Third Power

by Robert Childs

  Looking satisfied, Lojur lowered his sword and removed his gauntlet. Returning to the portal, he then tossed it through. A few moments later the dark-skinned assassin Kamarine, appeared wearing a supple, black leather gambeson over black, close-fitting silk shirt and trousers, a bandolier of throwing knives across his chest, a belt of pouches around his waist, and a slender sword at his hip. With the gauntlet in his right hand, he returned it to Lojur with a deft toss.

  Next appeared Steve, then Sonya wearing a brown leather gambeson over her earlier clothing, followed last by Kayliss.

  “And when exactly has Haldorum ever been here?” Sonya asked looking around.

  “In here?” Steve clarified, “Never. But he saw it that day we made off with the Emperor, and as long as he’s seen a place with his own eyes he can portal to it.”

  After a brief look at his surroundings, Steve moved for the far exit. “Let’s go.”

  With Kayliss by his side and the others in tow, he led the way past empty stalls that once held the finest warhorses in the capitol, home now only to clean straw and the occasional set of reins hanging on the wall. At the far end of the building two wooden doors opened into a courtyard and served as the only entrance and exit large enough to accommodate someone on horseback. Each twice a man’s height, the war band came within twenty feet before the door on the right pulled open seemingly of its own. In the next moment a stable hand, perhaps in his early twenties, hoping to one day be squired to a knight, entered carrying a bucket of clean water and a brush.

  Kayliss bared his fangs in a menacing hiss and both the stable hand and Steve and his party froze in their steps as each spied the other. Several seconds passed of deadly, uncertain quiet, but it was the stable hand who blinked. Dropping the bucket and brush, he turned to flee but Kamarine’s forward roll brought his flight to an end. The assassin’s empty hand still extended toward his target, the stable hand had only the strength to stagger another two steps before falling face flat, half in and half out of the stable with a polished knife in his back and an unuttered shout of alarm on his lips.

  Steve rushed forward and dragged the dead man back inside by his boots while Lojur flattened his back against the opposite door and peered out. He looked up one side of the courtyard and down the other then shook his head. There was not one guard or soldier in sight.

  Steve breathed a sigh of relief and then whispered to Sonya, “Not exactly how I envisioned our senior year.”

  The battle in the skies raged on.

  Haze watched with admiration writ clear upon his face, the ferocity and cunning of their Jisetrian allies. The first wave of rocs had been wiped out in the first few minutes of the attack, their enemy never suspecting a strike to come from a height they themselves were too ponderous to reach, but with the arrival of the second and third waves it was now too difficult to tell in which direction the scales of the battle swayed. The Jisetra were easily the more agile and experienced of the aerial combatants, a decided advantage, but the roc riders had sheer brute force in their monstrous birds of prey and superiority of numbers on their side.

  And still Haze could not but shake his head in continued admiration as the Jisetra inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy. For every Jisetra that died another three or four rocs fell from the skies. Close enough to be seen from the ground, Haze watched as one young winged warrior swooped and dived through the cluttered sky, closing on his enemy from behind. With falchion in hand, he raced by and decapitated a rider with the speed of a striking hawk. The warrior dived then, knowing the enraged roc, bearing its headless passenger fastened to the saddle, was fast behind him. Screeching its fury, the great bird closed on the Jisetrian but could not keep up with its quarry as the winged warrior banked out. The roc, however, did not have time to realize its mistake, drawing as it did too near the fortress, before a dozen arrows from the ramparts robbed it of life.

  Haze was still watching the fight when Haldorum portaled in near him; from exactly where, the grizzled warrior could only guess, but the old wizard didn’t waste time with small talk.

  “Status?”

  Haze pulled his gaze from the enemy in the skies and instead looked across the battlefield to the hordes of shangee and human infantry. “Azinon began the attack with an aerial assault, his foot soldiers advancing behind it; but they halted when they saw how badly the first wave of rocs fared.”

  “Good,” Haldorum harrumphed.

  “Though they will not be waiting much longer. In response, Azinon committed every sky soldier he has to the battle. The Jisetra fight bravely but they are outnumbered, tired, and losing a great many of their warriors.”

  Haldorum looked to the sky and seemed to be assessing the fight. “With every roc rider committed they too will tire.”

  “But who will tire first?” Haldorum looked at him and Haze added, “That will decide when the ground battle begins which of us has an enemy flying over our heads.”

  Haldorum looked up again briefly and nodded his agreement. It was a prospect neither side wanted to see come to fruition. “It seems we will have to wait and see.”

  “What about Scott?” he then asked.

  “Out there,” Haze replied, indicating generally west of the battlefield. “There, hiding where the forest ends at the western edge of the valley.”

  “Sir,” a sergeant said drawing both Haze’s and the First Power’s attention. “They are coming.”

  Haze looked out and saw that indeed Azinon’s forces were on the move again—at a quick time.

  Haldorum raised his hands to portal saying, “I will tell King Gorium to make ready.”

  “Haldorum, wait!” The old wizard paused in his spell casting and Haze quickly said, “Something has been bothering me for almost half a turn now, and with the enemy this close it bothers me all the more.”

  “What then?”

  The barrel-chested man stepped closer and leaned nearer Haldorum’s ear so as not to be overheard. “We kept the werewolves here for a specific reason,” he whispered.

  “True.”

  “So look out across that battlefield and tell me what you see.”

  Haldorum did so and spoke softly the forces arrayed against them. “Shangee, infantry, archers, cavalry, siege engines…”

  “Yes,” Haze agreed, “now tell me what you do not see.”

  Haldorum scanned the line of troops again, looking confused at first, but then his eyes widened as the realization struck him.

  “Dear God!” he breathed.

  Lojur and Rabal made their way through the halls of the palace of Rajasthan. Thus far, the stable hand had been the closest thing to opposition the war band had run into since appearing on the grounds outside. The portcullis to the castle had been left standing open, the corridors left unpatrolled. Rather than feeling relief, however, it only made the party more nervous.

  A short walk farther on and the main corridor opened up into the grand chamber, a place whose original purpose had once been for the reception of high-ranking dignitaries and kings. Designed to impress, the vast hall was opulently decorated with polished white marble floors, ornate tapestries, hanging chandeliers, thick woven carpets, and exquisite statues in every corner and wall niche. Now the chamber was a dedication celebrating the sorcerer that was Azinon. Every wall tapestry had been replaced with another depicting scenes of Azinon standing majestically against differing backdrops; the palace in this one, a forest in that one, the sea in yet another on the far wall. The statues too were tributes to the Dark One; life size renditions of the sorcerer in dramatic stances.

  “All right, gather around,” Steve said turning and everyone did so. “You all know the game plan: five teams of five. If you reach the altar, destroy it if you can, but either way you send someone to find me and bring me to it. Got it?”

  “Sir,” the warriors answered as one with a nod.

  “Sonya, Lojur, Rabal, and Kamarine with me.” Kayliss nudged him in the side and Steve rubbed the great cat on the head. “No, I hav
en’t forgotten you. You and I go without saying, my friend.” To the rest he said, “Let’s not keep the Resistance waiting long before we bring them good news.”

  The cavalry had come across the battlefield leaving a swath of destruction in their wake. Those shangee that did not die at the end of a lance found themselves trampled under hoof or cut down with sword as the seemingly unstoppable line of knights mowed through the remainder. Farther away still, the redcrests were ominously dividing into two halves, allowing the main gate in the great wall surrounding the city of Rajasthan a wide berth.

  Like rats scurrying for cover before the storm.

  Haze could see the line growing restless. The enemy now was so close they could make out individual faces on the shangee and humans alike. Still, it was not time. The warrior cast a nervous glance back in the direction of the fortress where, somewhere, King Gorium watched from on high.

  “If we do not attack soon,” Haze grumbled, returning his eyes to the field, “they are going to trip on us on their way through the front door.”

  Looking down from the cavernous mouth, four-hundred feet above the valley floor, King Gorium surveyed the advancing enemy. “Send the first,” he said calmly over his shoulder.

  “Yes, Your Majesty!” The Jisetrian corporeal turned on his heel and advanced a dozen steps deeper into the manmade cavern. “Send the first!”

  The three Jisetra rolled the hand-chiseled, five hundred pound sphere of stone to the lip of the hole, marking the opening of the chute, and pushed it over, where it disappeared into the blackness with a great rush of air. The boulder dropped deeper and deeper into the belly of the mountain fortress, picking up greater and greater speed, until the chute it traversed hooked upward near its end, at its opening in the side of the mountain, and sent the projectile hurtling into free space.

  Haze turned his head with a furrowed brow when he heard the strange hollow whistling coming from the side of the mountain. Then he saw the projectile arcing through the air. The boulder sailed high over the heads of the Resistance soldiers and crashed down on the ranks of the redcrest infantry, killing four instantly and crippling a number more he could not count. The massive stone barreled through bodies, breaking arms and legs as it bounced unyielding through men too slow to clear from its path.

  King Gorium watched it all with smug satisfaction. “Now,” he said, “release at will.”

  The first three Jisetra were already rolling another boulder into position when the remaining twenty-nine teams released their deadly charges into similar chutes and to the will of gravity.

  Below, Haze watched as more than two dozen boulders pounded deep into the ranks of Azinon’s forces and created a line of death and broken bodies that separated thousands of shangee and infantry—these having already marched inside the range of this new threat.

  “Archers!” Haze called.

  The shangee and infantry companies cut off from the main force watched as a cloud of arrows, and then a second volley of stone, further widened the gap between themselves and the rest of their ground forces. As they could not go back, they were fully committed, and they lifted their weapons and charged.

  Raising his sword to the sky, Haze bellowed his war cry and the entrenched soldiers of the Resistance poured across the field to meet them. The two sides met like the interlacing fingers of opposing hands, with the din and crash of steel on steel rising above all else.

  Farther back and safely behind the redcrest lines, siege operators turned the first of three trebuchets to face the Jisetrian fortress. With a pull of the lever, the massive counterweight dropped and the arm of the machine launched the smoking, cauldron-sized container high into the air. It sailed across the expanse of the battlefield trailing a black cloud and exploded against the fortress, above the lowest battlements, deafening all and sending a curtain of fire raining down on more than fifty Jisetrian archers.

  Behind the siege engines, the operators cheered.

  Captain Olum, the commanding officer of the Resistance heavy cavalry on the field outside the walls of Rajasthan, clung to his horse as the well-trained mount reared screaming and split the skull of a shangee like a ripe melon. If the wretched creature hadn’t died on impact, it surely expired when the massive charger pounded the body into the ground with both forward hooves. The shangee’s companion joined it a moment later as the captain’s sword parried a blow meant for his charger and then cleaved the hell spawn from shoulder to sternum.

  With the last of their enemy dead or dying, the Resistance captain paused long enough to raise his visor and scan the field. Tired though he was, he laughed when he saw the remaining redcrest army had not advanced a single step.

  Another heavy cavalryman reined in alongside him, laughing as well. “What are we supposed to do now, Captain? The enemy is cowering against the walls like mewling kittens.”

  Again they laughed but Olum stopped when he spied something curious. Gesturing in the direction of the city he said, “Look there. What in the name of the Third are they doing?”

  Not only was there a clear path leading right up to the city’s main gate, but the gate itself was opening.

  “Surrender?” the other cavalryman put forth, though his tone clearly lacked confidence in the supposition.

  A moment later, though, they had their answer. Jalkora emptied out of the city in so great a number they jammed at the edges of the gate.

  “Hundreds of them!” the other cavalryman exclaimed.

  “Nay,” the captain replied grimly, dropping his visor back in place. “Thousands.

  “Shargoth,” Argos called to him in human form.

  Scott and Kurella both turned at the sound of Scott’s title. To take on the title Kurella’s father had used didn’t seem right to the new werewolf leader—and in addition, was a painful reminder of the pack leader’s death by Scott’s own hand. So instead he opted for the title of Shargoth, which blended both the meanings of prime and shifter. He agreed with Kurella; it suited him much better.

  “This one says he knows you,” Argos finished. Behind him, Haldorum’s ungainly advance over the uneven forest terrain would have been comical if not for the circumstances.

  “He’s all right, Argos, thank you.” To the old wizard he asked, “Haldorum, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “The Resistance is in trouble!” Haldorum gasped. Not knowing Scott’s precise location, the wizard had had to portal into the general area and run the rest of the way.

  “Gee, ya’think?” Scott glanced briefly back in the direction where the tree line ended and the valley began. Three hundred yards beyond that point a third of the redcrest army had already bypassed their position. “The rest of the wolves have been pressing me to attack for the last half hour.”

  “No!” But before he could continue Haldorum bent over and placed his hands on his knees to take a few breaths enough to talk. “The other battle…”

  Kurella went to his side and helped him to a sitting position on a nearby piece of deadfall.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he managed. To Scott he said, “The other battle is where you need to be. The Jalkora are not here.”

  “What?!” Scott nearly shouted. “But that could only mean they’re… The rest of the Resistance—“

  “Is in very real danger,” Haldorum finished for him.

  Scott did not need another moment to think. “When and where?”

  Haldorum climbed back to his feet and pointed even as he moved. “Get them clear of the trees. To gate this many fast enough, I am going to need room.”

  “Your Imperial Majesty, forgive the intrusion,” the redcrest general said without raising his eyes above the sorcerer’s feet. “I would never dare disturb you unless it was of the utmost import—“

  “The general here has already brought it to my attention,” was all Azinon said as he raised the looking glass to his eye. Halfway across the battlefield, and to the west of his army, a large portal had appeared. What he saw there surprised even the Dark O
ne. Werewolves. And apparently they were in league with the Resistance.

  “Your Majesty,” General Makteth said, “the fact the werewolves have joined the fight is not what concerns me—“

  “It is, however, my concern, General,” Azinon interrupted. “What concerns me even more is your failure to anticipate a force hiding there—werewolves or no.”

  Makteth lowered his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty, I understand—and it will not happen again. But what I do not understand is where they are going. The ferocity of the werewolves is well known,” he stammered. “They were in the perfect position to flank our forces and now they not only reveal that position, but are leaving. Why?”

  Azinon mulled that thought over and then suddenly raised the glass to his eye again. First he looked to the portal and to the large number of werewolves disappearing into the same. Then he swung the glass to look across the battlefield, to the too small army of Resistance soldiers now engaged with his own much larger force. If he had to estimate, he would say he outnumbered the rebels thirty to one.

  That number was far too large.

  Azinon collapsed the looking glass into the palm of his other hand. “Do you recall some years ago, General, when the decision came before me to choose between you and another for the position you now hold?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. As I remember—“

  Azinon seized Makteth around the throat with one hand and lifted him from the ground. Were it not for the crushing grip on his windpipe, the general would have screamed as his flesh started to burn. “It would seem I chose poorly!” the sorcerer hissed. “You want to know where they are going? To where the real battle is being fought, General!”

  At that Makteth’s body burst into flame and Azinon tossed the already lifeless husk to the ground. The Dark One knew it to be lifeless because he still held the ex-general’s life force, a glowing dot of light, in the palm of his hand, drained like blood from a still-beating heart.