Even as the shrieks wrenched out from that throat, Aylis bolted up and away, and as she passed from behind the shadow and into the ceiling above, she saw the corpse pointing at her as she fled, while Magekind turned or lifted their gazes as if to see what the dead Hlôk saw; and she sped up through stone and chambers and halls and soil and cobbles to emerge in the center of the courtyard.
Back to the knoll she raced, to flee into her own body, and as she regained possession of herself she managed to cry out, “Discovered!” before she slumped forward into a faint.
And from somewhere within the Black Fortress, a huge gong began tolling out an alarm.
7
Black Fortress
NEXUS
WINTERDAY, 5E1010
[THE FINAL YEAR OF THE FIFTH ERA]
“Aylis!” cried Aravan, starting forward, even as she slowly toppled sideways to lie as one asleep. But Bair grabbed onto Aravan’s arm and held him back, saying, “Nay, kelan, the
Though agitated, nevertheless, Aravan waited, shifting from foot to foot, straining to hold back, while a league and a mile away, the alarm gong in the Black Fortress continued to sound out a deep tolling.
Moments passed, and moments more, but at last Bair said, “Now.”
Quickly, Aravan stepped through the arc of Magekind and unto Aylis’s side, where he knelt and cradled her in his arms. “Chier. Chier,” he whispered.
Mages of the arc got to their feet, all but Delynn, who remained seated. “Fear not, Aravan,” said the Sorceress. “It taxes a Seer to do what Aylis did, and I am surprised that she managed to speak ere she swooned. But she will waken soon, for her spirit is now fully within her form.”
Several more moments passed, and at last Aylis opened her gold-flecked green eyes to stare into Aravan’s sapphire blue gaze.
“Love?” she asked, frowning.
“Just counting the freckles ’pon your cheeks, Chier,” said Aravan, smiling. Then he kissed her lightly.
Even as he aided her to her feet, Aylis’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, my, I was discovered. We must get to my father, for there are more than we guessed might be.”
“Twelve, daughter, twelve?”
“Yes, Father,” replied Aylis, now fully recovered from the strain of her casting. “Twelve Black Mages. Yet whether there are additional dark Wizards, I cannot say.” She stood among a small gathering of Elves and Wizards, Aravan at her side, Bair across from her, the allied forces nearby.
Still, the alarm gong in the Black Fortress rang.
Cadir sighed. “We planned for one or two, but twelve?”
Dalor shook his head. “As jealous as they are of one another, for that many Black Mages to be together is a rarity. I wonder why they might have gathered?”
Fedor, a tall, skinny Mage standing next to Alamar, glanced at Bair and then at Aravan and said, “Mayhap it has to do with the death of Gyphon. Perhaps they yet have ambitions.”
“Of course they have ambitions,” snapped Alamar, “but without a god at their beck, we are more than a match for Black Magekind.”
“All of us on Vadaria can defeat them,” said Dalor, “but here with the numbers we have versus theirs?”
Fedor glumly nodded. “Twelve Black Mages in the bastion is certainly more than we bargained for, and if there are others, well . . .”
“Why would this be a problem?” asked Ruar. “I mean, there are seven nines of you Mages among us. Is that not enough to counter twelve?”
Aylis shook her head. “It isn’t the number of Mages we have, but rather the amount of
Dalor nodded in agreement, then said, “And since more
“So twelve can overpower sixty-three?” asked Ancinda Soletree.
Fedor glumly sighed and said, “Mayhap.”
“If they prevail, then likely they will defeat our army as well,” said Arandor.
“And they were raising a corpse?” asked Cadir.
Aylis sighed. “They were. A Hlôk.”
Cadir turned to Alamar. “Then they will know all about us: that an army of Elves and Mages is on Neddra, as well as our numbers and kinds.”
“They will?” asked Ruar.
“Nothing can be hidden from the dead,” said Cadir.
“True,” said Branwen. “But only if they can single out that particular slain Hlôk’s voice from among the myriad other dead all vying to speak.”
“What we need is a plan,” said Bair.
“And before dawn, I think,” said Arandor.
Aylis frowned in thought and then said, “What if we hold off our assault on the fortress until after the Mages are slain?”
Aravan turned up a hand and looked at her. “Chier?”
“That way they won’t have the agony of the dying to draw
“They’ll pull it out of the living, regardless,” said Dalor.
“Aye, but Aylis is right: less life force will be at their disposal,” said Cadir.
“Look,” snapped Alamar, “I say our plan changes little: we seven nines, especially those of us who can wield the elements—fire, water, earth, air, and aethyr—specifically take on the Mages, and let Elvenkind deal with all else.”
Branwen took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “We thought there might be Black Mages in the fortress. Still, I think it is as Alamar says: the plan changes little, no matter that there are twelve. Yet I and my kind are better suited to dealing with the Hèlsteeds and Vulgs, rather than trying to bring down the Mages. Likewise, Dalor and those of his training are suited to healing rather than battling dark power. And the ones of us who can cast illusions are more adept at taking on the Foul Folk, for Black Magekind can winnow through such visions and sounds, whereas the Spawn cannot.”
Alamar nodded in agreement. “I and my like will meet them head-on, while all else support us.”
Cadir said, “Forget not that my school can do great damage as well, and we will join you in the direct battle.”
Aylis said, “We Seers will locate them for you.”
Arandor glanced at Bair and said, “I deem there should be a change in my plan.”
Bair frowned. “How so?”
“My forces are divided in seven companies, one for each of the nines. Instead of an immediate assault against the fort, we will stand back and defend Magekind from the Foul Folk until the nines are victorious, after which we will take the battle to the Rûpt.”
“Yet what if the Spaunen bring the battle to us?” asked Tillaron.
“Then in spite of loosing fire for the Dark Mages to use,” said Arandor, “we must fight.”
Bair slowly nodded, and turned to the other captains and the leaders of each nine and asked, “Are we in agreement then?”
Silverleaf said, “Would that we could get right at the Spaunen, but that must wait until the greater threat is put down, unless, of course, the Rûpt come to us.”
Other Elven captains murmured their accord with Silverleaf’s words, and they nodded their concurrence to the plan of attack.
None of Magekind voiced any opposition, and so Bair said, “That, then, as far as the Black Mages are concerned, is our strategy. Yet heed: I was once told by another, a plan is good only until the first arrow is loosed, after which we can only act and react to the needs at the time. In this case, I suspect the plan will be good only until the first spell is cast.” Then he turned to Aylis and said, “Now as the follow-on to dealing with the Mages, tell us of the kind and count of Foul Folk you did see.”
In the last marks before the Neddran dawn, the combined force of Elves and Mages ha
d taken their positions on the shallow slope leading down toward the main gate of the outer wall.
And as the ruddy light of the oncoming dull red sun began to broach the dismal overcast, the seven companies drew closer downslope.
Seers went into trances, and after but moments reported that all twelve Black Mages were upon the walls and none were elsewhere within. Yet ere the Seers reported such, Bair as well as the Mages could see the glut of
“Adon,” asked Bair, “have we enough Mages to combat that much life force?”
“It will take everything we have,” replied Cadir.
“Lit up like the targets they are,” muttered Alamar, and he looked at the umber-clad sky and said a single word—“Adfligere”—and a huge bolt of lightning flashed down to blast among those on the battlements and to strike the midmost Mage among them. Body parts and fragments of stone flew outward, and a wild flare of released
“Heh!” Alamar snorted. “That’s one; eleven to go.”
But then lightning jagged out from the dull brown above and toward the assembled army; yet even as death flashed down, a tendril of aethyr twisted up from the killing ground between the outer wall and the fortress to intercept the bolt and lead it to crash into the barren soil, where sallow snow and dirt geysered up in a great spew, most to fall back, some to drift away on the sulphurous air.
“Next time, Fedor, deflect it to the ramparts,” shouted Alamar to the nearby Mage. “Kill them by their own castings.”
“I barely had time to think,” shouted Fedor in return.
Great gouts of flame flew out from the crenels to blast among the assembled army, and Elves and Mages died. As more fire blasted outward, it was met by walls of water conjured up from the snow.
“Adon, but they have such great power at their beck,” shouted Cadir, even as he pointed his staff, and where he aimed one of the merlons directly before the Mages exploded, the blast hurling sharp fragments among screaming Foul Folk, but none of the dark Wizards was touched.
Lightning flew at both sides to be deflected by aethyric tendrils; the ground heaved below the army; stone exploded along the battlements; floods roared down from the steeps behind, to be deflected by earthen walls ripped up from the terrain; and rocks detonated within the arrayed ranks of the allies.
“Spread out!” commanded Arandor, and the army and Mages spread widely to reduce the concentration of Free Folk at any one place.
But even as they dispersed, as if the foe had been waiting for such movement, a great drum pounded out a heavy beat and the fortress gates swung wide. Ghûls on Hèlsteeds rode from the bastion and led ranks of Rûpt out—Rûcks and Hlôks all armed and armored for battle. Massive Trolls, ten and twelve feet tall, trod ’mid the oncoming foray, and a pack of black Vulgs ranged to the fore. Yet when the Spawn reached the gates along the outer wall, they could not open them, for Sorcerers among the allies held the portals shut.
But then the Ogrus strode forward and smashed the gates wide, and, howling Slûkish battle cries, Foul Folk poured through, Hèlsteeds and Vulgs leading the charge.
A darkness bloomed where Bair stood, from which Hunter emerged, and with a howl the Silver Wolf rushed down to meet the age-old dark enemy.
Elven archers flew sleets of arrows into the oncoming Spaunen ranks. Rûcks and Hlôks died screaming; some bolted back toward the safety of the fortress, yet most, yowling wordless cries, charged onward up the slope toward the Elven army while the great drum pounded out a frenzied beat.
Arrows pincushioned the Ghûls, but most were ineffective, for only a few wooden shafts lodged directly in the hearts of given corpse-foes, those Ghûls to fall dead.
“Silver points!” cried Aravan, and the special arrows then flew at the nearly unkillable Ghûlka, and where these struck, corpse-folk shrieked in pain and black ichor flowed. Even so, still they hurtled onward, cruel barbed spears couched and aimed.
Of a sudden the Hèlsteeds began squealing and bucking, and throwing their Ghûl riders, as the force of the Animists’ spells struck these snake-tailed, hairless, scaled, cloven-hoofed mounts, panic filling their bestial minds, and they fled away, some yet with clinging corpse-foe upon their backs.
And, in spite of the fact that agony and death released life essence for the Black Mages to use, still arrows flew, and Spaunen fell slain as up the slope they charged.
The silver form of Hunter slashed among the Vulgs, and the entire pack of the virulent black beasts veered toward the Draega and leapt upon him in a slashing, howling swarm. Elven archers flew arrows at the pony-sized dark creatures, killing some. Yet others were too close to Hunter to risk loosing a shaft at them. But then the spells of the Animists filled the Vulgs with dread, just as the Hèlsteeds had been, and they, too, fled away, even as Hunter, his jaws locked upon the nape of another of the beasts, broke the spine of the creature. And the Silver Wolf stood snarling amid slain Vulgs, their throats torn out and necks broken. But then the Draega sped back to the Elven ranks, where once again Bair emerged from a darkness and took his flanged mace in hand.
Leading the onrushing Rûpt army, ponderous Trolls, swinging their massive warbars, with arrows simply shattering against their skin, thudded toward the now-closing ranks of the Free Folk.
Gildor stepped to the fore and drew his sword, Bale, and the weapon’s blade-jewel blazed with scarlet werelight as if to ignite the length of steel, for Foul Folk were nigh. Preternaturally sharp-edged, the sword had been forged long past in the House of Aurinor in the Duellin for use in the Great War. Yet Gildor’s wielding of Bale at the Iron Tower proved to be even more critical in the Winter War than in the War of the Ban, for the weapon was deadly to Trollkind in spite of their stonelike hides.
Others took up their weapons as well—swords, maces, spears, flails. And as the yowling Spaunen hurtled up the slope toward the army, Aravan took up his spear and glanced at it and said, “Elven-forged thou art and worthy, yet would that thee were Krystallopŷr, but it is gone into the Abyss, taking its
The howling wave of Rûcks and Hlôks and Ogrus smashed into the Elven files, and, roaring, the Trolls swung their great bars to left and right. Elves met the Spawn head-on, swords riving, spears stabbing, shields bashing. And they danced back or ducked under cumbersome but lethal swings of the Troll weaponry, yet not all, for the dreadful warbars struck among them, felling many. And even as Rûcks and Hlôks rushed by him, Gildor waited until the huge iron rod of the Troll before him swept past, and then he stepped forward and, with a two-handed swing, drove Bale through and across the Ogru’s gut and out the other side, and with his steaming entrails spilling forth and to the ground, the Troll gazed down in disbelief, and then fell forward dead. But with Rûcks and Hlôks following in their wake, other of these monstrous foes waded in among the allies, flailing, slaughtering, crushing; they alone could devastate the Elven army. Grimly, Aravan stabbed and slashed with his spear, hacking his way through Spawn and toward one of the Trolls, yet even as Aravan neared, the behemoth espied him and, snarling, turned his way and raised his massive warbar to smash down upon this puny being, the Troll’s gaze wide in triumph. But in that moment, an arrow sprang forth from the eye of the monster, and as the Ogru crashed down, its brain pierced by the shaft, Aravan glanced aside to see Silverleaf fitting an arrow to his silver-handled white-bone bow while turning to seek yet another one of these dreadful creatures, rampaging among the allies. And as a shrieking Hlôk charged at a group of Magekind, only to be skewered by Vail and fall dead at Alamar’s feet, the Mage looked away from the parapets above and down at the slain Hlôk. Then his gaze swept across the roiling battlefield to see the Ogrus laying waste to the Elven host. “Dicere!” evoked Alamar, casting a spell, then shouted “Fedor! Bremar! Ca
dir!” and called other names as well. And in spite of the uproar of battle—the screams and bellows and cries—those he named heard his spell-cast voice. “Trolls! Trolls! We must deal with the Trolls!” And the Ogrus were met by flame, as Mages took precious moments from their own bitter struggle to hurl bolts of fire at the behemoths, their greasy hide garments to burst ablaze. Shrieking in fear, the monsters fled, flinging away their weapons and ripping and rending their burning clothing from themselves, for fire they feared, and away they ran, now pursued by spectral flames cast by Illusionists; they did not flee back toward the fortress, but bolted toward the distant crags instead.
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