As the messenger scurried away, Darkmist contemplated which spells would be best for a confrontation with Ghendal, assuming, of course, that his former squire was still alive.
"Clear the bridge in the name of the Emperor!"
Sergeant Kaplan's booming voice shivered the chill air, sending several small two-wheeled carts and a fair number of farmers and shopkeepers scurrying off the narrow bridge. The small coastal town of Faxx was barely a port, its harbor deep enough for only the smallest ships. To increase the ease of trade and facilitate quick troop movements, the emperor had contracted the nearby dwarves to build a bridge across the river. The villagers benefitted from the bridge, but it was built with the emperor's gold, and was therefore the emperor's bridge. And when the emperor's soldiers wanted to use the emperor's bridge, the local peasants got the hell out of the way.
"First Lancers! By threes, forward!"
Kaplan watched with satisfaction as the two-abreast line smoothly formed into three-abreast. The maneuver was not really necessary, but it would make the crossing a little quicker, and showed the locals the proficiency of the emperor's cavalry.
"First Infantry, fall in behind, by fives. Forward!"
While the foot soldiers filed past he looked around at the picturesque little town. Barges lined the docks upriver of the bridge, and small merchant vessels bobbed at anchor in the tiny harbor, tended by flatboats that could pass under the bridge.
"First Archers, fall in by fives. Forward!"
Yes, he liked this little town. In a few years, maybe he would retire here, even run a little fishing boat or a tavern. Or perhaps the local militia could use an experienced hand. Lord knows he would have to keep himself busy somehow.
"Get those wagons in line, you teamsters!" he bellowed, wielding the title like a curse. "And if one wheel so much as touches an edge-stone, I'll fill the scratch with your—"
"Nice little town, isn't it, Kaplan?" Captain Thallon said. He had rode up on the road's grassy border behind his sergeant.
"If you say so, sir," Kaplan said, recovering from his start. He hated it when the captain sneaked around. He knew his commanding officer did not approve of his ranting at the teamsters, especially in front of civilians, but sometimes it was all they responded to. "A bit too sleepy-lookin' for me though, sir. Probably not a decent tavern in the whole place."
"Just as well, since we can't afford to stop," Thallon said, nodding at the small fishing fleet tied to the docks. "Might be a nice place to retire, though, eh?"
"Retire?" Kaplan scoffed, his trained mind blanking the fact that he been thinking that very thing only moments before. "Sergeants never retire, sir. They just split into two corporals, or sometimes four privates, if they're ripe enough."
The captain laughed, drawing stares from the locals. Kaplan understood now what his commander was doing: a little light banter might quell some of the rumors he'd already heard. If they were true, which he doubted, raiding parties of orcs, ogres and worse had been seen as far west as Raven. The locals were worried, and rightly so; if their larders were raided to support a war, there would be many hungry mouths this winter.
"If that's what happens to sergeants, then what happens to captains when they get old?" Thallon asked.
"Well, sir, that's the sad part." Kaplan grinned and nodded toward the last wagon approaching the bridge. "Seems that captains don't age so well. Has to do with all the paper shufflin' and keepin' company with royalty. When they reach the proper age, they either die horribly under piles and piles of waste paper, or, gods forbid, get an appointment as a military advisor."
They laughed as the wagon approached, the bulbous Minister Cercy bouncing with every jolt. His complaints and curses spoiled the image of the orderly column.
"Remind me to give that driver a commendation for valor in combat when we get back."
"Aye, sir," Kaplan said, reining his horse around. "I'd better get on ahead, sir. They're probably piling up on the other side like sewer rats in a storm drain."
Kaplan kicked his mount into a canter, ignoring Cercy's whining tones; that was the least of his worries. His only concern was the safety of the troops, and if the rumors he had heard were true, that safety might be threatened very soon.
Iveron's eyes lifted from his book as the Dukarr captain was escorted into his chambers. The man stood at strict attention, his eyes fixed beyond his master’s right shoulder.
"Fnarengul," Darkmist barked, rising to his feet, "good of you to come so quickly." The lord-general was already fully armed and armored, and was finishing his preparations for his confrontation with Ghendal. He rounded the desk and clapped his most trusted squire on the shoulder. "I have an errand to run, and may be away for a while. You have been with my family for more years than I have been lord-general, and I gauge your abilities to be the best in my command."
"Thank you, my lord." The Dukarr captain bowed. "You require that I maintain order in your absence, lord?"
"Quite right, Fnarengul," Darkmist admitted. He let the captain's presumptuous words slide. In any other culture the two might have been friends, but the rigid clan castes necessitated an appropriate diffidence between clan royalty and their servants. As it was, they had developed something that resembled camaraderie, though neither would have admitted it. "It should not take long. Upon my return, there will be a meeting of all officers not already in the field. See to it that all are prepared for immediate action. The timing of our assault will depend on the outcome of this trip, and I want to be ready."
"Absolutely, my lord." Fnarengul bowed low.
"Good. Now leave me. I will depart presently. A messenger will notify you when I return."
Darkmist wished silently that all his officers were so capable. He returned to his desk and resumed studying; just a few more spells, and he would be ready.
"This is being the most delightful method of traveling I have ever been encountering, Master Shay Two-leg!" Hufferrrerrr had to shout over the rushing wind and thundering hooves of the horses. His own feet, however, whisked along several feet off the ground. He was swooping along, keeping an easy pace with the galloping mounts, and thoroughly enjoying the magical flight. "But, if you could have been making me fly, why did it require that I ran until exhausted in this morning?"
"The spell won't last all day!" Shay shouted back. "When it fails you will be rested and can run again, starting out fresh."
"Ah, I am now in the understanding," the leotaur said. "But how long will this magical type of flying be lasting, Master Shay Two-leg? I do not want to be falling to the ground all of the suddenly, and possibly receiving injured broken bones."
"A few more hours yet," Shay said, trying not to smile at the leotaur's concern. "By then our horses will be tiring. We will slow down, and you will fly lower. When the spell fails you will simply drop to the grass and start out running again."
Hufferrrerrr nodded, his worries quenched. His feline face, however, was still crinkled with thought. The leotaur swooped along beside Shay for a while, climbing a little higher, then diving down to grass level, obviously playing with the spell's potential. Finally the unasked question surfaced.
"Master Shay, I am being able to fly much faster than the horses could be running, I am thinking. Why is it that I do not fly as fast as I can and be far ahead when the spell fails." He did a barrel roll with a grin just to show off.
"Avari wants us to stay together," the half-elf explained, "and I agree. We don't know what the Nekdukarr will send against us. We could meet trouble at any time."
"Ah, yes," Hufferrrerrr agreed, "but I am also having another, and what I am thinking is a better idea. I could fly very high, but be keeping this speed. This way I would be being able to see any dangers before they were becoming dangerous."
Shay yelled the plan to Avari. The warrioress grinned and nodded, choosing not to scream over the pounding hooves. Shay turned and jabbed upward with a thumb to Hufferrrerrr, who grinned and soared skyward.
Iveron materialize
d in the scrying chamber of the glacier, Doom Giver in his hand and a spell on his lips. He was met only by the creak and pop of grinding ice, thin air, and bitter cold.
"Well, Ghendal," he said to no one, "let us see what you have in store for me."
Darkmist began his exploration of the labyrinth, eventually coming upon the evidence of recent battle. Troll blood stained the ice and damaged arrows and huge axes lay forgotten beside two frozen ice troll corpses.
Surely the thieves had not wreaked such havoc. Then he found the deserted lair, obviously the home of a formidable creature, although now empty. Whatever laired here must have killed the trolls, he decided. With a flash of worry, he searched the mounds of bone and antler. If the gems had been consumed by the beast, they might be here. He found nothing.
The evidence was disheartening, but he still had one avenue to explore; the main entrance to the lair yawned ahead. He noted the marks in the ice up the slope; the thieves had obviously been here. Perhaps they were above. He withdrew a feather from a pocket and tossed it into the air while reciting an incantation. He walked through the shimmering dust, rose from the floor and swooped up the cavernous slope like a great black hawk. Near the top, the light of day forced him to squint through the demon helm's visor. He paused within the cave's confines to allow his vision to clear, then moved to the mouth of the tunnel.
His last hopes melted as he found Ghendal atop a pile of broken ice, pierced with arrows and showing a shallow cut across his brow. It was not difficult to reconstruct the scenario. The thieves had once again bested one of his squires.
"The priest among you must worship a god of luck!" Iveron spat in disgust. "Or there is more to you than your former companion's spirit led me to believe."
He gave Ghendal's body a cursory check, but found nothing. Not only had his subordinate failed, he had also cost Iveron much time in studying spells that were now useless. Unless...
At least a day, he thought, but perhaps...
His eyes were drawn to the east. He could fly faster than any horse could run, and might overtake the thieves in short order, but there were dozens of leagues to cover. He would be hard-pressed to find them in all that open space.
"No," he decided aloud, "I think I will arrange something special for you, then I will contend with my sisters."
Iveron withdrew the enchanted stone of recall from his pocket and spoke the word of activation. He blinked rapidly to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom of Zellohar. Smiling, he thought, I hope Phlegothax has recovered from his injuries, and is eager for revenge upon those who inflicted them.
He strode into his chambers, bellowing for a messenger.
CHAPTER 24
Wind howled over the ice-shrouded battlements of Zellohar Keep, but even standing atop the open parapet, Iveron Darkmist was not particularly cold, for beside him perched Phlegothax. The Nekdukarr bathed in the swirling eddies of heat that radiated from the immense beast's body.
"And where exactly will I find this Dukarr of yours?" the dragon rumbled, his forked tongue flicking over arm-length fangs with the words.
"Follow the mountains to the north," the Nekdukarr instructed. "Under the waterfalls that the surface dwellers call Mjolnir, you will find the caverns in which Drixel guards the gem. He is a faithful servant, but I no longer need him. If he makes trouble, roast him, but do not let your flames touch the gems. If you can, bring at least some of the thieves to me alive; I have use for them. And as I said, do not touch more than one gem simultaneously. Even you could not withstand the combined energies of these artifacts."
"It will not make bringing them back an easy task." The great dragon shifted, unfolding his vast wings. "But I grow weary of caverns, and feel the need to stretch my wings."
"Farewell, then." Iveron stepped back. "Once you possess the sapphire, the thieves will find you. All you need do is wait."
"As you have said," Phlegothax rumbled. "I expect to be compensated appropriately for this, Darkmist."
"Once I have the cornerstones, all in my service will be duly rewarded."
"I shall require it," the dragon hissed, strands of caustic spittle hissing onto the stones of the parapets.
With that warning, Phlegothax teetered his immense bulk off the precipice and opened his wings. They struck the chill air like a clap of thunder, and the dragon soared into the night.
"Good luck, dragon," Iveron said, turning from the now-chill blackness of the evening to the warmth of the keep. His captains were already assembled, awaiting his instructions.
The chamber bustled and buzzed with the throng of captains and subcaptains. The doubling and redoubling of Iveron's forces in recent weeks had generated the need for more officers. Iveron had exercised care in their choice, but there were several he was still unsure of. Most were from his original force, since these were more loyal, if not more intelligent.
The half-ogre Grem met him at the door, looming two feet taller than Iveron. His jutting lower jaw and elongated lower canines attested to his parentage, but the eyes lurking under that thick brow gleamed with sharp, vicious intelligence; an undeniable asset, but he bore watching.
"Lord-General Darkmist!" the half-ogre bellowed, loud enough to bring the room to order. Grem clutched the enchanted axe—Darkmist's gift—to his chest in stiff salute. The weapon rarely left the new captain's grasp, which was good; its enchantment had been working on Grem's mind long enough for Iveron to see the change in his attitude. The half-ogre's eyes now gleamed with adoration instead of calculation.
"Thank you, Grem." Darkmist handed the half ogre his cloak. "Hold this, and pay attention; we have much to discuss."
"I live to serve, lord," the half-ogre rumbled, bowing low.
"I know," Iveron said, smiling at the subtle irony.
Neither of them noticed the gleam of ruby eyes from under the cowl of Iveron's cloak. As he moved away, something clicked in the spider golem's magical consciousness. Its quarry was moving out of view. It must follow or risk losing contact. The tiny shape skittered from hiding, swarmed down Grem's leg and crossed the floor without drawing attention.
"The appointed time of our assault draws near," Iveron informed his officers. "The summoning chamber is completed and awaits the arrival of the cornerstones."
A murmur swept the room, not all of it enthusiastic, and some not even vaguely pleased. Most of the officers distrusted this type of magic, knowing such power could go wrong; after all, they had been locked within the mountain by these very gems. But none dared question Darkmist’s authority; they had seen the results of that particular type of suicidal stupidity.
"But before they arrive," Darkmist continued, silencing the murmurs, "several matters must be taken care of."
As he moved to the head of the table where a large map had been laid out, the officers shuffled forward. The skittering spider golem avoided the shuffling feet, darting through the crowd. It found a table leg and climbed, seeking a safe nook.
"First, since there will be a delay of at least three more days, we will send out more patrols to ensure that the siege of Beriknor remains secret. Also, my three remaining zykell will fly far and wide. They will report directly to Captain Fnarengul, who will be in command while I see to important matters elsewhere."
Concerned murmurs swept through the room: How long would he be away? Where was he going?
"I will depart in the morning, and should be back within a day," Darkmist explained, quelling the disorder. "The zykell will watch the west and south roads, as well as out to sea. If an enemy force is detected, the reserve battalion will set a trap." He fixed Grem with a meaningful look; the half-ogre grinned hungrily in response.
The spider golem edged its way onto the tabletop and dashed under a crease in the map, then moved toward its quarry.
"Captain Grem's force will take station here," Iveron announced, drawing Doom Giver to use as a pointer," on the west road, just beyond the siege forces."
The tip of the fell blade indicated the prescribed sp
ot, pressing the unruly parchment to the tabletop, and pinning the spider golem to the table. The paper rustled as the little spy tried to escape, but Iveron's attentions were elsewhere.
"If a sea assault is detected, you will defeat it as before." Iveron moved his sword to indicate a point well offshore. "Here, where the water is deep, and burning ships will have no hope of reaching shore."
Freed as the sword changed position, the tiny golem scurried to the edge of the table. Its simple mind decided on a different, more direct, approach.
"Other than these changes, operations will remain as before."
The ruby eyes of the minute arachnid flashed, then it dashed around the map, streaking toward its goal.
"After Beriknor falls we will proceed west, taking villages as we go, until we reach the fabled city of Fengotherond..."
The skittering shape drew attention, and a quick swipe from an ogre's massive hand snatched the little golem from the table.
"... which is where the true might of my summoning will come into play."
The ogre subcaptain felt the small bug struggle in his grasp. Smiling with delight, he popped it into his mouth and crunched the delicately wrought obsidian creature to powder.
"There, Cannoth will crush the city's supposedly indestructible dome like an eggshell!"
A roar of approval rose from the assembled officers. Such power being directed by their master made them feel invincible. And invincible they would be, if Iveron Darkmist was successful in summoning and compelling a Fargmir to do his bidding.
"Nooooooooo!"
The sisters' screams echoed through the chamber as huge yellow teeth descended over the scene in the scrying crystal. There was a flash of red, then the view flickered and died. Iveron's last words were garbled beyond recognition.
"Oh, perfect!" Lysethra spat, lurching up from her chair with such vigor that it toppled to the floor. "We spend hours uncounted staring into this damnable thing, and what happens? Moments before Iveron tells us what we need to know, a stupid ogre eats the stupid spy! Now we're blind as cave fish, not knowing what in the Nine Hells he plans to summon!"
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