Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  If the priestesses knew that Agravhask was a Herald of Ruin, a servant of the Warden, they would turn on him. But there was no way to prove it. Agravhask kept his Mark of the Herald concealed, and none of them knew that the Warden had forged Shieldruin. All the priestesses knew of the Warden, of course – the Seven Temples gave their novices a comprehensive education – but to them, the Warden was almost a mythical figure, distant and remote. The ruling urdmordar of the Heptarchy might have listened to Morigna’s warnings, but it was far more likely they would have simply killed and eaten her on the spot.

  No, if Morigna was going to kill Agravhask, she had do it herself. Swiftly, cleanly, and quickly, without warning. With the Warlord dead, the great army would disintegrate into a thousand squabbling bands, and the invasion might fail.

  Morigna would have one chance to get it right.

  In the middle of the night, with only two moons in the sky, Morigna crept across the deck, wrapped in her most powerful spell of obscuring. She could not hold it for long – it took the full power of her Guardian’s mantle to maintain it – but it would last long enough. In her right hand, she carried a slender stiletto, long and deadly sharp.

  She would drive it through Agravhask’s eye and into his brain, and that would be that.

  Morigna came to the rear deck of the ship. Four Chosen Guards stood there, like crimson statues in their red armor, and Morigna feared that their third eyes could pierce her spell. But they gave no reaction, and she eased past them.

  Agravhask customarily slept on the deck between the two rear-mounted catapults. The Warlord showed utter contempt for comfort and subjected himself to the same privations as the common soldiers. For their part, the arachar orcs were in awe of him. Word of Agravhask’s various judgments had spread through the army, and as far as the soldiers were concerned, Agravhask’s voice was the will of the seven goddesses themselves, much to the annoyance of the priestesses.

  The Warlord lay sleeping between the two catapults, clad only in his trousers. His armor rested stacked against the catapult on his left, and Shieldruin in its scabbard was near his right hand. Morigna took cautious steps forward. She would have to be quick. One swift, sure stab. Morigna didn’t know if the Warlord would make any noise when he died, and she would have to exploit the chaos caused by his death…

  She was six paces away when Agravhask sat up, his hand curling around Shieldruin’s hilt.

  “I know that you are there,” he said, his voice quiet. His black eyes were like pits into the black places between the world, darker than the night sky or the depths of the ocean.

  Morigna froze, fighting back a sudden wave of panic. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t possibly see her. If he could see her, she would already be dead.

  “I wondered, at first,” said Agravhask, as if they were having a conversation over a cup of wine, “if you were one of the priestesses. But that was unlikely. You see, the priestesses would rather complain instead of taking action themselves. A common failing in those accustomed to studying rather than fighting. Who instead could you be?”

  Morigna took several slow steps back, her eyes fixed on Agravhask.

  “A spy, most likely,” said Agravhask. The Warlord rose to his feet. Given his muscled bulk, it was disconcerting how graceful he was. “Dispatched from the last remaining city of the high elves north of Andomhaim, I believe. The threefold law of the high elves forbids them from acting without invitation. I admire their dedication to an ideal, even if it is misguided. Instead of acting, they appoint Guardians to act on their behalf. Valiant of you to have come this far, but futile in the end.”

  Morigna said nothing, her heart hammering against her ribs. He knew of the high elves? The Warden must have told him a great many secrets. She knew the Heralds had spent years in Urd Morlemoch, studying at the feet of their dark master.

  But the Warden couldn’t have known that Morigna had come here.

  Agravhask had worked that out without any help.

  “Come, Guardian,” said Agravhask. “Do you not wish to learn the truth? The final secret?”

  Morigna took another long step back, feeling her grip on the concealment spell starting to waver. She couldn’t hold it for much longer.

  “Regrettable,” said Agravhask, and he looked up.

  Morigna took another hasty step back, and that was the only thing that saved her life.

  Something dark and heavy fell from the sky. It tugged at Morigna’s outstretched arm, knocking the stiletto from her hand. Ropes brushed her arm, and she saw a weighted net spread across the deck in front of her. She risked a glance up and saw a half-dozen Azrikai halflings perched on one of the spars of the mast. They had been hidden there, waiting to throw the net.

  Her last backward step had just barely kept her out of the net’s reach.

  Agravhask exploded into motion. Shieldruin swept from its scabbard, the crimson blade glinting in the dim moonlight. Morigna had learned enough about dark soulblades to realize that they started out solid black but grew redder as their bearers claimed the lives of more victims.

  Agravhask’s sword was a solid red, the color of blood, and it erupted into howling crimson flames.

  He knew exactly where Morigna was. She was still invisible, but the damned net was hanging off the end of her arm. Agravhask was already swinging when Morigna threw herself backward. The tip of the dark soulblade missed her face by perhaps an inch, blurring so close to her that Morigna felt the breeze of the sword’s passage.

  There was nothing else to do. She whirled and fled, darting past the Chosen Guards and racing down the stairs to the middle deck. Morigna hurried back into the quarters reserved for priestesses, dropped her concealment spell, and wrapped herself in the illusionary guise of the Priestess Masrivia of the Temple of the Crimson.

  She lay down on her bunk, shivering with fatigue and reaction, and waited for Agravhask to search the ship, trying to plan a way to escape before he found her.

  But nothing happened.

  The next day arrived, and Morigna went onto the deck, attending Taztaloria as she gazed at the sea. Not that the High Priestess had anything for Morigna to do. All the actual work of sailing, the sort of thing a spiderling priestess would not lower herself to do, was in the hands of the arachar soldiers and the Azrikai halflings. But the Seven Temples had a strong hierarchy, and a lesser priestess like Masrivia was expected to attend to her superiors.

  Morigna kept an eye on Agravhask as she made respectful answers to Taztaloria’s idle comments. The Warlord started his day as he always did, with weapons practice against five or six opponents. They should have overcome him easily, but Agravhask bested them all over three bouts. The common soldiers, for their part, knew not to hold back against the Warlord, for they would earn his displeasure if they tried anything less than their absolute best. That was another reason the arachar orcs held their commander in awe.

  After the practice bouts, the Azrikai engineers helped Agravhask don his armor, and he met with his chief commanders and captains. Under other circumstances, Morigna would have found his diligence impressive. Now it only alarmed her. No detail seemed too small or obscure to escape Agravhask’s notice, and under his iron hand, the army of the Heptarchy would be a lethal force.

  After the council finished, Agravhask began moving along the ship, speaking with the various priestesses and their Ordinariate attendants. They seemed puzzled and slightly offended that he would address them, but the priestesses answered his questions. For the most part, he was asking them about various nations and cities of the Heptarchy, inquiring after details. It was almost as if he was making idle conversation, and the spiderling priestesses and their kyralf Ordinariates were too frightened of the Warlord not to answer and baffled and relieved when he moved on.

  But Morigna knew it was not idle conversation.

  She realized that Agravhask had deduced that the “spy” was disguised as either a priestess or an Ordinariate of the Seven Temples. Both the priestesses and t
he Ordinariates were well-educated, familiar with the Heptarchy, and could speak several of the native languages. Morigna’s knowledge of the Heptarchy was not deep. If Agravhask caught her in a lie, if he tripped her up, he would realize that she wasn’t Masrivia the priestess.

  Then he would kill her.

  Or if Taztaloria and Mayascora realized that Morigna wasn’t what she appeared to be, they might investigate and discover the truth. They would kill Morigna…or they would try to take her alive.

  Dying (again) would be preferable to what the priestesses would do to her if they took her prisoner.

  She needed to get off this ship. Today.

  Morigna racked her brains, trying to think of a plan.

  And then an opportunity came her way.

  Taztaloria was commenting on the weather, wondering if they had snow in Andomhaim. Morigna was just about to answer when she saw the High Priestess Mayascora storming towards them, her expression thunderous. Taztaloria fell silent, and both she and Morigna bowed to Mayascora.

  “High Priestess,” said Taztaloria. “How may we serve?”

  “It is egregious,” snarled Mayascora, grasping the railing. She was so angry that her crimson claws emerged from her fingers, digging splinters from the wood.

  “The Warlord has been unusually…talkative today,” ventured Taztaloria.

  “I am not talking about the Warlord,” said Mayascora. “The High Priestess of the Temple of the Famine presumed to send me a letter.” The Famine was the title of another of the seven urdmordar. Evidently, she had earned the title from her preferred method of dealing with rebels, which was to besiege their cities until the food ran out, and in their desperation, they resorted to cannibalism. Only then did the Famine capture and devour some of the prisoners – she seemed to think that dining upon those who had killed and eaten their fellows was a particular delicacy. “She claims that the Temple of the Famine will take the lead in converting the humans of Andomhaim to the worship of the Seven Goddesses.”

  “Ah,” said Taztaloria, who wasn’t nearly as excitable as her superior. “It was my understanding that the Temples of the Crimson and the Viridian were to oversee the destruction of the church of Andomhaim and the conversion of the humans to the Seven Goddesses.”

  “We are,” growled Mayascora. “We shall. The priestesses of the Famine? They will starve nine-tenths of Andomhaim and think the surviving ten a suitable devotion to the goddesses. Fools! We are to gather new subjects to serve the goddesses, not present them with corpses.”

  “The Warlord could rebuke them,” said Taztaloria.

  “The Warlord!” said Mayascora. “This is a matter for the servants of the goddesses, not that…that…” She just stopped herself from an insult. “For that soldier. No. I shall send a letter at once rebuking the High Priestess of the Famine. Let her know her place.”

  “I will carry it for you,” said Taztaloria.

  A plan flashed through Morigna’s mind.

  “Forgive me, High Priestesses, for my presumption,” said Morigna, “but perhaps it will attain your purpose if I carry the letter for you.”

  “You, sister?” said Mayascora. She looked more amused than annoyed. “You only have the rank of a priestess of the third tier. You would be a far too lowly messenger to approach the High Priestess of the Famine.”

  “The High Priestess is correct,” said Morigna. “But let my lowliness be a tool in your service. By sending a messenger of such low rank to the High Priestess of the Famine, you will convey just how little you think of her presumption.”

  Mayascora and Taztaloria shared a look. Neither of the women liked each other very much, but they did work together well.

  “The idea has merit,” said Taztaloria.

  “Yes.” Mayascora nodded. “Yes, you have persuaded me. Prepare yourself, sister. I shall draft a letter, and you will deliver it to the High Priestess of the Famine.” Her face spread in a wide smile, the tips of her retracted pincers just visible within her mouth. “The withered old bitch will be furious. Be sure to give me a complete report of her reaction when you return. Omit no detail.”

  “It shall be as the High Priestess commands,” said Morigna.

  A short time later Morigna stood at the flagship’s railing, holding the sealed scroll of Mayascora’s letter as four arachar orcs maneuvered one of the warship’s longboats into position. Morigna resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, fearing that she would see Agravhask coming towards her with Shieldruin in hand. Surely the Warlord had realized that she was about to flee the ship.

  But even Agravhask was not omniscient, and Morigna and the four soldiers boarded the longboat without incident. Other arachar orcs lowered the longboat to the water, and the soldiers readied the oars.

  “Where does the revered priestess wish to go?” said the senior of the four orcs. His expression was solemn behind his tusks. He had the respectful, wary mien soldiers usually displayed around someone important they did not wish to offend.

  “To the flagship’s starboard escort squadron,” said Morigna. “Hasten! The work of the goddesses must not be delayed!”

  “Yes, priestess,” said the orc. They untied the lines, and soon four oars lashed at the sea, driving the boat forward. Fortunately, the longboats were a common sight, hurrying back and forth between the vessels of the Heptarchy fleet. The priestesses were forever sending messages to each other, and the boats also held Agravhask’s commanders as they carried out his instructions. Agravhask himself frequently left the flagship to bring his personal attention to any problems.

  They circled around the stern of the flagship and headed east. They passed the massive transport ships, their huge sails rising like clouds, and came to the flagship’s escort. Most of the Heptarchy fleet was made up of either large warships like Agravhask’s flagship or the immense transport ships that carried soldiers and supplies. But many of the smaller ships were different – shallow-drafted longships without lower decks, their sterns and bows high, their single masts supporting massive sails. The most skilled sailors among the Heptarchy orcs were given those smaller ships. After the fall of the Isle of Kordain, Agravhask had used the small ships to scout along the coast of Andomhaim, mapping the shore for his impending invasion. The raiders had been given instructions not to leave any witnesses behind. Morigna shuddered to think of how many innocent lives had been taken.

  Of course, not all the raiders had returned. Some warning of the red orcs must have reached the ears of High King Arandar. And the massive failed attack on Cintarra would have warned him as well. Though Agravhask had managed to turn even that to his advantage. Mayascora had insisted upon the attack, and knowing that it would fail, Agravhask had loaded the chosen warships with the soldiers and priestesses most loyal to the Seven Temples. They had been slaughtered, as Agravhask had foreseen, and Cintarra had been weakened in the process.

  Morigna shoved the speculations out of her head. She needed to focus on survival now, on living long enough to warn Andomhaim of what was about to happen.

  “Which vessel, priestess?” grunted the senior orc, sweat on his brow. The wind was strong, and the men had to row hard to keep up with the ships.

  “That one,” said Morigna, pointing. “My message is for that one. Hasten, soldier.”

  “As you will, priestess,” said the orc, wheezing a little, but neither he nor the other four men slowed their efforts.

  Soon the boat approached one of the longships. The ship’s captain, seeing a woman in the robes of a priestess, hastened to the rail. The boat pulled up alongside the ship, ropes were thrown over and tied, and Morigna boarded.

  “You are finished here,” said Morigna to the orcs in the longboat. “Return to the flagship at once.” The fewer arachar orcs she had to deal with, the better. The soldiers untied the longboat from the ship and put their oars back into the water, heading back to the flagship.

  “I am at your disposal, priestess,” said the captain. He wore only a pair of trousers and a ragged tuni
c. Like most sailors, he disdained the use of shoes, and the crimson skin of his feet was hard with years of calluses.

  “You will proceed north at full speed, captain,” instructed Morigna. “The Warlord has given us a special task. I will give you further instructions once we make landfall.”

  “As you command, priestess,” said the captain. He snarled orders, and the arachar orcs sprang into motion, unlimbering the oars and sliding them into the water as they seated themselves on the benches. With its low draft, relatively light weight, and massive sail, the arachar could propel the longship forward with great speed. They would soon outpace the rest of the fleet. Morigna felt a flicker of admiration for their skill.

  But if they knew who she really was, they would kill her at once. And if they reached Andomhaim with the rest of Agravhask’s army – when they reached Andomhaim – those soldiers would butcher anyone in their path. The priestesses of the Famine would have starved nine-tenths of Andomhaim to convert the remaining tenth. Even Mayascora’s relatively milder plans would still kill a lot of people.

  And even that was nothing compared to what the Heralds of Ruin would do if they opened the Great Eye for the Warden.

  Morigna leaned against the rail as the ship sped north, gathering her strength for what she needed to do next.

  ***

  Chapter 11: The Invasion

  “All is in readiness, Warlord,” said Tuldrask. The scarred arachar orc stood stiffly at attention on Agravhask’s right side, his face impassive behind his tusks. His weathered face was a map of old scars, one of which had left the right side out of his mouth locked in a permanent sneer. “I have spoken with the subcommanders and the commanders of the thousands. Barring the expected losses from illness and accident, all thousands are ready to strike. I expect we shall be able to make landfall within another two days, four at the most if the weather changes.”