Measure and the Truth

by Doug Niles

  “Hoarst? Why don’t you come back to bed?”

  Hoarst turned slowly to look at the woman who had spoken. Her shock of hair, snowy white, spilled across the pillow as she stared at him, lazily lying on her side. Her skin, as white as her hair, looked as cold as ice—though he remembered its heat against his flesh. She was Sirene, and she pleased and served him in many ways, willingly giving him her body, even sharing drops of her blood when he needed them for various spells and potions.

  At that moment, she simply repelled him.

  “Leave me,” he ordered. “I will have need of you, but not until later.”

  The albino woman’s eyes widened slightly, but she quickly scooted away, out the far side of the bed, gathering up her clothes and, barely taking time to throw a robe over her slender shoulders, darting out the door. Even in her haste, she remembered to close it very gently.

  Hoarst exhaled slowly, relishing the precise control over his breathing. Disdaining the use of magic for now, he took an inordinate amount of time to wash and dress himself, heating a metal bowl of water over a small brazier, cleansing his face and hands, shaving carefully. He smoothed the wrinkles from his gray tunic and leggings before donning them and even buffed, slightly, his worn and comfortable boots. He took pleasure in the mundane tasks, which he could easily have accomplished merely by casting a few simple cantrips. He was saving even the tiniest expenditure of his power for something, anything, more interesting than his ablutions.

  He picked up a gray robe and draped it casually over his arm as he finally emerged from his chamber in the high tower. He took the steps one at a time, counting them silently as he rounded the spire again and again in a descending spiral. At one hundred four steps, he reached the door at the bottom, drew a slow, contemplative breath, and emerged into the heart of his stronghold.

  What had once been the keep’s great hall, Hoarst the Thorn Knight had converted into a huge laboratory for the working of his magic. A great oven had been installed along one wall, with benches of burners, centrifuges, glass vials, and a myriad of components arrayed on both sides. A pipeline of water had been diverted to run along the length of his primary workbench, with several spigots operated by hand screws, so he could turn on a flow of water at any one of them simply by adjusting the valves.

  The other side of the room was devoted to rows of tall cabinets, which stood like wardrobes, each stocked with the odds and ends of magical experimentation: bats and rats and bugs, sometimes dried and whole, sometimes divided into useful components such as eyes, livers, and tongues. There were more than a dozen live birds, some of them tropical creatures of colorful plumage, but including a scruffy crow, several hawks, and a leering vulture, all caged in one corner of the room.

  Above the great fireplace, poised over a warm bed of glowing embers, a cauldron large enough to hold a man’s body was suspended. Within that vat bubbled a brew of dark brown, with bits of organic matter—the tip of a tentacle, a bit of leathery wing, an eyeball, something that looked distressingly like a child’s hand—occasionally roiling to the surface. A miasma of steamy vapor lingered above the cauldron but also seeped outward to infuse every corner of the great room.

  All that was Hoarst’s creation, and all of it he ignored, stalking through the laboratory and on through the anteroom, where three wide halls converged at the keep’s front door. He gave no thought to the locked door at his left, though behind that door was the long stairway leading deep into the rocky ground. Down there, behind a succession of locked doors—and guarded by other, more devious threats as well—was the trove of treasure and possessions that made Hoarst one of the wealthiest men in the world.

  Not very long ago, a mere stroll down into that dungeon, with its permanent light spell cast broadly over the piles of gleaming coins, the chests full of precious gems, the bullion and statuary, paintings and vases and chandeliers, would have gladdened his heart, rescued him from the deepest depression. Much of the treasure he had plundered from Palanthas, when he had been the chief Gray Robe of the ruling Dark Knight Council. Oh, there had been lords who outranked him, generals with greater authority than the Thorn Knight Hoarst. But he had feared none of them—no, they had feared him, and he had prospered by their fear.

  The rest of the trove had been fair payment given to Hoarst by the half-giant Ankhar the Truth. The Gray Robe had served in the army of the great barbarian as his chief wizard, and for his service, he had been well rewarded. Ankhar’s own treasure wagons had bulged, following his sacking of Garnet and Thelgaard, and the cultureless barbarian had willingly allowed Hoarst to pick and choose from among the objects of art, the enchanted items, and classical statues that had all been tossed together in a jumble.

  As a result, the Gray Robe possessed a collection unmatched anywhere on Krynn, save perhaps the palace of some eastern king. Now and then, Hoarst thought about bringing those priceless objects up from the dungeon and scattering them around the barren castle to enliven his mood. It depressed the wizard to realize that he kept putting that off; he really didn’t care to exert the energy, to take the trouble of deciding where to display his treasure.

  Of course, his women would have helped. There were nearly two dozen there at that moment. He thought of them as his harem, using them as concubines as well as servants. They were all young and beautiful, and he had collected them from the many corners of the world. They varied in complexion from the alabaster Sirene to women of brown and darkest black. Some were voluptuous, others slender; some short, some tall. There were elf maids and humans among them, for those two races he judged to possess the greatest physical beauty. All were cheerful and accommodating—their cooperation assured, when necessary, by the careful use of a charm spell.

  Sirene, the albino, had become something of a favorite lately, spending night after night in his bed. He knew the others were jealous of her, and that pleased him for, in their jealousy, the rest became all that much more eager to do his bidding.

  Yet even the pleasure of controlling all those women grew thin and tasteless, feeling like merely another way to bore himself.

  He turned to the right, away from the steps leading to his treasure trove. The kitchen lay in that direction and there would be fresh bread—as there always was in the morning—and that kindled a gnaw of hunger in his belly. He was grateful for the sensation, any glimmer of sensation.

  Then he felt a chill, as if an unseen filter had passed above the layer of gray cloud, leaving full daylight in the courtyard beyond his windows but somehow sapping even the minimal heat of the day from the air. A knock sounded on the great doors of the keep, a booming thunder that originated only a few steps away and echoed through the lofty, empty halls like some kind of dirge.

  Hoarst stepped to the door and opened it, his curiosity piqued. He encountered a man who was wrapped in a black robe, the cloaking so complete as to mask even the fellow’s face. There was a medallion around the masked man’s neck, a disk of gold displaying the emerald eye of Hiddukel.

  “Who are you?” asked the magic user.

  “I am the Nightmaster, High Priest of the Prince of Lies,” said the other man, bowing formally and entering the hall.

  Hoarst nodded, not displeased. Perhaps something interesting would happen after all.

  The hobgoblin pulled back the leather flap and leered into the dark, humid hut.

  “Lord Ankhar?” he hissed, poised to flee if his intrusion aroused the half-giant’s displeasure.

  But Ankhar had been lying awake on his dirty straw pallet, had known that the sun was up and had been for hours already. Nothing had compelled him to rise, so he had just been lying there in the heat of the swamp, listening to the drone of mosquitoes and flies. The hob’s arrival at least gave the suggestion of something happening.

  “What is it, Half-Ear?” growled the half-giant. He rolled onto his side and, with great effort, pushed himself up to a sitting position. The great roll of his belly spilled across his thighs, so heavy that it threatened to cho
ke the breath out of his lungs, until he rose first to one knee, and finally to an unsteady standing position.

  “Two ogre-lords have come up from Brackwater. They seek your judgment on a matter of dispute.”

  “Ah. Tell them I’ll be there soon,” the half-giant declared, scratching his belly and snuffling loudly. Half-Ear bowed and withdrew while Ankhar rooted around on the flat beam propped across a pair of stumps that served as a table—the hut’s only piece of furniture. He pushed aside a pile of cloaks, a moldy half loaf of bread, one of his spare boots, and finally found the gourd of water. He half drank, half rinsed himself and tossed the empty container out the door. Finally he stretched, feeling the knots and kinks in his shoulders and back, wondering when it had happened that he started feeling old.

  Emerging into the filtered daylight of his forest stronghold, Ankhar scratched his head and peered around. The camp was small by the earlier standards of his marching army, barely the size of a human village. But it was surrounded by a stout wall of timbers, with a pair of well-guarded gates, and three score small huts were crowded within its enclosure. His favorite companions lived there, a mix of hobgoblins, goblins, and ogres. They served his every whim and did all of his labor, and his reputation and size insured that they remained secure from any threats.

  When they had first settled there, following the retreat from Solamnia, some of the humans in his army had dwelt in the headquarters village as well. For some reason, they had departed to set up their own town, just over the nearby ridge. No matter; Ankhar was undisputed lord of the small place.

  Ankhar immediately spotted the two ogres who had brought their disagreement to the half-giant lord. Both wore metal helmets, one plumed with a scraggly array of stork feathers, the other wrapped around with a sash of some tattered material that might, once, have been silk. Those badges of honor marked them possibly as chieftains, or at the very least as warriors of importance and influence.

  The half-giant got an idea as to the source of their dispute when he spotted an ogress, as tall and broad as each of the warriors, hanging back from the pair. She was seductively clad in a bearskin that she held tightly around herself, while her little eyes cast nervous glances from one ogre to the other. Finally she raised her face to meet Ankhar’s gaze, and he plainly perceived the plea for succor in her beseeching look.

  He puffed out his chest and swaggered forward, having already made up his mind as to how the dispute would be resolved. She was not displeasing to the eye, that wench, with full breasts swelling under the bearskin robe, a long mane of thick, dark hair, and ample flesh displayed on the calf barely glimpsed beneath the hem of her robe.

  “What is this?” he demanded, placing his hands on his hips, looming over the two ogres, leering with a tusk-baring smile at the ogress behind them. She gasped and lowered her eyelids demurely. The pair of plaintiffs immediately began to bark, each trying to snarl loudly over the other’s blustering accusations.

  “He stole my bride—” snarled Stork Feathers.

  “He took my wench—” declared Silk Band.

  “She was in my lodge—”

  “I paid her father—”

  “Enough!” roared the half-giant, finally lowering his gaze to look at the two dumbstruck ogres. Ankhar pointed a sausage-sized finger at the ogre wearing the feathered crest. “Who are you?”

  “I am Vis Gorger,” replied the bull proudly. “Chief of the Gorge clan, and lord of two valleys. This ogre wench was awarded to me by her sire—she is part of a pledge of truce between his people and mine. I claim her as a fair prize and would take her now as a chieftain’s bride.”

  The half-giant scratched his chin, apparently considering his argument—but actually, admiring the increasing expanse of plump calf exposed beneath the hem of the ogress’s robe as she, inadvertently or not, adjusted her garment. Very nice!

  “And you?” Ankhar said, switching his attention to the ogre with the sash. “What is your claim?”

  “I am Heart Eater, bull son of the Ripper clan.” He thumped his chest with a resounding boom. “This wench is Pond-Lily, and I claimed her for myself many seasons ago. She said she would come with me, pledged her word last year. I am a chief in my own right—lord of one valley, for now—and my honor has been sullied.”

  “You’re an ogre,” Ankhar retorted. “You have no honor. Neither of you. And you have no claim on this wench.”

  “What?” bristled Vis Gorger.

  “How dare you!” charged Heart Eater.

  “You—Pond-Lily?” spoke the half-giant. “Did you promise to go with this ogre last year?”

  “Um … no? That is, great lord, I really can’t remember,” she replied in a musical voice, her soft doe’s eyes cast downward. Very nice, indeed!

  “A promise unremembered is a promise never made,” declared Ankhar. “And you, Vis Gorger, will honor your truce, and you do not need a wench to seal the peace. This is my judgment: The wench—er, Pond-Lily? You will stay with me. As to the pair of you, go while you can still get away with your lives.”

  With a certain amount of muttering, growling, and dire glares, the bull ogres did just that. Before they were even out of sight of the great tent-city, Ankhar had taken Pond-Lily back to his shelter and embarked on some hasty negotiations of his own.

  “You have made a very comfortable place for yourself,” the Nightmaster commented, his words as dry as the impeccable red wine he sipped through the black gauze that covered his face. The elf maid who had served it beamed happily, and scurried away at Hoarst’s dismissive gesture. “This place has been a wreck for decades. I shudder to think of the expenses you must have incurred.”

  Hoarst took a drink from his own glass and, shrugging, studied the masked high priest curiously. “It is true that I hired some masons and carpenters. But my magic sufficed to accomplish a great deal of the … improvements I have made.”

  “No doubt,” said the Nightmaster. He drew a long, luxurious breath in through his nostrils. “Even so, the air positively sings of gold and gemstones. I should say a virtually unprecedented cache, stored somewhere below our feet.”

  “And if that is what it is?” asked the Thorn Knight, growing more guarded. “How is my treasure of interest to you?”

  “Oh, I assure you, my good wizard, it does not interest me—except in that it allows me some understanding of your motivations, your desires.”

  “Go on.”

  “I am wondering if you would be interested in adding more gold to your holdings—an amount of gold that is, I believe, the largest intact collection anywhere upon Krynn.”

  “I am always interested in valuable items and trinkets,” Hoarst allowed. He released a dry laugh. “I let an ignorant barbarian think that he was my master, simply because be paid me very, very well. But why are you coming to me with this proposal? I should have thought such a prize would be as tempting to the Prince of Lies as it is to any wizard.”

  The Nightmaster chuckled, a sound like wind rustling dry leaves in a cold woodland. “The Prince counts his treasures in souls collected. Such trinkets as gold and gems are merely a means to the end.”

  “So Hiddukel means to acquire my soul?” asked the Thorn Knight, his tone bordering on contempt. “I would have given him credit for greater subtlety in the attempt.”

  “No, you misunderstand,” the dark priest clarified. Another chuckle whispered through the mask. “No matter your power, you are but one soul. The Prince desires to ensnare thousands, tens of thousands, and for this you could serve as an important—and very well-paid—agent.”

  “Go on,” replied Hoarst, intrigued. “Where does the Prince intend to seek his souls in a land ruled by the Solamnics?”

  “He intends to subvert the rule of the Solamnics. He proposes to take all the souls in Palanthas, and you can have all the gold in that city—including the lord regent’s legendary hoard.”

  “A tempting offer. I have seen the bright ingots glowing in the room atop the tower he calls the Golden Sp
ire. But the knighthood is stronger now than it has been for centuries, millennia even. Perhaps your master’s ambitions are too lofty for his means?”

  “The knighthood may be strong, but there are fault lines in the empire. Besides, it is not necessary to destroy the whole nation at once. That one city, Palanthas, would be a good start.”

  “Palanthas is well protected in its own right. There is the pass, and the High Clerist’s Tower.”

  “Ah, you are right, but you are missing the point. Palanthas is vulnerable precisely because of that tower, that pass.”

  “I don’t see how,” the Thorn Knight challenged.

  “Would you feel the same if I told you where you could find and recruit a formidable army that would jump at the opportunity to take that tower and close that pass?”

  Hoarst thought for a long time then looked at the empty bottle of red wine. He snapped his fingers, and the elf maid reappeared. “Bring us another bottle,” he demanded, all the while staring at the Nightmaster. So it was going to be a productive day after all. “My guest and I have much to discuss,” he added quietly as he gestured at the woman to hurry from the room.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NEW COMPOUND

  The opening of the mine gaped like a dark eye hung on the cliff wall overlooking the remote mountain vale. The place was high up in the Garnet Range, at an altitude where only a few scraggly cedar trees conspired to form a clump that was barely a grove, the foliage was so thin and sparse. In the center of the vale was a lake of spectacular beauty, a blue that reflected the purity of the skies on cloudless days. Trout arrowed through the depths, silvery spears darting after the flies that alighted briefly upon the placid surface.

  Three sheer cliff walls enclosed the lake and the little grove. A stream flowed out of the valley in the fourth direction, and a crude track—it would be misleading to call it a road—scored a rocky, rutted route parallel to that pristine flowage. A stout wagon rested at the terminus of that track, and a quartet of burly dwarves emerged from the mine with pickaxes and shovels balanced on their shoulders. They waved to the dwarf maid resting on the driver’s seat of the wagon, and started down the narrow trail toward the lakeshore and their waiting conveyance.