by Dan McGirt
“I know,” said BlackMoon. “I had some of the same trainers.”
“You meant for me to get free.”
“Yes. I have long wished to test my fighting skills against yours. This may be my last opportunity. You beat the Red Huntsman with your magic, but you will not defeat me in the same manner. I have dosed you with the powerful spellcasting-inhibitor drug Noarcane. The synapses of your brain will not function properly for the conduction of magical energies. This will be a fair fight.”
“You have a knife,” noted Merc. “I don’t.”
“You are welcome to take mine. If you can.”
BlackMoon darted forward, leading with the black dagger. Merc deflected the attack and jabbed his stiffened hand at the bounty hunter’s throat. BlackMoon dodged to the side and slashed at Merc again. This time Merc tagged his wrist with a hand-numbing blow to the nerve center there. The knife went skittering across the ground.
“Impressive,” said BlackMoon, snapping a kick at Merc’s face. The bounty hunter was taller and had a reach advantage, but Merc was slightly quicker. He sidestepped the kick easily and counterattacked with one of his own. They continued in this fashion for several minutes, not speaking, rarely landing blows, evenly matched. The only sounds were the scuffle of their feet in the gravel and occasional sharp exhalations of breath.
I knew no secret methods for escaping leather bindings, so I rolled myself over to the dagger, which was unfortunately very near the edge of the gulf separating us from the Incredibly Dark Forest. The dropoff was sharp. The sheer cliff face stretched downward hundreds of feet to the swift flowing waters of the raging River Volkus. I got the dagger in my hands and rolled back a safe distance. As the silent battle continued I rolled onto my back, lifted my hips off the ground, and used the knife to slash the thong binding my ankles together. The knife was sharp and cut through them quickly. Now able to sit up, I tried to get at the bindings on my wrists, but quickly realized that the feat was beyond my dexterity. I would have to make do without my hands. I lurched to my feet and charged toward the combatants. BlackMoon had his back to me. If I could ram him, it would give Merc the opening he needed to finish the fight.
He heard me coming, of course, and stepped aside with the grace of a matador to let me bull on by. I skidded to a halt and turned around for another try. This time I had to run around Merc to get at BlackMoon, but he stopped me with a quick but powerful kick to the chest that sat me down hard. The distraction gave Merc the momentum, however, and he pressed his advantage aggressively, forcing BlackMoon back with a flurry of deadly kicks and punches. I lurched to get behind the bounty hunter, hoping he would trip over me, but he executed a graceful backward leap and landed on the other side of me. I was lying between them now and darting hands and feet whistled above me until Merc leaped across my body as well, still forcing BlackMoon backwards. Inevitably, they moved closer to the edge of the cliff.
Now BlackMoon took the offensive and it was clear that his retreat had been a ploy to draw Merc into this danger zone where the slightest misstep would mean a fatal plummet into the unforgiving rapids. The bounty hunter was much more surefooted than Mercury as a result of his years of pursuing prey through every kind of environment. That advantage might give him victory. And I dared not charge him again lest I inadvertently hurl myself over the edge. His stratagem had locked me out of the battle. I could only watch helplessly.
BlackMoon concentrated on combinations of attacks intended to overbalance the wizard as he defended himself. It wouldn’t be long before Merc made an error, however slight, and BlackMoon sent him plunging into the abyss. He would collect no bounty for Merc—but with the reward for my capture he could afford the loss.
Merc extended himself too far deflecting a blow and slipped. As he started to topple, BlackMoon helped him along with a powerful shove. At the same instant, I charged, deciding that Merc, his killer, and I would all go down together. I lowered my head and butted BlackMoon in the back between his shoulders, taking him by surprise. He could not have anticipated such a suicidal attack. All three of us tottered on the brink for a frozen instant, then fell.
Mercury reached out desperately and caught himself on a fissure in the rocks less than a yard from the top, wedging both hands into the crack and breaking his fall. Acting instinctively, I scissored my legs around his waist, anchoring myself, albeit upside down. BlackMoon snaked his arms through the circle made by my own bound arms as they hung below me. I stared down past his impassive face at the churning waters far below. It was not a pretty sight from this angle.
“Well, Jason,” said Merc. “This is another fine mess we’re in.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “How long can you hold on?”
“A minute at most. And I certainly can’t climb hauling both of you.”
“What about one of us?” I said, narrowing my eyes at BlackMoon.
“That I might manage.”
“I have a better suggestion,” said BlackMoon.
“I’ll bet you do,” I said.
“I see a handhold that will support me. From there I could climb back to level ground and draw you up—with your cooperation. You could easily dislodge me as I climbed if you so desired, but if you allow me to reach safety, I will then draw the two of you up.”
“You expect us to believe this?” I asked.
“The alternative is that we will hang here until Mercury loses his grip and we all die.”
“So instead we should let you climb back up and place ourselves at your mercy?”
“You began this encounter at my mercy. Now I am at yours. You can trust me. You will certainly die if you don’t. Cooperate and we can all live.”
“You’ve got a point,” said Merc. “But while we’re negotiating, I’d like to hear you swear by all The Gods above and the Demon Lords below that you will let us go free and will never hunt either of us again.”
“There is no need for such oaths.”
“I think my fingers are slipping,” said Merc.
“I so swear.”
“Then go to it.”
BlackMoon reached out for the wall, got a handhold, then a toehold, and let go of me completely. He quickly scampered up the wall and pulled himself onto level ground. He extended an arm for Mercury to grasp and slowly pulled both of us up.
“Thanks,” I said, as he expertly unknotted my bonds.
“I have arranged for a delegation from the Dark Magic Society to meet me here this afternoon. I suggest you not be in the vicinity at that time. I won’t be. The Noarcane should wear off within an hour, Mercury. Here are your belongings.”
The jujula shimmered into translucent visibility. They were vaguely manlike forms bearing large packs. One handed me Overwhelm and my armor while the other returned Mercury’s cloak. They then returned to full invisibility. It was fortunate that jujula were not allowed to directly harm or hinder the living or our battle with BlackMoon might well have ended differently. Invisible foes would be hard to beat.
“And now I must bid you farewell,” said BlackMoon. He started across the bridge and quickly vanished into the forest.
“Now what?” I said as I donned my armor and strapped on Overwhelm.
Mercury fastened his cloak before replying. “We continue with our original intent. We carry the fight to the Society. We’ll start by questioning whoever comes to pick us up. My guess is it won’t be Isogoras and Natalia. BlackMoon was probably dealing with another member of the ruling Conclave. The leaders of the Society compete fiercely for the Overmaster’s favor.” He pulled a second cloak from beneath his own. “Put that over your shiny armor and shade it to match the rocks. We’ll sit in the shadow of that boulder over there and see who shows up.”
Two hours passed before a black flying carpet skimmed overhead and settled to a landing near the bridge. The magician controlling the rug was a stooped, emaciated old man cloaked in black. His staff was of sablewood and tipped with a leering silver skull. He was accompanied by two young, strong men weari
ng black tunics emblazoned with the blood-red sigil for death. The trio remained on the carpet, ready to fly away at the first hint of trouble. They didn’t notice the two of us crouched nearby, silent and unmoving.
“Necrophilius the Grave,” Merc whispered in my ear. “A master of death magic, creator of the prying eyes, a high-ranking member of the Ruling Conclave. The other two are acolytes of the Forbidden Church of Undeath, with which he is associated.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a small cult. Hard to gain converts when you’re preaching death for all the living. Anyway, we’ve got to separate Necrophilius from his staff. It’s a killer.”
“You have a plan?”
“A directed burst of strong wind might do the trick. When he drops it, you charge and cut him down. Don’t worry about the acolytes. They’re probably just along to carry our bodies. Ready?”
Before I could nod my assent, Necrophilius looked directly at us. “You may come out from your hiding place now, Mercury Boltblaster and Jason Cosmo. And please do so slowly and carefully, with your hands above your heads. Any sudden movements might cause me to reduce you to dust with one of my many instant death spells.” His voice was as dry as a sun-bleached skeleton’s ligaments. We complied with his instructions. “Very good, very good. Naturally I have had this entire area under surveillance with my prying eyes for several days. I am aware of your bargain with hunter BlackMoon—and I intend to honor it. Provided we can reach an acceptable understanding.”
“What are you talking about, Deathmaster?” asked Merc as we slowly approached.
“That is close enough,” said the necromancer. “Kindly sit down and place your hands atop your heads.” We obeyed this command as well, not wishing to chance instant death by making a desperate attack. “I have some things to tell you. You will listen carefully and then we shall all depart this place in peace. I know that you intend to attack the Overmaster, despite your ignorance of his location. I can provide you with that information.”
“Betraying your leader?” said Merc.
Necrophilius spat. “That whelp is no leader of mine. He is mad, drowning in the venom of his own megalomania. This search for the Superwand is sheer lunacy. It was lost long ago—let it stay lost. And let Asmodraxas remain in his eternal prison. Erimandras would resurrect the past, but the past is dead. The Society must look to the future, a future in which it rules the world in its own right, not by licking the boots of demons.”
“A future, perhaps, in which Necrophilius is Overmaster?” inquired Mercury.
“Of course. Though I am not alone in opposing the course upon which Erimandras has set our Society, I have been the most effective in thwarting his will. And now I have secured the means of his destruction.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
“The two of you, of course. I supply BlackMoon with many of his deadly poisons at discount rates. In return, I occasionally require him to perform special services—such as bringing the two of you to me before that idiot Isogoras could capture you and take you to the Overmaster. Isogoras made use of my prying eyes to spy on you, but they also transmitted their images to me and I communicated your location to BlackMoon, facilitating his task.”
“So we’re here?” said Merc. “So what’s the point?”
“Erimandras is here, in Malravia.”
“Fortress Marn,” said Merc thoughtfully. Marn was a major stronghold of the Empire of Fear a thousand years ago. It had stood deserted for many centuries due to the great evil wrought there—and because of the ghosts which gave it its nickname, the Haunted Citadel. The tortured souls of the Empire’s victims who had perished there still roamed the dungeons and corridors of Marn.
“Yes, Marn,” confirmed Necrophilius. “Erimandras has made it the headquarters of the Society, another demonstration of his preoccupation with past glories. In anticipation of your capture, Jason Cosmo, he has summoned all of the Ruling Conclave to join him there. Unfortunately I, and several others, will be unable to attend. But all of those loyal to Erimandras or too fearful to oppose him are already gathered within the walls of Marn.” He withdrew an ebony scroll case from an inner pocket of his robe. “This is a map of the secret passages beneath Marn, through which you may covertly enter the citadel. If you succeed in eliminating Erimandras and his followers you will have gained your safety. I can assure you that under my leadership the Dark Magic Society will have no further interest in either of you.”
“And will probably be more dangerous than ever,” I said.
“That is not your concern unless you make it your concern, in which case any bargain made here today is suspended. If your wish to take the crusading perspective, however, consider that it will take us months, perhaps years, to regroup if you succeed, during which time the activities of the Society must of necessity be curtailed. To continue your briefing—the rooms and corridors of the citadel are monitored by more of my prying eyes. They will be under my control, however, and will conveniently fail to detect you. If you are careful, you can reach Erimandras undetected and take him unawares. You will need every advantage you can find.” He dropped the map to the ground. The magic carpet rose several feet into the air. “That is all. I hope you do not fail.” His carpet streaked away to the east, above the canopy of the Incredibly Dark Forest.
“Sounds like he’s got it all figured out for us,” said Merc, picking up the map.
“Can we trust him?”
“Not fully. Somewhere in his scheme is a proviso for our deaths. That is a certainty. But his approach is sound. We creep in, take out Erimandras and his cronies, and then run like hell. Simple.”
“Simple,” I agreed dubiously. We set out for Fortress Marn.
* * *
20
The Malravian war chant grew louder and more frenzied with each passing hour. Hundreds of the black-haired, gray-skinned warriors of both sexes danced their twisting, jerking dance around the great bonfire. They waved their spears, bows, and axes wildly, and bellowed their challenges into the night. If they put as much energy into fighting as they did into this dance, we had little to worry about.
After three days of scrabbling up and down rugged ridges, along twisting gullies, and across yawning chasms, Merc and I had reached what looked like a great, broad bowl scooped out of a hilltop by a giant hand. In fact, according the Malravian legends that was exactly what had happened. Their national deity, known appropriately as the Gray God, created this place as a gathering place for all his people. Being a people of few words, the Malravians called it simply the Gathering Place.
“No sense in attacking Marn shorthanded,” said Mercury. “I spent some time in Malravia a few years back helping the locals fight Ganthians, mountain giants, and nasties out of the Forest. I was made an honorary Malravian for my efforts. That may be enough for us to gain some allies.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“We’ll be skinned alive and roasted on spits for daring to violate this holy site.”
In the center of the bowl was a fissure from which seeped noxious fumes. Merc ignited the subterranean gases from a safe distance with his fingerflames and a great plume of fire shot into the sky. The summons was sent. We sat back and waited for the response. For the sake of my skin, I hoped it would be favorable.
The first Malravians arrived that evening, a band of twenty who began the dance. By dawn they had been joined by dozens more. None of them had acknowledged our presence. They simply arrived and joined the growing circle around the fire.
Hundreds of Malravians arrived the next day, hundreds more the day after that. By the end of the week there were over ten thousand warriors at the Gathering Place. It seemed they had done nothing but dance and chant since their arrival. I had seen no one stop to eat or sleep or even rest for a while. No one had asked who issued the summons or why. At least not until now.
Mercury and I stood on a ridge above the circle and conferred with the chieftains of the seven clans of Malravia. Clad in the
furs of cave bears and rock tigers, their long hair pulled back into a single war-braid, jaws clenched grimly, eyes glittering fiercely, they were a frightful and imposing sight.
“You and your companion have crossed our land safely because you are accepted as one of the Gray Folk, Brother Mercury, due to your courage and service to the Folk when last you walked this land many years ago. But you dare much by coming to this sacred place and issuing the summons,” said Kogarth, eldest of the chiefs and spokesman for the others. His thin hair was silver with age, his face a craggy mass of wrinkles.
“Such is the right and duty of any of the Folk,” replied Merc, “when he learns of a danger to all.”
“And what is this danger?”
“The evil of the Dark Magic Society, which has taken up residence in the Haunted Citadel of Marn.”
“Marn is a shunned place. What transpires there is of no concern to us.”
“Marn is shunned no longer by those who would spread its bloody stain over all the Folk. Surely the dark things of Marn already venture beyond its walls.”
Those clan chiefs with lands closest to Marn nodded grimly at this. Kogarth considered for a moment.
“Even so, Marn is invincible. If defended by sorcerers, it is doubly so. To assault it would be folly.”
Merc waved the scroll Necrophilius had given him. “I know a secret way inside the citadel. And the shamans of the Folk are themselves powers to reckon with.” Kogarth still looked unconvinced. “Besides,” continued Merc. “We’ve got ten thousand mulka-crazed warriors down there. They’ve got to attack something.”
“That is true,” said Kogarth. He nodded. “So be it, Brother Mercury. You shall be our war-captain and lead us against Marn. It will be a feat long remembered in our songs—if any of us survive.”
It took five days of swift marching for the Malravian host to reach Marn. The citadel was a hulking mass of black stone crouched like a bloated spider upon a great outcropping of rock halfway up a jagged and desolate peak of harsh gray granite. Its crenellated walls bristled with spires and towers and the stone images of unspeakable monstrosities: demons, gargoyles, and things without names. We had threaded our way up a twisting box canyon to reach this point, and the only visible path approaching the fortress was a narrow road winding back and forth up the sheer face of the mountain through more than a dozen gates, all of which were sealed. No defenders were visible, but the very stones of the place radiated cruelty, wickedness, and horror. Even the eternal gray mists seemed to avoid the fortress. The first ranks of our host, mulka-mad as they were, recoiled as we drew near. A fearful murmuring swept through the Malravian horde as they realized what we were about to undertake. I heard occasional sharp cries for us to turn back and abandon this mad scheme before it was too late. Looking up at our goal, I wondered if that wasn’t a good idea.