Shadowblade

by Tom Bielawski

  It was a simple matter to watch Crystoph use the Cjii-magic to open the portal and to eavesdrop on the words and Sigils of the spell that commanded it. The Cjii command power far greater than that of the Sigils but even so, they had not been able to freely use the Pathway Arches throughout Llars for eons. Yet, somehow, Prince Mycal managed to do it.

  Devoricus stood beside the Arch and stared at it, moving his immortal hand over the carvings. The Cjii found that it had not been difficult to enter the mortal world once his fellow immortals had broken the Code. With the constraints of the Code no longer in place, the Fabric of Creation that surrounded the planet no longer kept the Cjii from entering at will. He doubted that very many of the immortal race, aside from the Angel Legion and Umber’s own minions, knew this to be the case. Still, entering the world through a purely magical portal in the Fabric just wasn’t as reliable as traveling through the Pathway Arches.

  Why did you bring them, Mycal? the Cjii wondered silently as he inspected the beauty of the arch’s construction. You had to have known that this skirmish would end in failure.

  Devoricus thought about this for a while, pondering the possible reasons for such a foolish raid on the part of Prince Mycal. Had the leader of the raid been anyone other than Mycal, or even Crystoph, Devoricus might have written off the attack as a foolish waste of time. But he knew Prince Mycal well enough to know the famous Cjii never wasted his own time.

  My Master will be pleased to learn that the skirmishing between Umber and Zuhr has already begun. But he will want to know what the demon Cjii are doing on Llars and why that pompous ass, Mycal, sent his men to die for no apparent reason.

  Devoricus decided to leave the Arch and travel to the great palace in Erestonin where he hoped to learn more of the conflict between the rival gods. For the moment, it seemed that the coming war was in its opening stages. The two sides were testing and probing and searching for weaknesses; the Cjii wondered what weaknesses there were to exploit.

  It was a simple matter of will for the immortal to simply change his physical appearance to that of one of the legendary Frost Elves. When the transformation was complete, and he looked at his hands and body, he shuddered involuntarily at the appearance. Even the immortal races respected the might of the fearsome -yet still mortal- Frost Elves; he was not looking forward to surrounding himself with them.

  Being a Cjii who was thousands of years old, he had little difficulty in choosing a believable appearance. All of the Frost Elves did not reside within the palace at Erestonin, or even its subsurface city; these were reserved for the wealthy and the nobility. Devoricus had seen some of the many settlements that lay beyond the reaches of Erestonin and trudged his way through the treacherous tundra and frozen fens to the road that connected them. The country that the blue-skinned elves claimed covered much of the land that lay beyond the borders of Iceplain where the Vaardic tribes had established their nations, and north of the Wildlands where Umber’s Nashians had established a budding empire.

  Devoricus had in fact turned himself into a flesh and blood Frost Elf. He did not inhabit the body of a host avatar in the usual way that Bishop Darius had enjoyed tormenting him with. Instead, the Cjii used his powerful magic to change his physical being and became a Frost Elf. Even though the Cjii had been able to simply use his will to negate the effects of the weather on his being, he still noticed the stinging wind and frigid temperatures. The ground was covered in fine snow and hills and rocks, he cursed the mortal Frost Elf’s ankles each time he stepped into a treacherous snow covered hole and nearly broke his mortal limbs.

  Finally he reached the main road that led from a settlement beyond the bleak horizon to his left and the palace at Erestonin in the distance to his right. Night fell very quickly so close to the northernmost point of Llars, and the Cjii saw that the sun was starting its descent; he would not reach the palace by nightfall. That fact alone did not concern the powerful Cjii, but it did warrant caution as the beasts that roamed the tundra were stealthy and fearsome indeed.

  Fortunately, Devoricus had not been accosted by any of the ice bears or polar cats that stalked these lands; he thought with a laugh that even those beasts were afraid of Frost Elves. In a few hours the Cjii had covered much of the distance on the desolate ground that had taken the Angel Legion mere minutes to traverse in the air. It was now after nightfall and the borealis danced with swirling clouds of green and blue and purple, all accented by the beaming stars of the night sky.

  By the time he reached the palace gates, the gate appeared to be deserted. He knew enough of the Frost Elves to know that his eyes must be deceiving him, for these mighty warriors never deserted their posts. But the drawbridge that would span the mote, fed by a natural hot spring of scalding water, was up. The steam created had a pleasant warming effect but cast the palace in a mysterious shroud.

  As he stepped up to the edge of the road where it dropped off to the roiling water below, spear tips of shining silveryl darted out seemingly from nowhere and pushed against his sides. He did not move, and he said nothing as the mists blew away of their own volition and the forms of half a dozen fearsome blue-skinned elves surrounded him.

  “Who are you?” asked one that appeared to be the leader in the musical tongue of his people. He was tall, perhaps seven feet in height. His hair was short in military fashion and black as the night sky. His eyes seemed to shift from lavender to blue to green as he scrutinized the newcomer. His armor seemed improbably thin, and it was a mix of varying hues of blue and white. Devoricus could see how hard it would be to spot this elf on his own terrain. Only silveryl, or perhaps firesteel, could be made into armor so thin and strong. All of the Frost Elf soldiers wore bear-hide or walrus-skin capes or cloaks.

  “I am Captain Nicolasryn, from Dansg,” he replied simply, in flawless Erestonish. The Cjii kept his demeanor calm and his hands away from his many weapons.

  “What do you want, Captain Nicolasryn from Dansg?” said the guard, the point of his spear straying towards the Cjii’s exposed neck. “And what exactly are you a captain of?”

  “The First Scouts,” he replied, hoping that his source inside the palace had provided him the proper information. Devoricus was thankful, then, that his contact must have done his job because all of the guards seemed to relax some and their demeanor became slightly more respectful.

  “It is late, and the palace is closed,” said the guard. “Even the First Scouts should know that.”

  “And so it is,” he replied. “But not for me. I have an urgent report to deliver to General Medov.”

  When that name was mentioned, all of the fearsome elves lowered their weapons and disappeared into the foggy mist. General Medov was the commander of the First Scouts, the unit that answered only to the Raven Queen who ruled the Frost Elves. His unit was legendary, even among the Frost Elves. Slowly and silently the crystalline drawbridge lowered and the mist swirled in its wake. Devoricus walked across the drawbridge and entered the palace.

  Devoricus could see little of the outer defenses due to the shroud of mist surrounding the palace, but he had no doubt they would be formidable. But Devoricus was not concerned with the physical defenses of the palace or the number of troops that the Raven Queen or her husband, King Putyn, employed. While that information was certainly of value to the Cjii and his side in the coming war, Erestonin was an ally and there were others who had been tasked with that low priority. Instead, the Cjii had one thing on his mind: to find out who was truly leading Umber’s Cjii -he doubted it was Tartarus- and what their plans were.

  His mind was so occupied by these thoughts and of finding his way through the maze of corridors and staircases in the palace, that he failed to notice the amazing wealth and beauty that adorned it. The opulence and wealth in this palace might have made the immortal believe he was in one of his Master’s own palaces. But Devoricus did not pay any mind to tapestries, or chandeliers made from diamonds and precious gems, or any of the innumerable suits of armor and weapons of sil
veryl silently watching the passersby.

  The immortal was pleased to see that the directions given him by General Medov had taken him through servant corridors and so he had been able to avoid scrutiny by anyone important. And, it seemed that the servants who frequented the corridors were used to the comings and goings of scouts or messengers and paid little attention to him. Most of the servants he saw were clearly slaves. Some were human, some were Keneerie, and once he thought he even saw a dwarf! But when he looked again, the dwarf slave was gone and he wasn’t sure that it hadn’t been one of the warves. All of the slaves he saw were being supervised by troks, the small but vicious cousins of the surface elves that dwelt in the Underllars.

  He glanced at the magical Sigil map in his hand and saw the small blue circle that represented himself, moving steadily toward the blue triangle that represented Medov. Finally, he reached the door that led to the general’s private offices. It was only then that he noticed the stark contrast between the opulence of the palace corridors and those of the servants. This corridor was cold and had been carved roughly from glacial ice. It was not illuminated by any sort of flame that the immortal could see, but there was enough light to see by. There were no adornments on the walls, no carpets on the floor. Just a barren hallway that was interspersed with other passageways and doors made of ice.

  He knocked loudly on the door with the butt of a dagger and the door swung silently inward. He stepped inside and the door swung closed. A hearth blazed in one corner and the room was comfortable. Strange weapons from all over Llars adorned the walls, Devoricus assumed they were trophies by their bloodstained and battle-worn blades and handles.

  “Welcome,” came the whispered voice from beside him. He almost jumped in surprised and cursed himself for his irrational fear of the mortal Frost Elves. He turned toward the voice and was face-to-face with General Medov, the commander of the First Scouts.

  “Thank you, General Medov,” said the immortal after recovering his wits, bowing low.

  “Please, sit. I need not remind you to speak carefully here.”

  “Indeed,” answered the Cjii as he sat in a large leather chair across from the general’s desk.

  “How may we be of service to each other, Captain Dansg?”

  “Here is what I require,” he said, passing a scroll to the general.

  General Medov sat back in his own chair and read the scroll. It simply asked what he did not want to say aloud, knowing that the Raven Queen had spies even among her spies.

  “Come with me,” he said simply, rising from his chair and walking back into the servant’s corridor. Devoricus followed after and glanced at his map occasionally to be sure he wasn’t being led into a trap. After a very long time of walking in silence, the Frost Elves seemed to value silence greatly, they arrived at a staircase behind a hidden door. They descended several levels down a spiral staircase until they reached the bottom and another plain looking door.

  “Where we now go, you must remain absolutely silent!” warned the general. “Beyond this door lies the Temple Dungeon. It is monitored very closely by the Raven Queen and her wizard spies. We shall see what it is that you require, you will hear what it is you need to hear, and we will leave. Is that clear?”

  Devoricus stepped out onto a catwalk that ran along the ceiling of a massive cavern far below the palace. The cavern was immense and had been divided into two halves by a wall that did not reach the ceiling.

  As the pair walked out onto the catwalk that seemed to have been created from the glacial ice, Devoricus looked down. To the right of the cavern was the palace dungeon. Its maze of cells and walkways skillfully carved from the ice of the glacier were filled with humans, lesser elves, oroks, and other beings with which the Cjii was not familiar. Warves and troks patrolled the corridors between the cells and guarded the icy dungeon.

  Opposite the dungeon, beyond the dividing catwalk, was another chamber carved from the glacier upon which Palace Erestonin sat. It was an unfinished chamber and slave workers labored under the whips of their Warvish masters, making the cavern bigger. But, at the far end of the cavern, loomed a wall that was a sight that defied even his own highly advanced Cjii intellect.

  It was an opening that appeared to penetrate the magical Fabric that surrounded Llars. And, judging by those who moved back and forth through the opening, it led to the very gates of Hades, Umber’s own kingdom among the Shadowrealms! He looked at the general in disbelief. The man simply nodded back, confirming his suspicions. Tens of thousands of demons and Cjii and their lower minions marched back and forth across the rift in the Fabric of space and time, using this tunnel that had been created connecting Hades to the world of Llars.

  Devoricus was no master of the Code of the Cjii, but he suspected that this was a very significant violation on the part of Umber and his minions. Qra’z would be amazed that his brother could be so bold, and would probably want to know how the Dark One had accomplished such a feat under the very nose of their father, Zuhr.

  He stared at them for a long time, counting and assessing, and he realized why the Temple Dungeon was so full. The prisoners were being fed to the infernal army of the Dark One, others were being fed to a mass of strange looking creatures that looked to be made from corpses. Not that Devoricus pitied the inferior beings, he had simply learned that there are far better ways to extract the life force of a mortal than by simply eating it. He also saw a strange looking elven female standing among several golem-like creatures, she was wrapped in writhing shadows and seemed to be casting a spell. The creatures were haphazard looking and bizaare, seemingly possessed of mismatched limbs. Perhaps the magic-wielder was responsible for their creation?

  But Devoricus needed more than this, Qra’z would not be pleased if he did not return with more than this simple observation. He looked at the general and nodded toward the cavern floor. General Medov seemed to understand what Devoricus wanted to do, but did not at first seem to want to acquiesce. Finally, with a grimace, he turned and walked toward the far end of the catwalk where another staircase lay hidden.

  The pair descended the stairs and entered the dungeons where they found a pair of troks escorting five cowering human prisoners, prodding them along with spears and jabbering at them in their strange tongue.

  General Medov stalked up to the lead trok and struck him in the head with the butt of his dagger. Devoricus, unused to the hardy nature of the troks, was surprised to see the creature was still alive after the general struck him, let alone that he was still standing. Medov simply pointed in the other direction and when the stupid look fell from the creature’s pasty, leathery, face the trok and his fellow simply turned and ran back the way they came. Devoricus did not understand the language of troks, although he could learn it in a matter of seconds had he chosen to, and assumed that the general and the troks could not speak each other’s languages either. But it seemed everyone spoke the language of violence.

  The slaves were clothed only in thin shirts of rough fabric that could not possibly have warmed them in the ice of the glacial palace. Devoricus observed that the cold made them lethargic and more compliant, something he thought of as a clever tactic. Medov still did not speak, but pointed toward a large door in the dividing wall that led into the other chamber where the portal gaped into the Shadowrealms.

  He and Medov marched the cowering slaves passed the sleeping Cjii guards, through the door, and into the portal chamber beyond. The heat that was flowing into the chamber from the portal was overwhelming to Devoricus who had not expected to feel it inside the glacier. Rows upon rows of lower demons and their Cjii handlers stood or marched in tight military formations or practiced martial combat with each other. Devoricus was amazed, stunned. Never before had the hordes of demons and Cjii in Umber’s service trained to fight in an organized and disciplined manner, they had always relied upon their numbers and fear.

  They marched the prisoners past a platoon of scaly demons standing at attention, then made their way around seve
ral occupied fighting circles until they reached the portal itself. A great map had been inscribed on the floor and the general nodded towards it as he began to unchain the cowering slaves. Then Medov used the long spear taken from the troks to slice one Achilles’ tendon on each slave as he unfettered them.

  Devoricus ignored the howling pain of the victims as he tried to scrutinize the great map, knowing full well that they would have more to howl about in moments.

  “What are you doing here, General Medov?” asked a smooth, silky, feminine voice from behind the men. Devoricus turned quickly, too quickly, and saw the Raven Queen standing behind the whimpering slaves.

  “My queen!” said the general as he threw himself to the floor. Devoricus copied the general’s position perfectly, if only a fraction of a second too slow for his own liking. He certainly didn’t want the Raven Queen to catch on to his disguise. While the Raven Queen was in fact a mortal, she was one of Umber’s Dark Disciples, the most powerful mortals to ever exist on Llars.

  “Rise,” said the queen, her tone bored once more. “Rise and speak, general. You too, captain.”

  “Your Majesty,” he began, but the queen cut him off. Devoricus was surprised by the appearance of the woman. Her skin was charcoal gray, almost black, very unlike her subjects. Her hair was jet black too and her eyes seemed like pools of darkness. She was wearing a gown of blue and white and silver and carried a scepter and crown of silveryl. A large blue-black raven perched on her shoulder and eyed him closely.

  “Bavfa,” she said. “You may call me Bavfa, my sweet.”

  “Bavfa,” he said. “We are here to provide an offering to Baelor. I have information for the Dark One, and I need information about the Steel Empire.”

  “I see,” she said simply. “Proceed.”

  Devoricus made a show of poking and prodding the cowering slaves as he watched the general recite an incantation of calling. It was not a true magical spell, as would have been necessary not so long ago, but a simple offer of respect. Soon the cavern filled with shadows and a form coalesced out of the darkness.