by Cam Banks
“Sleep well?” asked the Apothecary.
“You know how I slept,” said Vanderjack. “Did you have anything to do with that?”
“Lucid dreaming is a possible side effect of that compound,” the Philosopher said.
“Indeed,” said the Apothecary. “The swifter the healing, the more intense the dreams.”
“They aren’t saying it,” said the Cook, stepping forward. “But we all saw the dream ourselves. While you slept, you had your hand on the sword.”
Star watched but stayed out of the conversation. The sellsword, however, shot the Cook a look. “You mean they had something to do with the dream?”
“We merely observed,” said the Aristocrat.
“Quite an eye-opener, though,” said the Balladeer.
“Had you known your fellow mercenaries were sivak draconians?” asked the Conjurer.
“Of course I didn’t bloody well know they were sivaks,” said Vanderjack.
“You were drunk,” said the Cavalier.
“And soon after that, Theodenes returned and there was only the remains of the cat,” said the Balladeer. “Sad. Worthy of a ballad, if I say so myself.”
Vanderjack rolled his eyes. “I had already left,” he said. “I could hear Theo screaming for help a mile away. There was such a mess. I didn’t want to deal with it, so I took off.”
“And your mercenary band?” asked the Cook. “What happened then?”
“I found them—the real them—all dead, a couple of miles away. They had been dead for days.”
The ghosts fell quiet, as if to let that sink in. Star still watched and still said nothing.
The Hunter appeared through the trees and broke the silence. “They are approaching. The gnome and the woman.”
“Well, thank the Abyss for that,” Vanderjack swore. “I can tell the gnome all about what happened—in the past, in the dream—and we can all stop talking about spilt milk.”
“I wouldn’t bring it up,” said the Balladeer.
“Don’t open an old wound,” said the Apothecary.
Theodenes and Gredchen walked out into the clearing, the gnome hefting a sack of acquired goods over his shoulder. Vanderjack released his hand from Lifecleaver, and the ghosts winked out of sight.
“You took your time,” he said, walking up to meet them. “How are the ogres? Did you run into any trouble?”
“You could say that,” muttered Gredchen.
“Star!” Theodenes cried warmly and went over to update the dragonne on the events in Willik. Vanderjack wiped his brow with a sleeve and felt as if everything had grown a few degrees warmer. Damn that nagging guilt.
“What do you mean? Did they pick a fight with you?” Vanderjack indicated the sack the gnome had set down to the right. “I can tell you didn’t come back empty-handed.”
“The ogres are gone,” Gredchen said. “Willik’s been emptied out by the highmaster. She was there and told us to pass along to you her interest in your future.”
Vanderjack narrowed his eyes. “Ackal’s Teeth!” he swore. “Rivven Cairn was there? What in the Abyss for? Just waiting for me to happen by?”
“I don’t get it either,” Gredchen said. “She and the baron have always had an understanding. She leaves him alone, and he doesn’t interfere with politics in Nordmaar. Now she tells me that she’s keeping tabs on what you do and that you owe her.”
“Hmm. Well, I did kill one of her officers,” Vanderjack said, rubbing his jaw. “But if that was such a big deal to her, why didn’t she just come out here and get me? Doesn’t she have a dragon of her own that she can sic on me?”
“The red dragon Cear. We didn’t see him. But it hardly matters. Now that we know she’s watching us, we need to be sure to go straight to Castle Glayward as soon as possible.”
Theo came over. “Right,” he chimed in. “I’ve told Star, and the dragonne has agreed to carry us to the castle.”
“When we get there, there’s a good chance it’s been overrun by red dragonarmy forces, and this daughter of the baron’s is there as some kind of collateral,” said Vanderjack. He turned to Gredchen. “Is that how it is?”
“That’s what the baron has been led to believe. I’ve not visited the castle recently. But on those rare occasions when the highmaster has visited the baron’s manor, he’s pleaded with her to bring his daughter back to him.”
“Let me guess,” said Vanderjack. “She said no.”
Gredchen pointed at the sellsword. “Are you fit enough to keep going?”
Vanderjack coughed. “Of course I am.”
“Excellent,” said Theo. “We fly now to liberate the baron’s daughter. Once we have her, we can leave Nord-Omaar and take our earnings with us.”
One by one, they climbed onto Star’s back. Vanderjack looked back over his shoulder in the direction of Willik as they lifted off from the ground and flew due east.
A dragon highmaster had rid a whole town of ogres just to let him know she was watching him. Powers taking an interest in him! Something very curious was going on, Vanderjack thought. And eventually, he reflected with a silent groan, he was going to learn what it was.
Cazuvel stood on the battlements of Castle Glayward, surveying the wet jungle vista.
The highmaster had sent him four sivak draconians, under orders to serve and assist him. Of course, she was still unaware that he wasn’t the real Cazuvel, who was trapped inside a mirror deep within the Lyceum. The creature wearing Cazuvel’s form suspected that the sivaks, who were themselves shapeshifters, might guess something was amiss if they spent too much time in his presence. Cazuvel had given them orders to leave him alone and gone up to the roof of the castle.
There, he could see the single road leading through the rainforest, a wide and once-paved road that wound south to North Keep. Cazuvel preferred to use magic to get from place to place, but he could appreciate the effort once taken to make the road passable. Nobody had lived in Castle Glayward for a decade, however, so nobody had cared enough to maintain the road’s state. The Sahket Jungle had encroached upon it, vines and creepers forming a latticework of pale green above the tumbled paving stones. Cazuvel briefly felt a sense of wonder at the power of nature, which he supposed was all a reflection of the goddess Chislev. The feeling quickly passed, however; Cazuvel was not a part of that world and sought no solace in it.
Cazuvel had been told that the sellsword was on his way. He spent a few minutes sketching out a pattern of magic in the air with his dagger, as an artist might use a pencil, gestures invisible to eyes not sensitive to such things. The delicate threads of magic crisscrossed the roof, hanging there in space, waiting for him to flood them with his arcane power. Instead of completing the spells, however, the mage conjured forth a series of invisible energy receptacles, fist-sized constructs of magic, and stored a considerable amount of his personal energy within them. He linked those receptacles to the patterns with a sliver of power, just enough to keep them active and aware. The patterns were traps, primed with sorcery, and once he was done with them, Cazuvel would be instantly alerted to the presence of any intruders as their proximity closed the magical circuit and released the stored power into the traps.
Cazuvel would need to set up more patterns, also connected to storehouses of power. They would be located on the grounds of the castle and perhaps surrounding several windows. To do that, he had to go to those places.
The wizard took a step off the battlements, dropping softly from them toward the ground a hundred feet below, robes fluttering. His descent frightened off the brightly colored birds that found their usual perches along the lower crenellations. Animals sensed the creature he truly was. He needed to be more cautious if it came to being in the presence of horses or other trained animals, for he did not want to alert anyone to his fundamental nature just yet.
Walking around the base of the castle, Cazuvel set up more of his wards and enchantments, poised for activation, strung together like chains of anemones, beautiful and alien
. It was a shame they weren’t visible to the uninitiated. Cazuvel had developed a sense of vanity since he had assumed the mage’s form. The transformation was deep, and Cazuvel’s personality had crossed over to some extent; the creature felt emotions, passions, desires, and other weaknesses of mortality. It wouldn’t be long, however. Soon he would shed all of those. For the time being, the creature decided he would enjoy them all, the taste of flesh-and-blood frailty that his dark kind could not ordinarily possess.
Once his work was complete, Cazuvel transported himself into the castle’s great hall, appearing before a huge rectangular arrangement of tables. In the center of the arrangement, a fire pit filled with coals and covered by an elaborate iron grate gave light to the chamber. Tapestries of Solamnic heraldry and symbols of the Knights covered the otherwise bare gray walls of stone. Even with the dragonarmy’s occupation of Nordmaar, and the baron’s forced departure from his ancestral home, the trappings of Solamnic nobility remained behind. Cazuvel wondered why Rivven Cairn allowed that to be so.
The sivaks weren’t in there, so Cazuvel made use of the time to sit on one of the two high-backed chairs that rose above the others on a dais. A part of the true Cazuvel’s mental imprint that had come with the body filled the creature with pride, a sense of achievement. The mage had been ambitious, Cazuvel thought. That was a large part of his undoing, of course. It was another flaw of mortal character, but particularly among Black Robes. The true Cazuvel dwelled in the shadow of Raistlin Majere, Fistandantilus, even Ladonna, Black Robes all, and could not help but aspire to those worthies. Unfortunately for the hapless sorcerer, aspirations were no substitute for true power.
Power was something Highmaster Rivven Cairn had, Cazuvel reflected. She was not a dedicated wizard; she had undertaken the Test, yes, but she hadn’t taken up the robes as her brother and sister mages had. She wore armor and bore that elven sword. Still, it was a common rumor among the Tower wizards that Rivven had been a student of Emperor Duulket Ariakas himself. Neither the true Cazuvel nor the creature that wore his likeness had ever met Ariakas, but the emperor’s might had extended into realms beyond this one, enough that the Abyss rippled with the aftershocks when he was assassinated. With such a master, Rivven must know secrets Cazuvel must have longed to attain for himself. Since the creature boasted Cazuvel’s psyche, those desires were his as well.
“Honored master,” called a voice from the hall’s entrance. It was one of the sivaks, filling the doorway with his great silvery bulk. Cazuvel twirled a finger, temporarily channeling some of his power from the arcane structures filling the castle and strengthening the magic that maintained his appearance. With any luck, the sivak wouldn’t suspect a thing.
“Enter,” the mage said. The sivak, who went by the name of Aggurat, was the Red Watch commander. His three subordinate officers were probably stationed elsewhere on that floor, maybe even standing motionless like statues in mockery of the empty suits of armor that Baron Glayward kept there. Cazuvel had spoken only once or twice with Aggurat, and he didn’t know the other three sivaks’ names. It was normal not to, Aggurat had told him. The mage had no need to ever address the others, in accordance with dragonarmy protocol.
Aggurat marched up and around the tables, standing before Cazuvel’s chair. The sivak was so tall that he and the mage met at eye level. Cazuvel admired the strength and power in those creatures. The Red Watch were the elite; he hoped he would not need to test that strength and skill personally. “Honored master,” Aggurat said, “our scouts have reported no sign of the sellsword, nor any evidence of a traveling gnome and an ugly human female companion.”
“The highmaster says we are to expect them. How reliable are your scouts?”
“Master, they are kapak scouts who have worked for us for some time,” Aggurat said. “They were hand-picked by the upper echelons of the Red Watch and by Emperor Ariakas himself.”
Cazuvel doubted that. Ariakas rarely deigned to speak to his draconian servants, let alone personally select a few lowly kapak draconian sneaks to serve as scouts or rangers. Aggurat must be embellishing the matter.
“I see,” said the wizard. “Am I to understand, however, that your scouts are limited to ground-based reconnaissance? None of them are capable of flight, as are you and your sivak brothers.”
“That is correct, master. Do you suspect the sell-sword and his allies of approaching from the air? I cannot imagine how—”
Cazuvel waved a hand. “I trust the highmaster,” he said. “If she says they approach, then they approach. If your kapaks have seen no evidence by the roads and jungle paths, then they must look to the skies.”
“Regrettably, master, the skies are unreachable to the kapaks, and we have no fliers.”
“On the contrary,” Cazuvel said. “You have yourselves.”
Aggurat stiffened. The draconian’s deep and sibilant voice rose an octave. “But, master, we were given strict instructions to aid and protect you here.”
“I am well protected. The castle is well protected. Indeed, the lands immediately around the walls of the castle are well protected. Your instructions were to serve at my pleasure, were they not?”
“Yes, honored master.”
Cazuvel smiled and leaned back in the chair, letting its wooden confines surround him. “Excellent. Then do as I have commanded. Take wing and patrol the skies above the jungle. Maintain a perimeter of at least a mile, and if you see the sellsword and his companions advancing by air, engage them at your earliest opportunity.”
Aggurat saluted. “As you wish, honored master.”
“You are dismissed.”
Cazuvel watched as the draconian turned and marched out of the room in rigid and disciplined steps. With the Red Watch out from under his feet and the sellsword likely defeated before he and his companions could even arrive at the castle, he could progress with his plans unhindered.
“But first,” he said to himself. “First, I must pay another visit to my dear friend in the mirror.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vanderjack was staring at the mountains.
He had seen mountains before, of course. Every mercenary in the last war had seen mountains: the frigid peaks of the Last Gaard Mountains in Ergoth, the barren altitudes of the Khalkist Mountains in Neraka, or the windswept towers of the Kharolis Mountains in Abanasinia. Ansalon was a continent of mountains, forged in the birth of the world, or thrust up from the earth during the Cataclysm. But the Emerald Peaks of Nordmaar were like no other mountains the sellsword had ever seen.
The Sahket Jungle could be described most accurately as a broad, green swath across three different topographical regions. In the east, near the ruined city of Valkinord and the Blood Sea of Istar, the jungle crept across swampy lowland, eventually receding and becoming the Great Moors. In the west, from where the sell-sword and his companions had come, the rainforest rose from the plains, descending for a time into the Yehudia Valley but for the most part remaining level and even. In the north and central Sahket, however, the tropical vegetation surged up into the dizzying heights of the Emerald Peaks, eventually giving way to the knifelike obsidian and towering basalt columns that formed the last northern ridge before the sea.
Before the Cataclysm, the Emerald Peaks had been islands in the Courrain Ocean, inhabited by what would later become the native peoples of Nordmaar. Temples, shrines, and ancient tribal structures lined gentle slopes. Wide shelves devoted to the growing of rice and other grains were marvels to the seafaring peoples of Istar and Ergoth. Nordmaar’s islands were a fantastical and mysterious land of opportunity rarely visited, for it was alleged that dangerous and savage creatures dwelled there. That, of course, was folklore and rumor swollen beyond reason by sailors. Mighty Istar considered the islands beneath its notice; the Kingpriests barely recognized them at all, in fact, and those few priests who visited them returned with fanciful tales of converting hundreds of natives to the True Faith of Paladine and left it at that.
Nordmaar survived
Istar but fell to the same punishment as that holy city more than three hundred years before Vanderjack was born. Whether that was because they failed to observe the gods or simply because they were destined to change remained a subject of controversy among the Aesthetics, but after the fiery mountain smote the Kingpriest and his empire, bringing about the Cataclysm, Nordmaar’s mysterious islands were gone.
The seafloor rose sharply as the continental plates buckled and shifted. The waters receded, leaving behind the plains and swamps that the Solamnics would eventually discover; the islands lifted skyward. Volcanic forces pierced the islands from below, shattering the terraces and tossing aside the temples like so many tiny pebbles. In their place stood colossal pillars of rock, hung with the remains of the islands like bejeweled fingers reaching up through the earth. When the Sahket Jungle raced like green fire across Nordmaar in the coming decades, it laced those fragments with vines and creepers as it did the rest of the land. The result was a wall of trees and rock that had no equal elsewhere on Krynn.
Theodenes leaned across the dragonne’s back, breaking into the sellsword’s reverie. “Quite magnificent, are they not?” the gnome said, shouting over the beating of the dragonne’s wings.
“This close, I suppose they are,” Vanderjack shouted back. “You can see them from the west, but you can’t really make out any details. It’s just a wall of green and brown. How do the trees get so far up?”
“It’s the heat,” said Theodenes. “The tree line is much farther up the mountains because of the elevated temperature here in Nordmaar, as opposed to the Kharolis or Khalkists.”
“Are you making that up, or do you actually know what you’re talking about?”
“He’s a gnome,” interjected Gredchen, just as loud as the other two. “Even a gnome warrior knows more about this kind of thing than most of us humans.”
“Quite so,” said Theodenes. “In fact, gnome education is far superior to that of any other race on Krynn, even that of the elves. It comes of not busying ourselves with world conquest, frivolous fancies, or magic.”
