Sentinelspire

by Mark Sehestedt

  Screams came from behind him, but he couldn’t make out their meaning. The numbness was spreading up his neck and into his face, and a loud hum was growing in his ears.

  “Masss …” he called out, but it faded into a groan as his knees buckled.

  His master came into his field of vision. Lewan’s cloak was gone, and Berun’s right hand was a mass of wet redness from his elbow down to the tip of his knife. He yanked the spear out of Lewan, tossed it in the direction of their attackers, and pulled Lewan after him down the hill.

  Something hit him. Lewan didn’t see it coming, but he felt a massive weight smash into them, and even as his master’s grip broke and he went down, the thick scent of the tiger hit him. The world spun round Lewan, but he managed to push himself to his hands and knees and look up. Only a few paces away, his master held the tiger at bay with his knife. Sauk and his assassins were just beyond the great cat.

  The tiger snarled and swiped at the knife with one paw. Berun avoided the blow and stepped back.

  Lewan could see Sauk shouting something, but he couldn’t hear the words. The roaring in his ears had drowned out all other sound. He could no longer feel his left arm. His jaw hung open, and try as he might, he could not close it.

  The tiger backed away a step and crouched, flexing her muscles to pounce. Her lips curled back over her teeth, her haunches lifted in preparation to launch her massive body at Berun—

  And a small missile hit her on the head. Perch, biting and clawing. The tiger roared—Lewan could feel it in his chest and the ground beneath him even though he could not hear it—and shook her head back and forth. But the little lizard held tight. The tiger only managed to shake him down onto her face.

  The tiger ceased shaking and swiped her right paw, claws extended, at the lizard. Perch leaped at the last possible instant, and the tiger’s claws raked through her own eyelid and gouged the eye beneath. She screamed, and Lewan saw Sauk’s eyes go wide, first in shock, then in fury.

  Maddened by pain, the tiger barreled away, plowing right into Valmir and sending him crashing into a thorn bush.

  Sauk descended on Berun. Lewan saw that all mercy and all remembrance of their friendship was gone, replaced by complete rage. The half-orc brought his sword around in a backhand sweep that would have beheaded his master had Berun not thrown himself back. But the move cost him. On the slope in the slick mud, Berun slipped and fell. He hit a carpet of leaves made slick by the rain and seasons of rot. He slid several paces down the hill and might have gone all the way to the bottom had a large brake of holly not caught him.

  Color was fading from the world, and shadows were closing in round the edges of Lewan’s vision. Still the roaring filled his ears, but in those last moments he thought he heard a voice behind the roaring—a raspy, smoky voice chanting a rough sing-song. An incantation, almost.

  Lewan’s left arm collapsed under him and he rolled to one side. But he kept his eyes open, fixed on his master, who was rising from the holly, covered in mud, leaves, ages-old pine needles, and blood. Sauk was still coming down the hill, right for him.

  A huge patch of ground erupted before Berun, scattering leaves, branches, and the rotted remains of an old tree. The ground rose up, almost three times taller than Sauk. Shaped almost like a man it was—or a half-formed shape of a man, like the beginning of a sculptor’s statue. It dripped mud and leaves, and branches protruded from its torso and head.

  Stunned, mouth agape, Sauk slid to a stop only a couple of paces from the shambling mound of man-shaped earth. But the thing fell upon Berun. In the final instant before it struck, Lewan could have sworn he saw a mouth open at the crown of the man-shaped earth. It grew and grew until the mouth took up most of its torso. It closed over Berun, and the mound lost all shape, becoming nothing more than a wave of undulating earth and detritus.

  The earth settled again, but Berun was gone. Blackness closed over Lewan, and he didn’t feel his face strike the wet ground.

  Part Two

  THE FORTRESS OF THE OLD MAN

  Chapter Thirteen

  19 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  Sentinelspire

  Awareness returned little by little. First the sensation of warmth. Not like fire, nor even sunshine. A soft warmness. Then sound, though it was no more than a breeze sighing over stone. Then scent. Many subtle aromas—fire, both wood smoke and the spicy aroma of candles, clean water, the particular thin scent air takes at high altitudes, and the sweet smell of spring blossoms—all blending in a pleasant whole. Last of all came true awareness.

  Lewan opened his eyes. He lay in a soft bed wide enough for five people, his head nestled on goose down pillows, his body wrapped in silk sheets over which had been laid a soft coverlet sewn of rabbit skins.

  The room around him was … luxurious. Lewan knew the word, though he had only been able to ascribe meaning to it from bard’s tales. Never had he seen such opulence. A massive stone fireplace centered the wall opposite his bed. A fire was burning to embers in it. The bed itself lay under a canopy around which a netting of sheer red fabric had been pulled up. Tiles the color of rich cream lined the floor, over which lay thick rugs. A door of some wood the hue of burnt cinnamon centered the wall to the right of his bed. Scented candles burned throughout the room. The wall to the left of his bed opened onto a balcony, beyond which Lewan could see blue sky interspersed with high, thin clouds, fine as gossamer strands. Even through the scent of wood smoke and candle wax, he could tell that the air was thinner, crisper, yet a scent of many growing things pervaded all. Mountain air—but lush mountain air.

  Lewan sat up, and a tiny spark of pain ran through his left shoulder. He looked down and realized two things. First, he was naked and completely clean. Even his hair had been washed and trimmed, his face freshly shaved. Second, the wound near his shoulder was no more than a pale blotch of skin with the slick-smooth sheen of magical healing. His last memory was the morning on the hillside in the Khopet-Dag. The assassin had sneaked up on him and plunged the poisoned spear into his shoulder. Obviously the poison had been meant to subdue him, not kill him. The earth had risen up and swallowed his master. Or had it? Lewan had been unable to hear anything, save for a strange chanting, and his vision had not been clear. Had that been a dream?

  The door opened, and in walked a girl. She seemed close to Lewan’s age, perhaps a bit older. The slight cant to her eyes, the long hair the color of a raven’s eye, and skin the color of honeyed wax gave her the look of one of the Shou. She carried a bundle of folded cloth before her.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of Lewan sitting up in bed. She nudged the door closed with one foot, then bowed. “I am Ulaan, your servant. I have brought you clean clothes.”

  “My … servant?” She was dressed like no servant he had ever seen. Her dress, the color of sunset on the clouds and of a simple cut, was made from silk that would have befitted the daughter of the wealthiest merchant trading along the Golden Way.

  “I serve the Old Man,” she said, “Lord of Sentinelspire. You are his honored guest. I am to see to your every need. Should I displease, another servant will be provided for you.”

  Lewan swallowed. His eyes stayed on the girl, but his attention focused inward. Servant? Honored guest? None of this made any sense.

  “You wish for me to send for another?” Ulaan still had not risen from her bow. Her gaze was fixed on the fine rug before her, and as Lewan’s attention returned to her, he noticed that her posture offered a generous gaze down the front of her dress.

  Lewan blushed and averted his gaze. “Uh, no. That … that’s won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  “Thank me for what?” Ulaan rose and looked at Lewan. Her expression was one of complete deference, but there was a coy spark in her eye.

  “Where am I?” asked Lewan. “How did I get here?”

  “You are the guest of the Old Man of the Mountain,” said Ulaan. “Others will tell you the tale in full, I am sure. It is my task to see t
hat your needs are met.” She lifted the folded bundles of cloth. “I have brought you clean clothes. Yours could not be saved. Shall I dress you?”

  Lewan’s blush deepened. “No! That, uh … that won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  “Young master, my sister Bataar and I bathed and shaved you, and I have tended you since your arrival. You have nothing that I have not seen and touched.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Talieth found Sauk where she thought she would—on the mountainside, sitting cross-legged before a small fire. He often came up here when he wanted to be alone. The large outcropping of bare rock was around the north face of Sentinelspire, well out of sight of the Fortress in its secluded canyon. The broken cone of the mountain rose behind, and before them spread the Endless Wastes. Hundreds of miles of steppe.

  The wind off the mountain whipped her heavy cloak in front of her and tossed her hair in front of her face. She was glad for the cloak. Early spring as it was, the wind at this height still held a chill, and her cheeks were soon raw and flushed.

  The chill did not seem to bother Sauk. The half-orc sat naked except for a loincloth. His long hair was unbound, and the breeze tossed it over his shoulders. The stiff wind made the fire’s meager flames struggle for life, but Sauk was close enough to the fire that his broad back kept off the worst of the breeze. As she came around to stand before him, she saw that the druid’s relic, the Three Hearts, lay discarded on the dusty stone beside him. A huge knife lay upon his lap, and blood tinged its edge. The old scar that ran from his hairline down his forehead and left cheek oozed fresh blood. Some of it had dripped and dried on his chest. She knew he was aware of her, had been so for some time, but his gaze never shifted off the horizon.

  “Where is Taaki?” she asked.

  “And a good morning to you, too,” said Sauk, still not looking at her.

  “How is she?”

  “Her eye is gone. How do you think she is?”

  “I am sorry, Sauk. We will find a healer for her. I swear it. Once this business is done, Taaki will have both her eyes again.”

  Sauk sat in silence, still not looking at her. She let him brood. When he had brought his band and their sole captive back to the Fortress two nights ago, she had never seen him in such a mood. He had beaten one of her personal guards and would have likely killed the man had she not stopped him. All because the man had looked at him in a way Sauk didn’t like.

  “Why are you here, Talieth?” said Sauk.

  “Our captive is being dealt with.”

  “You came all this way to tell me something I already know?”

  Talieth’s jaw clenched. She hugged her cloak about her and followed Sauk’s gaze out to the horizon. On a clear day, one could see the Firepeaks some two hundred miles to the north. But today they were nothing more than a smudge of dark haze on the horizon. The remains of the storm, most likely. Or perhaps the Firepeaks were oozing steam again.

  “I need to hear the words from your mouth,” she said at last.

  “Kheil is dead,” said Sauk, and the flatness of his tone, the utter lack of any emotion, shocked her.

  “You said that once before.” She looked at Sauk, all the weight of her station bearing down upon him. But it didn’t seem to bother him.

  “My brother died in the Yuirwood nine years ago,” said Sauk. “Your vision dared me to hope otherwise. I now know that hope was false. Kheil is dead.”

  She pointed at the naked blade on his lap. “Then why this? Why cut your luzal unba?”

  Talieth knew of this particular tradition of Sauk’s orc clan. She’d been there nine years ago when he’d cut it the first time. When a warrior lost a family member, he cut a scar over his face in remembrance, from the crown of his head to his cheek. The wound bled profusely, even running into the eye like tears, symbolizing both death and grief. Ever afterward, the mourner would gaze through the scar of his grief.

  “The first cut was for my brother’s death,” said Sauk. “This one is to remind me.”

  “My scrying does not lie,” said Talieth. “I saw Kheil. Older and changed, but it was him.”

  “You saw the body, the face. The spirit we knew and loved is gone. Nine years gone. The one you saw calls himself Berun now. He killed two of my blades and tried to kill me. That was not my brother.”

  “And this … Berun. You saw him die. You are certain?”

  A look of annoyance passed over Sauk’s face, but he still did not lift his gaze from the horizon. “I saw the earth rise and take form. A great earth spirit swallowed Berun before going back into the ground. Unless the bastard found a way to breathe mud, he’s dead.”

  “So you said nine years ago.”

  Sauk looked up then, only his eyes moving, but she saw every muscle in his body tense. “Tell me, Talieth. Are you calling me a liar or a fool?”

  “Neither,” said Talieth, holding his gaze. “I am telling you that Kheil—”

  “Berun.”

  “Kheil escaped death once before. You said the earth rose to swallow him. A strange thing. A rogue earth spirit? Perhaps. They dwell in the Shalhoond. And far worse things haunt the Khopet-Dag. But I wonder …”

  “What?” said Sauk. His eyes narrowed. The fury he held in check, and Talieth could see curiosity burning in his eyes.

  “I have heard it said that druids can accomplish such things,” said Talieth. “You wouldn’t know of any meddlesome druids about, would you, Sauk? Any who might have reason to keep … Berun alive?”

  Sauk blinked and dropped his gaze. In his present mood, that was an expression of true shock. “You’re saying—”

  “I’m saying it would be foolish to underestimate our opponent. This is not a game we can afford to lose.”

  “If … if he survived, why can’t you scry him? Use your … whatever you do, to find him?”

  Talieth looked to the horizon. “Don’t think I haven’t tried. If he is out there, his presence is hidden from me.”

  “Perhaps because he is dead?”

  “Or perhaps because whatever—or whomever—came to his aid is able to hide him from me.”

  Sauk thought a moment, then said, “This is possible?”

  “Possible?” said Talieth. “Yes. Likely? No. But many damned unlikely things have happened of late, have they not?”

  Sauk nodded and sighed. “I will be ready.”

  “Speaking of which, have you been able to glean anything?” She gestured toward the Three Hearts.

  “Nothing,” said Sauk. “I serve the Beastlord. My communion is the hunt. This relic”—Sauk shuddered, and a hint of sneer passed over his face—“it sings of growing things and deep secrets. I do not like it. I will continue to pry at it if you wish, but I don’t hold much hope.”

  A tremor shook the mountain. Nothing more than a slight vibration at their feet, but it was enough to set stones rattling down the mountain and bring a shower of dirt and grit down upon them.

  Talieth wiped the dust from her eyes and picked up the relic. “We have no time for you to fumble your way through the relic’s secrets.”

  “Where are you taking it?” Sauk called after her.

  “To someone else,” she said, and strode away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  On the balcony outside his room, Lewan stood dumbstruck. Never had he seen such utter beauty. He’d been on mountainsides many times. More than he could remember. He’d lived in forests entire seasons during his sixteen years. The largest city he’d ever visited was Almorel by the Lake of Mists. It was probably a small city as many in the world would count such things. Perhaps even rustic compared to the grand cities of the West or in distant Shou. But to Lewan, who spent most of his days in the wild, it was a city nonetheless. Mountains, forests, and cities … these things were not new to him. But never had he seen all three come together in such splendor.

  His balcony was one of several jutting out from the upper floors of a tower, and it offered a view of the entire fortress. The fortress itself had no w
alls, for the canyon in which it had been built—or in some places apparently carved—served as a natural and seemingly impregnable wall. Although Lewan had no training in the ways of war, even he could see that the only hope of taking this fortress would be through stealth or the air—and no realm in the Endless Wastes commanded an army capable of such an air assault.

  The tower in which he’d been housed was one of several in the fortress—and far from the tallest. The tallest—a massive structure in the center of the fortress—was at least six hundred feet high, perhaps more, and its upper stories looked out over the upper rims of the canyon. From the top of that tower, one surely could have seen beyond the canyon and well into the steppe for hundreds of miles.

  All the buildings were of a style strange to Lewan’s eyes—one he’d never seen before, all odd angles and interlocking designs of stone, many of which had a decidedly purple tinge. The great tower in the center was strangest of all, for it seemed that great pillars of stone had been twisted braidlike around the entire shaft. They disappeared into the upper stories, and the top of the tower itself seemed a garden or small park, open to the winds on every side. And around the entire tower—indeed around most of the buildings in the fortress—grew vines, trees, flowers, and vegetation of every sort. Some of the flowers ringing the great tower seemed big as shields.

  Strangest and most wondrous of all were the statues. Pillars—mostly stone, but there were at least two forged of some silvery metal—rose above many of the buildings, and atop them were great statues. Some were in the form of beautiful men and women. One woman, sculpted entirely from black stone, stood poised on one foot, her long hair and robes seeming to flow out behind her, and one hand held aloft a metal rod at least twenty feet long. Other statues were of creatures that ranged from the beautifully strange—a griffon, a winged deer, a feathered serpent—to the grotesque—a batwinged gargoyle with the horns of a ram, a wolf with three heads, a bearded old man with antlers, and a hugely muscular man with the head of a camel.