by Peter Archer
Meanwhile, Gerrard had slung the fainting youth over his shoulder and carried him with difficulty to the foot of the crag. He bent over his half-brother with concern as Vuel raised himself groggily. But there was no gratitude in that one’s eyes. He screamed at his rescuer, hurling him backward with his words.
“You have stolen my legacy! It was my right to win my destiny or die in the attempt!”
Gerrard, stung, shouted back, “What did you want me to do, just let you die?”
“Yes, damn you! It is my life. My choice how it shall end. Far better to die than to be disgraced like this!”
Vuel pushed away his half-brother. He draw his knife and cut the hooks from his arms with furious strokes. Then he slashed viciously at the back of his own scarred hand. He spat at Gerrard’s feet and stalked away.
No one said a word.
* * *
—
The stony face stared wordlessly into Starke. Below the sculpture surmounting the portal’s arch and the tethered Weatherlight, two figures studied the gateway’s carvings. Starke could see them waving their arms, the young wizard’s excitement obvious. The Samite healer, Orim, was nodding her head thoughtfully and seemed to be asking questions. At one point there was a flash, and Ertai actually sprang into the air. Finally Orim made a gesture of approval and returned to the ship, while Ertai continued to run his fingers over the walls.
“Ertai believes he has the ability to open this portal,” the healer reported. “However, it will take some time. The symbols are very ancient and, as Ertai has discovered, do not react well to random meddling,” She stifled a chuckle. “So Ertai suggests that he remain here to study the runes and learn how to properly activate the device.”
“We may be gone quite a while, and we don’t know how safe it is here,” pointed out Starke. “Wouldn’t we be better served by having a wizard with us when we enter the Stronghold?”
“If we can’t get the portal open, it won’t make much difference what happens there,” said Gerrard. “I agree, though, that we don’t know how safe it is here.”
“Well, you know Ertai.” Orim smiled. The rest rolled their eyes. “He is very confident of his ability, and assures me that he can take care of himself.”
“How will we know if he succeeds?” Starke pressed.
“We’ll know if he’s done it when we come back. There’ll be good cause to worry if we bounce off the door.” Gerrard’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Meanwhile, I think this is the best option we have. We’ll spend the rest of today here getting Ertai set up with the supplies he needs and cast off in the morning. Make sure to post a guard with him overnight.”
He turned to face Starke. “This is where we need your help the most. From here on, you’re the only information we have about the Stronghold and the approach to it.”
“It’s very dangerous, as I said before,” Starke replied, “and things are going to be even trickier since we took this side trip. However, the ‘rear entrance’ is unlikely to be guarded, especially with the elves and Vec providing a distraction.
“But the peril is great. To be honest, I don’t know if the ship will fit through all of the openings. And we could lose some of the crew. But attempting the main gate is certain death for everyone.”
“I need to know everything you can tell me. But first I need to know what heading we should take.”
Starke considered. Destiny lay before him, and behind.
* * *
—
The stunned clansfolk were making their way back to the village in mumbling groups. But at the moment of Vuel’s disgrace, Starke had felt what he’d been sent to retrieve—a powerful presence, potential advantage. He chose a different route, tracing the young Jamuraan’s angry path away from cliff and clan.
The tall figure was no longer visible, but he had left tracks in the drying mud of the plains. Starke followed the trail eastward into the foothills of the Teremko mountains. At that point the rocky ground obscured the footprints. Starke was compelled to trust his instincts.
Dusk was approaching rapidly. Starke reasoned that Vuel would seek shelter for the night, probably not too far from where he had entered this rugged country. All the while, he kept an inward ear cocked for the rage that had been almost tangible.
It was nearly full dark when he came upon the youth, crouched in a hollow near a trickling stream. Vuel looked up sharply at Starke’s approach and leapt to his feet, knife in hand. “Who is there?”
Drawing near, Starke became even more aware of the power behind that burning gaze. He ran a hand across his balding pate as he smiled and spoke gently. “I mean you no harm, son of Kondo. I am a friend. Perhaps I can help you.”
“I am son of no one,” growled Vuel. “I need no help.” He waved the knife in punctuation. “Leave me!”
Starke stopped and spread his hands. His well-oiled voice slid into the evening. “Then you do not wish to claim your legacy?”
“I have no legacy.” Vuel’s eyes were flat and hard as they focused on his interlocutor. “As you well know. I remember you. Have you come just to mock me?”
“It would hardly be worth my while to follow you all this way for such a petty thing. No—I’ve come to offer you destiny.”
“My destiny was with the warclan. That is gone forever.”
“A road has many bends, and fate can find the way no matter how twisted. You do have a destiny, Vuel—far greater than the one you’ve lost.”
“The only destiny I wanted I cannot have.” Vuel turned away. “I am outcast now. I will die here, naked and filthy, like a wild beast.”
“Is that what you really want? How can you let yourself be thrown away like this?” Starke’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “What if you could take what was stolen from you? I have influential friends. With their help, you can have power far beyond anything you’ve imagined.”
“Taking the clans by force won’t restore my inheritance. It is worse than destroyed—the ancestral talismans will fall to the hands of another. It would be better if nothing remained.”
“That can be arranged,” Starke said quietly.
Vuel stared.
“I come from another place, somewhere most people have never heard named. Its masters call it Rath.”
An unidentifiable expression washed over Vuel’s face. “I have heard that name before.” He seemed to be speaking to himself. “When I was a boy, a wise woman passed through our village, seeking alms in exchange for her visions. She stopped before me and said, ‘Wrath will be your legacy.’ I thought she meant some conflict in my future. Now I see.”
He glared at Starke again. “And these masters—your ‘friends,’ I take it—who are they?”
“For the moment, it’s enough to say that they are beyond anything you’ve known. But they cannot yet enter this world. They need a mighty leader for their campaign. In you they see that leader.”
“And why should I serve their will?”
“With them, you can avenge your shame. If your father hadn’t taken in that northerner, none of this would have happened. You would be rightful chief of all the clans. Kondo is as much to blame as Gerrard. Make them pay!
“And once you’ve punished them, you can seize the sidar’s talismans for yourself—the ones that Gerrard stole from you along with your title. You’ll have taken the first step toward your true legacy: ruling a world!”
Starke produced a fist-sized amulet from his pouch and dangled it before the youth. “This is the Touchstone. It is the first piece in claiming your true legacy.” Its jeweled silver face reflected the moonlight onto Vuel’s. “You may have death and disgrace, or revenge and power. How will you choose?”
* * *
—
Gerrard had considered Starke’s advice, then given his orders to the helmsman. Weatherlight headed south, then west toward the dreadful heart of
Rath.
The fuming mountain rose to starboard, perhaps thirty leagues away from Weatherlight. Even at this distance it seemed to claw the wounded sky. A weird glow lit its peak and cast wriggling shadows on the tortured land about its feet.
As they looked at it, Starke spoke to Gerrard. “That is the Hub, the center of Rath, where Volrath’s Stronghold lies. The world flows out of that mountain.”
“You say the passage is on the south face?”
“Yes. We should drop down as far as we can. There are usually sentries about, though they mainly watch the front entrance.
“To approach we will have to pass through the area where the Stronghold’s furnaces exhaust, a nasty mix of sludge and ash called the Cinder Marsh. Some things live there, but they’re crawling beasts. They aren’t dangerous as long as we keep off the ground.” At least, Starke hoped so.
“Once past there, the going’s much stickier. We’ll have to get into one of the exhaust vents. A few of them are wide enough to admit the ship, though the inner passages can get very narrow.
“I’m also less sure about what we’ll meet there. Some things I know of; others I’ve only heard about. One peril I do know of is the ‘slivers.’ There is a great nest of the things. I’ve seen them before, but I don’t know much about them other than the more there are, the stronger each becomes.”
Gerrard was thoughtful. “The same is true of the Legacy. Perhaps we can use the same tactics as Volrath. What else?”
“As I said before, this is where the Stronghold dumps its wastes. There are slag heaps, furnaces, and other things whose nature I can’t even guess at. I spent some time here, but I was not privy to every secret. We’ll have to be on the lookout for anything.”
Gerrard ordered the change in course. He looked grim. “If that’s the back door, then I hope for their sake that the elves and Vec have changed their minds about attacking the front gate.”
* * *
—
Vuel chose.
He came to manhood in a ritual of slaughter. The next two years were painted with the blood of the warclans as the vengeful son of Kondo waged war on all who had dishonored him. And behind him crept Starke, his mentor, instructing him in how best to use the dreadful powers with which he had allied himself.
First fell the Legacy, torn from the belly of a silver golem who was left to stand forgotten in a distant village. Starke knew the function of many of those artifacts and spent long days disclosing their abilities to Vuel, whose thirst for knowledge and for revenge grew with every act of destruction. The items with no immediate use were sold for funds to raise troops.
Next came the warclans. One by one Vuel crushed their villages and ground their bones into the Mtenda’s dust. They resisted heroically, but the end was inevitable. When Vuel learned that Gerrard had been sheltered in the caves of a maro-sorcerer, not even that one’s power could withstand the forces ranked against him. Vuel’s armies ripped through the caves and killed all they found, but Gerrard was not among them.
And finally Vuel confronted Kondo himself. Kinship was empty to Vuel now, and nothing the sidar said would sway him. At the last they faced each other, and one on one amid the corpses of the final battle, Vuel blasted the life from his grim-faced father’s body.
Still it was not enough. Vuel bayed for the blood of Gerrard, but he was nowhere to be found. The plains were empty and Vuel’s heritage meaningless.
“Is this my destiny then, fat man?” Inside his command tent, Vuel snarled at Starke. “I am the leader of no one now. Where is the power you promised me?”
“You wanted revenge. You got it. That was just the first stage. Now that you’ve proven your worth, you’re ready for your true role.”
Starke produced an object. It resembled a lantern but was shaped in ways quite foreign. He set it down on the general’s desk. “The gate key,” he explained. “It’s time for your audience. Are you ready?”
Vuel drew himself up coldly. “There is no reason to remain here. Do whatever you must.”
Starke’s brow glistened as he wordlessly bent over the device. A foul green light sprang from the central globe and bathed the floor in its gangrenous glow. Starke motioned toward the livid pool, eyes averted. “There is the doorway. After you.”
Vuel sneered at the cowering Starke and stepped without hesitation into the circle of light. As he did so, his body swirled into a black spire of smoke that was drawn into the lamp like brew through a straw. When the last trace of smoke had vanished, Starke quickly snapped off the beam, shuddered, and pocketed the device. He strolled with forced casualness out of the general’s tent.
* * *
—
Weatherlight glided slowly over the Cinder Marsh. The ground below seemed indistinct: it heaved like something alive, and from time to time a sparkling shower sprayed across its surface. The sludge was punctuated by chimney-like growths that occasionally spouted ash and gobbets of molten metal.
“This whole place could use a good coating of sand,” muttered Mirri. The cat warrior looked disgustedly over the ship’s side.
“We should pass through here safely enough unless we get forced down to surface level,” Starke said, sounding more confident than he felt. “We should make for that inactive chimney ahead. It’s a good-sized one, and we’ll need that to get inside.”
The ship moved to the lip of the fearsome vent, but unlike the others its maw was cold and dark. The helmsman’s face was white as paper, but he obeyed Gerrard’s command to steer Weatherlight into the gaping pit.
Slowly the ship dropped into the shaft. Sailors swarmed over the deck, lighting lamps fore and aft to lessen the gloom somewhat. Starke, Gerrard, and Mirri watched in silence as the blackened chimney walls slid past.
The passage narrowed to a tight tunnel, sometimes so strait that the ship’s masts nearly scraped its walls, yet it admitted them. The mountain’s mass seemed to be aware of their presence but for the moment was indifferent. The tunnel became a winding duct uncomfortably reminiscent of intestines. Navigation now became an intricate process of climbing, sinking, banking, and yawing. Hanna stared ahead, straining her eyes against the darkness.
“How far is it to these slivers?” Gerrard asked in a whisper. The closeness of the place seemed to demand quiet.
“They live in the ventilation ducts of the fortress, which branch off the passages we’re traveling through. We should be especially watchful from now on.”
Gerrard spoke to Mirri. “Put the crew on battle alert. We could be attacked at any time.” She nodded and went aft, tail twitching and bristling in anticipation of combat.
As Weatherlight painfully rounded another bend, the walls spread into a cavern. At the same time, an insistent pounding filled the air like the rush of blood in the ears before sleep.
Gerrard looked about. “What’s that sound?”
“It must be—” but Starke didn’t get a chance to finish. From all sides of Weatherlight burst clusters of reddish creatures. They looked like needles, but sported birdlike beaks and insectoid build. They flung themselves from the cave walls and shot toward the ship. The slashing beasts were among the crew almost before swords could be lifted. Gerrard shouted frantic orders and hacked at the nearest one.
Barely had the crew engaged the first wave when the ship shuddered under an assault by bulky, toothed versions of the creatures. They smashed into and clambered up the timbers. The whiplike slivers already on deck became more muscular and powerful, while the lumbering ones sleekened and sped.
Another cluster of the things dropped from the ceiling, bristling with spines and tearing at flesh. Instantly the others also began to sprout spikes. Interspersed among the fleshy creatures were others that glinted with a metallic sheen. They too became more powerful, spiny, and swift along with the others.
Starke, with only his useless dagger at hand, fled. He shrieked as somethi
ng gouged his back. He slipped in something—gods, was it his own blood?—and fell forward. The dagger skittered from his grip. He scrambled after it, crying out again in pain. A shadow fell over him. He sobbed in panic.
The sliver fell in two pieces by his face. Starke looked up in terror at Crovax’s dark and tragic features. But the Urborg noble barely glanced at him before he spun again into the fight.
Starke stared at the metallic corpse. He touched it and recoiled from the sense of evil that almost screamed from the metal. His eyes grew wide. He began to back away, then turned and ran for the nearest hatch.
The slivers overran Weatherlight.
Hanna shouted, “They’re all sharing the others’ characteristics! We’ve got to break that link somehow!”
Gerrard gasped, “Starke said these things get stronger the more there are. We have to find a way to cut their numbers.”
“Some are artificial,” called back Hanna. “Maybe they control the others. If I can destroy enough of those, that might weaken the swarm.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned toward one of the metallic creatures lunging at her. Shouting a few harsh words, she slapped an armband and gestured at the attacker. It crumbled instantly. She whirled toward another bearing down on Mirri, who was screeching with bloodlust. That sliver, too, vanished into flecks of rust.
But their destruction had no visible effect on the rest of the things.
Hannah cursed loudly—an unaccustomed sound. “That didn’t work at all.” She aimed her sword at another creature. “I don’t understand the purpose of the metal ones. Obviously they aren’t the leaders, though. If only we had a chance to study them….”
“Couldn’t you wait till they stop trying to kill us?” panted Mirri.
“Get our backs together!” Gerrard shouted. “We can take them, as long as we can see them coming.”