The Fallen Fortress

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Aballister countered the priest’s magic,” Dorigen announced. “The wizard is not your friend,” she quickly added. “He holds no love for you at all, young priest, as is evidenced by the assassins he sent to kill you in Carradoon.”

  “Then why did he aid me?” Cadderly asked.

  “Because Aballister feared Barjin more than he feared you,” Dorigen answered. “He didn’t anticipate what the gods had in store for him where young Cadderly was concerned.”

  “How, then, does it play out, wise Dorigen?” Cadderly asked sarcastically, tiring of the woman’s private amusement and her cryptic references to the gods.

  Dorigen motioned to the far wall, and spoke a word of enchantment to reveal a swirling door of misty fog. “I was instructed to strike out at you with all my powers then retreat. I was to try to separate you from your friends and lead you through that door,” she explained. “Therein lies Aballister’s private mansion, the place where he planned to finish off the young priest who has become such a problem for him.”

  Cadderly studied Dorigen closely through every word, using his aura sight to determine any reversals the woman might have in store. Danica looked to him for answers, and he shrugged, convinced against his own reason that Dorigen had again spoken the truth.

  “And so I surrender to you,” Dorigen said, and Cadderly and Danica’s surprise couldn’t have been more absolute.

  The woman laid her wand on the desk and sat back in her chair. “Go and play this out to the end, young priest,” she bade Cadderly, again motioning to the door of swirling mist. “Let the destiny of Erlkazar be determined by the private battle, as fate intended it all along.”

  “I don’t believe in fate,” Cadderly replied.

  “Do you believe in war?” Dorigen asked.

  “Do not do this,” Danica whispered over her shoulder.

  Dorigen’s smile was wide once more. “‘Bonaduce’ will get you through this portal as well.”

  “Do not,” Danica said again, more loudly.

  Cadderly walked away from her, toward the wall.

  “Cadderly!” Danica called after him.

  The young priest wasn’t listening. He’d gone there to defeat Aballister, to decapitate the forces of Castle Trinity, so that thousands needn’t die in a pointless war. It might be a trap, might be a portal that would take him to one of the lower planes and leave him there for all eternity. But Cadderly couldn’t ignore the possibilities presented to him by Dorigen’s claims, by that swirling mist, and he couldn’t ignore the truths his magic had shown to him.

  He heard Danica moving behind him.

  “Bonaduce!” he cried, and he jumped into the mist and was gone.

  NINETEEN

  FRIENDS LOST, FRIENDS FOUND

  The four-foot-high counter surrounded the three trapped companions on two sides, with a thick column, floor to ceiling, supporting it on either end of the eight-foot front section. The wall blocked their backs, leaving only a small gap to get behind the counter on one side, wide enough for two goblins or one large man. So far, only a single enemy had opted to try that route—and he’d been summarily blasted away by the elf maiden with her deadly bow.

  Ivan and Pikel stood atop the counter as the throng advanced, throwing taunts and throwing fists, though no enemies had yet come close enough to hit. At Ivan’s proclamation that orcs were, “born only to clean the gooey-greens outta ogre noses,” three of the pig-faced humanoids took up a wild charge. The first skidded in the spilled soup as it was about to leap for Pikel, its back leg flying out from under it and its front leg straight out and up high. It slammed hard against the counter, its ankle and lead foot up above the ledge, and Pikel promptly brought his heel around the orc’s toe and bent it down flat atop the counter, bringing his full weight atop it.

  The trailing orcs stumbled around, but using their fallen friend as support, managed to hold a tentative balance as they banged against the side of the counter. Ivan’s axe cleaved one in the side of the head, but the other managed to deflect Pikel’s first club attack. That orc was soon crushed against the side, though, as many of its companions, seeing the intruders suddenly pressed, rushed in.

  “We cannot hold!” Shayleigh cried out.

  “Just get yerself the archers,” Ivan replied, huffing and puffing with each word as he worked his axe furiously to keep the sudden mob at bay. “Me and me brother’ll handle this crew!”

  Shayleigh looked helplessly to her nearly empty quiver. Her hand started for her short sword as a soldier came around to the open side, but the elf realized she didn’t have time to spare for melee combat. She lamented the waste of an arrow but shot the man down anyway, hoping his sudden death might give other enemies pause before they tried a similar route.

  The counter bucked suddenly as an ogre slammed against the back of the crowd, and Shayleigh thought it would break apart, and that she would be crushed against the wall as the irrepressible monsters pushed on.

  Her actions wrought of terror, she turned to face the counter and put an arrow in the ogre’s face. It fell back and the counter appeared to resettle on its braces. Still unsure of its solidity, the elf maiden scrambled up on a shelf against the back wall, a position that afforded her a better view of the area beyond the immediate melee.

  A man braced both his hands and one foot on the counter and started to leap up, thinking the dwarves too engaged to stop him. Ivan’s axe promptly broke his spine, though the dwarf took a vicious hit on the hip for the distraction. Ivan grimaced in pain, growled the wound away, and chopped furiously at a goblin attacker, the dwarf’s mighty axe smashing through the creature’s upraised spear, and through the creature’s upturned face.

  Ivan couldn’t revel in the kill, though, for the press of swords and spears, cruelly tipped pole arms and slashing daggers, did not relent. The dwarf skipped and hopped, dodged and parried, and every now and then managed an offensive strike.

  An arrow appeared suddenly, stuck halfway through Ivan’s yellow beard, and the waves of pain that clearly assaulted the dwarf told Shayleigh that it had gashed his chin as well.

  “I telled ye to get yerself the archers!” he cried angrily at Shayleigh, but his bluster was lost when he looked in the direction from which the arrow had come, looked to the enemy archer lying dead on the floor, and the elven arrow sticking from his forehead.

  “Never mind,” the humbled dwarf finished.

  Ivan hopped as a sword sliced low across and came down with one boot trapping the weapon against the counter. He kicked out, shattering the man’s jaw, knocking him back into the mob. Two others took his place, though, and Ivan was sorely pressed once more.

  Pikel fared little better. The dwarf scored three quick kills, but was bleeding in several places, with one of the wounds fairly serious. He worked his club back and forth as though trying to forget the weariness in his arms and the obvious hopelessness of it all. He swooped left, batting aside one lunging spear, but a sword sliced in behind his club, striking against something under his sleeve then driving through to nick at Pikel’s forearm.

  “Ow!” the green-bearded dwarf squeaked, bringing his arm defensively in tight to his side. Pikel’s pain flew away in a moment, though, replaced by shock when the upper half of his pet snake fell out of his sleeve onto the counter.

  “Ooooooo!” Pikel wailed, his little legs pumping. “Ooooooo!”

  The swordsman came in a straight thrust, but Pikel caught the blade in a free hand and flung it aside, oblivious to the lines of blood growing on his unarmored hand. The dwarf’s other arm pumped straight ahead, the end of his club slamming into the attacker’s face. Pikel grabbed up the club in both hands and chopped three times in rapid succession, driving the man to the floor.

  Then the furious dwarf whipped a backhand cut that flung a goblin, trying to use the moment to climb atop the counter, several feet away. Back and forth came the heavy club, swatting weapons, breaking bones with undeniable fury. No defense withstood the roaring dwarf’s assau
lt.

  “Ooooooo!”

  An ogre threw men and orcs aside to charge the counter, and leaped up bravely—stupidly. Pikel smashed its knee out, spun a complete circuit, and hit it again as it fell, squarely in the chest, sending it tumbling into the crowd. With the enemies directly in front of him knocked away by the sprawling ogre, the outraged dwarf hopped sidelong.

  “Ooooooo!”

  A swordsman lunged for Ivan, but Pikel smashed the man’s elbow against the lip of the counter before his sword ever got close.

  “Hey, he’s mine!” Ivan started to protest.

  But Pikel, not even hearing him, continued to wail and to batter. His next swipe snapped the man’s neck, but the dwarf followed through too far on his backhand, clipping Ivan and sending him flying backward from the counter.

  Pikel didn’t even seem aware that he stood alone. All he saw was his dead snake, the serpent that had befriended him. He ran back and forth along the counter, showing no weariness in his furiously pumping limbs, seeming to feel no pain from his many, and mounting wounds, tasting only sweet vengeance as he continued to beat back, to overwhelm, the suddenly hesitant mob.

  “We need more support up in front!” Ivan bellowed angrily as Shayleigh helped him back to his feet.

  “Arrows?” Shayleigh explained, indicating her empty quiver and the single arrow she held to her bowstring.

  Ivan reached up and yanked the arrow out of his face. “Here’s another one for ye,” said the dwarf. He jerked suddenly then reached over his shoulder and produced yet another long bolt.

  Shayleigh’s eyes widened as she looked past the dwarf to a table the enemy had rolled into position so that some archers might get shots through the opening at the side of the counter. She put up her bow immediately and fired, hitting only the wood of the blocking table, but forcing the enemy bowmen to duck down behind.

  “I’ll get ye some arrows!” Ivan bellowed as he turned to regard the scene.

  Out ran the dwarf, full speed. An archer popped his head up, taking a bead. But he lost his nerve as the roaring dwarf drew near, and his shot flew harmlessly high.

  Ivan narrowed his focus straight ahead, ignoring the many enemies shouting and pointing his way from the side. He lowered his head and hit the heavy table full force, knocking it back over onto its legs and winding up atop it.

  The three stunned archers underneath looked up in surprise. They didn’t realize how vulnerable they had suddenly become with their barrier above them until an arrow whistled in, killing one.

  Two sets of eyes looked back at Shayleigh, and both men appeared relieved to see a goblin rush across, inadvertently intercepting the elf’s next shot at the cost of its own life.

  Ivan came over the back side of the uprighted table and rolled in at the men head first, the flat side of his axe smacking one of the remaining archers on the side of the head. The other man scrambled to get a dagger out and readied before the dwarf could right himself and bring his axe to bear again. But Ivan had let go of his weapon, scrambled in, and clamped his strong hands against the sides of the remaining enemy’s head.

  A dagger cut into the dwarf’s shoulder, but with a growl, Ivan heaved straight upward, the man’s head going flat against the bottom of the table. The dwarf continued to press, planting his feet under him and his shoulders against the table, and heaved up with all his strength. Ivan ducked low as the table flew up a foot then started to descend, but he kept his arms, and the enemy’s head, up high.

  “Bet that hurt,” the dwarf muttered as the table slammed back down, and the man’s face scrunched up.

  The man was sat awkwardly, his legs twisted beneath him, his eyes still closed tightly. Ivan punched him in the face anyway, to get him out of the way, then the dwarf scooped up his axe and the nearest quivers and charged out from under the table, back for the counter. A crossbow quarrel drove through his calf, and he pitched headlong, but he was up in a moment, running again, gnawing his thick lips against waves of searing pain.

  Shayleigh had to spin around and put her third, and last shot into the face of an orc that had slipped over the far side of the counter, around Pikel’s continuing frenzy. When the elf maiden turned back Ivan’s way, she found herself faced off against another goblin. Desperate, with no time to go for her sword, Shayleigh whipped her bow across, trying to drive the creature back.

  “Yous is dead,” the goblin promised, but Shayleigh shook her head, even smiled, seeing a large, double-bladed axe come up high behind the creature’s head.

  Ivan stumbled across the goblin’s back as it fell. “Here’re yer arrows!” he cried, tossing Shayleigh three nearly full quivers. He had no time to hear her reply, for he spun around, axe flying wildly before him, to knock aside a thrusting spear.

  Shayleigh, too, spun around, fitting an arrow as she turned and firing above the counter opposite Ivan, firing once then again as the press became general on all three sides.

  “Dead snake!” Ivan cried repeatedly, prodding his frenzied brother on. “Dead snake!”

  “Ooooooo!” Pikel wailed, and another enemy was swatted away.

  But Shayleigh knew they would need more than Pikel’s frenzy to hold out, and more than the two score arrows Ivan had just given to her. Her arms pumped repeatedly, firing to the side and out in front beside Pikel, every shot scoring a direct hit, and making an opening for yet another enemy to step in.

  “Bonaduce!” Danica called, and she headed for the wall, leaping up into the swirling fog. She hit the stone hard, and fell back, dazed, into the room.

  She rolled in a defensive somersault, feeling betrayed and vulnerable. Dorigen had gotten rid of Cadderly, and the dangerous woman still held that wand. Danica turned another somersault, coming back to her feet more than halfway across the room from the still-sitting wizard.

  “The password was Bonaduce,” Danica accused.

  “Only those so designated by Aballister may enter his private chambers, even with the word,” Dorigen explained. “He wanted to see Cadderly. Apparently, you were not included.”

  Danica’s arm jerked, and one of her daggers flew at Dorigen. It sparked as it connected with a magical shield and bounced to the floor beside the woman, who promptly put her wand in line with Danica and held her free hand up, warning the monk to stay back.

  “Treachery,” Danica breathed, and Dorigen was shaking her head in denial through every syllable of the word.

  “Do you believe you will kill me with that wand?” Danica asked, beginning to circle, her balance perfect, her legs ready to launch her away with every measured step.

  “I have no wish to try,” Dorigen replied.

  “One spell, Dorigen,” Danica growled. “Or a single try with your wand. That is all you will get.”

  “I have no wish to try,” the older woman said again, more firmly, and to accentuate her point, Dorigen dropped the wand to the desktop.

  Danica stood a bit straighter, her perplexed look genuine.

  “I didn’t lie to you,” Dorigen explained. “Nor did I trick Cadderly into going somewhere he doesn’t belong.”

  Again, the indication was that Dorigen believed a larger fate to be guiding them all. Danica was not so convinced. She believed in the power of the individual, in free will and choice, not in some predestined path.

  “Aballister will likely punish me for letting the young priest through,” Dorigen went on, against Danica’s doubting expression. “He hoped I would kill Cadderly, or at least exhaust his divine powers.”

  She chuckled and looked away, and Danica realized she could spring atop that desk and throttle Dorigen before the wizard ever reacted. But Danica didn’t move, held by the continued note of sincerity in the wizard’s voice.

  “Aballister thought the malignant spirit, the evil personification of the Ghearufu, would end the threat to Castle Trinity,” Dorigen went on.

  “The ghost that you sent after us,” Danica accused.

  “Not so,” Dorigen replied. “Originally, Aballister did
send the Night Masks to Carradoon to kill Cadderly, but the return of the spirit was purely a coincidence—purely a fortunate coincidence as far as Aballister was concerned.

  “He didn’t know that Cadderly could defeat that spirit,” Dorigen continued, and again came that curious chuckle. “He thought his storm would destroy you all, and so it would have, except that Aballister didn’t know you were far from Nightglow by then. Fearful would he have been indeed, if he’d learned Cadderly could defeat even Old Fyren after he was finished bending the wyrm to his will.”

  Danica nearly fell over backward, her almond-shaped eyes opened wide.

  “Yes, I watched that drama unfold,” Dorigen explained, “but I didn’t tell Aballister. I wanted his surprise to be complete when Cadderly arrived here so soon.”

  “What is this, penitence?” Danica asked.

  Dorigen looked down at her desk and slowly shook her head, running her crooked fingers through her long, black-and-silver hair. “Aballister has made many mistakes. I don’t know that he will defeat Cadderly, or you and your other friends. And even if we win this day, how can we hope to conquer Erlkazar with our army shattered?”

  Danica found that she honestly believed the woman’s words, and that made her more defensive, fearing that Dorigen had cast some charm over her.

  “Your reversal now does not excuse your actions over the past months,” Danica told her.

  “No,” Dorigen agreed without hesitation. “Nor would I call it a ‘reversal.’ Let us see who wins in there.” She indicated the swirling mist on the wall. “Let us see where fate guides us.”

  Danica shook her head.

  “You still don’t understand, do you?” Dorigen asked sharply, and with the change in tone, the agile monk was down immediately into her threatening crouch.