“Let’s tie together, then,” Yen said as he pulled out a coil of thin line. “I don’t want anyone getting lost. We’ve only got one Starstone to get home with."
“Perhaps I should hold the Starstone in case—” Shay said.
“No!” Feldspar slapped Shay’s hand away. “You’ve got enough magic gems in your pockets, and you’re still not thinking it through. You may think you’re powerful with those cornerstones, but you’re still a child when it comes to real magic. It’s no accident that the most powerful wizards are old; it takes decades to master the subtleties, the nuances. For an elf, or even a half elf, you’re barely out of boy’s breeches.”
The stunned look on Shay’s face was almost comical, but Feldspar didn’t prolong the awkward moment. Taking his place once more in line, he waved to Shay to continue.
The abashed half-elf waited until everyone was tied together. Then, with an obstinate glance toward Feldspar, Shay extracted the emerald cornerstone from his pocket. Holding the gem in one hand, he rolled a bit of wool in his other hand while softly chanting his incantation, then applied the now-shimmering wool to their eyelids. One by one, they faded from view.
“Hang on!” DoHeney said as the smaller boats raced toward the dwarven ship. “Not yet...almost there.” He wiped his palms on his pants and hoped that his troops couldn’t see the nervous sweat running down his neck.
"FIRE!" he bellowed, then watched as the catapult hurled a flaming ball of sulfur, pitch and tar that splashed against the prow of one of the enemy-laden boats. The vessel, which appeared to be built of some type of dark wood, burst into flames. A ragged cheer from the dwarves was echoed by the horrible screams of the burning foe, many of whom plunged overboard to quench the flames. But another boat cruised through the wreckage, straight at them. A collision was imminent. DoHeney snatched up his axe and glanced at his troops. The dwarves stood grim and ready; all anxiety at being asea had disappeared.
The iron-shod prow of the enemy boat squealed and threw sparks as it scraped against the stone hull of DoHeney's Dream, then snapped off, shattering the smaller craft's bow. The boat began to sink, but not before its warriors swarmed over the side of the dwarven ship. DoHeney’s glimpse of the doomed boat sickened him; the oars were manned by chained slaves who screamed as they were pulled beneath the dark waters.
The dwarves repelled the boarders with hammers and axes, while a hail of crossbow bolts flew overhead toward the rest of the oncoming boats. But the warriors of the city of the Dark Gods dealt as good as they received.
"Priest!" DoHeney bellowed as he knelt to staunch the flow of blood from a deep gash in a comrade's arm. A priestess hurried over, avoiding the knots of battle, and took charge of the patient. She stopped the bleeding with a quick prayer and bandaged the arm, then sent the soldier to the back of the ship. Turning, she held her fingers to the neck of a dwarf who had been jumped by three of the dark warriors, and who now lay on the deck covered in blood. Looking up to DoHeney, she shook her head, then rushed off to help another.
DoHeney’s heart fell to his feet as he gazed at the dead dwarf. DruFenly, a jeweler of particular merit, whose two wee girls would someday have the dwarf lads fighting over them, they were so pretty. But now their father wouldn’t be present at their joining ceremonies. Tears burned his eyes, but he had no time to grieve now.
"Git that thrower back in line!" he raged, diverting his remorse into anger. "Aim fer the larger boats. Make every shot count! Prael, keep her sails full! We need some speed!"
Dark boats swooped down on DoHeney’s Dream like vultures gathering to feast on a carcass. The larger vessel plowed right over many of the smaller craft, but each disgorged a squad of fighters before it sank. They were fully engaged now, and DoHeney knew it would get worse before it got any better.
"So it is decided," Koyrull said as she looked around at the other mediators, "the lands south of the great desert and west of the bitter sea shall be governed by a new mediator chosen from the city of Mezzerokesh. And all lands east of the bitter sea will belong to Trokk Nour. The exact borders of these lands will be decided when the surface is actually surveyed, since our maps may be in error. Are we agreed? Good!" she said in response to the six nodding heads. "Now we must discuss—"
The bang of the thick stone doors of the chamber against the walls cut her words short, and she glared at the haggard messenger who rushed in. He knelt before the group, gasping breaths until he could speak.
"This had better be good, Draemer," growled Koyrull at the messenger, a young noble from Xerro Kensho.
"Forgive my intrusion, Mediators," Draemer puffed, his shoulders heaving with each labored breath. "There is trouble in the citadel. An intrusion from outside the shield."
"What?"
"Impossible!"
"How was the shield broached?"
Koyrull waved for silence. "How many?"
"One dragon, Mediator, and many drakoll. The portals outside the city have already been destroyed! Xerro Kensho is short of soldiers, and we are required to request permission before guards from one sector are allowed to enter another."
"What do you mean, we lack guards!" Koyrull raged as she surged around the table. "Where are the guards?"
"Matriarch Darkmist!" said the messenger quickly as he flinched away from her. "She requested two score, and we discovered that they were used as sacrifices."
“Calmarel?” she asked uncertainly. “That is not much of a task from the Dark Gods, to sacrifice mere soldiers.”
“Not Matriarch Calmarel Darkmist,” the messenger explained. “Matriarch Lysethra Darkmist.”
“Lysethra!” Koyrull’s confusion mounted. She expected something like this from Calmarel, but she had thought she had Lysethra well in hand. “And where is Lysethra Darkmist now?”
“In the Xerro Kensho temple of Xakra,” Draemer answered. “She’s requested that no one enter the temple until she says otherwise.”
"Oh, she has, has she?" Koyrull seethed. She spun back toward the other mediators. "I suggest that we each see to security in our own sectors. I need ten guards from each of the two adjoining sectors to supplement my apparently depleted supply. If these creatures get into the core, they may present a danger to the entire citadel. Draemer, gather my council and have them meet me at Xakra's temple. I will coordinate my troops from there."
CHAPTER 33
Calmarel slowed her pace as she approached the closed doors of the temple. Another squad of guards ran by, but she ignored them.
“Go fight the little dragon-men,” she murmured, “just keep them away.” Her ascension was nigh, and she had no intention of allowing an incursion of Draco’s minions to interfere. She just hoped that Lysethra had commandeered her selection of sacrificial guards before they all ran off to fight. She glanced down to the swaddled bundle in her arms, smiled, and took a deep breath. Gripping the handle of her flail, she pulled open the doors and entered.
Lysethra was kneeling before the sacrificial altar, her back to the door. In front of her was a golden bowl brimming with hearts; mutilated corpses were piled in the shadows beside the altar. Calmarel twisted her face in annoyance. She’s already started, she thought, even though she knows how much I enjoy the sacrifices. Grudgingly she admitted that it had taken her a long while to get here. At least she hasn’t made the offering yet. She glanced up at the looming statue of Xakra and felt her heart swell with pride. I come to consecrate my daughter to you, almighty Xakra. She will serve you as I have served you. She closed the doors with a discreet thump and stepped forward.
"Calmarel!" Lysethra cried as she rose, turned and hurried to her, her lips parted in a wide smile. "You received my message. Oh, this will please the Queen of Webs immensely!" Her smile faltered and she stopped a few feet away, eying the flail in her sister’s grasp. “What is that for?”
Calmarel widened her eyes. “Haven’t you seen the guards running around? Some little dragons breached the shield, and I thought it best to be prepared in case any
gained access to the citadel itself. Actually, I’m surprised the mediator allowed you so many guards for sacrifice until the situation resolved.”
A startled looked washed over Lysethra’s face, then flowed away as she said, “I didn’t know there were intruders. I am sure there are sufficient soldiers to deal with it. The mediator regrets that she could not be here—she’ll be away from the sector for several days—but she considers the consecration a priority, so let’s get started. I thought to have all the tedious work completed before you arrived, so we could move right on to presenting the offering to Xakra.” She waved her hand toward the corpses. “Your timing is perfect; I just finished.” She looked at the bundle in Calmarel’s arm and smiled. “How is our little heir doing? Well, I hope.”
“She thrives,” Calmarel declared, returning her sister’s smile. She relaxed; all seemed well.
Lysethra glanced over Calmarel’s shoulder and cocked her head. “Cal! Where is your favorite pet? Finally tiring of him? Perhaps...” she grinned and leaned close as if she were sharing a secret, “his heart would make a worthy addition to our sacrificial offering?”
“Let’s complete this offering first,” Calmarel suggested, “as a shared consecration for our heir. Then I’ll sacrifice Jundag myself.”
“So you finally relegated him to the dungeon where his kind belong?” Lysethra asked lightly as she turned and started walking toward the altar.
“Mmmm,” Calmarel murmured as she followed. She breathed deeply, savoring the familiar smells of the temple: the sharp tang of blood, the subtle fragrance of incense— Her attention piqued. The incense...the scent was unusual, but not totally unfamiliar. After a moment it came to her; this was the incense used to commune with Xakra, not the incense used for the consecration ceremony. She glanced at the sacrificial altar. Instead of bright rivulets of freshly shed blood, the altar was stained dark with congealed clots. She looked to the discarded guards; their eyes were cloudy, the protruding organs dull and dry, not shiny and glistening. Calmarel had seen enough blood and corpses to know exactly what she was looking at. These sacrifices had been conducted hours ago, not recently, as Lysethra had said. Something was wrong... Calmarel tightened her grip on her flail and shifted the bundle in her left arm.
“Seth,” she said casually, “you haven’t asked about my meeting with Xakra. After all, it isn’t every day that one meets one’s goddess. And since you’ve never done it, I thought you’d be overflowing with questions.”
Lysethra’s hands twitched as they held the bowl of hearts out before her, but she didn’t snap out an acerbic reply to the gibe as Calmarel expected. Instead, she tossed her head and said, “I assumed you would tell me at your convenience. I know you’re preoccupied with your rite, and I didn’t want to pester you.” She placed the bowl on the offering altar and bowed her head.
Calmarel looked beyond Lysethra at the contents of the gold bowl. Like the bodies, the hearts were dark and dry and shrunken...the way they looked after an offering, not before. The hairs on the nape of her neck tickled, and time seemed to slow, as it always did when she sensed trouble. She might be bereft of her gods-given powers, but her instincts remained keen.
“That was considerate of you,” Calmarel said as she slowly shifted her stance and drew back her right arm. “When did you become considerate?” Calmarel set her feet and swung the writhing end of the flail toward her sister’s head. The sudden motion woke the baby, and she wailed.
Alerted by the child's shriek, Lysethra ducked and rolled away. Out of weapon range, she leapt to her feet and stared at Calmarel, her eyes blazing, her lips whispering the rhythmic cadence of an invocation.
Calmarel felt the crush of tremendous pressure, and her arm jerked to a stop. The flail head swayed heavily back and forth, its momentum gradually waning. She strained to move—a foot, a hand, a finger!—and failed. Lysethra’s skills had always lagged her own, and Calmarel had thought that maybe, just maybe, she could achieve the upper hand even without her own powers. She had been wrong. She groaned in frustration.
“Oh, Cal,” Lysethra chided. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight than that! Have I been fooled all these years into thinking my powers inferior to yours?” She reached out and lifted the spider pendant from Calmarel’s chest and her eyes widened. “Ahhhh! You have no powers! Well, this is something that neither you nor Xakra told me. Oh, yes,” she said at Calmarel’s widened eyes, “I spoke with Her Greatness, and she told me exactly what she thinks of your abomination of a child.”
"Seth, I—"
Lysethra slapped Calmarel hard across the face, her sharp nails raking her smooth skin.
“How dare you defy the Queen of Webs! You always did think you were above the rules, Cal, but mating with animals... How could you sink so low? You, whom I once called ‘sister,’ are not worthy to bear the name Darkmist."
Lysethra stopped ranting and stood upright, eyes closed, her chest heaving with deep breaths until she quieted. Then she looked back to Calmarel and smiled sadly.
“Together we could have wielded tremendous power in the name of our goddess and for the glory of our clan, but that’s apparently not to be. You’ll watch me offer up your child, then you, too, will become an offering to almighty Xakra. May your soul rot in her web forever.”
Lysethra drew a silver dagger from her robe and approached. Lifting the crying baby from Calmarel’s arm, she carried it to the sacrificial altar, and solemnly laid it atop.
Calmarel’s mind whirled and she fought to quell her panic. She had never felt so helpless...so vulnerable. Not my child! she pleaded silently before realizing that no Dark God would answer her prayers. She would have pleaded with her sister, but she knew it was to no avail.
Lysethra began unwrapping the swaddling blanket, chanting the unholy words that would send the baby’s soul to Xakra. Straining until she thought she would tear the muscles from her bones, Calmarel fought to move, but her limbs were not hers to command. Command...
"Jundag!” Calmarel called desperately. “Save our child!"
Jundag quivering muscles were suddenly released from their magical bondage, and he exploded into action. Calmarel had directed him through the acolytes’’ entrance to the antechamber behind the altar with the order to “Stay put and stay quiet, unless I command otherwise.” So he had crouched there, listening as Calmarel entered the temple though the main doors, as the sisters approached the altar.
How can she not hear the treachery in Lysethra’s voice? he had wondered. His heart nearly burst when the baby wailed, and he thought they were lost when Lysethra began an ominous chant. But Calmarel’s command loosed his rage, and he tore through the antechamber curtains and launched himself at Lysethra.
The high priestess was gazing up at the statue of Xakra, one hand atop the wriggling, crying baby, the other raised high, a silver dagger clenched in her fist. Jundag snatched her wrist. Although Lysethra was a skilled fighter, her strength was no match for his.
With a feral growl of satisfaction, he tightened his grip until he felt Lysethra's wrist bones shatter. She cried out in pain, and the dagger clattered to the altar. Her eyes narrowed and she began to chant, but Jundag allowed her no opportunity to call on her dark-gods-given powers. He clamped his other hand around her throat, choking off her words. Lifting her off the floor, he locked his gaze with hers, even as her hate-filled eyes began to bulge. She kicked him savagely with her pointed boots, and raked the sharp nails of her free hand across his face, blinding one of his eyes. But Calmarel had dealt him harsher wounds than this; he ignored the pain. Lysethra’s face contorted and took on a purple hue. Her hand stopped clawing at him, and instead thrashed about in panic. Jundag grinned as the light began to fade from her eyes: victory. Then a searing pain exploded in his chest. Roaring in agony and surprise, he looked down to see that Lysethra’s groping fingers had found the silver dagger on the altar, and she now frantically twisted the blade into his side. His blood gushed red over her hand.
His v
ision blurred as the blade penetrated deeply. His knees trembled with sudden weakness, worse than any normal knife wound would have warranted. But this wasn’t a normal knife; it was a sacrificial blade cursed by Xakra. He felt torn, as if his soul was being ripped from his body. He staggered as every scar he had ever acquired suddenly burst forth in renewed agony. Only the magical compulsion of the collar gave him the fortitude to maintain his grip on Lysethra's neck. Just before all strength left him, Jundag felt the bones of Lysethra's neck snap, and her eyes rolled up. Satisfaction flitted briefly through his mind before he slumped to the floor, all strength gone.
Jundag tugged at the dagger wedged between his ribs, but couldn’t budge it. Calmarel, freed from Lysethra’s command by her death, raced forward, and lifted the baby from the altar. She spared no glance for her dead sister as she hushed the child and gently rewrapped the swaddling blanket.
"C...Calmarel," Jundag croaked through bloody lips. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, a pain-filled rasp. She looked down and stared at him dismay. He grabbed the hem of her robes. "Help...me."
She reached as if to grasp the dagger, then pulled back. “I can’t touch it,” she whispered as she glanced fearfully at the statue behind the altar. “Not Xakra’s knife, not here in Xakra’s temple. She’ll know it’s me.”
Jundag glimpsed his daughter’s precious face within her blanket. She no longer cried, and her blue eyes stared intently at him. Again he looked at Calmarel. “Help me...please.”
“I can’t touch the knife!” she averred. “And I can’t heal you.”
Jundag considered her words, and made his decision.
“Then...kill me.”
Her eyes widened and she looked around frantically.
"Calmarel," he gasped through teeth clenched in pain, “please!"
"I can't!" she insisted, her voice cracking with panic. "If I kill you while the dagger’s still inside you, your soul will go to eternal torment in Xakra’s lair. You were right about Lysethra, and you saved our child...you don’t deserve that. You’re strong, Jundag; get the dagger out before...you die. I'm...sorry."
Jundag Page 29
