Alliances

by B. T. Robertson

  "Men of Resforian, welcome to the real power of this floating rock. Here you will be granted the opportunity to participate in what will go down in history as the greatest battle ever fought for the good of mankind. Fear not, for any pain and suffering you can imagine being inflicted upon you will not be in vain...” He paused, smiling and slowly pulled back the hood from his face. With a flick of a finger, he brightened the room with light so the men could see. “...nor will you ever forget it."

  The men in the front who could see better started writhing and screaming in terror when a cage containing the vilest creature any of them had ever seen was lowered from the ceiling.

  "Feast your eyes, Intelligents,” the man said, pointing to the beast inside the suspended cage. “I call it ‘Drothghight’—Dread Knight—my finest creation."

  "Haarath,” one man called out, “you're a disgrace to our city and to our people! What have you done?"

  Haarath laughed. “Why Mayor Tummert, even a man of your intelligence should be able to imagine what's in store for you and your precious people. This creature is not your enemy, nor should you be afraid of it. It's going to be the only brother you have left."

  "What are you talking about?” Mayor Tummert asked, trying to put as much strength into his words as he could.

  "You shall be the first to find out. Guards, bring him here. Let's show Mayor Tummert what I'm talking about."

  Mayor Tummert was picked up from his table by four of the burly creatures and placed on the platform in the front of the room. In the meantime, Haarath went to the wall where many implements and odd-looking instruments were stacked. Some looked like weapons of war, others like torture devices still stained with blood, but Haarath took none of these. Instead, he opened a large wooden chest and withdrew a battered black book. Grinning, he walked back to where Mayor Tummert was being fastened between two standing poles, arms and legs spread wide-open by thick chains. Mayor Tummert, the loudest voice in Resforian politics, began to shake. His skin turned deathly pale, and he broke out in an icy sweat.

  Haarath sat down on a throne directly behind the mayor. “Though I can't stand the sight of your ass in my face, Tummert, it won't be of much concern very soon. Try to imagine the pain as I twist the fiber of your body and soul."

  When Haarath opened his black book, the lights went out except for a single spot illuminating Mayor Tummert, who was too frightened to scream. Haarath's grisly voice began chanting. From out of the darkness, another sound joined with his: a growl.

  A direwolf was led into the room, snapping at the five men who struggled against its strength. The direwolf was similarly tied with chains to another set of poles next to Mayor Tummert, who had nearly fainted under the pressure.

  The chanting resumed.

  Suddenly, Mayor Tummert let out a horrifying scream, his skin peeling and bursting open. The chains held him firm, but he violently wrenched at the bonds, tearing pieces of the flesh away from his wrists and ankles. His head arched back; he wailed in agony. His arms started to widen, as did his legs and torso; the enlarged muscles emerged like a snake shedding its old skin. Simultaneously, the direwolf started to bite and spin around like it was being attacked. Its own skin started to fold in on itself, the hair disappearing, its body and flesh absorbing into itself like it was being pulled into a vortex from the inside. The mayor's feet and hands appeared lupine, but the raw new flesh was hairless. Tummert's head jerked forward; his nose and mouth began to stretch out, forming a long snout similar to a wolf's. His eyes sank back into his head, replaced by yellow pools of glowing hate.

  The men were petrified as they watched the direwolf reduce to nothing but empty chains. Mayor Tummert was transformed into the creature in the cage, the Drothghight, right before their very eyes. Desperate men tore at their bonds enough to fall from their slabs and crash to the cold ground, knocked unconscious.

  When the transformation was complete, there was a long period of silence while the creature collapsed in its chains, exhausted. Even in that state, the eight hooded guards kept the chain bonds tight. Haarath rose from his throne when the light came back into the room. He cautiously walked between the guards and stood before his creation, smiling wildly. A hint of swirling green magic in his eyes made the other captive men shudder with fear. Whatever had just happened was violent, painful, and most likely destroyed the mind of Mayor Tummert, but they watched and waited for what Haarath would do. Benafor held his breath again as he had done countless times before, when attempt after attempt at this failed and threw Haarath into rages bordering on insanity.

  But Haarath seemed strangely pleased this time. The creature, not yet worthy of the name, lay on the floor, covered in mucus. It breathed heavily, its massive chest rising and falling like the tide. Even as strong and menacing as it looked, the transformation process had taken its toll.

  "Get him up,” Haarath ordered. “Let's see if Mayor Tummert's mind survived the transformation."

  Using the chains, the eight guards hoisted the creature to its feet. Haarath moved around in front of it, grasped its chin, and lifted its head. Though weak, the yellow eyes fixed angrily on Haarath's smug face. He grinned as he looked the creature over. The fangs, the muscular structure, the absence of hair over the body, the leathery texture of the battle-ready skin, the sharp quality of the polished claws on the hands and feet, were perfect save one thing.

  "You are no longer a man or a direwolf,” Haarath spoke aloud after agreeing with the physical success. “But you are not yet a Drothghight until there is a test of wits. You were once a great Mayor of Resforian, an Intelligent. Speak to me if you are able."

  The command went unanswered. The creature stood there, eyes fixed as Haarath started his familiar pacing. Again, he challenged the beast, but it did nothing. Haarath grew impatient quickly. “I have no use for this creature if it has no mind to use on the battlefield.” He motioned for a guard. “Go let in the sweepers.” The captive men stared in horror as the new creatures were led in by more guards. The hissing sweepers curled their long tongues around the gleaming rows of sharp teeth.

  Eyeless, legless, and mainly consisting of a small, slender body capped with a large head filled with teeth, the sweeper was Haarath's answer for his failures. Caring for little more than a violent survival, the sweepers would devour anything in their path, since they could eat an immense amount of food quickly. The nature of their consumption was also valuable to the sorcerer because they wouldn't favor one part of the body over another on any animal. Nothing was left over—not bone, not flesh, and not a trace of blood. Their name fit their purpose, and Haarath used them extensively.

  The former mayor's incarnation lifted its upper lip, revealing its sharp fangs when the sweepers drew closer. Haarath motioned for the guards to drop the chains holding the would-be Drothghight and started for the door. In the next moment, Haarath's frustrated desires were memorably fulfilled.

  Finally!” It wasn't the mayor's voice, but it held the weight of his consciousness, deep and gruff. He grabbed the loose chains and, with a brutal display of strength, ripped them out from the posts binding him. Although unable to rid himself of his wrist and ankle chains yet, the detached ends became weapons to be hurled at the guards. Aiming for their heads, he twirled the makeshift lashes, tearing through the guard's bodies, dismembering them. The startled guards who led the sweepers, dropped the metal poles that kept the blind creatures away from them and fled for the door. Of course, they didn't expect the sweepers to turn on them.

  A sweeper turned just as one guard was reaching for the door, lashed out its tongue at the man, and used it as a springboard to reach him. The wide-open mouth clamped down hard on the man's torso. Blood squirted everywhere after more than a dozen holes opened up, and the sweeper began finishing the job. The other two sweepers started toward Haarath's creation, who growled angrily as they approached, still hurling the chains overhead.

  It didn't take much effort for Tummert's new shell to dispatch the two sweepers, t
hough it suffered some lesions from the lashing tongues. The remaining sweeper was easy to deal with once it had had its fill of the guard. The Drothghight turned its sights on Haarath then, who stood alone against the back wall, watching and smiling.

  "Yes, yes, come to me,” he taunted. “Use your mind, Drothghight. Take me down."

  The Drothghight moved slowly toward the sorcerer, sensing danger. He threw the chains hard against the equipment and continued to stalk closer. “What have you done to me?"

  The sound of the Droth's speech was like music to Haarath's ears. “So, the intellect from Tummert did make the difference. Very interesting. All right, that's far enough.” The sorcerer held up his hand, freezing the Drothghight in its tracks. “You didn't think I'd be prepared for this, did you? Even with all my failures, I had to be ready. The Black Book told me your coming was close, and that you would be necessary to make my war upon the realm of Vaaluna. Even now, the men of Gudred I kidnapped those many years ago await their transformation, preserved by my brand of Wild Magic. You have given me the will to continue with the project."

  "What is your command, Master?” The Drothghight's mind caved to the will of Haarath, opening just enough to allow the control to seep through.

  "I command you to take up arms and lead my army of Drothghights to war! You will be my first in command, and your name is now Turza. I command you to fight to the death if need be to fulfill the prophecy."

  "What prophecy?"

  Haarath laughed at Turza's question. “The prophecy guides my hand and its power has opened my eyes to the future of the world. I have written the prophecy, and I shall be the one who sees it to the end."

  "And one more thing,” Haarath added as he let the Hold spell die and stepped close to Turza. “The others will come to recognize your leadership when they see this.” He pulled a small intricately patterned piece of polished bone from his leather satchel. “This won't hurt much."

  Turza closed his eyes and leaned down to the shorter wizard. Haarath pierced the cartilage between his nostrils, and ran the bone through the hole. “This is the Bone of the Trachona, the last breed of dragons that lived in this world. It's rare of me to brand my own creations, but the Trachona were the last creatures to walk this earth with the intelligence and strength to do the task I command now."

  Turza looked at Haarath with his yellow eyes, blood trickling down the front of his nose and into his mouth. He licked the blood from his lips, then turned and roared so loud that it echoed down the passageways of the entire island core. “I accept, Master. What do you want me to do to ensure your army is ready in time?"

  "I want you to oversee the training of the newly created Drothghight members and name them. Make sure there are no mistakes among them. They need to know who their master is and need to know their mission. You will give them leadership. Benafor must still fit you with equipment and weapons. Don't accidentally kill him."

  "I have a mind capable of more than savagery,” Turza retorted.

  "Yes, but some of these who will be created will be not of a mind like yours or the other Intelligents. They will simply need to be controlled by one of their own: you. Do not fail me, or I will not send a mere three sweepers to pay you a visit."

  Turza's face hardened. “I will do what you wish, Master."

  "All right, let's get started immediately then. I've wasted enough time and lives in trying to perfect this."

  For the first time, Benafor noticed that Haarath's demeanor suggested he was, for once, pleased with the outcome of the process. Haarath wasn't a patient man. In fact, he possessed no redeeming qualities obvious to Benafor, with the exception of rewarding loyalty. The reward couldn't redeem a lifetime of destroying lives and families. One question kept tickling Benafor's mind: Why? Why was Haarath going to such lengths to start a war? Why the creation of these hideous creatures? The more Benafor was exposed to Haarath's evil, the more numb he became to the questions, the lies, and the destruction around him. But even with the numbness came a heightened awareness of more at work in the sorcerer's mind. He didn't have proof, of course, nor could he approach Haarath with his opinion for fear of being tortured and killed himself. One thing Haarath didn't tolerate was being questioned, especially by a mere mortal man. Benafor also had a family in Resforian, and he was far too ensnared in Haarath's clutches to risk anything happening to them. So, silently, Benafor watched as the new Drothghight, Turza, took command of the army soon to be unleashed on Vaaluna. Armed with the other Intelligents as lieutenants, and the thousands of savages with death as their philosophy, Turza would ravage the countryside in search of the underground city of Trunith.

  Haarath watched Benafor closely while Turza brought each Intelligent to the platform for their ritual transformation into a Drothghight. The sorcerer chuckled at Benafor's ignorance. He's helping me willingly in exchange for money and sanctuary, but he has no idea of my cause. And, of course, why should he? He had helped without question up until then. If anything changed, if Haarath actually told him more about what was going on at the root of his black heart, then his destiny might be put in jeopardy. Thus, he kept Benafor on a tight leash.

  It took the better part of a fortnight to complete the transformation of all the Intelligents. The process drained Haarath of his strength several times, and he needed time to recover. He had received reports in the meantime that Aeligon and his elves were being tracked deep within the catacombs of Gudred. Haarath knew he had plenty of time to get his army ready, but kept strict attention to detail in any case. Watching Turza work, he thought of how much power he'd obtained in such a short amount of time. Fate will bend with my coming, he told himself over and over again. The Black Book of Wrantha contained all of the knowledge necessary to give him the edge over the unwitting Aeligon. Aeligon's knowledge of the Planes stopped at theory, where his own extended beyond into practical application. The book he'd stolen from Lunathar contained every formula of Wild Magic wizardry, every Theory of the Elderon, and every musing on Black Arts sorcery. And now, one of the creations derived from the depths of evil bowed to his will.

  It was perfect.

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  Chapter 3—A Game of Lies

  The chase across the Arthean Ocean was barely begun when Mortwar Brendain sought the refuge of the small island of Dalen, where they would await Demoron's passing. It was the best course of action to take now that Mortwar had experienced the evil warding Callaway's person. In fact, the seasoned sea-scout was thankful to be alive. He doubted Callaway would soon forget about their confrontation at the tavern, or that he was missing the ring lost along with the rest of his hand. But Callaway seemed to be up to more sinister business, having barely expressed any emotion regarding the incident, which puzzled Mortwar even more. As Dalen loomed closer in the deepening twilight, Mortwar steered his ship carefully, mulling over the events of the past sennight.

  "Sir, we will be ready to drop anchor on the other side of the island.” Buck's voice shattered the silence of Mortwar's thoughts, which was probably a good thing since they were getting closer to the island's rocky shoreline.

  Mortwar nodded. “Well done. Wait for my order, then drop it. We will wait there for Demoron to pass, then plot our course accordingly. I know they make for the land of Dunandor to the west, but it's a long way from here."

  "Sir, if you don't mind me askin', what's goin’ on?” Buck was Mortwar's First Mate and had been with him since the beginning. His loyalty was rarely questioned, but Mortwar secretly held each man's questions at bay, especially concerning matters of his family.

  "I'm not altogether sure, to be honest with you, Buck. We were paid by the old man in Lunathar to go to Drameda and find out what Callaway was up to. Only after our confrontation at the Dew Drop did I learn more about the item he stole from the Wizard City.” Mortwar dared not mention the ring Callaway had, or the incident he'd witnessed aboard the Demoron. Both of those issues he clearly had to keep from his crew. Not superstitious, they rare
ly held matters of magic and lore in high esteem. They wanted to be paid for their services, while risking as little as possible in doing so. Even as seasoned scouts, they knew very little of their customer's business. It was in each party's best interest to keep it that way. But now it had gotten personal for Mortwar. His mission was over. He was pursuing Callaway on his own volition. Reporting back to the old man in Lunathar would promise a high payoff, but he had to know more to satisfy his own desires. Sure, he was acting selfishly, but each man of the crew recognized their captain's priority to deliver the highest possible service to the paying party. Thus reassured, Mortwar was on the verge of chasing one of the most feared vessels prowling the Arthean Ocean to a destination where he was uncertain of what awaited them.

  Mortwar almost had the inkling to tell Buck, but if Buck disagreed or in some way passed on the news to the crew, mutiny could be the result. On the other hand, Buck might readily agree to the adventure. But Mortwar couldn't risk it. The old man in Lunathar hadn't even told Mortwar his name, just promised a large purse for the information leading to Callaway's apprehension. Mortwar's judgment had led Arunir to her current resting place.

  "Drop the anchor, pull in the sails, and lower the mast,” Mortwar ordered when he swung the ship around parallel to the island, as close as possible without scraping her hull against the rocks. This was dangerous, but not nearly as dangerous as going head-to-head against Demoron in battle. Mortwar had anticipated his slight advantage in outmaneuvering Demoron might not last long, and her long-range guns would eventually sink them. Stealth and deception were the keys to their success.

  The Arunir was the only ship of its kind in all of Vaaluna. Built based on Mortwar's own schematics, her mast was jointed at the base so it could be raised and lowered by means of a large crank mechanism requiring five men to operate. Most thought Mortwar a fool for doing this because not only did this feature detract from the overall integrity of the mast's strength, it also rendered the ship powerless to move, or so they thought. With the mast down, the sails couldn't be raised to catch the wind, but what the engineers didn't know was Mortwar and his crew had devised an alternate way of propelling the boat without the need for the wind.