The Crown and the Sword tros-2

by Douglas Niles

“I do this,” agreed the half-giant, though his heart was in his throat and his chest was constricting with terror at the thought of himself and his precious shaman plunging through the black void. “You, too, will come down to the bottom?”

  “Yes-I have another spell that I shall cast upon myself. I will be able to fly for a short time, and thus I can follow you down to where you will land.”

  “Very well.” Ankhar was suddenly anxious to get this adventure over with, perhaps because he knew that if he hesitated for very long, he would begin to reflect on the dangers and back out. “Cast your spells,” he ordered gruffly.

  Hoarst removed a small pinch of fluff, like a bit of goose down, from one of the pockets of his robe. He held it up to the half-giant’s face-his chin, actually, since that was as high as he could reach-and muttered a series of harsh-sounding words. Such strange words did not even sound as if they could be articulated by a human.

  After waiting patiently for a few moments, Ankhar didn’t feel any different. “How do I know spell is working?” he growled.

  “Trust me,” Hoarst answered coolly. “And remind yourself that I am as anxious for us to succeed with this quest-and get out of this forbidding place-as you are.”

  “Carry me!” Laka insisted, tugging on the half-giant’s burly hand. Reluctantly, he released his two-fisted grip on his spear, clutching the weapon in one hand as he picked Laka up with the other, cradling her bony form like a baby against his broad chest. Hoarst helpfully lifted his sword so its light clearly revealed the edge of the precipice and the whole vast nothingness beyond.

  Ankhar could think of a whole host of reasons this suddenly seemed like a very bad idea, but he could not shame himself in front of his mother or the powerful wizard who was his underling. So he closed his eyes, unconsciously holding his breath, as he took the first great step out into the void. He grunted in surprise as he felt himself toppling forward. Despite her professed confidence, Laka gasped in fright, and her fingers dug like talons into the half-giant’s arms. She clutched her talisman, and the green light from the ghastly sockets bobbed and swept through the vast darkness. They were off the ledge now and tumbling into the chasm.

  But they were falling, as Hoarst had promised, very, very slowly. As the wizard with his glowing sword took to the air above them, flying around them in a lazy circle, Ankhar could see the dark wall of the chasm sliding past. He could have reached out to touch it, but he dared not relax his grip on the trembling hob-wench who clutched him in such palpable panic. Instead, he simply clung to Laka and waited, half amazed and half terrified, as they slowly descended farther and farther below the surface of the world.

  Ankhar tried to estimate how long they fell, how much distance they traveled down past that smooth, dark opposite wall. Once he scuffed against an outcrop of extremely cold stone, but the impact was soft and the force of the bump pushed him away from the surface. In the end he gave up trying to guess how deep they had plunged-surely they were farther underground than he had ever imagined possible. All the while Hoarst fluttered nearby, made visible to him and Laka by the glowing sword that he carried, which was the only light in this whole dark vault of space.

  At long last the magic-user dived below them, circled a few times, and came to rest on a stone floor. Ankhar could make out a surprisingly smooth surface, sloping gently downward away from the wall. As he drew near, he cradled the still-trembling Laka, flexed his knees, and came to a soft landing on the solid ground. His first thought was, how would they ever get out of this place, would Hoarst’s magic just as easily permit them to float up? But he bit his tongue. Instead, he set Laka gently on the ground, and as they both stood in the circle of light cast by Hoarst’s magically illuminated sword, he asked, “Where are we? And where do we go from here?”

  “Good questions,” replied the human magic-user. “Not easily answered, though. This feels like a killing ground; there was death here at one time-lots of it.”

  “Look.” Laka raised her talisman, green light spilling from its ghastly sockets, brighter even than the glow from the magic-user’s sword. The green brilliance illuminated many objects on the broad, sloping floor. Ankhar saw a broken shield, several sharpened points that looked like spearheads, a cracked helm, a part of a breastplate… and bones. What had appeared to be a series of regular, rounded boulders he could now see were skulls, hundreds of them, scattered haphazardly. They were ancient and dusty, and at first glance he could not tell if they had belonged to humans, goblins, dwarves, or some other creatures. The eyeless sockets seemed to stare at him in reproach… or warning.

  “This was once a battlefield,” Hoarst surmised.

  Hoarst kicked at one of the spear points, which was heavily corroded. A dusty, dry stench filled the air. Then the human picked up the spear point and used it to scrape away the crust that had developed over a crude, heavy sword blade. “Bronze,” he mused. “Or copper. These warriors fought a long time ago, even before the advent of iron.”

  “A great host fought here and many died,” Laka observed, holding her talisman higher. The green light spread far, bathing the rough outlines of battlements, shadowing the scar of a trench and the skeletal remnants of chariots and wagons. The wheels had long crumbled, but the outlines of the vehicles remained, layered in dust but still mostly intact.

  “But how could a great army ever get down to these depths? Or two great armies?” wondered the half-giant. “What kind of battlefield is this?”

  “Perhaps it was not always under the ground,” speculated Hoarst. “It is said that in the early days of the world, the land was very different than it is now. Perhaps this was a plain at the foot of a mountain, back in the Age of Dreams. But some time after the killing, the battlefield itself sank beneath the ground, to be preserved in this great vault for all time.”

  “Maybe,” Ankhar acknowledged, frowning. In fact, he couldn’t think of another explanation. “It’s certainly been here a long, long time-on the surface these bones, those relics, would rot away into nothing.” The half-giant was beginning to feel very uncomfortable about the place. “We should get away from here.”

  “Hsst! Look, there!” Laka declared. “Something moves!”

  It looked like a wisp of smoke, at first, but Ankhar knew nothing could be burning down here. Was it fog or some sort of mist? In his heart, which began to pound like a smith hammering on a metal band, he knew it was neither. It was like tangible frost-it looked cold-and he took a step back, his hands tightening around the haft of his spear.

  There were several of the smoke shapes, ghostly forms rising from the skulls, the scattered and broken weaponry, the other debris on the ancient battlefield. They stood like pillars, perhaps the height of a man or a little taller, and they seemed to be rooted to the ground, while freely waving back and forth-though there was not even the hint of a breeze here in the deep underground. Whenever Ankhar turned his head, the smoke shapes seemed to waver, almost to disappear, but when he peered intensely at the figures, he could discern features-not faces, exactly, but holes where eyes ought to be, apertures that gaped soundlessly as though they were mouths giving vent to silent screams.

  The half-giant felt a stab of fear. Helplessly, he looked at his stepmother and saw that Laka was glaring at these apparitions. Her teeth were bared, her eyes flashing with fury.

  “Stay back!” Ankhar growled, waving his weapon.

  “No-they will come,” the hob-wench hissed.

  Indeed, the spires of mist acted as one, slowly, soundlessly moving toward the three intruders who huddled together. No dust was stirred by their passage; they floated as if propelled by a wind. The green light from Laka’s skull totem surged into greater brilliance, and this only magnified the horror, for now Ankhar could see that many more of the spectral images-dozens, scores, even hundreds of the smoke shapes-were rising from the ancient killing ground. The many mist figures writhed in the air with unspeakable hungers and desires, advancing upon the half-giant and his two companions.

/>   Tall, slender wands of vapor waved above some of the shapes, as if spectral spears were held aloft. Here and there Ankhar saw round disks, like primitive shields, also raised in the air. Wispy blades waved back and forth in the grasp of some of the smoke shapes, and all the intangible weaponry was arrayed toward the three surface dwellers who had dared to trespass on this ancient, long-forgotten killing ground.

  “Destroy them! Blast them with magic!” Ankhar barked to Hoarst, his voice, suddenly loud and startling, a violation of the eerie silence.

  “These beings would not be vulnerable to the kind of magic I possess,” Hoarst croaked, the usually imperturbable magic-user sounding, to Ankhar’s ears, deeply shaken. Testing his own doubts, Hoarst raised a trembling finger and shouted a magical word of command. Arrows hissed and sparked outward from his accusing digit, magic missiles streaking into the darkness, piercing one then another of the ghostly, advancing smoke shapes. The arcane projectiles continued on until they faded and vanished, but the specters advanced unchecked, unhampered by the magical fusillade.

  They were close now, and Ankhar thought he detected faces in the grotesque mist figures-visages locked into expressions of eternal torment. Mouths flexed, and though they made no sound, the half-giant felt the blast of cold breath against his skin. It was colder than a winter gale in the high mountains. The mighty warrior, commander of a horde of thousands, slayer of a hundred enemies, felt his knees weaken, and he staggered backward. A grievous moaning reached his ears, but he was only vaguely aware that it emerged from his own, slack-jawed mouth. He stared into hundreds of empty eye sockets, his bowels churning at the looks of hatred and hunger he perceived there.

  “Courage!” snapped Laka. “See how they feed upon your fear!”

  It was the truth: as Ankhar’s terror weakened him, the spectral warriors grew stronger, lunging for their victims now, stabbing with their vaporous spears. One ghostly tip touched the half-giant’s knee, and he felt a sharp pain. The contact was icy and quickly spread numbingly up and down his leg. He stumbled, grasping his spear and using the stout haft as a crutch. There was no thought of using the weapon to fight these things; he understood instinctively that certainly no blade on Krynn could damage them.

  “Back to the wall,” Hoarst whispered. His voice broke, and it terrified Ankhar further to realize that even the redoubtable wizard was frightened.

  Slowly the trio retreated, but there was no real escape. The spectral images came at them from three sides, stopping just a few paces away, filling ranks into a solid mass. The black wall rose behind the trio, an impassable barrier. They were surrounded.

  “What are these things?” Ankhar said in a low voice.

  “They are ghosts of the slain,” Laka declared with surprisingly calmness. “They have been here for ages, thousands of years, longing for the feel of warmth, the touch of the sun-or of blood.”

  “How do you know this?” demanded Hoarst incredulously.

  “They were part of my dream,” replied the old hob-wench. Her left hand cradled some of the baubles on her necklace while her eyes darted back and forth across the ranks of spectral warriors.

  “You knew about these things?” Ankhar was aghast, resisting an impulse to bash his stepmother senseless. But fear was a greater impulse, and the half-giant understood that only Laka could rescue them from this horror.

  Her bony fingers continued to caress the beads on her necklace while her right hand still clutched the haft of her totem. Apparently she located the right combination of stones, for she abruptly raised the death’s-head with its green gems fixed like eyeballs on the encroaching spirits.

  “Fear the Prince of Lies!” she crowed exultantly. “Truth shall be his sword!

  “Kneel before Lord Ankhar! Hail him as your lord!”

  Green light pulsed from the skull’s face, a brilliant wash shooting through the vast battlefield. Ankhar saw ridges outlined in the distance, gaps in the rough ground, and hundreds, even thousands, of the ghostly warriors amassed before the trio. The beams of emerald illumination seemed to transfix them, however, for suddenly they all halted, trembling and shivering in a grotesque caricature of awe, terror, or wonder.

  “Hold, warriors of the ages!” Laka cried again, louder. “For you are in the presence of a mighty lord! Kneel, all of you!”

  Ankhar heard a faint sound, barely, at first, like a slight breeze keening through a forest of leafless trees. It swelled very slowly, becoming a moan, then a cry, and finally building into a howl. The shrieking erupted from all around, and the half-giant had to resist the urge to clap his hands over his ears. But he stood tall and held his hands at his sides, knowing he needed to project an aura not just of fearlessness, but of command and power. One by one, the ghostly forms slumped, a semblance of humans dropping to their knees. The eerie genuflection rippled outward through the vast, silent ranks.

  “Are these ghosts my new ally?” Ankhar asked Laka wonderingly. “They could terrify the humans, surely.”

  “No,” the shaman replied curtly. “They would perish under the sky, as soon as they felt the kiss of the sun. They are condemned to remain here, to guard the legacy of their defeat and death, though their time, the Age of Dreams, is long past.”

  “Then, why?” demanded the commander of the horde. “Why are we here, risking our own deaths?”

  “The answer is simple. They are merely one obstacle-another obstacle, like the cliff we just floated down-on the path to our destination. Behold, now: the power of Hiddukel will hold them at bay. But do not let them detect your fear-the blessing of the Prince will only benefit those who have the courage of victors.”

  “Lead, then,” grunted Ankhar. “And we show our courage.”

  Laka started forward, her totem held high, the green light sweeping back and forth across the faces of the ghostly warriors. Their intangible spears still waved in the air, and their grotesque mouths gaped and flexed hungrily. But as the half-giant and the wizard followed the old hobgoblin, the crowded ranks of spirits parted to let them pass.

  The shaman went first. Ankhar strode after Laka with Hoarst trailing behind. The gaping faces glared, the eerie sockets and mouths twitched and quivered, but the half-giant was determined to maintain his fiercest expression and his steady pace.

  If any of the spirit beings so much as started to ease into their path, the ancient hobgoblin spat a curse and shook her beads to warn them out of the way. Laka glared to the right and left, brandishing her totem as if it were a mighty weapon.

  It seemed to take forever, though Ankhar would later reflect that they passed through the silent ranks of ghost shapes in a matter of moments. Their destination was a gap that gradually materialized in the far wall of the underground canyon, a passage that wound out of sight, descending ever deeper into the sunless world beneath Krynn.

  Behind them, the silent army stood waiting, watching… hungering for warmth and blood.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TWO CHALLENGES

  C oryn hired a company of drummers, all dressed in red satin tunics with shiny leather boots. The leader of each section-bass, kettle, and snare-wore a hat with lofty plumes. They gathered before her manor with great fanfare and made a splendid procession as they led the lord marshal and the wizard, both mounted on white horses, through the heart of the city and up toward the gates of the lord regent’s palace.

  The procession attracted a great deal of attention. Goodwives hoisted their babes onto their shoulders so they could see the famous man and the beautiful wizard ride past. Soldiers and merchants cheered, and even the sergeants of the Palanthian Legion saluted smartly as the procession passed through the city gates. On they went, climbing the winding road toward the lord regent’s palace, advancing directly through the open gates and leaving the swelling crowd behind.

  Once they entered the courtyard of the imposing structure, the drummers and the Lady Coryn continued toward the front door of the keep. The white gelding pranced proudly beside her, and the aura of magic o
n the big horse’s saddle made it seem as though Jaymes Markham rode there as well. Certainly the servants, attendants, and courtiers all believed they saw him astride the white gelding until the horse came to a halt and closer inspection revealed the saddle to be empty.

  By that time, the lord marshal was already slipping through the stable, entering the keep through the kitchen door. The drummers, the horses, and the wizard made, for form’s sake, one last promenade around the huge courtyard.

  “My Lord Marshal,” said Selinda du Chagne as she greeted her visitor in the anteroom to her private apartments. “This is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “It is been a long time since we talked,” Jaymes replied, settling himself into one of the comfortable chairs as she pulled a rope to summon a servant. “I very much wanted to see you again.”

  “Why?” she asked bluntly. “I tricked you into being captured, tried to arrange for you to come back here for trial-and execution. I should think you’d want to stay as far away as possible from the likes of me!” She laughed nervously, pacing about the room, avoiding the chairs to either side of Jaymes. He couldn’t help but notice her stunning beauty. She twirled a lock of her golden hair in the fingers of her right hand, sidestepping at the window, looking at him with her large eyes narrowed in curiosity.

  “I should have thought that little misunderstanding would be forgotten by now,” he said, chuckling. “It is by me; you also helped to save my life in Caergoth, when Duke Crawford would have had me killed.”

  “That wretched man!” she exclaimed. “He was a disgrace to the knighthood, to the whole history of Solamnia! The realm is better off without him.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Jaymes said, easing back and resting his foot on a stool.

  “You’ve made some progress since that time in Caergoth. Has it been two years? It seems so long ago. Bringing the army north across the Garnet River, driving the barbarians out of Garnet… You’ve had great success. Tell me, was that city horribly razed?”