"We have learned a great deal, Seth," Calmarel said, her tone uncharacteristically consoling.
"Right!" Lysethra snapped. "We've learned that Iveron not only has expanded his forces twofold, but that Phlegothax is still at his disposal. And he's sent the thing after these cornerstones, a task in which I doubt it will fail. Which leaves us three days to prepare to do combat with our brother, his army, his dragon, and whatever he conjures up from Xakra knows where."
"We cannot hope to win without at least knowing the name of the demon," Calmarel agreed. "We will have to risk a visit to Zellohar. If we time it correctly, he won't even be there."
"I suppose it's worth a try," Lysethra admitted, "but we don't even know where to start looking, and his troops probably have orders to kill us on sight."
"Oh, I don't think he would go that far." Calmarel stood, chewing her lip in thought. "But if we were unrecognizable..."
"A disguise?" Lysethra smiled, liking the idea already. "What form do you propose?"
Her sister shrugged. "Simple. What have the run of the place, and are never questioned because they're too stupid to know anything?"
"Messengers?" Lysethra wrinkled her nose at the thought of the filthy little beasts. "But we still don't know where to look. We've been through his chambers, although we didn't have much time. And the inscriptions in the summoning chamber are all those blasted magical runes that we can't read."
"Are they?" Calmarel asked. "We never got a really good look at that room. Wouldn't it stand to reason that the only part of the inscriptions that couldn't be in rune-script would be the name of the entity being summoned?"
"You and I are not exactly experts on the arcane arts." Lysethra chewed a thumbnail as she paced. "Let me speak with one of the clan wizards. If it is as you suspect, we will pay a visit to Zellohar while our brother is off doing who knows what."
"Good!" Calmarel agreed. "That gives me time to check on my pet project. I will see you in the morning, sister eldest."
Lysethra stared as her sister strode from the room before she could protest. Calmarel's obsession with this prisoner bothered her. Even after long, tedious hours keeping Iveron under surveillance, Calmarel preferred to play with her pet rather than get some much-needed rest. Lysethra had never seen her so obsessed with a project before, and her mood of late had been atypically mild, almost verging on pleasant. The elder sister shook her head, trying to dismiss her worries. Calmarel would lose interest soon; she always did. Then she would dispose of the disgusting man and pay attention to more important matters.
Calmarel examined the unconscious tribesman expertly. The scar where his arm had been reattached was still visible, but would soon fade, as all his other injuries had already. All told, more than twice the time and energy she had spent inflicting his wounds had gone into healing them. She had plans for this one, and it would not do to have him permanently crippled. However, though his wounds had been healed, he remained unconscious. Trauma such as she had dealt took a toll that only time would heal. He would sleep for another day, at least.
"So why am I here?"
She leaned against the slab to which Jundag was chained and looked down at his sleeping face. She could have one of the slaves brought down as a diversion, but none could compare to the ecstasy she had experienced with Jundag. No other had that stubbornness, that tenacity, that sheer force of will to endure what she dealt. She was spoiled by his perfection, and she knew it. But for now, her toy was broken.
"So why am I here?" she asked again, running a fingernail down his muscular chest, pretending it was a razor. How luscious it would be to see him writhe in agony. But he would not have writhed; he was too strong for that. She fancied that she could skin him entirely and not elicit a single whimper from his stern visage. Curses, yes, but not an utterance of weakness.
"Perhaps that's what draws me to you," she hypothesized. "Your strength. No other possesses your strength."
She pulled over a stool and sat with her back to a pillar, her boots propped up on the slab. She watched Jundag’s chest rise and fall rhythmically, hypnotically. Her hand strayed to her spider medallion, as it often did during contemplation, but her fingers touched the ivory feather blossom instead. She started to drop it, but stopped, staring at the pattern of feathers in thought.
"As intricate as Xakra's web," she whispered, oblivious to her blasphemy. "And as revealing as stripping a spy of his disguise. I see a chink in your armor, Jundagarro. You are not as strong as you would have me believe."
Calmarel leaned her head back and pressed the ivory medallion to her lips. Her mind filled with the torments she could deal to the tribesman's sensitive emotions. He had loved ones still in the world above, no doubt. It might be interesting to bring one of them here for him to watch in torment. Perhaps even one of the thieves that Iveron sought so ardently...
Exhaustion finally had its way and her head lolled, dreams of tormenting Jundag's soul roiling in her mind.
CHAPTER 25
Half a day, at the very most," Whip estimated, the still faintly warm dung crumbling from his fingers to the thin crust of snow at his feet. "We will have them in two days."
"Unless they reach their objective first," Dart contended, studying the distant mountains in the faint predawn light, then glancing toward the horses. "Since the grass has returned, these frail beasts seem to be in better health. We should be able to increase our pace. We will push on through the daylight until they are near collapse, then walk them as before. I want to take the thieves before they break camp tomorrow morning."
A worried glance flicked between the two junior assassins as Dart turned his mount toward the mountains. To overtake their quarry in only a day was not a realistic ambition. More likely they would be afoot by the next morning, with no chance of dispatching the targets. Also, while the horses might now be in better shape, the assassins had not eaten or slept well in days. Discrete hand signals sealed a quick agreement: if Dart continued his recklessness, they would eliminate him. Caution was, after all, part of what made them so efficient.
Saddles creaked and horses grunted with exhaustion as the two mounted, closed mouthed and tight lipped.
"Do not hesitate to inform me if your mounts show signs of collapse," Dart said over his shoulder. "The last thing we need is another dead horse; although one roasted over low coals might be acceptable once we get done with this mess."
His atypical humor sounded like an alarm in their ears; he was placating them, telling them what he thought would shut them up. They chuckled at his wit and kicked the tired mounts forward, but another glance flashed between Whip and Garrote before their attention turned to the trail. They had no doubt that Dart was plotting something.
"Mistress Darkmist!" the torture master whispered, touching Calmarel on the shoulder. "Mistress, your sister has been looking for you!"
"Wha—"
Calmarel bolted upright, nearly upsetting the stool on which she had fallen asleep. Her knees quaked upon standing, and she accepted a helping hand from the servant.
"What is the time, Tredgh?" she snapped, flexing her tingling legs and kinked neck.
"It is morning, Mistress," her servant said.
"Morning?" she asked wide-eyed. "Well, that explains why I feel like warmed-over dragon dung."
She stretched again, letting her eyes wander over the still-slumbering Jundag. How could I have fallen asleep down here? she wondered as she noted the tribesman's condition. The scar on his arm was gone. I must have been more exhausted than I thought.
"Mistress, your sister..." the twisted creature reminded her.
"Lysethra?" she mumbled, snapping out of the fading recollection of her troubling dreams. "What does she want?"
"She sent a message for you to come. She waits in the west sitting room with Master Keveron."
"Keveron? What is she—oh blast!"
Their planned trip to Zellohar flashed into her sleep-dazed mind. Keveron was one of Clan Darkmist’s wizards, summoned to cast
disguises on the sisters. Lysethra most likely had told him it was for spying within the city, a common occurrence. The less he knew the better; no sense in wasting a valuable asset.
"I should return before midday," Calmarel informed her servant as she strode from the room. "If he awakens before I get back, see that he is well fed."
"Yes, Mistress," the torture master answered, bowing as she left. He muttered, turned, and departed through another exit.
When quiet reigned, Jundag's eyes flicked open with the wariness of a cat. He tested his bonds again, but knew they were far too secure to break. Perhaps he would be afforded a chance at freedom when the torture-master returned...
Iveron Darkmist stood ready.
Well, as ready as I will ever be for a confrontation with the mediator of Xerro Kensho, he thought with more than slight trepidation. She was quite capable of destroying him with a wave of her hand; he would have to be careful of his temper.
The mage cast the spell of flight once again and lifted off the floor. Closing his eyes, he visualized the city of his birth, the city he had not seen in almost a hundred years.
When he opened his eyes, Iveron was floating a dozen or so feet from the immense column that supported the city's upper reaches. He quickly surveyed the flickering lights of Xerro Kensho and swooped toward his destination.
The council chambers lay deep within the city. His passage through the tunnels was swift, silent, and for the most part unnoticed. It was still early, after all, and while a fully armored Nekdukarr flying along a corridor might be a rare sight in the world as a whole, it was not uncommon here. He slowed as he approached the foyer of the council chambers, then settled to the floor. The likenesses of the five Dark Gods loomed above the immense double doors, as they had since the Enlightenment.
Some things never change, he thought sullenly, although perhaps they should.
The Nekdukarr approached the doors cautiously. He recalled all too well the annual ceremonies that were held within, when each of the ten ruling families was required to donate to the glory of the Dark Gods. He had watched two younger brothers, one younger sister and uncounted cousins perish under the mediator's sacrificial blade. His sisters had joked that such appeasements were the one truly good use for lesser nobles. He had been spared such a fate only due to his prowess as a military commander, and his favor by Mortas.
The doors were secured not only with locks, but with magic. Iveron, however, knew how to knock, and did so now, placing his hands into deep recesses in the bespelled slabs of obsidian. The ancient spells recognized him as a noble, and a resonating tone sounded in response. Iveron removed his hands and took a deep breath. He had been unsure that the door would recognize him. If it had not, he would have been reduced to a withering husk of decomposing flesh. It would have been a subtle bit of trickery, had his siblings thought to remove his identity from the door's memory, but they had never been particularly subtle.
The locking mechanism clicked and the doors swung open to reveal a hulking form that had once been a rock troll, looking down at him with blank, lifeless eyes. The stench pushed Iveron back an involuntary step. Even though he was a minion of Mortas, The Deathless One, Iveron had never been fond of such rotting automatons. They were well suited for menial tasks or guard duty, but how did the mediator tolerate the smell?
"Who calls?" the dead guard croaked from between the bluish grey tatters of its rotting lips.
"Lord-General Iveron Darkmist, to speak with the mediator."
"In," it gurgled, stepping back.
Iveron strode through, the hall's lurid illumination greeting him as the enchanted portal closed behind him. Writhing human shapes trapped within columns of blue spellfire lit the antechamber with a hue of death itself.
Show off! Iveron thought with disdain at the extravagant display of the mediator’s power.
"Here, stay." The troll lumbered off.
Iveron seethed at being ordered about by an automaton, but to disobey would be to defy the mediator. He stood for some time, his lips moving in a silent chant intended to ease his temper. Finally, the guard lumbered back through the archway, its stench preceding it by several steps.
"Come," it said, shambling off without pause.
Iveron walked alongside the lumbering heap of flesh to avoid the miasmic cloud that wafted behind it.
The open doors to the council chamber suddenly loomed ahead, the light changing from the chill blue to the warm red glow of freshly spilled blood. The mediator sat at the head of the council table, calm, in control, cold, hard and dark, as if carved from the same slab of stone as the table.
"Well, if it isn't the long lost Iveron Darkmist!" she hissed.
Iveron bowed low, gracefully sweeping his cape in an arc before him. "Mistress Mediat—"
"I must say, you are looking remarkably well," she cut in, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Yes, very well indeed, for being, how did your esteemed sisters put it... 'so utterly drained, both physically and psychically from his imprisonment, and the arduous task of breaking the confining enchantment, that he is completely beyond recovery.'"
Iveron stood mute while his mind raced. What in the name of the Nine Hells had those lying egg sacs said about him? Physically and psychically drained? What rubbish!
He suppressed his mental tirade, speared by the mediator's predatory gaze. She had obviously believed his sisters’ lies, though her expression showed considerable doubt at the moment. But should he expose their deception and hope to gain the mediator's favor, or make up some cockeyed story? He knew she could detect any outright lie on his part, but she could no more detect a careful exaggeration than she could deodorize her doorman.
"My sisters underestimated my recuperative powers, Mistress Mediator," he explained. Perhaps there was more to be gleaned this way. "While they are formidable priestesses, they do not understand the subtleties of such enchantments as I was forced to defeat." Just as you do not, he added to himself.
"I see," she cooed. "And now that you are recovered, you strive to answer my summons. How very diligent of you."
"I live to serve, Mistress Mediator." He bowed once again.
"Good! Then you can best serve me here, agreed?"
Her question caught him off guard. Had his sisters deceived him entirely? It seemed that the mediator did not even know that he had resumed his plans, so long delayed, to reap the wealth of the surface world. His cold blood boiled as he considered his siblings’ betrayal, but he forced down his violent instincts and thought quickly before responding. He could not allow this unexpected twist of events to interfere!
"Of course, Mistress Mediator, except..." He let the statement trail off, hoping she would be curious enough to bite.
"Except what?" she snapped.
"I am loathe to abandon such a strategic fortification as Zellohar, Mistress Mediator," he explained with unexpected truthfulness. "Whatever your plans, surely such an impregnable fortress right on our enemy's doorstep would be a valuable asset. It will take only a small force to garrison the keep."
The mediator considered his argument for a moment, then nodded.
"Very well, Iveron. You may organize a small force, adequately commanded, of course, to sustain a hold on Zellohar Keep. But upon completion of your duties there, you will report directly back to me. You do not,” she stressed, “need to report to your sisters first. Do you understand?"
"Of course, Mistress Mediator," he answered with a bow and an ingratiating smile. He wasn’t exactly lying. He did understand, he just had no intention of returning to Hourglass until his own plans had been fulfilled. He would reap the might of the surface world until his forces were unstoppable. Then, perhaps, he would return; not to serve, but rather to rule...
"Good! Now go, Iveron. I have much to do."
As Iveron exited the chamber, a malicious smile spread across the mediator’s lips like blood seeping from a wound.
How revealing a simple conversation can be,” she thought, sending for paper an
d quill to draft a summons for the Darkmist sisters. They cannot have told him anything of the council's plans, else he would know that any garrison left in Zellohar will be obliterated.
Finished, she sealed the note in a tube and sent the messenger shambling away. When she was finally alone, she reclined in the onyx seat and began to laugh.
What better way to chastise the Darkmists than to pit them against one another, she thought. And let the victor be my faithful servant...
Her laughter rose and fell, echoing throughout the labyrinthine halls, and none who heard it could remain unafraid.
CHAPTER 26
A peculiar shadowy breeze blew through the empty summoning room. It came from nowhere, but swirled into a far corner. Wisps of dark mist coalesced into two short, ruddy-skinned and undeniably ugly messenger beasts.
"By Xakra's Web, I despise this form!" Lysethra spat in a rough, croaking voice. She brushed at the filthy rags that had been added to their disguise. "I feel so puny and weak!"
"You are, sister eldest," Calmarel reminded her in a voice that, despite its timbre, was still unmistakably hers. "Remember that if we get into trouble. Xakra will still answer your prayers, but don't try any feats of strength or agility."
"My only worry is that I'll start thinking like one of these inept little beasts," the elder sister muttered.
She knew there was a slight chance of unpleasant side effects to the transmogrification spell, and vowed to disembowel Keveron very slowly should she experience any of them. But her trepidations melted away as she examined their surroundings. The intricate inscriptions drew them forward like moths to a flame. Though ignorant of the intricacies of rune magic, they knew to avoid the circle of power; Keveron had warned them not to touch anything. Iveron undoubtedly had protected his masterwork with spells that made his trapped scroll case seem like a child's toy.
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