by A. Giannetti
“Fool!” he cursed himself. “You have stepped into the lion’s den and will now be devoured!” Rather than spring on the Dwarf, however, Torquatus turned away, his eyes gleaming with pleasure at the terror he had inspired in Herias.
“How unfortunate that I have a need for him,” he thought regretfully to himself. “This Dwarf would squeak most delightfully, I think, beneath my knife as it removed the living flesh from his bones.” Quelling his sadistic temperament Torquatus instead focused his attention on the heavy silver ring that he wore on the long, slender second finger of his right hand. When he opened his third eye, he saw a vast, swirling maelstrom of mingled red and gold energies circling the ring. For a long moment, he savored the power which it placed at his command, power enough to bring the whole world under his rule and perhaps other realms, too, once he discovered the spells which would create permanent gates that would allow his armies free passage into other realms. Turning his thought to the northwest, Torquatus sought the iron collar worn by the guardian in Anthea’s cell, following the link between it and his master ring. Using the collar as a locus, he drew on the power of his ring to open a gate into the dungeon where he held Anthea captive. Stepping through the man high, shimmering circle of red which outlined the boundaries of the portal he had opened, Torquatus came face to face with the licantrope which guarded the chamber.
A RISKY ALLIANCE
Consumed by a ravenous hunger the licantrope fixed its fiery green eyes on Torquatus. Crouching down, it tensed its massive muscles in preparation for a leap that would bear the Goblin King backwards onto the floor where he could be torn apart by its teeth and claws. Undaunted by the terrifying creature that threatened his life, Torquatus raised his right fist and clenched it tight. Acting in concert with his motion, the collar around the thick neck of the changeling tightened, cutting off the flow of air to its lungs. Tearing uselessly at the band of iron around its neck with its powerful paws and iron hard claws, the changeling fell to the floor of the cell, choking and dribbling saliva between its long, fangs. Greedily, Torquatus drank in its suffering as he brought it to the point of death. At the last possible moment he slackened the collar, allowing the licantrope to draw great sobbing breaths into its lungs. When Torquatus contemptuously delivered a powerful blow to its lean belly with his black booted right foot, the changeling crawled away on all fours to a corner of the cell. There it crouched submissively, watching Torquatus and Herias with lambent, hungry eyes.
Seeing that Torquatus had mastered his creature, Herias nervously stepped through the portal before him. The magical door vanished as soon as he stepped through it, leaving him trapped in the chamber with the licantrope and its master. At that moment, Herias could not have said which he feared the most. Legs quivering with fear, his eyes fixed apprehensively on the changeling, Herias followed Torquatus to the stone bier in the center of the room, his cane held ready in his right hand should he need to defend himself. The Dwarf stood silent and ill at ease as Torquatus bent over the clear, crystal dome which covered the top of the block of black basalt, staring hungrily, like some dark beast of prey, at the quiescent form that lay beneath it. The cruelty and savagery Torquatus displayed in his unguarded moments both repelled and terrified Herias. Consumed by the desire for power he had ruthlessly eliminated or attempted to eliminate anyone who stood in his way, but he was not otherwise malicious or cruel toward those who did not offend him.
“Dardanus was right to refuse to treat with this Goblin,” thought Herias uneasily to himself. “Having observed them firsthand, I see now that the Goblins are a cruel and savage race, enjoying the suffering of others for its own sake. If I return to Iulius unharmed, I will never place myself at the mercy of any one of them again,” he promised himself as his dangerous ally continued to concentrate on the still form beneath the cover.
“Wretched woman,” thought Torquatus viciously to himself. “If I could somehow reach you I would strip off your skin an inch at a time until your screams echoed in every corner of this fortress!” Casting his thought at the still form beneath the cover, Torquatus watched closely for a response but was unable to detect any reaction to his terrible threat. To the most observant eye, Anthea would have appeared dead, for the breath of life seemed to have deserted her pale lips. Torquatus, however, saw with more than ordinary eyes. With his mage sight, he observed the woman’s golden shade beneath the cover, overlaid by the translucent, silvery shield cast by her necklace.
“The potion that she drank has slowed the pulse of her life, plunging her too deeply into sleep to be aware of me,” Torquatus thought regretfully to himself. “If she senses me at all it is as a nightmare figure intruding on her dreams.” Abandoning his effort to torment Anthea, Torquatus instead turned his attention to the state of her shade, noting with great satisfaction that it had begun to fade. “The drain on her life force by the pendent she wears will slay her long before she expires from a lack of air or sustenance,” he assured himself. “When her shade finally expires, her body will remain beneath this impenetrable cover, an irresistible lure that will draw the Eirian into my clutches if he is fortunate enough to escape both the guardian under the mountains and the Trolls who I will set to guarding the exit to the passageway.” For a long moment, Torquatus savored the thought of the many guards hidden outside the dungeon where Anthea was confined and the hundreds more keeping a sleepless watch throughout the fortress of Tyranus. Mutare, Mordi, Urucs, and massive mountain Trolls all waited eagerly to descend upon Elerian should he appear anywhere inside the prison.
“If he comes here, he will meet a swift death,” thought Torquatus to himself. “I will even forgo the pleasure of torturing him to ensure that he can no longer interfere with my designs.” The thought of Elerian’s impending demise combined with Anthea’s inexorable slide toward death had the effect of restoring Torquatus’s good spirits. The flames in his eyes slowly died to sultry red coals and then vanished entirely, leaving them dark and gleaming as polished jet. Turning to Herias, who waited nervously by his right side, Torquatus smoothed over his features and became once more the genial host.
“Harden this cover and the stone that supports it,” he said in an affable voice to Herias.
“This crystal will resist even magical weapons,” objected Herias as he examined the cover by feeling of it with his left hand. “Why bother hardening it further?”
“Like yourself, I wish to leave nothing to chance,” replied Torquatus sardonically.
“As you wish then,” said Herias with a shrug of his shoulders. Raising his staff, he touched its silver head to the cover. Opening his magical third eye, Torquatus watched as a golden cloak of light spread from the staff, enveloping the entire bier. For many long moments, Goblin and Dwarf stood silent, side by side, as the spell did its work.
“It is done,” said Herias at last removing his cane, his weary voice a testimony to the power that he had expended to harden such a large object. “Nothing can breach that cover without also destroying what lies beneath it.” Noting Torquatus’s greedy glance toward his staff, Herias said casually, “I will gift you with a twin to this instrument when I am king of the Dwarves in Iulius.”
“You will give me that and much more,” thought Torquatus mockingly to himself as he turned and reopened the portal that led to his throne room. After Herias followed him through, he closed the magical door and opened a second portal. On the far side of it, Herias was relieved to see the wood where he had first activated his ring.
“Call on me again when you are king in Iulius,” said Torquatus in a genial voice. “By then I may also have news of Ascilius’s demise.” Herias turned to his left to face Torquatus, his eyes lighting up with greed and desire when he saw the deadly philter in the Dark King’s outstretched right hand. Taking the vial from Torquatus’s long fingers, Herias tucked it securely into a pocket in his pants. Then, trying not to appear too hasty, he stepped through the portal, breathing a sigh of relief when he stood in the Caldaria once more. Behind
him, Torquatus closed the magical opening before sitting at his ease on his curiously carved throne, a cruel smile distorting his handsome features. Calling out softly but in a penetrating voice, he summoned Valgus, the captain of his guard. When the tall Uruc entered the throne room, he bowed silently to his master.
“The Hesperian and his companions plan to leave Iulius through the passageway under the western Nivalis,” said Torquatus quietly. “He knows by now that I have Orianus’s daughter in Tyranus and will be drawn there like a bee to a mountain meadow in spring. I have prepared a fitting reception for him if he reaches the fortress, but I would prefer that he not advance so far. Warn the Trolls of the Trofim to watch the exit to the passageway, for there is no certainty that the guardian still lives. There must also be a second line of defense in case the vigilance of the Trolls fails me. Dispatch lentuluses, flocks of cornixes, and every black owl you can summon to keep watch, day and night, over every inch of ground between Tyranus and The Trofim. Send lupins, canigrae, and companies of Mordi and mutare north from Calenus, as many as can be spared, to guard the borders of the Broken Lands. He must not escape me again,” grated Torquatus, his dark eyes flaming red with the intensity of the malice he felt toward Elerian.
“It might also be to our advantage, my lord, to send lentuluses into the passageway itself,” suggested Valgus. “If the guardian no longer occupies the tunnel, they can intercept the Hesperian before he ever sees the light of day.”
“A wise suggestion, Valgus,” conceded Torquatus. “Do as you see fit.”
“Thank you my lord,” replied Valgus before turning and leaving the throne room to carry out his assigned tasks.
“My plans are all made,” mused Torquatus to himself as he watched Valgus walk silently away. “We will see now what the outcome will be.”
In the Caldaria, his illusion restored once more and his hood pulled down over his face, Herias returned to his carriage and woke the driver who had fallen asleep. After the Dwarf drove him back to Iulius, Herias inconspicuously made his way through the city. When he neared his apartment, he ended his illusion so that no one would see a stranger enter his rooms. He had just cast off his cloak when he heard a knock on the heavy oak door which gave entrance to his apartment. The unexpected sound caused Herias to start violently. Silently cursing his frayed nerves, he smoothed the guilty look from his face and steadied his trembling hands. Walking over to the door, he impatiently opened it.
In the passageway outside stood Falco, dressed in a bright, sky blue tunic and wearing a cheerful smile on his face. His long, brown hair was loose on his shoulders, and his full beard brushed the top of his gleaming silver belt. Herias thought Falco a vapid fool, but he put an agreeable look on his face to mask his true feelings.
“Well met Falco,” he said pleasantly. “What brings you to my door today?”
“I was walking by, and I thought I would stop to say hello,” said Falco. “I have not seen you about lately.”
“I have been occupied with matters of import,” replied Herias shortly. He was about to make an excuse to send Falco on his way when his unexpected visitor suddenly spoke up again.
“However did you get those scratches on your hand?” asked Falco curiously. With a great effort, Herias kept his face impassive, but he felt a nervous anxiety sweep through him.
“My cat clawed me,” replied Herias casually. “It was my fault, for I startled the poor creature.”
“You have a cat?” said Falco in surprise. “I thought you disliked animals.”
“Cats have their uses,” said Herias, wishing that he could rid himself of his uninvited guest. “I would introduce to my pet, but it leaped through my window into the garden when you knocked.”
“Some other time then,” said Falco pleasantly, but he wondered at Herias’s explanation. Herias's apartment was on the third level of the city and close to the outer wall of the mountain. Through the large window in Herias’s parlor, Falco could see a small terrace covered with weeds and long unclipped grass. It had not been tended since Herias moved into the apartment, for Herias hated the outside world almost as much as he hated animals. There was no sign of any cat that Falco could see and beyond the terrace walls, he knew there was a sheer drop of many feet.
“I have heard a rumor that Ascilius and the outlander plan to leave the valley through the Black Gate,” said Herias as he casually stepped in front of Falco to block his view of the garden.
“That seems most unlikely,” replied Falco, pretending to shudder in fear. “They would face certain death from the monster that is said to lurk in the passageway behind the gate.” Despite himself, Herias was unable to keep his eyes from gleaming with pleasure at the thought of Ascilius meeting his end, but Falco pretended not to notice. He was wondering how Herias had learned that Ascilius had left Iulius. “Only Dardanus, Eonis, and I knew of it,” he thought to himself. Falco made some further small talk and then excused himself. As soon as the heavy door to Herias’s home abruptly closed in front of him, the pleasant, slightly foolish expression on Falco's face disappeared. It was replaced at once by a thoughtful, worried look, for he was almost certain that Herias had somehow spied on Ascilius’s departure.
“What are his motives?” he wondered. He had harbored a suspicion for many years that Herias had somehow been behind Ascilius’s capture by the Goblins many years ago. Was it possible that Herias planning to betray him again?”
“Why else would he be so interested in Ascilius’s whereabouts?” thought Falco worriedly to himself. “Those scratches on his hands are almost certainly from Arturo. He may have spied on us disguised by an illusion, an easy task for a mage with his abilities. I will send a hawk to warn Ascilius,” Falco decided as he walked away from Herias’s door. “It is all that I can do for now.” His thoughts now turned to another, more immediate problem. Ever since the captives released by Torquatus had entered Iulius the day before, there had been nothing but trouble. The gold the former slaves had brought back with them as recompense for their captivity at the hands of the Goblins had quickly inflamed other Dwarves with a desire for gold of their own, almost as if a spell had been laid upon the yellow metal. Their resentment against Dardanus for his refusal to treat with Torquatus was changing to anger, for many of them already believed that Elerian should have been given to the Dark King to free their own people. Once they learned that Elerian had left the valley, there was sure to be more trouble.
“If only Ascilius had stayed behind to help me sort out this mess,” thought Falco to himself, wondering if he would ever see his cousin alive again.
At that moment, to the south of Iulius, the carriages carrying Ascilius and Elerian rolled steadily on, Ascilius and Cordus taking a turn at the reins when the drivers stopped for fresh teams midway through the day. Toward evening, the two vehicles turned off the main road onto a tributary road that ran to the southwest. They encountered little traffic on the new road, and the countryside it ran through had a wilder look to Elerian than the central part of the Caldaria. He noticed that there were fewer farms and more pastures and woods. In many of the meadows he saw herds of wild oxen, red deer, and smaller brown deer instead of cattle and sheep, their polished horns and antlers glinting in the failing light of the sun. Shaggy black pigs rooted in the litter under the trees and birds were everywhere, filling the air with their sweet song. Small, clear streams born in the snowcapped peaks to the north passed under the road beneath small, well-crafted stone bridges.
“A fair land,” thought Elerian to himself as he looked out his window. “I hope the Dwarves can keep it from falling into the hands of the Goblins,” he thought somberly to himself.
As the sun was setting in the west, the company stopped briefly at a way station for a meal and fresh ponies before setting out again. Elerian continued to ride with Dacien and Triarus, musing now, while his companions slept in their seats, over the grim turn his life had taken. From time to time, he glanced at his ruby ring, but the stone remained dark like his tho
ughts.
“Almost, I hope that Anthea has already passed from this realm,” he thought grimly to himself. “At least she would then be beyond the reach of her monstrous captor.” Exhausted from worry and lack of rest, he, too, finally fell into one of his rare periods of true sleep.
The morning sun was creeping over the peaks of the eastern Nivalis when the carriages arrived at the entrance to a narrow, wooded defile that thrust deep into the western foothills of the mountains. A small, clear stream flowed down the center of the canyon, running along the left hand shoulder of a narrow road that quickly disappeared under the ancient trees that covered the floor of the valley. When the carriages entered the wood, the stream veered off to the left, vanishing between the trees. Despite the rising sun, the carriages traveled through a shadowed landscape, for the thick branches of the immense trees growing on either side of the road formed a dense canopy overhead that blocked out the golden light of the morning sun.
After traveling a mile or so, the carriages emerged from the forest into a clearing. On the western side of the glade, a sheer gray cliff rose up, the road ending at its base before double doors of black steel, each door about ten feet high and six feet wide. The cliff face around the entryway had the glassy look of spell-hardened stone to Elerian. Standing guard on either side of the doors was a grim faced Dwarf clad in black mail. A short distance to the right of the gate was a small stone guardhouse with a slate roof, one of the few freestanding structures Elerian had seen in the Caldaria. Thick turf grew right up to the stone walls of the house, which was shaded by several large oak trees.
As the carriage came to a stop before the doorway in the cliff face, seven Dwarves dressed in black hooded tunics walked through the front door of the guardhouse. Elerian took the color of their garments as an ominous sign of their office, for black was a color not usually favored by Dwarves. None of the Dwarves carried arms, for word concerning the company had already reached them through a hawk sent by Dardanus.
