master’s panic to an end with a burst of speed. Arn leapt across the horse’s back, Slaken sinking deep into the stomach of the vorg as he struggled to draw his sword.
A rush of foul-smelling bile and blood gushed into Arn’s face as he dragged the struggling vorg from his mount, the two striking the ground together, rolling into a thornbush. The dull black blade rose and fell several more times, and the vorg ceased his struggles.
Staggering under the weight, Arn dragged the vorg back out of the briars, then moved to search the other bodies. He worked swiftly, examining the corpses by feel in the darkness. The priest had a small pouch, a dagger, and little else of interest. The vorgs had nothing save their armor and weapons.
Arn stripped all three, discarding the clothing except for the priest’s robe. Having completed the rifling of their belongings, Arn made his way to the stream and lay down in the water face-first.
With clothes
dripping and boots sloshing, Arn scrambled up the bank, grabbed the bundle taken from the priest, and followed the stream bank back to the west until he reached Ax.
He swung up into the saddle and entered the stream, heading west at a walk, the slosh splash of Ax’s hooves in the water forming the only sound in the night. He kept to the stream for several hours before turning back to the north. When Arn finally stopped to make camp, he allowed sleep to claim him.
When he awoke, the early-morning darkness was just beginning to fade to gray. He stretched himself and swore softly. Stiff with cold from sleeping in damp garments, his left calf cramped. For a moment he lay still again, letting the sharp pain in his leg bring him to full consciousness. Then he sat up and rubbed the knotted muscle until it gradually relaxed.
The last two days of scant food had left his stomach growling, a condition that he set about remedying with dried, salted strips of venison. Tearing off a tough piece of jerky reminded him of Rafel’s terrier gnawing a strip of rawhide.
As the sun crested the mountains to the east, Arn sat atop Ax and raised his far-glass, looking due north toward Temple Hill, as he’d now come to think of the locale. In the early-morning light, the monastery was impressive in its austerity. The hill upon which it sat was conical, the temple dominating its crest.
The walls of the temple draped the upper third of the hillside and rose several stories, with windows spaced irregularly up its sides and a towering central spire. Thick walls at the base of the large hill surrounded the city. Within those walls, buildings were separated by broad streets and narrow alleys, but a green space separated the temple from the cluster that ringed it below.
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