Using his tree for leverage, Rogan swung around the trunk to get a better vantage as the Bone Man drew closer. He could see why the spirit had garnered such a name. White, ivory plates, resembling bones, gave the creature its anthropomorphic shape, though empty spaces gaped where many of the muscles and sinews should have been, and its head was anything but human.
Like a beast with eternally opened jaws, the face was threatening and somehow familiar. Curved horns jutted from the sides of the head, above absent ears. The entire entity was bathed in a pale glow – ivory outlined in black – except for what looked like a crimson jewel at the base of its neck…
The Bone Man approached Kerwin, who stood to face it, appearing confused as to whether to hold his ground or flee. Rogan was unsure what Lokitor was waiting for, but was thankful for whatever stayed his hand. They had misjudged what they were facing, and Rogan raised his hands to his ears, desperate to keep the archer from giving away their ambush. He knew no steel-tipped arrow could pierce the Bone Man’s protection.
Rogan recognized the menacing visage of the King-priest's helm, even though it had turned from dark to light, and remembered Palomar's suspicion their nemesis had acquired some of the Living Fire – rubies bearing the essence of the gods. This had to be Ebon Khorel in disguise, and his uril-chent armor was nigh impenetrable.
The Bone Man, surrounded by a persistent hum, halted twenty-or-so strides from Kerwin and the cart. Rogan muttered under his breath for Kerwin to run, willing him to escape while he could. He hated not being able to help, but the four of them together were no match for the armored King-priest. Giving away their positions would not only put them all in danger, it would erase any advantage in gathering further intelligence. If Kerwin did not decide to run, however, Rogan knew the others would eventually rush to his aid.
Kerwin faced the Bone Man, but started to slowly back away, fear getting the better of him. The Bone Man raised a hand, fingers outstretched, and put an end to that. Kerwin’s chest jerked outward as if drawn to the beckoning hand, and his head snapped back until his neck was stretched to capacity. Wicked-sounding words overlapped with the humming emanating from the Bone Man, to be subsequently joined by an outpouring fog. The mist coursed around the Bone Man in every direction, and Rogan instinctively backed up the hill a few steps at its approach.
Within seconds it enveloped Kerwin, and Rogan heard a hollow clank shortly after. The Bone Man lowered his hand and turned his head toward Lokitor’s hill, even as Kerwin’s body slumped to the ground. The fog began to dissipate, and Rogan held his breath to see what the King-priest did next.
Apparently Lokitor had enough discipline not to fire another arrow and keep himself hidden. After staring up the night-shaded hillside for a few moments, the Bone Man relented and retreated down the path the same direction he had come. An excruciatingly long wait ensued until the sickly glow had disappeared into the trees once more, and Merrick’s chalked hand flashed as he ran to check on Kerwin, who had not yet stood.
Rogan joined him, and he heard the snap of branches as Lokitor hustled down from his hiding spot as well. Merrick held Kerwin’s head in his hands, and though his eyes were half open, he was unresponsive to their commands to speak.
“Why did you wait to shoot?” Merrick nearly howled at Lokitor.
“Your friend here gave me the signal to hold!” he snapped back.
Merrick turned to Rogan. “Why did you do that?”
“You saw what happened when he did loose!” Rogan took a deliberate breath and cooled his tone. “I realized we were dealing with the King-priest.”
“What?” Merrick and Lokitor asked in unison.
“The Bone Man and the King-priest are one. He’s been infecting his enemies with this accursed plague.” Realizing what he just said, Rogan stood and backed away from Kerwin. “You shouldn’t touch him.”
“What are you talking about?” Merrick retorted. “He needs help.”
“He could infect all of us.”
Lokitor looked from Rogan to Merrick, and took a step back as well. “He is right.”
“I am not going to abandon Kerwin.” Merrick stayed where he was, his friend’s head balanced in his careful hands.
“Well, none of us should go to Twin Pikes now. That much is sure. And we should stay away from anyone else for a few days at least, until it is clear whether we are infected.” Rogan looked back down the trail the King-priest had taken. “I am sorry to leave under these circumstances, but we might have an opportunity here, and I want to seize it. If I am right, the King-priest of Chelpa was just in our midst, alone and unguarded. He must have some place close to take refuge. I am going to try and track him.”
Rogan paused for a second to let his words sink in, but could not afford to waste any more time. Both men remained still and speechless. At last he just nodded, adding, “I hope he is all right.” He rubbed his palms together to wipe the dust off as he jogged east, looking for the spot where the King-priest broke off the path.
“Good fortune, Baron,” came from behind, though he did not spare the time to acknowledge it. He spotted a promising gap in the trees lying at the base of two hills and followed it north, keeping his eyes peeled for any footprints in the moonlight. If he correctly guessed the Bone Man’s identity, his uril-chent armor should have left some sign of passage in the softer earth. He made good time following the path of least resistance, and was rewarded several minutes later by catching a glimpse of the pale, white glow vanishing behind a rise ahead of him.
Rogan slowed his pace, desiring both stealth and perception once he spotted his mark. Just because the King-priest had approached the town alone did not mean reinforcements were not close by. He stayed close enough to keep the glow in sight, and followed for half an hour more before the ghostly light suddenly vanished.
He froze, frantic that he might have lost Ebon Khorel, and worried that the King-priest may have become aware of being followed. His mind was screaming the danger, but he knew his only choices were to run ahead in hopes of recovering visual contact, or abandoning the hunt altogether. For Riah, he thought, and broke into a sprint.
Ten seconds later he reached the spot he had last seen the light and stopped, his head swiveling to find any sign of the King-priest. He was in the last valley before the hills rose even higher to the edge of the Firewall Mountains. Yet, something was odd. To the north and south sparse trees and other vegetation continued to pepper the landscape, their leaves and branches highlighted by the green and blue tints of Criesha and Hurn, the companion moons. Yet to the east, between him and the mountains, nothing at all caught the moonlight, as if a great pocket of shadow hung over the land.
Rogan had no idea what to make of it, but then he got the break he needed. Something that had just been out of view did reflect the moonlight, and it was moving. Rogan dropped to one knee, reducing his own silhouette in case anyone was watching. Sure enough, as the clouds broke away from the green moon, enough light shone down that he could clearly denote a metal object passing through the valley, heading directly for the void of shadow. When it reached the edge and passed beyond, the reflection disappeared completely.
Dark, powerful magic was at work, and Rogan’s doubt swelled again, shouting from within to turn back or rue the consequences. His thoughts shifted instead to the image of what he believed to be his son, straight from his dream the night before. What was it trying to tell him? Perhaps the truth he already knew – that finding his son would mean little if the King-priest continued to rule. He could not raise Dominic as he should, so long as they were living under the oppression of the Dread Tyrant. Rogan buried his fear and continued toward the cloud of shadow.
When he drew close he could hear muffled sounds from within, but they were irregular and distant, and he could not identify them. He examined the shadow in either direction for clues, though no obvious reason existed to favor one spot over another for entry. In fact, the entire surface of the mass seemed to be swimming this way and that, devoid of any pattern.
With a final exhalation, he drew his saber and dagger and stepped into the veil of swirling darkness.
Rogan passed through instantly, and the other side revealed a sprawling encampment. Hidden from the outside world, he guessed the inhabitants numbered in the thousands. No moon or starlight penetrated the shadow, but plenty enough torches burned to see by. Rogan’s first thought was to hide and hope he had not been spotted entering the camp.
Ducking behind a siege engine, with wooden wheels nearly as tall as him, Rogan peeked around its frame to get an idea of the camp’s layout. Though the hour was late, plenty of soldiers still walked about: tending fires, feeding animals, and delivering messages. A deep, sustained moan caught his attention, and he followed the sound to a huge enclosure, where a many-headed reptilian creature was penned. The hydra that had attacked Jaiden, he presumed. Taking stock of its numerous, tooth-filled maws, Rogan gained more respect for the young knight’s bravery.
Other ferocious creatures populated nearby pens, though none as massive as the hydra. The tents seemed to stretch on endlessly, and it occurred to him that, this close to the border, the army could only be headed in one direction – back to the Northern Provinces. The King-priest obviously meant to finish the conquest they interrupted by releasing the Dampers from Blackthorn.
With no one aware of his presence or close to his position, Rogan sheathed his saber and began climbing the pitch-thrower to get a better view. From astride the engine, he searched the select tents flying banners for the royal emblem. He finally found it – a large crimson pavilion, curiously far from the center of the camp. Two guards were posted at its mouth, dressed in sleek, black armor, unlike any he had ever seen – except once.
He would have to move closer to be sure, but they looked very much like the uril-chent statues he found in the secret torture chamber at Hope’s End. Rogan watched for a few moments to see if either guard moved, but not so much as a twitch was noticeable. Perhaps they were statues, after all. Still, he decided it safer to approach from behind and try to worm his way under the tent.
As stealthily as he could manage, Rogan climbed down from the siege engine and tracked his way around the edge of the camp. He remained within the dome of shadow to maintain his bearings, but kept his dagger drawn to benefit from the deeper darkness it created. Sneaking from cover to cover, it appeared the army was mostly bedded within its shelters, and those still awake did not perceive any threat. No doubt they trusted in the protection of their King-priest, and the cruel god he bade them worship.
He hoped Ebon Khorel retired as soon as possible after a late night – his attempt would be much easier if the King-priest was sleeping. After checking once more to make sure no one was approaching, Rogan set to work severing a few of the cords keeping the tent staked to the ground. With a satisfying snap they gave way to his dagger, allowing enough give in the thick canvas for him to pull up a section and wiggle underneath on his back. Although he moved as quietly and quickly as possible, his passage still disturbed the structure he infiltrated. He thought he heard the scrape of metal when he was through to his waist, and instinctively froze to listen closer.
The inside of the tent was almost completely dark, though a faint red glow above and behind him gave his eyes some light to work with. A faint, strange hiss, followed by muted footsteps, was all Rogan needed to hear to abandon stealth for quickness.
He pulled his legs through the loosened tent wall and hastily rolled over, tucking his knees underneath him in preparation to leap. A wide, raised bed stood an arm’s length to his right, and around its edge one of the uril-chent statues, its eye-slit animated by hateful red flame, stepped to engage him. It held the metal shaft of a cruel-looking spear, with serrated blades, capable of slicing through leather and flesh, dipping below the pointed head.
The King-priest lay face-up on the bed, still sleeping, the Living Fire jewel embedded on a pendant around his bare neck, bathing his chest in a warm glow. Rogan decided to strike quickly and end the war with one plunge of his dagger, even if it meant paying the ultimate price. He twisted slightly on his feet and his calves tightened as he started to pounce onto the bed.
The statue was deceptively quick, however, and thrust his weapon forward to skewer Rogan mid-jump. He slammed his left foot down in a struggling effort to reverse his momentum. The exertion elicited a groan, and his forearm still caught one of the serrated blades, drawing blood from a gash just below his elbow. He also lost his balance and tumbled downward, crashing into the side of the wooden bed frame.
The living statue spared him no time to recover. The blade whistled in a downward arc to finish him, and Rogan had to roll away from the bed to evade it. He pushed himself to his feet, adrenaline fueling his muscles and sharpening his already acute reflexes. He caught the King-priest moving from the corner of his eye, and the statue coiled back with his spear, looking for his next opportunity to strike.
Rogan knew his own opportunity had slipped. He had no idea how to overcome an enemy made of metal with only his dagger, and the chanting to his right signaled the oncoming threat of magic. He feinted forward, causing his opponent to rock back on its heels, then swiftly turned and charged the side of the tent, plunging his dagger into the canvas and yanking down with all his might. He created just enough of a hole to grab the edges and dive through.
His spill to the ground outside knocked the breath from him, but he had no choice other than to climb to his feet, still gasping for air. Without looking back, he ran toward the edge of the shadow veil, trying to escape from sight before anyone emerged from the tent or brought other soldiers to attention. He passed through the smoky barrier and broke west, struggling to breathe as he ran, but not allowing himself to stop.
Rogan sprinted until his legs burned and he thought he would pass out from lack of air, and then pushed a while longer. He hoped the night would hide him, or that their desire to stay hidden would keep his foes from pursuing overlong. He thought of his failure as he ran, how close he had come to achieving his goal, only to fall short at the moment of truth. His anger fueled him, but finally, back in the hills, he nearly collapsed from exhaustion. Then another thought consumed him – he had to warn Sir Golddrake and the others.
They likely had no idea how close to the border this massive army was, nor the additional threats mounted against them. Facing such enemies would be difficult enough – to be taken by surprise would be catastrophic. Saffron and Dhania would be at risk. So would Palomar and the rest of the Order. The quest to locate his son would have to wait a little longer. Rogan needed to find his horse.
Chapter 29
Call to Arms
A murel could always count on the solemnity of the Goddess’s sacred Caves to reveal her voice. She filled his dreams the very first night they arrived.
In his vision he lay in a bed of thick, soft grass atop a hill. The night sky stretched above him, but a clear shaft of green moonlight illuminated his body. A black serpent wound around his feet and slowly slid up his legs, but Amurel was not afraid. The snake was shedding its skin, and as it travelled along his limbs, he felt them grow strong and healthy. Criesha’s voice drifted down, filling him with a sense of peace. “You have served me well, Amurel,” she said. “You will usher the Order toward a new beginning, and your service will not be forgotten.”
He awoke with his faith and confidence replenished. Amurel was used to deciphering the sometimes-cryptic purposes behind Criesha’s visits, but this time her message seemed clear – he would accomplish great things and be remembered for his deeds. He assumed that meant he would be victorious in the inevitable conflict to come. What’s more, her return to his dreams assured him he was still in her good graces, even if her last appearance seemed a distant memory.
The journey up the narrow, steep path to the Caves had been taxing, especially with all the supplies. But after the painstaking climb, the Order’s armories and larders were full once again, with more stores in reserve than before. Amurel’s vigor was restored wit
h sleep and the breath of his Goddess, and he knew the trek was the right decision.
When they had cut west from the Dawn Way to make for the Caves, Amurel sent a scout and engineer ahead to the ruins of Halidor to assess what steps could be taken to return the fortress into service, if only as a defensible outpost. He felt sure the King-priest would return to finish what he started in the Northern Provinces – it was simply a matter of time – and he would prefer to face the enemy at a natural chokepoint, such as the convergence of the Wyvernwatch and Firewall Mountains.
Amurel planned to meet his delegates on the road further south, allowing time for full consideration of the project. He was surprised to see three riders ascending toward the Caves on merely the second day of unloading and organizing their stock. A look-out notified him of the approach, and as he peered down from the edge of the stone steps, Sir Kilborn beside him, they tried to ascertain the identity of the third man.
It would have taken the scouts at least this long just to reach the fortress of Halidor, so they could not have made it there and back already. Yet, these were his men. As the riders drew closer, Amurel identified the black and scarlet armored leather at almost the exact moment Sir Kilborn confirmed, “It’s the Baron.”
Recalling their parting at Selamus, Amurel took it as a bad omen that Rogan had so quickly abandoned his plans. “No doubt they rode hard; let us make sure to have a hot supper ready when they arrive.”
“Aye,” responded Sir Kilborn. “Should I alert Lady Saffron?”
“Not directly,” he decided. Though self-indulgent, he had heard rumors about why Rogan actually left the capital, and wanted to make an assessment on his own by bearing witness to the reunion. He worried whether his friends would be able to work together effectively going forward.
“I have preparations to make. Please ask Saffron to join me in the deep meeting chamber. It is probably time we all sat down to discuss our upcoming deployments.” Amurel took a couple, uneven steps in that direction, the click of his cane striking the rock giving a false sense of his determination. He stopped and added, “Greet the returning party personally, my friend, and bring them as soon as they are able.”
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