“Nothing,” Katalas shook his head, “but that’s not what’s bothering me. There was something else, some news Inoun learned from the mages.”
“Which was?”
“Anag’e told her the wards are still there. They haven’t been broken, but they’re being deceived.”
“Deceived? How can that happen?”
“The mages aren’t sure, but they think it has something to do with the unique nature of the forest’s wards. They can feel active attacks on the mountain wards, but never felt the slightest brush on the forest.”
Duras shook his head as if clearing sleep away. “I’m not following, you know how dwarves get lost in magic talk.”
“Well, I’m no mage either, but from what I understand the forest wards are not natural like the mountain wards. They’re supernatural in origin.”
“Really? I didn’t know.”
“Most don’t,” Katalas shrugged. “It’s not a secret, but it happened so long ago it’s not common knowledge. The mages know, of course, as well as Inoun and the other lore masters.”
“I’m assuming it was created by an Azur then?”
Katalas nodded. “Giyl.”
“So, you’re saying that the power necessary to confuse an Azur’s work clearly points to some kind of direct intervention.”
“It means one of the Huwm is involved. The mages think the forest is being tricked into seeing yrch as elves.”
Duras whistled in astonishment. “Cunning. But then why didn’t the yrch just invade en masse from the beginning?”
“My guess is they were unwilling to risk greater numbers until they were sure the deception was working,” Katalas said. “It’s likely they needed time to gather the tribes too.”
“And that alone settles it,” Duras shuddered. “Who but one of the Huwm could organize the yrch and keep them in check? They’re too dim to strategize on their own.”
Katalas could only nod his agreement.
The legions of yrch below was all the evidence they needed. Both of them felt the slow terror creeping up their back. A disorganized assault by yrch could be survived, even likely repelled. An invasion of yrch organized, guided, and empowered by a Huwm meant almost certain annihilation.
The night stretched out in silence as they waited for news from their scouts. The moon set beyond the forest and the fires below dominated the deeper hours of darkness. The sounds coming from the invaders began to ebb as their guttural conversations gave way to sleep.
“We’ve still not heard from our embassy in Parthiy,” Duras spoke into the darkness. “Whatever’s going on in Ulquiy is likely connected to events here. It can’t be coincidence.”
“No, it’s not coincidental,” Katalas agreed. “Everything we’re witnessing is tied together. The dragons at the Dreadcrest, this army at our gates, the political rumblings in Parthiy—they’re all parts of some greater scheme. I wish we knew what was happening in the wider world.”
“We await the Bearers,” Duras said. “They’ll bring word.”
“I doubt it’s news we want to hear, my friend.”
Duras shrugged. “I’d rather hear it than be ignorant.”
The first pair of scouts emerged from the south, and soon after their northbound kin as well. Katalas and Duras listened to their reports with growing frowns.
The mountain wards held strong and no yrch were found above the tree line, but there was no end to the beast’s encampments. Though they had journeyed for miles, running as swift as they might, they found no lessening of the enemy’s strength. In truth, they witnessed a continuing flood.
Barring a miracle, the Celadine would fall.
20
The Gates
Valas fumed as he watched what little control Chashak had left to him slip from his grasp. Silence was the only thing keeping him alive because he knew another outburst would see his head leave his shoulders. The Dread Lord made it clear he wanted Valas to be his token king, but could easily find a replacement if the old elf became an inconvenience.
To make matters worse, he was no longer dealing directly with Chaskak, but with his bloodthirsty consort Sane. He’d left the psychotic fiend to oversee matters in his absence.
Valas hated her with all his being and made no attempt to mask his feelings. Hatred was the only virtue Sane felt worth acknowledging in lesser beings, otherwise she saw them as little more than fodder for her schemes. The very spirit of hatred, she was worshipped by evil creatures the world over. Their heart’s desire was to see the world run red with the blood of their enemies. They considered bloodshed a sacrament to their genocidal goddess.
The only consolation in dealing with Sane was that, while insane, she was brutally honest. She was not one like Chashak who would craft myriad layers of deception, so there was no subtext in her words to unravel. She was capable of lying, but preferred intimidation over stealth and intrigue.
Valas stood behind the she-devil atop the balustraded terrace of her temple in his realm’s only aboveground city. Formed long ago, The Gates served as the public entrance to the mountain stronghold. It was here, and here alone, that political and commercial interaction with other realms took place, all under the watchful eye of Valas and his minions. Now he was nothing more than another subject of the realm, himself under the vigilant scrutiny of a higher power.
The death goddess leaned her seductive form over the banister, surveying the gathering army below. Valas had seen the woman numerous times in his long life, and every time she looked the same. Strikingly beautiful but hard faced and deadly, arrayed in spiked helm and bloodstained armor, an ever-present sword in her hands. Today, he noticed a significant difference.
The blade in her hand was akin to the one brandished by the Dread Lord only days before. A nefarious looking saber, the thing seemed to eat light. Even when Sane moved into the brightest sunlight the sword remained covered in a black pall. Valas could only make out the basic shape. He might have moved closer to investigate, but he felt repelled by the sword as if some mechanism of self-preservation compelled him to stay out of easy reach.
Valas took another nervous step away as he turned his attention to the city below. Ranks of Tuwr dwarves in slate colored armor had answered Sane’s call to arms. His own kindred formed up in brigades across the square, most of them swaying under the weight of the goddess’s scrutiny. While the dwarves followed out of blind devotion, the elves obeyed out of fear. She would slaughter them to a man if they refused to submit.
Sane’s presence had shifted the delicate balance in Valas’s realm. Before, Valas and his elves had held the upper hand in their relationship with the dwarves. Their magic was stronger, their lives longer, and the knowledge that Chashak was the power behind the throne kept rebellion nonexistent. But the elves were outnumbered five to one—outnumbered by zealots who would exterminate their allies with but a word from their dark goddess.
Valas feared he witnessed the beginning of the end of his realm. Even if his people won the coming war, what would be left to rule?
More than half of his elves were already marching south. Because they were to bypass Tibur, Valas doubted they would meet any resistance until they came to the Greenholm. There they would meet the scattered human clans, but those would be a minor annoyance, mosquitos to be swatted and left in bloody smears across the plains. Only the cities near Lake Pelagos had any hope of standing against the horde sweeping down on them, and even they could not hold out forever. A protracted siege gave advantage to the army outside the walls, especially an army of overwhelming force.
The battalions assembling below were to be sent east to the Choros Mountains to bolster the forces there. Since the days of the Kith War when Valas had found and slaughtered the elves who fled his rule, his empire had retained an iron-fisted presence in the region. From there his forces would spread north into the lands of the Northmen and south into the dwarven lands of the Surat Desert.
Valas felt certain both groups would sell themselves into Chashak�
��s service. The Northmen, when not pillaging one another, often served as mercenaries in foreign armies. Their society relied on whatever good they could plunder from others or gain in the pay of another man’s army. As for the dwarves of the southern desert, they were by and large descendants of exiles, thieves and murderers. A mix of every breed of dwarf, they held allegiance to no one and swore fealty to the highest bidder.
Once the four corners of the continent were secure, Valas would turn his attention toward the massive city-state of Tibur. The Tiburians had developed a reputation for brilliant strategy and tactics over the years, and posed the only real threat to ultimate victory. They were allies of the humans living around Lake Pelagos, and it was a race to see if Valas’s forces could besiege the lake cities before the Tiburian army had a chance to muster. Valas felt sure his army would win the race.
Thereafter, Tibur would open its gates to the refugees. While swelling her numbers they would also tax her resources. Any advantage they gained by combining the lake area blacksmiths with their military genius might be outweighed by the need to protect and care for those seeking asylum. Valas had little worry his army would ultimately prevail.
In truth, the old king’s greatest worry was what the Dark Lord had planned once his dominion of the continent was secured. He knew work was already underway to construct a massive invasion fleet for a mass landing on Nesos. Though Chashak promised the magical hedge protecting the island would fall, Valas feared the Deceiver would do little more than attract Onúl’s direct attention, bringing about a swift and sure end.
A cold burst of air and the fleshy sound of flapping wings shook him out of his analysis. He looked up to see chalky form of Dar descending from the frozen heights above. Smaller than most of her kind, she was a compact predator known for her single-minded ferocity. Valas shuddered as he saw fresh blood dripping from her toothy maw, knowing she had a taste for civilized flesh.
The dragon landed on the temple’s apex and whispered to the goddess in a dissonant voice. “Mistress, there’s a problem.”
Sane turned to regard the albino dragon, her face hovering somewhere between annoyance and rage. “This had better be worth disturbing my good mood, Dar.”
“I have doubts the news will improve your mood, but I have no doubt you need to hear it. The cities around Lake Pelagos have learned your army is on the way. They’ve gathered their citizens and shut their gates.”
Sane shrugged and turned away. “What else would a city do when they learn an army is on the way to destroy them? All the better I say, it will prolong the pain and suffering.”
“Dread Lady,” Valas dared to interrupt, “Lord Chashak’s wishes were for a swift end. He doesn’t want anyone to escape downriver into the safety of Nesos.”
The self-styled goddess rounded on him, a sneer of contempt written on her face. She raised her black sword as if to strike him down, but held back knowing Lord Chashak wouldn’t be pleased if she killed his favorite little king.
She also knew the little elf was right. The Deceiver demanded victory, and he wanted it soon. Victory meant leaving no survivors.
Dar looked down at the elf, baring her teeth in a demented version of a smile. She would gladly bite the king’s head off, but she appreciated the little mammal’s bravery to speak out of turn. “There’s wisdom in the elf’s words, Mistress. I saw the lake cities preparing every ship, boat, and raft they can find for an escape downriver. It’s likely many will flee rather than stand their ground against your army.”
Sane flipped a hand in the air. “I have you to take care of that problem. Go and destroy their little toy boats before they can put them to use. They’ve done us a favor by gathering them all together.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” Dar bowed her head like a scolded dog, “but that’s impossible.”
“Impossible?” Sane’s screech drew the attention of the soldiers below, making them cower. “You dare disobey me, pet?”
“Lady, one of my siblings calls that area home. The lake cities are under his protection. I have no doubts I could defeat him in battle, but he might also wound me unto death, making me of little use to you thereafter. His presence is why I’ve returned early.”
“Unacceptable,” Sane struck the stone railing with her sword. It bit deep with a spark and a piece of stone was shorn clean to fall on unsuspecting heads below. She stepped toward Valas and he tried to shrink away, but the ebony sword jutting from her hand kept him locked in place. “Assemble your best assassins, little king. Have them meet me in the courtyard below in one hour. I’ll take care of this mess myself.”
Valas dropped to one knee, happy to avert his gaze. “As you command, Dread Lady.”
He felt her gauntleted hand grab his shoulder. She squeezed and he cried out in pain until the keen edge of her sword pricked his arm and its cold blade stole all feeling from his body.
“You will be coming as well, little king. Prepare to lead the army of the Dark Lord to victory.”
21
The Bastion
A late afternoon sun beat down on the walls of the Bastion as Zalas led the company to the southern gates. While primarily a military installation, a large community had grown up around the Bastion to fill the wide, flat valley. Broad streets crisscrossed the city in slap-dash fashion, full of people going about their daily routine. The scent of war was in the air, and business was good.
The city was nothing like Tenna expected. Until they crested the hills surrounding the valley, nothing but the gigantic pyramid of the Bastion itself had been visible. The structure itself seemed to rise up and scrape at the sky. But once over the final ridge, they found the valley full of low rectangular houses. Homes, businesses, and warehouses saturated the plain, surrounding the fortress on every side. By design, the streets created a baffling maze of avenues, thoroughfares, and dead ends. An invading army would be forced into urban combat and made to creep from building to building before coming close to the mammoth ziggurat in the center.
A placid river cut through the valley, flowing out of the eastern hills to touch its southern bank against the north wall of the fortress. Boats moved up and down the waterway, some operated by fishermen, others by merchants and traders. Imperial patrol boats kept a watchful eye on every movement.
The Bastion itself was surrounded by a crenelated wall punctuated every two hundred feet by a three-story tower. Soldiers trod the broad battlements and watchmen manned positions near catapults atop every tower. Lumbering beyond was the largest creation built by human hands. The pyramid’s base was over three hundred feet square and rose in seven stages, each more than two stories tall. Massive ballistae sat on the corners of the second and fourth stages. Narrow arrow slits had been carved into the stone of every other level. The top-most level formed a perfect cube.
Zalas led them through the city, advising them not to gawk and draw the attention of the soldiers who patrolled the streets in twos and threes. Tenna felt the tension of high alert, knowing the soldiers kept an eye out for the slightest abnormality from the daily routine. Though she knew her father’s warning had been mostly for her benefit, the foot traffic was so thick she had to keep her eyes on the company to keep from getting lost. There was no time to ogle the sights.
Her father led them down a side street lined with inns, taverns, and more than one bawdy house. The foot traffic grew more dense as the heat of mid-afternoon drove workers to break from their labors and head for cooler confines and the refreshments they offered. Even in the press Tenna could see steel tipped pikes jutting over the crowd, each one marking the passage of a soldier on patrol.
Tenna thought more than one group of soldiers took special notice of the company, marking them as strangers to the city. But then she realized it wasn’t the group they marked, but rather Onahim and Cedsul. It was then she realized what had been raising the hackles. It wasn’t the soldiers watching their every move, it wasn’t the high alert, it was the absence of non-humans. Maehdras was a human empire, but pe
ople of all the free races had always been welcome. She wasn’t sure this held true at the Bastion.
They came to an inn called the The Eagle, boasting a poorly painted sign with a bird that looked more like a vulture than any regal bird of prey. Zalas pulled them up short outside the door and looked at his daughter.
“Stay out here with Onahim and Cedsul,” he said as he took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll arrange things with my contact.”
Tenna gave her father a nervous nod as he turned to lead the mage inside. She felt exposed and watched the soldiers with wary caution as they tromped down the avenue. Some of them looked familiar, as if they’d circled around for another look.
“What’s wrong?” Cedsul touched her elbow. “You look worried.”
“I am worried,” she said. “Haven’t you seen the soldiers looking at us—at the two of you?”
“Of course we have,” the dwarf grinned. “This isn’t our first time here, it’s nothing new.”
“The trick,” the elf added, “is to be at ease, act as if you belong. Our very presence draws their attention, so we do our best not to irritate the soldiers. Relax and let the world go by. You can’t change the prejudices of small minded men.”
Tenna gritted her teeth in a failing effort to calm herself.
Zalas took a meandering path through the inn’s common room, taking care to keep from jostling the elbows of patrons crowding the tables. The Eagle was darker within than he remembered, and seemed worse for wear. The customers were a rough looking bunch, but that was nothing new.
There was something wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what. A group of soldiers sat near the entrance taking a break from their patrol, but not from their careful scrutiny of the people. He’d sensed the city on higher alert than usual, but what else would one expect after the capital city is decimated by a dragon?
The city should have been locked tight.
He and the mage won through to the bar to find a pinch-faced barkeep he didn’t recognize. His contact at The Eagle often complained about the difficulty of finding trustworthy staff. The occupation seemed to be more of a revolving door and less of a calling.
The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara) Page 12