"Impressive," Lysethra commented as she examined one of four ornate pedestals. Its metal was cleverly melded to the silver-inlaid web of runes that covered the floor within the circle. "It seems so elaborate for a simple summoning."
"Mages do love their complicated little puzzles," Calmarel observed. "But I suppose it depends on the power involved in the spell... or what is being summoned."
The sisters looked at each other with twinges of worry; if the degree of intricacy was proportional to the power of the spell, the gems that would fire these inscriptions must be mighty indeed.
"I can't read any of it!" Calmarel spat, furious with her own impotence. "Not even a name. It must be here somewhere!"
"No matter. Keveron's little toy will tell us everything we need to know," Lysethra assured her as she withdrew a small jar from a pocket. She broke the seal and dipped two fingers into the murky liquid. A cloudy, ill-preserved eye, the optic nerve still dangling, was extracted between her clawed fingers. She dangled the enchanted organ, her lip curling with distaste.
"I hate this part," she muttered, popping the half-rotten thing into her mouth and swallowing before she could gag. A flood of warmth told her that the spell was working, and when she opened her eyes, the previously confusing jumble of Iveron's rune-magic became painfully clear.
A cold knot of fear gripped the elder sister's heart as she comprehended her brother's elegant design. The lines of power that linked the four cardinal points of the circle would draw and focus the force of the gems, spiraling it inward. When the energy streams reached the inner hub, the power would remain static until directed by specific spells. The spells were not automatic, but voice activated; more specifically, they were activated by Iveron's voice, and his alone. Their brother was the sole being who could control the power of this circle.
"What do you see, Seth?" Calmarel hissed, her discomforted with her sister's stunned countenance apparent. "What do these scribblings do?"
"Quite a number of things," Lysethra answered, "and all at the same time, if he wishes it."
"But how—"
"The focus is on these four stands, which are designed to hold the gems he has been trying so hard to recover. That power would be sufficient to level this entire mountain, if it were so directed." She smiled without humor as Calmarel's mouth dropped open. "But the major spells are those of summoning, restraint, protection, and torment. He obviously hopes to bring something very powerful here, then coerce it into his service. Not usually a very effective ploy with demonkind, but with this much power at his disposal, he might just—"
"He wields that much power?" Calmarel asked with an arched brow.
"He will, when he recovers the gems." Lysethra moved to gain a better view of the tangled lines of force within the circle. "It would seem that the spell opens a portal directly to the Nine Hells... to Necrol."
The sisters stopped, looking at one another with concern.
"Is there a name?" Calmarel asked.
Lysethra shook her head in reply. The name would be spoken by the spell caster, their brother.
"But surely he can't hope to—"
"If the might of these spells is any indication, he would most certainly be capable of it," Lysethra contradicted flatly. "It must be Cannoth."
"But it's only been eighty some years! He is undoubtedly still angry over the last time he was summoned."
"Undoubtedly!" Lysethra agreed.
Eighty-seven years ago, it had taken the energy of the entire council and the mediator herself to bring a Fargmir into their world and coerce him into service. The demon-lord had agreed to accompany Iveron in his conquest of the Northern Realms. But when the dwarven enchantment trapped Iveron and most of his army within Zellohar, the conquest had been thwarted, and Cannoth was stranded on the surface world,. Only when the spells binding him to this world had faded was Cannoth able to escape back to Necrol. Now the very four gems that had imprisoned Iveron would be used to bring the demon-lord back to this world and compel it to do his bidding.
"And if Iveron wields enough power to single-handedly restrain and coerce an angry Fargmir," she continued, almost to herself, "what other ambitions might he consider?"
Lysethra saw that Calmarel shared her thoughts. Their brother wanted what he had always wanted: power, prestige, control over Clan Darkmist, a seat on the council, perhaps even his sisters' heads on a silver platter.
"We must return to Hourglass immediately!" Calmarel said. "We have a great deal of preparing to do."
"Agreed."
Lysethra banished the spell of wizard-sight, reached to touch her sister and uttered the single word that would transform them into the shadowy vapors that could waft directly through the miles of stone to their home. But their trip was far from instantaneous, and they knew nothing of the mediator's message awaiting their arrival.
"See to it that the wagons get across, Sergeant," Yenjil barked as the last of the foot soldiers disembarked the ferry that spanned the river at Raven. "I'm taking the column ahead. We should be able to get three more leagues more before dark."
"Aye, sir!"
Sergeant Kaplan's brow furrowed with concern on two counts: First, the captain only called him 'Sergeant' when he was worried. They were still two days from Beriknor, but there had been rumors aplenty in Raven. His second concern he voiced, knowing his commander's answer even before he spoke.
"Not too keen about pulling them wagons along in the dark without any protection, Cap'n."
"Of course, Sergeant," Yenjil agreed. "I'm leaving you two squads of horse; one light and one heavy. Will that be enough?"
"Mor'n enough, sir." Kaplan smiled his thanks, thinking, Boy, he is worried about something. He's never called me 'Sergeant' twice in one sittin' before.
Both men turned in their saddles as a rider thundered up. It was Logan, the youngest member of the cavalry and, as tradition warranted, the company messenger.
"Captain Thallon," Logan puffed breathlessly as he saluted, "Master Feldspar has sent for you. He said it was urgent."
"Well, I had better go see what our esteemed wizard wants. Thank you, Logan. Inform Sergeant Massena that the column will be moving out soon, and she is assigned point scout with Second Squad, Light. First Squads Heavy and Light Horse will stay to accompany the wagons. Go."
"Yes, sir!" The youth wheeled his mount and pounded off toward the front of the column.
"He's a good boy, sir," Kaplan said.
"He's a good young lancer, not a boy!" There was obviously more bite to Thallon's words than he intended, and he quirked a smile in apology. "His enthusiasm is his only fault. Take care of those wagons, Sergeant. We shouldn't be out of horn call if you run into any problems."
"Aye, sir." Kaplan watched his captain's receding back as Gargantua trotted to the small knoll where Feldspar waited on his grey mare. Yes, he thought, he's definitely got a serious case of the jitters. Been too long behind a desk maybe...
"Well, Feldspar, what's got you up in arms?" Gar snorted and pawed as Thallon reined her in. The worried-looking wizard answered by pointing one knobby finger toward the eastern sky. Thallon glanced up to see a small dark shape circling high up.
"What is that, a buzzard?" he asked. "You're not telling me it's some kind of bad omen, are you?"
"Look more closely, Captain," Feldspar said as he handed over a tube fitted with crystal lenses. "That is no bird."
It took a few moments to acquire the target, but once he did he realized the wizard was correct; this was no bird. Two arms with clawed hands hung beneath the broad, leathery wings, the head was more saurian than avian, and the legs were shaped like a human's, but with long curved talons.
"What in the name of the Nine Hells is that thing?" Thallon asked the wizard with wide-eyed concern.
"Offhand, I would guess it is a spy of some sort," the elderly mage said. "Clearly it tells us that there is more afoot than a simple raiding of farms and caravans. Bandits and orcs do not have such elaborate means of reconna
issance."
"Damn! It also tells us that our enemies will know our position, force strength and speed by morning."
"I could probably kill it, if you think it necessary."
Thallon looked at the elderly mage for a moment. Killing the saurian spy might keep their position a secret, but he gauged Feldspar's safety to be a much more valuable commodity. Besides, a spy that has been discovered and does not know it can do more harm than good. Careful counter-spying could turn the situation to their advantage.
"I would rather you followed it," Yenjil suggested to the wizard with a raised eyebrow. "Discretely, of course."
"And if I just happened to take note of troop deployments and strength along the way..."
"Precisely." Thallon smiled his approval at Feldspar's understanding of the situation.
"I should be back before highsun tomorrow," the oldster informed him, reaching into a deep pocket for an obscure bit of paraphernalia. "If I'm not, there has been trouble and you should proceed cautiously. Here."
Feldspar handed his mount's rein to the captain, then mumbled a few arcane words. At first Thallon thought the wizard had simply vanished, until he heard the high pitched screech of the sparrow hawk perched upon the grey mare's saddle. The small, swift bird screeched once again, then streaked like an arrow to the east.
"I always proceed cautiously, Feldspar," Yenjil mumbled as the tiny bird vanished in the distance. "Always..."
Two filthy, worried and frustrated messenger beasts swirled into existence before the sculpted onyx hearth of a conference room deep in Castle Darkmist. As planned, Keveron was waiting.
"I trust everything went well, Mistresses?" he asked.
"Quite well," Lysethra said, peeling out of the disgusting rags she had been forced to wear as part of the disguise. "Now change us back quickly, before I lose my patience!"
"At once, Mistress!" the wizard chirped. He performed the spell flawlessly, transmogrifying the two into their familiar, and decidedly more attractive, forms.
Calmarel bent double with the gut-wrenching transformation, but recovered quickly, reveling in her once-again lithe and powerful body. The wizard approached, bearing Calmarel's clothing, but could not keep his gaze from appraising her sleek feminine shape. As the garments changed hands their eyes met. Calmarel smiled, making sure she had his full attention before snapping a perfectly aimed kick into his solar plexus.
"How dare you paw me with your eyes like I was a piece of meat!" she growled as he folded to the floor, gasping. She grabbed a handful of hair and jerked his head back. "You will avert your eyes properly, Keveron, or I will personally burn them out with hot needles! Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mistress," Keveron croaked as he struggled to his feet.
"Now pick up my clothes!" she snapped, pointing to where they had fallen.
He scurried to comply, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor as he held them out to her from a kneeling position.
"Do not grovel like some low-born imp, Keveron! You are a Darkmist! Do not debase the clan by acting like a peasant. Stand up and LOOK AT ME!!"
The confused wizard snapped to attention, jerking his gaze from the floor to her eyes and locking it there, straining to prevent it from wandering to the athletic curves below her chin. She took the clothes from him, a quirky smile on her lips.
"Very good, Keveron," she said. "You may go now, but your breech of manners requires rectification. Report to my quarters in an hour."
"Yes, Mistress," he replied stonily, still carefully keeping his eyes on hers. "A messenger awaits you in the outer hall, Mistress," he added as he turned to go.
"Thank you," Calmarel said smoothly. "Oh, and Keveron, bring two needles and a candle when you come." She enjoyed the tremors of his shoulders as he stiffened in horror.
"Yes, Mistress." He departed more quickly than they had ever seen him move.
“Must you terrorize all of the help?” snapped Lysethra as she grabbed her own pile of clothing.
“It relaxes me,” Calmarel retorted, “and Xakra knows I need some relaxing after what we’ve just learned of Iveron’s plans.”
They dressed in silence for a few moments.
"Are you expecting any messages, Cal?" the elder sister asked finally as she pulled on her boots.
"No, but it could be something regarding Skkreel's disappearance." She fastened her belt and put on her cloak and pendants.
"More likely something to do with the council..." Lysethra exchanged a concerned glance with her sister.
"You worry too much, Seth," Calmarel said, walking to the door. She threw it open and bellowed, "Messenger!" Their worries were renewed, however, when an undead rock troll shambled from the shadows. She sighed and turned to her sister, her mien grim. "Then again, you may be right."
The fetid creature ambled into the room, turning first to one sister then the other, unsure of whom to present its message. It finally decided that Calmarel was closer and handed her a scroll case. She recognized the ornate tube immediately.
"From the mediator, no less." Calmarel started to open it then noticed the messenger had turned to leave. "Messenger! Stay here a moment. I may have a return message."
The hulk stopped obediently, too stupid (being dead) to notice the wink from Calmarel to her elder sister. The two huddled together and read the mediator's summons, exchanging covert whispers. Then they turned to their patient guest.
"Come here, messenger," Lysethra snapped, carefully not watching Calmarel as she maneuvered behind it. "We have read the note and have decided to—"
Calmarel's spell worked perfectly; the troll dropped like a marionette with cut strings. Calmarel stood behind it with a smirk on her lips, a tiny crystal vial glowing in her hand. The vial swam with cloudy vapors, the dead troll's captured essence. The thing was not actually destroyed, just deactivated until its essence was once again placed into its rotting corpse. But this ploy granted the sisters time.
"This is really not what we need right now," Lysethra said, rubbing her eyes wearily. "We need to attend to Iveron!"
"We will attend to Iveron," Calmarel said, her tone strained but confident. "I suggest we attend the mediator first, though. She is the more pertinent threat."
"We can answer the summons tomorrow morning," Lysethra suggested. "I need to rest, and prepare."
"Sounds good to me," her younger sister agreed. "I'll reanimate her messenger when we're ready to leave. The mediator will never be the wiser."
"I'll meet you here in the morning, then," Lysethra said, rubbing her eyes again as Calmarel left, stepping over the out flung arm of the troll corpse, "unless something else goes wrong before then."
CHAPTER 27
The snow-shrouded panorama swept past beneath Phlegothax's wings as he soared northward. With the setting sun, the sky erupted into the same crimson hue of his scales, its beauty not unappreciated by the dragon as he rode the chill updrafts. Years cooped up in the depths of Zellohar had dulled his memories of flight, but with his wings full and his eyes alight with the glorious sunset, he exulted in the freedom.
The mists of Mjolnir Falls hove into view before the light of day faded, and Phlegothax folded his wings to plummet earthward. Scant feet from the trees, he pulled out of the dive to approach the falls at treetop level. There was no sense in attracting attention; Draco only knew what forces Drixel had mustered. The trees cleared and he dipped even lower, streaking across the shimmering lake fed by the falls. He banked up, his wings biting hard into the damp air, his momentum carrying him to a perfect landing on an icy rock outcropping at the top of the falls.
Only a dragon could perform so well after a hundred stinking years below ground, he gloated, congratulating himself on the precision of the maneuver.
He scanned the area below. Nothing in the trees, nothing on the water. A few ripples spread across the lake; probably a fish startled by his tempestuous passage. Satisfied, he dropped from his perch and swooped to land at the bottom of the falls.
Scrabbl
ing up the icy rocks, Phlegothax plunged through the liquid curtain, his claws finding easy purchase on the ice-coated stone. Inside the cavern, the dragon paused. A quick, violent shudder rid him of the icy water, then he realized the futility of any attempt at dryness. The river that flowed hundreds of feet overhead had also found its way underground, and had gouged out the caverns in which Phlegothax stood, or rather waded.
Water! Water everywhere, Phlegothax thought, disdaining the biting touch of the icy torrents. Water flowed down the walls, dripped from the ceiling and cascaded over short terraces as far as he could see. Most of the torrent was not deep, but the noise rendered his sensitive hearing useless.
He advanced cautiously, avoiding the deeper pools. There were no signs of recent habitation, but Phlegothax knew this was Drixel's lair. The aura unique to the enchanted gems sent a thrill up his sinuous spine; the sapphire was near.
The dragon ventured deeper into the cavern, ascending as the water-hewn fissure climbed and widened. Natural rock formations decorated the subterranean scenery: columns of flowstone and curtains of calcite and pools lined with the angular crystals of dog-toothed spar. Then, as Phlegothax topped the last tier of cascading water, the ceiling receded into a cathedral-like expanse. Water dripped from the walls, and a dark pool encircled a rare bit of dry ground in the chamber's center. It was quieter here, and he strained for any sound to betray his quarry's presence. The sensation was stronger; the gem was very close.
"Greetings, Phlegothax."
Phlegothax leapt aside, his serpentine neck snaking around to acquire the target. His lungs filled reflexively, preparing to send a spear of flame into the overhead cavern, now illuminated by the sapphire's magical glow.
Magical glow? He bit back the reflex to bathe his target in searing flames, remembering Darkmist’s warning.
"You should be more careful, Dukarr," Phlegothax hissed in unconcealed anger. "Few have surprised Draco pyromanicus rufiotyrannus and survived to boast." And this will be no exception, he thought.
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