Another group of slivers swooped in to attack, this time from above. Immediately, others around them began to take to the air.
Gerrard growled angrily to himself. Dimly, above the noise of battle, the others heard him admit, “Maybe that wasn’t the best idea.”
“We are doomed.” Crovax’s tone was fatalistic, even as he cleft another attacker. “We cannot hope to overcome this many.”
“Wait!” cried Hanna. She pointed. “Look at that. The ones nearest us are flying—but those farther away are not. Maybe their influence is limited.”
“If that’s true,” Gerrard grunted, “then the worst thing we can do is bunch up together like this. Scatter!”
Knots of combatants moved out across Weatherlight’s decks, pushing fore and aft. Like iron filings to a lodestone’s poles, clumps of slivers followed each group.
It was working. Fighters concentrated their attacks on the flying slivers, and the others dropped. They flailed at the brutish ones, and the rest grew less bulky. More and more insectoid bodies littered the decks. Suddenly the remaining swarm pulled away and vanished into pits in the walls. The crew of Weatherlight stood knee-deep in corpses.
Orim immediately busied herself with tending to the wounded—and they were many—while Gerrard and Hanna inspected the slaughtered creatures. In death, each had reverted to its basic form and lost the shared characteristics of its hivemates.
A hatch opened. A disheveled Starke peered about at the mounds of dead slivers, then hauled himself from the hatch. Behind him, a small goblin’s head popped up briefly, goggled, and ducked below decks again. The hatch door clanged shut.
Starke went up to Gerrard with a grin of relief. “Remarkable! Truly remarkable! You’ve somehow learned the secret of the slivers’ destruction. I’d never been able to figure that out.”
Gerrard whirled angrily, his hand striking at Starke’s cheek. “Where were you, our trusted guide? We needed your help.”
Does he expect me to die for him? Starke snarled inwardly. Aloud he said, “That’s right—I’m your guide, not a bodyguard. Would you fare better if I’d fallen defending you with my mighty dagger? I gave you the best advice I could. Now that you’ve figured out how to defeat the swarm, they won’t be a problem again.”
Hanna spoke up. “What about the artificial ones? I thought they must be something special, but destroying them had no effect.”
The blood drained from Starke’s features. It was a moment before he answered. “Volrath’s power is greater than I ever suspected. We must be even more careful from here on in.” He walked away without another word, leaving Hanna and Gerrard to look at each other with puzzled concern.
* * *
—
His duty discharged, Starke hurried away from Vuel’s encampment. The otherworldly lamp he smashed with a rock, burying its remains. Never would they use it to drag him back.
He crossed the devastated plains as quickly as he could, following the great Femeref trade road to the sea. Get as far from here as he could, that was the idea. Maybe they would lose track of him and leave him alone at last.
He felt a guilty pang for leaving Takara behind. She’d raged and wept and pounded his chest with helpless fists. The look of abandonment on her face was almost more than Starke could stand. But she did listen, eventually, and went reluctantly to stay with the family of Aniyeh’s brother in the Dal village of Khorin.
At least she’d be safe there. The gods alone knew it would never do to have them know of Takara’s existence. Bad enough they had learned of her mother’s end—and how Starke had “demonstrated useful abilities.”
His usefulness was at an end now, and he didn’t need to ask what his fate would be. He could afford to leave no trace.
A month later, he paced the streets of another in an endless string of wretched dockside towns. Starke headed for the dingy inn he’d seen from the docks. It would do until he had a chance to scout out the land and perhaps this time locate a wealthy patron. Too exhausted to consider a meal in that dreary hall, he went straight to his room and bed.
He started from sleep at a scratching sound. Listening again, he realized that the scrabbling was intended to be a knock at his door. It was the most timid example he’d ever heard.
Dagger in hand, Starke wrapped his nightshirt about him and moved to the door. “Who’s there?”
“Please, sir. I’ve a message for you, sir.” The voice seemed to be that of a child. Boy or girl, Starke could not tell.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s all wrapped up.”
“Fine, then. Just slip it under the door.”
“I can’t, sir. It won’t fit.”
“Then open it up and tell me what it says.”
After a long silence: “Well?”
“I wouldn’t know what it says, sir.” The tiny voice was even smaller. “Never learned my letters.”
Grunting in exasperation, Starke swung open the door. He kept his blade at the ready. A tattered waif was standing there with a grubby package, a slip of paper protruding from it.
“Well then,” he forced a smile. “Let’s see what we have here, hmmm?” Starke pulled out the slip of paper and raised it to his eyes—
—and screamed as his gaze was drawn across the mystic script and the room swirled away behind him and the stench of tortured metal filled his senses.
Starke was lying on his back in a vast hall. Above him, sprawling across a cruel throne crafted of unearthly metal, loomed a hideous figure. Once, perhaps, it had been human but now it was twisted beyond recognition. Fleshy, hornlike flaps framed the pallid face, and plates of weird metal cased its body like armor.
“Old friend. It is so good to see you again. I have missed you.” The figure smiled, and Starke wished he’d been looking somewhere else. But he recognized the voice, altered though it was.
“V-v-v-v—” Starke sputtered as he struggled to his knees. “Vuel? Is that you?”
The horror chuckled. “There is no Vuel. That name died with a stolen destiny. Remember? The one you helped to steal?”
Starke cringed.
“Oh yes,” said the other, and there was no smile now. “I have learned a lot since we parted ways. Your friends had much to tell me. I wish you could have been there.”
“I really did mean to come! Something went wrong. I—”
“Be silent!” The ground beneath Starke heaved like a beast stirring from sleep, knocking him to his belly. “I am not interested in your story, fine though I am sure it is. You will pay proper respect.
“Do you think it was an easy thing to win an entire world? I suffered for eternities. I abandoned my flesh as well as my soul. To wrest the throne I had to challenge my predecessor. I prevailed, though at great cost. How do you like my insignia of office?
“Vuel is dead. I am Volrath. This world answers to me.”
Starke trembled and pressed his face against the squirming floor. He dared not speak.
“Still, you have done me a favor, little man. Here is power beyond my dreaming. In that, at least, you did not lie.
“My destiny, however, is not quite complete. It seems your associates have need of certain ingredients, and they have charged me with obtaining them. I know that my loyal friend and mentor Starke will be eager to help me in this quest.”
Starke raised eyes trembling from the floor. “Me?”
“Who else is so well qualified?” The words crushed Starke’s face to the floor once more. Again he saw Aniyeh’s face, her eyes even more terrible than Volrath’s. “You have proven yourself capable of anything.”
So began a new cycle of servitude, discovery, and terror. Starke was at once the evincar’s chamberlain and his whipping boy, and there was no way to tell which role he would fulfill at any given moment.
Volrath often sent Starke on trivial e
rrands within the Stronghold, a place much like the memory of Aniyeh’s death—at once frightening and horribly fascinating. Around every corner was something even more ugly than the last. Oversized insects prowled the vents. Clots of moggs and their taskmasters blocked most corridors. Sometimes a stronghold guard swept past, animate shadow in ornate armor. The oozing flowstone constantly altered the pathways, so that no landmarks remained for long.
But these expeditions, unnerving though they were, caused Starke far less terror than the external tasks the evincar charged him with. Too often he was compelled to walk the stinking deck of Predator with its glowering commander and barbarian crew, raiding for treasure and experimental subjects, or pressing villagers into Volrath’s service. He prayed Takara hadn’t seen him when the ship lowered over Khorin’s sky.
Worse yet, sometimes he was sent out of Rath again in search of Gerrard or clues to the Legacy. There was no satisfying Volrath; he was suspicious and impatient, and even when Starke brought him the commanded prizes, they were never quite what he wanted. Volrath found fault in everything Starke did.
There was no chance to escape this time. Despite Starke’s efforts, Volrath had found his dear Takara. Now she was trapped in the evincar’s dungeons—the final indignity, the end of every bargain.
* * *
—
In his cabin, Starke began to shake, quietly at first and then with increasing force. He clutched his head as the painful memories swooped about him.
Starke had always considered himself a pragmatist. All he’d ever wanted was to make the best deal, pocket his profit, and stay out of untidy moral issues. He’d had a commission, and he’d fulfilled it.
And when the situation changed, Starke had offered another deal: Sisay as bait to bring Volrath’s enemy to him, in exchange for Takara. Starke had kept his side of the bargain, though with every moment on board ship he dreaded the truth’s escape.
And still Volrath kept Takara in his dungeons, forcing Starke to perform yet another task for him, and another, and another. Clearly he would never release her. One bad bargain deserves another, Starke mused darkly, then started as he remembered the Oracle’s cryptic words.
New horror woke at the throbbing pain in Starke’s shoulder where that beast had bitten. He knew there had been no metal ones among the slivers when he had encountered them, but now these constructs were part of the hive. It was unnerving how quickly and easily Volrath had infiltrated their population to exert his own influence over them. By doing so, he was privy to their shared thoughts.
And now the hive knew Starke was here with Gerrard.
Volrath was becoming something much bigger than Starke had expected, perhaps bigger even than his dark masters had planned. Starke trembled at the thought of their reaction. No doubt he would be blamed for Volrath’s designs.
Perhaps, if Gerrard retrieved this Legacy, he could defeat Volrath and his overlords. At least with him Starke stood a chance of getting out of this in one piece, and maybe even rescuing Takara, too.
But now Volrath knew he was coming. His daughter might be the price for escape. Could Starke pay it? Turning against him meant turning against them, and their fury at betrayal would be immense. He moaned at the impossible choice, but he knew which way he would decide in the end.
Starke chose.
Here ends the Tale of Starke
“So what happened to Ertai at the portal while the others were traveling to the Stronghold? Did he just wait there for them?”
“No, not precisely.” The librarian gave a knowing smile. “Waiting patiently for anything was not really Ertai’s strong point.
“As you’ve heard, Orim the healer was able to read the ancient script that was carved on the archway above the portal. It explained how the portal might be opened, but Orim pointed out to Gerrard and Ertai, who crowded close behind her, that activating it would take some time, and, once open, it would not stay so for long.
“Ertai volunteered to stay at the portal and work the necessary magic, and Gerrard hastily agreed. He and Orim reboarded Weatherlight, and the ship disappeared into the blackness of the canyon.”
The master stroked his chin absently. “It’s hard to say precisely what happened next at the portal. It seems clear that while Ertai was there, someone appeared to him.”
“Who, master? Who else was in such a barren place? Surely not the elves.”
“No. A humanoid named Lyna. She evidently told him she was a Soltari, a race of people pulled through the portal into Rath years before, together with their enemies the Dauthi and another group caught in the conflict, the Thalakos. These peoples, she told the young wizard, were unable to react with the real world. Rather, they existed in it as shadows. In this form, they continued their war on one another as ghosts upon the Field of Souls.”
Ilcaster tapped his chin thoughtfully, unconciously imitating the librarian. “An eternal war of ghosts. It sounds like a fairy tale.”
“It does a bit,” agreed his master. “But for the Soltari it was all too real—a neverending torment. In the presence of Weatherlight and her crew, she saw the salvation of her people.
“It would seem she and Ertai struck a bargain: she and the Soltari would help him to open the portal if he would agree to let them pass through it. She told him other things about Rath, but her words were cryptic and riddling, and when Ertai impatiently asked her to explain herself so that a normal person could understand, she was evidently unable to do so.”
Ilcaster paused in his sorting through the papers. They were neatly stacked in heaps before him, and he picked up a roll of twine to begin bundling them. “Master…”
“What is it, boy?”
“Why do you say, ‘evidently’ and ‘seemed’? Don’t we know what happened from Ertai’s account?”
“Ertai didn’t leave an account of this part of the voyage.”
“Why not?”
“All in good time, boy. Not so impatient! Hurry, hurry, that’s all you young folk do. Just take my word for it, that while Ertai was at the portal talking to Lyna, Weatherlight had entered a long tunnel leading to the Stronghold, Volrath’s fortress, set in the middle of a hollow mountain.”
Ilcaster shuddered. “The Stronghold sounds like a horrible place.”
The master grunted. “Yes, it was. You can imagine any place that held such a being as Volrath would be.”
“I don’t completely understand, Master. What exactly did the Stronghold look like?”
The librarian fumbled among the papers remaining in the chest and finally pulled forth a crumpled and grubby parchment. “Here’s a drawing that Orim made of the Stronghold. It might not be entirely accurate, though. Remember, the crew only saw parts of the whole thing.”
Ilcaster bent eagerly over the document, his eyes straining in the faint candlelight.
“I think I see. Here’s the mountain, and here’s the Stronghold, right inside it. What’s that below it, though?”
“A city.”
Ilcaster’s mouth formed a small O. “The mountain was big enough to fit a whole city inside it?”
“That it was indeed, boy. The mountain of Volrath’s Stronghold was three miles high. The Stronghold itself was a mile and a half in height. The cone of the mountain touched the sky.”
Ilcaster was plainly more impressed with this detail than with anything thus far in his master’s story. “Who would build such a thing?” he finally asked. “Was it Volrath?”
The librarian shook his head. “No, in fact not even Volrath had the power to create such a vast construct. Where it came from none have ever said. It was mighty beyond human conception—that much is sure.”
“And now Weatherlight was on its way to that place?”
The master nodded. Yes. You see they had to approach it down this long passageway to avoid being seen.
“But master, what’s this mean: Furna
ce of Rath.”
The white-haired man took the document from the boy and caressed the paper thoughtfully, his eyes far away.
“Orim’s account is not entirely clear. She writes of traveling through twisting tunnels of rock, barely large enough for the ship to edge its way along. She says they emerged above a place where geysers of flame spewed into the sky, and lightning flashed from above and below, filling the cavern with fire and light. Then she mentions traveling near a place of blackened oil, where skeletal hands clawed at Weatherlight’s hull.” The old man worked his lips in and out in thought. “Perhaps that place of flames was the Furnace of Rath. This second place…I’m not sure. Maybe…”
There was a pause, and then Ilcaster said gently, “Go on, master?”
“There’s a reference in another document….” The librarian shuffled among the papers next to the chest. “Yes, here it is. The Death Pits. That must have been the place with the skeletons.”
“But they got through,” the boy said solemnly.
“Oh, yes. They got through. But their trials were not at an end.”
“Having defeated the slivers thanks to Hanna’s ingenuity, Weatherlight made its way into a vast open area, framed by enormous pillars. Here the air was scalding, and bolts of electricity shot randomly through the dry, crackling air. This was the Furnace of Rath. As the ship wavered and bucked on the currents of hot air, fires broke out here and there on the wooden deck. Crew members rushed with buckets of water to quench the flames, but some were seared and scorched. One, caught in the midst of a lightning bolt, burned like a torch, screaming until Crovax hurled him over the side to perish in the flames below. Orim worked frantically to heal the crew, but when she employed white magic in her healing, the anger of the Furnace seemed to focus on her.
“Flashes of light surrounded her, and Gerrard shouted to Hanna to get them out of that horrible place before the healer was fried to a crisp. Then the crew saw that she had wrenched a thin metal rod from the ship’s rails. Hanna placed it on the bow of Weatherlight, where it drew the electrical bolts, sparing the crew—and her—from the threat of sparking death.
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