“What news?” Kulnor asked. “I heard his lordship was in some big meetin’ most o’ the morn.”
Creel sipped the last of his spirits, wondering how much he should say. “Both elvish nations sent reply that they will send ambassadors to attend the conclave in a week’s time. The Fallowin elves were quite receptive to the invitation, the Silverwood elves begrudging, but with all the others attending, they don’t want to be isolated, I assume.”
“Bloody pointy-ears are as bad as highwaymen. Charged two silvers a head as a toll to get me boyos down the river.” Harbek scowled. “They think they own the damned river—gated it right off.”
Kulnor grunted agreement. “At least me queen and King Stonefist will be joinin’ us afore long. Too bad what happened to yer young queen. Reckon it woulda gone over better with her speaking for all the humans. Though this Lord Lanthas seems like a keen enough fella.”
“Well, we did receive some heartening news that gives us reason to hope Sianna might be returned to us. If the gods smile on us, the conclave will have its leader.”
“Eh? That so?” Kulnor regarded him with raised eyebrows.
The barmaid approached just then, and Harbek ordered them all another round.
Creel didn’t see any reason not to tell them of the plan. Lanthas hadn’t sworn anyone to secrecy. They would reach the camp and either succeed or fail well before news could reach the Nebarans from the lips of any spies who might be around to hear of it. He briefly sketched out the plan, keeping his voice lowered. The dwarves leaned in close to listen.
“Reiktir’s beard! That be a risky plan,” Harbek said. He took a long gulp of his ale, spilling some down his chest but paying it no heed.
“Aye, but what better chance have they?” Kulnor asked. “If it was me queen held captive, I’d go without a second thought.”
Harbek shot his companion a knowing grin and simply nodded. “It takes stones—I like it.”
“Ye’ll have me aid, Creel, if ye want it,” Kulnor said.
“And mine,” added Harbek.
Kulnor held up his holy symbol, a silver medallion of a hammer striking an anvil. “Ye could use some o’ the gods’ favor on yer side, I reckon.”
Creel might have objected, but he wondered if having a warrior priest on his side wasn’t a bad idea.
“Ha! I can see ye’re considerin’ it, me friend. Well, consider it done! Sioned sent me as an ambassador to show our commitment to the old alliances. What better way to cement old ties than spillin’ our foes’ blood together?”
Harbek pounded the table in agreement.
Kulnor looked pained as he regarded the elder dwarf. “I’ll have to ask ye to remain with the boyos, old friend. Keep ’em outta trouble. Idle and bored warriors could be bad for diplomatic relations and all that. Ye know that all too well.”
Harbek looked as though he’d argue, but he clearly saw Kulnor’s point and heaved a sigh. “Aye, but don’t be gettin’ yerself killed. The queen would tear me beard out, knowin’ I let ye go by yerself, if anything bad happened.”
“I won’t be by meself—I got me friend Creel here.” Kulnor clapped Creel on the shoulder, seeming satisfied the matter had already been decided.
Creel supposed it was. The dwarves were sturdy folk to have in a fight, and Kulnor’s ability to call on Reiktir’s aid could be a huge boon.
“Well, then let’s drink to new alliances and rescuing a queen.” He held up his cup for a toast.
“And takin’ out some scum-sucking Nebaran bastards while we’re at it,” Kulnor added with a grin.
Chapter 51
Nesnys was true to her word, much to Elyas’s discomfiture. Five days after their encounter in the grove, Dirich announced a special fight arranged for the following day, ostensibly to celebrate a Nebaran holiday, the anniversary of Ignatius the Third’s rise to power six decades prior—not that Elyas or any of the others cared one whit about the emperor’s holiday. Any occasion to fight was occasion enough to excite them.
Dirich spat in the dirt, his face twisted as though he’d tasted something especially bitter. His gaze caught Elyas’s for a moment, his disgust evident, before he raised a hand for silence over the hubbub of excitement as the gladiators awaited their matchups.
“There is a change in prime,” Dirich said without preamble, drawing surprised reactions. “Ironshanks will represent House Pasikos, matched up against the Sledge of the most esteemed House Isiratu itself, all bless His Imperial Majesty and all of his descendants.”
The outrage was immediate.
“The honor of prime is rightfully mine as house champion!” Caul bellowed, face red and fists clenched. His searing glare went to Elyas for a moment before returning to Dirich. Caul’s cronies muttered and cursed angrily.
This is not good. Does she wish me to not even survive until the match? The Sledge was reputedly the mightiest gladiator in the entire empire, undefeated and fearsome in reputation, a slave of the emperor’s own house, though he lived and trained in Leciras and not the capital.
“You heard me,” Dirich snarled, his own anger rising. “Lord Pasikos has made a decision.”
Elyas briefly wondered how Nesnys had cajoled or threatened the involved parties to arrange the fight. Perhaps a command was sent from the imperial palace itself, and underlings across the empire would no doubt move the heavens and earth to make it so.
“Secondary match shall be a melee, five chosen gladiators from each house participating, House Pasikos versus House Isiratu and three others. I know not which others yet. Whichever house has a gladiator remaining standing come the terminus shall be declared victor.”
The general fury abated somewhat as curiosity took its place. Caul and his cronies were still visibly irate although the spectacle of a melee took some of the edge off their anger. But Elyas knew better—this was a slight they wouldn’t let go unanswered. He missed Harlan more than ever right then, for both his support and friendship, but also as a set of eyes to watch his back.
“That is all. Return to training. Assignments will be made later.” Dirich turned abruptly and left the gladiators milling in the training yard.
“You’d best watch yourself, Ironshanks,” Shoat muttered. He had come up to stand near Elyas for the announcement. “Caul and his ilk will take this as a personal insult.”
Elyas found out just how personally late that night. He was unable to sleep, tossing and turning, so when the door opened and four men barged into his room, it wasn’t unexpected. He fought them off as best he could, but the odds were four on one, each assailant as well trained as he. Elyas leaped from his pallet tangled in his wool blanket, but they tackled him against the wall. Fists pummeled his stomach and ribs. He landed a solid punch of his own, sending one man sprawling. Another attacker he kicked in the knee. The man cursed and limped away, and the barrage momentarily subsided. But then a cudgel jabbed Elyas in the gut, and he folded over. A second strike to the back of his thigh dropped him. Hands seized his arms and dragged him into the center of his room. He was forced down onto his belly. Cudgel blows rained down on the backs of his thighs and along his back, taking care to strike the muscles primarily and not break bones. His attackers left his head alone, which he surmised was to better conceal his injuries. They let off after a dozen or more strikes, then a knee ground hard into his back.
“I don’t know whose cock you swallowed to get prime,” Caul growled in his ear, his breath rancid, “but you’ll not survive the fight, maggot. You are nothing compared to me, and the Sledge is bloody invincible. I shall laugh when they drag you from the sand in bloody pieces. Pasikos will look a fool, and I’ll gloat. Soon, they’ll come begging me to bring glory back to this house.”
Caul’s weight lifted, and a gob of spittle struck Elyas’s cheek. A foot stomped against his ribs—hard. Elyas stifled a cry as ribs cracked, the familiar agony spearing through his side.
“The healer won’t be able to help you in time now, no matter how much you bugger her.”
/>
Harsh voices laughed.
Elyas turned his face away just in time before the stream of urine splashed over his head, running down his neck and back. He barely had the strength to drag himself from the warm puddle on the floor after they left, laughing amongst themselves.
His legs were so badly bruised that they could hardly support his weight. He crawled to the shelf above his bed and took the urn of water there to douse his head and wash the piss and spittle off his body. Once that was complete, he lay back down on his pallet, aching and miserable, and wished he had been the one to die in the arena rather than Harlan.
***
The next day was pure misery. Elyas hurt so badly he didn’t sleep the rest of the night, and his legs barely supported him when he reported to the training yard for morning exercise. Dirich was absent, which wasn’t unusual. Surprisingly, Shoat seemed to take pity on him and excluded him from the run. He wouldn’t have made it without collapsing, had he attempted it. Caul and his cronies regarded him with self-satisfied sneers before they left through the gates.
He sat on the bench in the mess hall with head in hands for a few minutes before someone roughly shook his shoulder.
“Report to the infirmary,” a guard told him.
Painfully, he made his way to the gate, where he was admitted. Edara was already waiting for him inside the infirmary, her hair pulled back in an untidy mass at the early hour. She immediately noticed by his shuffling gait how much pain he was in, and anger flushed her cheeks.
“Elyas, what did they do to you?”
“It’s nothing. They reordered the matches for tonight, and some feelings got hurt.” With some difficulty, he climbed onto the table.
“Hmmph. I should say. You could barely fight a child in your condition.” She lifted his tunic and winced at the purpling over his cracked ribs. Edara then studied his badly bruised thighs and back.
“You shouldn’t be here… If they find out you helped me, they might hurt you too, Edara. How did you even know about this?”
“Don’t you worry about that.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly then rummaged through her supply of medicines and herbs. “You’ll be back before they return. Shoat sent for me. He and I go way back. He’s good about looking out for his men.”
Elyas watched Edara work for a few minutes. She ground a variety of herbs with her pestle and mortar then mixed it with some liquid from a stoppered jar. She sniffed at the concoction, frowned, and added a pinch of some type of powder to the mixture.
“I tried to kill her the other day,” he said. “She summoned me to the grove with the fountain. I stabbed her with the poisoned knife, and she didn’t even flinch.”
“The warlord?” Edara glanced over, concerned. “But I prepared a silverleaf extract mixed with nightshade! That should have felled an aurochs in moments.”
“Poison doesn’t affect her kind, it would appear. At least earthly poisons.” He thought of the bone dagger she wore and how she’d taunted him about it.
“Well, she didn’t kill you for the attempt, thank the gods. I heard the guards talking about beating one of the gladiators for attacking a guest, yet I wasn’t informed of any injuries. I should have known that was you.”
Elyas gave her a wry grin. “It wasn’t all that much of a beating, to tell the truth. I’ve had a lot worse—like this.” A few of the worst bruises still remained from the previous drubbing, but he’d suffered through those without complaint.
Edara sighed, probably thinking he’d never learn his lesson. “This should dull the pain and aid the swelling a bit, but your ribs will take days to mend. I can’t give you the full strength either, lest it make you drowsy. Tonight, I’ll give Shoat something to help with your strength before the bout. Unfortunately, I can’t do more—not in a matter of only hours.”
He drank the bitter concoction without hesitation then met her eyes and smiled, trying to put on a brave face. “It’s more than I expect or deserve. Thank you for all you do, Edara.”
She stepped into his arms when he raised them and gave him a careful embrace, heedful of his ribs. “It’s the Sledge, isn’t it? She arranged for you to fight him. I heard talk in the house yesterday.”
“Aye, it’s my final test. Either I die in the arena, or I survive and meet her measure, whatever that may be.”
“Just don’t lose yourself in the process of whatever fiendish metamorphosis she is trying to force upon you. You’re a good man—don’t let her change that.” Edara kissed him tenderly on the lips. “The gods watch over you this eve, Elyas.” He could see in her eyes she didn’t expect him to survive the night. She held his head to her bosom, holding him a long moment, then kissed him again on the top of the head. Before he could respond, she fled the infirmary, tears shining on her cheeks.
He followed the guards back, his pain easing slightly already. All he could think about was that was likely the last time he would see Edara. She was kind enough to keep her fears to herself, but she was right nonetheless—he didn’t stand a chance against the Sledge in his condition.
Damn you and your infernal games, Nesnys. I won’t even live long enough to have another chance to strike you down.
***
The floor thrummed beneath Nesnys’s boots the moment she teleported into the Hall of the Artificers, the air crackling with power as the transfiguration chamber worked nonstop—or as nonstop as was possible, for the ancient machinery overloaded after too many consecutive uses. Already, the factotum had needed to make repairs to keep it running.
She was pleased to see the ranks of motionless automatons lined up in the great hall—at least a hundred so far and more on the way.
“How goes it here?” she asked Cornix when she walked into the transfiguration chamber’s control room.
The colonel rose from the table he was sitting at and saluted her with a fist to his chest. Following the massacre of the king’s forces near Ammon Nor, her rabid dog had gotten his fill of blood and since become a lot more tractable.
“Warlord, all goes according to plan. One hundred and seven new recruits thus far. Soon to be one hundred and eight.” His dark eyes glinted in the brilliant light streaming in through the filthy window.
Pitiable screams came from the other chamber as another of her soldiers was transmuted. Outside the control room, several constructs stood guard over three more terrified soldiers about to be shepherded inside.
“The most we can cycle through is five at one time,” Cornix was saying. “After that, the chamber needs to cool down for half a day. So ten per day maximum.”
Nesnys nodded. “Well enough. Keep them coming. Any word from Taananzu?”
“Nay, Warlord.”
“Carry on. I might have a task for you soon, so be ready.”
“As you command.” He saluted her again when she stepped out.
She made her way to the portal room. It was already set for Kaejax Outpost, so she inserted the artificer ring she carried. The portal activated, the interlocking rings slamming home, opening the void to another plane.
Nesnys stepped through and entered the unusual skyscape of whatever nameless plane Kaejax Outpost was located on. Land islands floated through the sky in the distance. Around her lay the destroyed husks of automatons set to guard the portal.
“Taananzu,” she called telepathically.
A moment later, a swirl of green light flared, and the fiend appeared beside her. “Nesnys,” it said with a slight bow of its cowl.
“Report.”
“My powers are greatly weakened here, and I have been attacked relentlessly by the constructs set as guards. There are also many magical traps to foil. Yet I am making progress. I believe I have located the enclave where the artificers have taken refuge. The control rod shall be yours in time.”
“Perhaps I’ll send Bleizahr to aid you. He needs some direction and may prove of use.” The pincered fiend had proved to be more of a distraction than use when left idle. He often slaughtered the mortals relentlessly
and, after having been wounded by Neratiri’s whelp, seemed to be pushed to the edge of madness, consumed with rage and hatred and a tremendous thirst for revenge. She had been forced to return him to the Abyss to recover from his wounds in the interim.
“As you say,” Taananzu replied.
Nesnys was about to say more when the peal of a lirruk horn rang out through the ether. Taananzu heard it as well, for the robed form stiffened. The magical horns she had issued to her officers were only used in the most extraordinary circumstances.
“I shall take care of this. Carry on.” Nesnys turned back toward the portal, wondering what could be so important as to draw her away.
Her soldiers were terrified of her and her Triad and wouldn’t summon any of them without a very good reason. She had impressed on the officers the importance of when they might use the lirruk horns.
“Ah, my dear queen. Perhaps the bait has hooked a fish at last.” She smiled at the thought and stepped into the void between planes.
Chapter 52
Syllanos was high overhead when the rescue party passed through the gates of the castle at midnight. The moon cast a silvery sheen across the park, revealing the mostly skeletal branches of oak and maple trees interspersed with the bristly needles of firs. The grass was shiny with dew under the horses’ hooves. A hundred paces away, the road was illuminated by the city lamps. In the distance, a fire in the dwarven camp lit the darkness, and their baritone voices and deep laughter carried in the stillness.
Creel glanced back at the dozen riding with him as they neared a thick copse of trees. They all were unarmored and wore dark clothing and cloaks. The men-at-arms wore neither surcoat nor insignia of any sort. The seven grim-faced veterans were all sturdy men handpicked by Lord Lanthas and Jahn. Sir Edwin seemed uncomfortable without his suit of armor, but the knight had complied with Creel’s orders and was dressed in dark garb and riding beside him. Iris and Rafe were close together behind Creel, looking scared but resolute. Iris wore a tunic and breeches like the men and carried a dagger at her waist, which she claimed Rafe had shown her how to use. She held the reins for the extra mount. Jahn rode with the warriors slightly behind the others. Kulnor followed at the rear of the group on his sturdy pony. He had traded his chain mail and priestly surcoat for plain travel garb. He carried a warhammer on his back and a hand axe in his belt. The dwarf had met them at the castle stables, excited by their mission.
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