Vespewl the Scourge lay on his giant divan two hundred yards from the mountain city’s gates, watching Krin’s progress. Like his Malveel brethren, he was a beast of scale and claw. However, Vespewl held a major distinction. He was the largest of the Malveel. Years of gorging himself on anything that walked upon Avra’s world produced a creature who dwarfed even Sulgor the Magnificent. This didn’t make him the most feared of the Malveel. On the contrary, Vespewl the Scourge adeptly avoided all confrontation. He contentedly ruled his Ulrog packs and allowed the likes of Greeb and Woil to do the real fighting.
That is why the task put before him rankled so much. Certainly he was capable, but was this conquest necessary. Vespewl scowled and mused his situation.
Sulgor’s orders were specific. Vespewl would not attack the city of Keltar unless something highly unusual occurred. The Malveel lord easily completed his mission. Vespewl’s forces overran the valley gate and took control of Hrafnu’s valley, cutting off Prince Fenrel and his marauding army from any hope of a return to their home. If they did attempt return, the giants would sustain massive losses attempting to regain the valley gates.
Vespewl relished these types of command. Woil, Greeb and the other zealots of Amird ran across the world attempting to fulfill the wishes of Sulgor and Izgra the madman. Vespewl sat contentedly in Hrafnu’s valley, eyeing a severely undermanned stronghold doomed to fall.
However, a wrinkle developed in Vespewl’s plans. The situationhad become unusual. The battlements of the giant’s fortress lie abandoned. No smoke rose from within her walls. All was quiet. Where had they gone?
At first, Vespewl stubbornly ignored the situation. The less for him to decipher, the better. However, Vespewl certainly was no fool. Sulgor’s orders were not to be ignored, and no Malveel wished to incur Izgra’s wrath. After nearly a day of silence from within the city, Vespewl ordered the ram.
He puzzled over a difficult situation. The Keltaran proved a resilient group. They showed themselves adept at trickery over centuries of warfare. Even in their weakened state they might inflict heavy damage upon Vespewl’s numbers. The Malveel lord cared nothing for the Hackles under his command, but he could not afford to lose numbers. Izgra would be displeased.
Vespewl turned to the two-dozen large Hackles standing at the ready to transport him wherever he wished.
“To the gates,” barked the Scourge.
The Hackles rushed forward and lifted the divan. Vespewl settled back, a wicked grin playing across his scaly maw. He enjoyed power.
“The giants cower within. They possess no army to defend their precious citadel,” shouted the High Priest Krin. “Honor your Master with their deaths, you scum. Grall!”
The huge trunk rushed forward.
BOOM!
The Hackles manning the ram cursed and swore under the weight of the massive weapon.
“Dirg!” called Krin.
The ram slowly withdrew from the gate.
“You work like lazy dogs! You are not fit to stand before the glory of Amird when he returns!” bellowed Krin. “GRALL!”
BOOM!
“Dirg!”
Krin watched the ram withdraw. He felt a trickle of water splash upon the stony crust of his head. The High Priest’s eyes shot to the empty causeway above. He studied its edge for signs of the giants. The ram swung back. The High Priest could see no one manning the battlements. His angry eyes shot back to the gate.
“Grall!”
BOOM!
“Dirg!” called Krin.
A cascade of water splashed down upon the High Priest. Fire flared in his eyes as he backed from the gate to get a better view of the battlements. He scanned the stone railing but spied no Keltaran. The Ulrog manning the ram relaxed. Their tool sagged toward the ground.
Vespewl looked up from the mountain goat he consumed within the luxury of his divan. The noise of the ram stopped. Why? His red eyes bore in on the High Priest Krin. The fool stood apart from his Hackles and searched the ramparts of Keltar. From his vantage point, Vespewl could easily see the unoccupied wall. The Malveel lord looked to the Ulrog manning the battering ram. They stood motionless. The weapon hung toward the ground. Annoyance rose within Vespewl. Grudgingly he raised himself from the divan and stalked up the valley toward the gate.
The ridiculousness of this Keltaran ploy mystified Krin. Why would they douse him with water when burning pitch would drive his Hackles from the gate? The High Priest sensed the silence surrounding him. His eyes shot to the Hackles manning the ram. They stared past him down the valley, apprehension in their stony faces. Krin filled with alarm and spun to face down the valley as well. Vespewl nearly bowled him over.
“What is the meaning of this, Krin?” drawled Vespewl sourly. “Why do you halt my work?”
Krin’s eyes widened with fear. He backed away quickly, bowing as he retreated.
“Apologies, my lord.” spluttered the priest.
He spun to the ram and its holders.
“You heard Lord Vespewl! Continue your work! Keep your own pace!” He added with menace.
The Hackles dug their flinty claws into the branch stumps protruding from the giant pine. Once again they slammed its massive weight into the gate. Vespewl moved closer. He truly enjoyed his power even though it required effort to enforce. His presence sent fear into the Hackles. He also enjoyed fear. The pounding increased in frequency.
BOOM!
“Our great sovereign demands the conquest of this jumble of stone,” growled Vespewl. “I intend to award him the city of Keltar upon his return to this world. “
Krin faced his master and doubled over in a deep bow.
“The giant’s city will be yours to give, my lord,” announced the High Priest. “This barrier is formidable, but it cannot stand against our will.”
Vespewl stared down at the high priest’s lowered head and a wicked smile played across his lips. When Amird restored this world to the power of Chaos, all would grovel at the feet of the Lord of Chaos and his chosen Malveel.
BOOM!
A cascade of water splashed down upon Krin’s head. The High Priest spun and glared to the ramparts.
“Do these simpletons intend to chase us off with buckets of water?” snapped the priest.
Vespewl stepped back from his subordinate and eyed the heights. Something was amiss here, but he could not puzzle it out.
BOOM!
A larger fall of water swept from the stone above and rained upon the priest and those Hackles nearest to him.
“Lay your backs into it, dogs!” howled Krin. “I will remove the heads of those Keltaran who mock us from above!”
Brother Shor used his staff to push his raft past the spire of the Monastery of Awoi. It was so strange to see his beloved home from such an angle. The crystal clear waters melting from the peaks of the Zorim Mountains allowed him to peer into their depths. Twenty yards below him sat the threshold of the monastery.
The monk smiled as he recalled the first day he arrived on that threshold. Shor stood and tugged on the bell, a parentless teen with the intent to ask for admittance to the order. He recalled his fear and astonishment as Prince Granu himself opened the heavy oak door and bowed low to Shor. The prince toiled as a novice in the order and performed all the lowly duties and tasks required of such rank. The prince led Shor before the old Abbot. The Abbott in turn ordered Granu to train the newcomer. Prince Granu and Shor shared quarters for nearly three years. Shor’s friend never spoke of his royal heritage and never used his power to avoid the tasks set before him. Shor followed the prince’s example and together they grew in faith and love in Avra.
A dull thud snapped Shor from his revelry. He turned to see a small wave arcing outward across the otherwise placid waters from where the gate of Keltar lay submerged. The wave rebounded off the facades of the buildings crowded about the gate, then pulsed back toward its origins and swept over the parapet wall.
Days before, that gate disappeared beneath the steadily rising waters
of the dammed Cleibruk, but Shor could clearly see Keltar’s entryway lying beneath the water. A second thud echoed through the water and another small wave pulsed from the gate only to return and spill over the wall again.
Shor turned back to the mountains behind Keltar and shoved off from the spire of the monastery. The buildings ahead lie higher out of the water due to the natural slope of the city. Near its northernmost point lay the stairway of Hrafnu’s stone lodge. The water crept up the first of its steps. General Olith stood near the lodge’s doorway, beckoning Shor to safety.
“We must hurry before the water fills the lower levels of the lodge,” called the general across the abandoned city. “After we enter the passageway, it must be closed and concealed behind us.”
Brother Shor piloted his raft above the rooftops of the submerged city.
BOOM!
Vespewl cocked his head as he backed further away from the gate and the great ram. Something unusual echoed in the sound of the iron head slamming into the great wooden gate. A large cascade of water crashed down upon the Hackles manning the siege weapon.
BOOM!
Depth. Weight. There lay the oddity. Certainly the masons of Keltar held a formidable reputation. This gate was of unparalleled strength. However, the ram should emit a hollow echo as it pounded on the shell of Keltar. This gate did not. It was as if the Ulrog slammed their weapon into a mountain wall. Vespewl stared at the heavy wooden surface bound tightly by steel bands, coated in inches of pitch and set tightly within granite confines. Why did he sense such power behind its surface?
BOOM!
Olith hurried down the stone stairway of Hrafnu’s lodge. Shor followed closely and soon the pair burst into the sleeping chamber of Grannak Stormbreaker. The smell of death lie heavy in the room and Brother Shor recoiled at its scent.
Olith had seen death before. He grew accustomed to its every aspect. However, the old general averted his eyes from the corpse of his brother. The murder of a father by a son was unnatural. The giant found it hard to stomach.
Olith moved to the wall opposite from where the king lay. The wall butted against the towering cliffs of the Zorim, the northern defense of the great mountain city. Olith laid his hands upon its smooth stone surface.
“Only the king and the leader of the Anvil were ever allowed knowledge of this passage,” stated Olith. “It was sealed for centuries.”
The general laid a shoulder into the stone surface and it slowly crept inward. Shor moved forward and added his weight to the task. A splash from behind drew their attention. Water spilled over the threshold of the room.
“The waters find their way into the city’s depths,” commented Olith. “We must enter then seal this opening tightly.”
In a moment the doorway swung wide enough for the pair to enter. Shor stepped through, but Olith hesitated.
“A moment,” muttered the general.
He turned and strode toward the resting place of his brother, Grannak. An armor stand, arrayed with the king’s mail and weapons, stood near the bed. Olith bowed his head before the corpse, turned to the stand and removed a giant sheathed blade. Quickly he whispered a prayer then followed Shor into the dark tunnel. Together the men tugged upon the inner handle and slowly the door crept shut. Its expertly crafted edges disappeared from view.
Shor took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the limited light within the tunnel. A lone torch resting thirty yards into the mountainside threw off a hazy glow. Olith immediately moved toward it.
“The others journey ahead,” stated Olith strapping the sword to his side. “We will catch them shortly.”
The leader of the Anvil removed the torch from its holder and the pair trekked along the passageway. Shor took a moment to inspect his surroundings. The tunnel appeared to be crudely excavated. Its four sides felt rough and irregular to his touch. Its surface glistened with the ground water that often collected in such subterranean places.
Broken rubble remained strewn about portions of its course. Shor found it impossible to avoid both icy puddles and ankle twisting lose stones, so he resigned himself to the fact of damp, cold feet for the rest of his journey.
After a short time the monk saw lights bobbing ahead of him. The orange glow of additional torches shimmered off the slick walls of the passage. Hushed voices and muffled footsteps echoed in the tunnel. Olith turned to Shor.
“I will leave you now, brother,” stated the general. “I charge you with keeping the stragglers on pace. I must hurry on and meet some of your order. I gave them a task and hope to help them fulfill it.”
The monk nodded his head.
“May Avra walk with you, Olith Stormbreaker.”
BOOM!
Vespewl moved away from the gates. The Malveel lord’s red eyes swept the battlements. Where had they gone, these giants? They were a proud people, fierce in the defense of their lands. They ferociously attacked any pack wandering too close to their stone citadel. However, for two days the Hackles could detect nary a hint of activity within the city. Had the giants resigned themselves so completely to their doom that they huddled within, consumed by fear and despair? He moved east along the face of the Keltaran wall.
BOOM! CRACK!
“Excellent,” thought Vespewl.
His ram began to affect those damned gates. It would not be long now. The jewel of the Zorim Mountains would be his. The Malveel smiled and continued his inspection of the citadel’s walls. He preferred the use of his divan, but in cases like these he enjoyed showing the Hackles what they most feared, an agitated Malveel lord, on the prowl for destruction.
Vespewl moved east. Water coated the surface of the city’s walls, glistening in the sunlight. He trod through deeper and wider puddles. They grew before his eyes. Their oily surfaces slid from one location to the next, flowing further east.
BOOM! GROAN!
Krin could manage the gate. Vespewl was intrigued. The Malveel lord followed the water’s progress down a gentle slope in front of the massive wall. He found himself staring at the large circular opening through which the waters of the Cliebruk exited the city. Where formerly a steady rush of water bubbled and swelled from beneath a heavy iron grate, now only a dribble of liquid slid between solid iron doors.
Vespewl spun and stared down the valley. A muddy, brown ribbon wound its way through the lush grasses then out of the valley through Hrafnu’s gorge. Instead of the pulse of a vibrant mountain stream, a sluggish trickle of water slipped past rock and bank. The meager amount of water oozing down the Cliebruk now came from these mysterious puddles which collected at the base of the wall and ....
BOOM! GROAN! CRACK!
Vespewl’s eyes shot back to the battlements. A heavy wave of water sloshed over the stone above and pounded the ground around the Malveel’s claws. A deep growl of hatred filled Vespewl’s belly and accusatory eyes locked on the dark tunnel that denied the Cliebruk its escape from Keltar.
Shor trudged on through a foot of ice-cold water. He never thought he would pray for the conquest of his beloved homeland, but if the Ulrog did not breach the gate soon the water would continue to rise. It poured from cracks and crevices lining the deep tunnel. Water crawled down the sloping floor from behind the remnants of the great exodus. Already Shor’s ankles and legs ached from the cold.
Shor surveyed the tail end of the Keltaran population fleeing the citadel. It seemed to be concentrated with both the very young and the very old. Small children struggled through the frigid water. An elderly couple clutching a few prize possessions shuffled along arm in arm. An old woman strove forward with a young boy cradled in her arms. A group of boys, too young for the military and too old to be in the charge of adults, wandered near the end of the procession with their heads hung low.
Brother Shor skirted the group of boys and laid a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. The youths’ heads rose at the sight of the Keltaran monk. The old woman turned, anxiety evident in her face.
“Give me the child, little woman,”
said the monk. “See to yourself. The child will be safe with me.”
Relief flooded the woman’s face. She nodded and passed the sleeping youth to Shor as the boys looked on.
“Thank you, brother,” exclaimed the woman. “My son fights in the battles with the Zodrians and the boy’s mother harvested in the valley when the Ulrog arrived. I have no other family to help me.”
Shor laid the sleeping child’s head on his shoulder.
“Of course you do, little woman,” replied Shor loud enough for the trailing boys to hear. “We are all children of Avra and thus one family. My lot may not lie with the army of Keltar, but I owe a duty to my people nonetheless and its import is no less significant. I will be your family and together we will traverse this dark road and exit into the light.”
The youths watched the stately figure of the monk take a small pack from the old woman and sling it over his shoulder. One of the larger boys immediately moved to the elderly couple and relieved them of their burdens, promising to stay close throughout the journey. Another smiled at a small girl whose cold feet caused tears to run down her cheeks. Within moments the young man lifted her onto his shoulders and they began a song.
Shor smiled and turned his attention to the old woman who chattered on about her grandson.
“... only three and already can do his numbers. Such a bright lad. Just like his grandfather, Ny, bless his soul. A smile and a laugh for anyone.”
“Three you say,” laughed Shor. “He is a big one for only three. What is he called?”
“He gets both his size and his name from his father,” laughed the old woman as she stroked the boy’s blond curls. “He is my precious Aul.”
Krin snarled with pleasure. Finally, the giant timbers began to yield. Vespewl had made the High Priest anxious by pacing back and forth before the gate. Now the lazy worm roamed along his soon to be conquered prize and Krin and his Hackles managed progress. It would not be long now.
The Mirror And The Maelstrom (Book 4) Page 2