by Ed Greenwood
So when he then gathered in the monsters, in their slithering, flapping, or softly padding handfuls, no butchery erupted, and Amaxas Horgul found himself, without quite realizing how it had befallen, leading an army of monsters and mercenaries to attack one hold after another.
A host that had conquered hold after hold in a way never possible when three Dooms had worked in watchful, wary opposition to each other.
Now, Horgul's army had lost Horgul, but had almost conquered Darswords. There was just this last, savage little slaying to see to, first.
With a shout, some of his men gained the crest of the hill and charged the Stormar, hurling a stream of weapons they'd plucked from the dead, seeking to disrupt any spells the wizards were trying to cast until their own swords could reach Stormar throats, and it was too late.
It almost worked, but they were still two or three sprinting steps away when all the flung warsteel whirled back into their faces, in a slicing, darting storm of points and edges that visited on them the same lacerating deaths they'd sought to give the Stormar.
Malraun smiled grimly. Fools. That ploy might well have worked on hedge-wizards, but these Stormar were far beyond such feebleness.
He raised his hands, stretching his arms wide, and worked the spell. Not the one that would slay the Stormar, but the one that would unleash that deadly, already-risen spell-that even now was shuddering through him, prowling restlessly back and forth like a hungry caged cat-and let him put on a little show.
Armies, after all, need to be impressed.
A burst of power thrust Taeauna flat on her face in front of him, thrust aside a few of the battle dead, and lit him from ankles to the tips of his fingers with a bright white light, a radiance that drew all eyes and trailed an aura of curling ruby-red smoke out into the night.
"Hear me, doomed wizards, and all others who would dare to defy me!" he thundered, his magic making his voice roll thunderously out across Darswords and echo back from wooded hilltops all around.
"I am Malraun the Matchless, whose magic triumphs over all other spells, from one misty end of Falconfar to another! I avenge Horgul now, just as I assure all Falconfar that his army will fulfill its destiny, marching on to victory after victory, until every warrior who fought for Horgul gains gold enough to retire fat and happy, living in idle luxury all the rest of his days! No wizard can stand against my might, and all who seek to do so will be served thus!" He turned to face the wizards alone, and added, "Die!"
The light cloaking him rose around him, like a snake rearing up to strike, and then rushed away from him through the torchlit, moonlit night, to crash down on the Stormar on the hilltop in an inferno that blazed up fiercely. His power had pinned them there even before he'd spoken, and it held them there now, arms waving in futile attempts to weave spells that would whisk them elsewhere, as their bodies were consumed in a few breaths of roaring fury, and collapsed into ash.
A faint radiance flickered momentarily over a hilltop that had been scorched down to bare, blackened stone, then died away into darkness.
There was a long, stunned silence. Then the surviving warcaptains, up and down the hill on all sides, raised a ragged cheer.
Taeauna hurled herself at his ankles, kissing his boots and reaching up to caress him.
Malraun smiled down at her, at first out of mere fondness, but then more broadly as a thought struck him.
He would stay with the army long enough to enjoy their "taking" of Harlhoh. As it was under his rule, that would be mere feasting and reprovisioning, not fighting. Then he would leave Taeauna in charge of these ravening beasts and warriors, as they went on to conquer Darkriver.
So he could get back to his real work. Finding and destroying the real Narmarkoun, and watching this "Lord Archwizard" Everlar dolt to learn what he was really up to, and what hidden power he was seeking, before the right moment to destroy him came.
Not that destroying this Lord Archwizard would be anything more than childishly easy.
If it had been Lorontar, now… Malraun shivered inwardly, just for a moment, setting Taeauna to whimpering softly.
Then, reaching down to soothe her with a caress or two, he firmly put that unpleasant thought from his mind.
Chapter Fourteen
WIngs suddenly blotted out the moon, making Garfist swear in startlement and rear back from the window. A flapping moment later, there were two Aumrarr in the room.
Iskarra and Garfist could see that much, though in the wake of the flash that had split the sky, their eyesight was still blurry. Yet the two winged women were clear enough-as tall and slender black shapes, silhouetted against the cold brightness of the moon flooding the room.
"Who are ye?" Gar growled, settling into a menacing swordsman's crouch as he faced them, as if his hands bristled with warsteel rather than hanging empty.
"Dauntra and Juskra, of the Aumrarr," came the curt reply. "We brought you here, and we'll be taking you away again. Now."
"Why?" Iskarra snapped, from behind the table. "I'm finding I like Stormcrag Castle."
"The time is come," said the other Aumrarr, in a slightly kinder voice. "We need you."
"For what?" Garfist asked suspiciously. "Just how quickly is this going to get us killed, hey?"
"No time for that now," Juskra snarled, her sword starting to grate out of its scabbard-whereupon Isk held out the mindgem above the table, swinging her arm sharply to warn them she could at a whim swiftly bring it down, and shatter what she held.
"Oh," she told the two Aumrarr softly, as they stared at her with thinning lips, "I think there is."
Juskra's eyes blazed, and she strode forward almost panting in rising fury-only to stop abruptly, hissing, as Gar moved to bar her way to the table and drew back one arm, as if a solid punch could prevail against her sword and dagger.
"Dyune," he said firmly. "She left us. Just left us. What's befallen her?"
The two Aumrarr looked at each other, and then back at Gar and Isk.
"She has… perished," Dauntra said reluctantly. "In battle with a greatfangs. Along with our sisters Ambrelle and Lorlarra."
She shuddered as she fought back tears, then swallowed, sighed, and added, "Ambrelle died so we might live. She used the flame of life that burned within her to work a great magic."
"That blew the beast's brains apart from within," Juskra said grimly, "and slew it."
A little silence fell, until Garfist said into it, "Tell us more."
When neither of the Aumrarr spoke, he sighed and waved a hand at the mindgem Iskarra was holding over the table. "We know what we have, but where's the skull?"
"The skull?"
"Ortbaunt's skull," he growled disgustedly. "An' just for that, ye can tell me what ye're planning to use it for-or we, an' this oh-so-precious mindgem with us, stay right here."
The Aumrarr traded glances with each other again. Juskra was visibly itching to bury her sword in Garfist, but Dauntra gave her a glare, shaking her head.
"I know where it is," she told Garfist, slowly and reluctantly, "but we've not sought to recover it, yet. That-" She pointed at the mindgem. "-we came seeking first. Dyune was supposed to have hidden it here at Stormcrag and then departed without the two of you-or anyone else-ever seeing her."
"Ever kings scheme, yet the Falcon rends all bright plots awry," Garfist quoted an old ballad archly. "Even, it seems, the clever plans of Aumrarr."
"Enough of this," Juskra snapped, glaring at Iskarra. "Give us the gem, or I'll start cutting large slices off your man, here!"
Garfist grabbed for her sword then, barehanded. She backed hastily away and brought its point up to menace his face and throat.
He gave her an unpleasant grin. "Threaten someone it'll work on. For us, save yer breath. Ye need us, not just yon stone and the skull. Hey?"
Dauntra sighed, shoulders sagging. "Yes."
Garfist gave Juskra a sardonic look, arching one eyebrow. She grimaced in disgust and lowered her blade.
"That's better
," he growled. "Now, the two of ye, heed: Isk and I may well be quite willing to aid ye. If ye speak truth, and keep nothing back from us. Ye Aumrarr love to keep secrets, but there's none but us to say ye didn't, hey? If you speak truth, the Falcon might even smile on ye, for once! So speak. We know ye need us, so what we're to do is something no Aumrarr can succeed at. We know 'tis dangerous and urgent, or ye wouldn't be here in the dead of night drawing steel on us. So spill all, lasses! What d'ye need us for?"
"If we tell you," Dauntra said quietly, "the mere knowing leaves you standing in danger."
"Sister, no!" Juskra snapped. "We dare not-"
"You daren't not tell us," Iskarra snapped out, her voice louder than the scarred Aumrarr, and ringing with the iron of command, "or you lose your chance. Either we refuse, you slay us, and you go out into the night with no gem and the need to hunt down more humans who'll aid you-or you tell us all, and we can begin whatever task you need us for. I will not aid and serve captors who hurl us hither and yon like old cloaks and tell us nothing, but I could very well fight alongside someone who trusted me, and treated me as worthy to know what is going on."
Her words rang out into a sudden stillness, as the two Aumrarr turned to lock eyes with each other.
A swift and silent war was fought in a few unfolding moments, through their sharp eyes, and then Juskra tossed her head, sighed loudly, and announced, "Very well. The truth. We, yes, need humans, because the warning-spells on Lyraunt Castle are keyed to rouse the place if any Aumrarr comes within their reach."
"Malraun's spells," Garfist rumbled. Both Aumrarr nodded, so he asked, "And ye need to get into Lyraunt Castle why?"
"To put the skull in… a particular place, therein," Dauntra replied, "and the gem in another specific spot."
Letting the weariness of worn-thin patience sound clearly in his voice, Gar asked flatly, "Why?"
"The Doom you named has created gates-magical ways to and from far places, traversed in a step; waerways, some call them-in the castle," Juskra replied. "Two of them."
"We know what gates are," Isk said softly. "You seek to close them."
Dauntra nodded. "The spells on the skull will disrupt the enchantments of the larger gate, yes. The second, smaller one we believe to be the Doom's secret; his 'back door' if you will. If we can place the mindgem in it, and he later tries to use that way into the Castle, quite likely to find out and fix what happened to his other gate, the powers of the gem will affect him."
Garfist glared at her ere asking patiently, "And do what?"
"Scramble his mind to drooling idiocy, if the luck of the Falcon is with us," Juskra muttered.
"And if it isn't?"
"Enrage him into setting aside his schemes for as long as it takes to come after us, and destroy us," Dauntra said quietly.
Iskarra frowned. "So the gem won't close the gate?"
"No." Juskra grounded the point of her sword on the floor, leaned on its quillons, and sighed, "Yon stone will just sit there in it, waiting for Malraun to get too close."
Garfist nodded. "So, now, where are these gates?"
She fixed him with a hard, direct stare. "Telling you where the larger one lies is a waste of breath if you haven't been inside Lyraunt Castle, until we're flying above it and I can point the right roof out to you. The second one is in a bedchamber at the top of Lyraunt's tallest tower. The bed all but fills that room, and the gate awaits anyone squeezing under the bed, right at the back, by its headboard."
Acquiring the ghost of a smile, the sword-scarred Aumrarr added, "You're too fat to use that waerway, unless you've brawn enough to heave the whole thing up on your back."
"You welcome would-be allies so charmingly," Isk told her sharply.
The reply was a shrug, but Dauntra said, "Juskra, please. Garfist, Iskarra; we need you to be the ones who place the skull and the gem for us. Now."
"Why now?" Garfist asked, suspicion sharpening his voice from its usual growl.
"Because," Juskra told him grimly, "the armies of monsters and mercenaries Malraun has sent flooding across all Falconfar this side of Galath will reach Ironthorn soon enough. Then it'll be too late, and you can die smug and secure, knowing you could have saved the world. But chose not to."
Taeauna smiled up at her Master, there on the hilltop. Looming above her, the gloating Doom threw back his head to laugh at the stars, and compelled his wards-the spells that would turn aside any arrow, hurled weapon, or hard-swung blade the more ambitiously treacherous of his warriors might decide to send his way-to glow more brightly, outlining him in eerie flames that burned nothing and gave off no heat.
He blazed coldly on that blood-drenched hilltop, awakening mutters of awe and wary regard among his warriors. Behold Malraun the Matchless, triumphant in victory. The overconfident fool.
Behind Taeauna's smiling face, too far down in the dark depths of her mind for Malraun's light hold over her to sense, Lorontar chuckled in glee.
Malraun's decision to let his playpretty, this wingless Aumrarr, lead the army was brilliant, of course.
And it was a notion he, Lorontar, had planted in Malraun's head, working with slow, deft patience through Malraun's mindlink with Taeauna. The Matchless One had swallowed the idea as his own without any suspicion… without even beginning to suspect Lorontar's influence.
So, now, if Malraun did depart, with Taeauna in charge, Lorontar would cloak himself even more deeply, and happily exert a little more mind-control over the Aumrarr.
Making her lead the Army of Liberation in an attack on Galath.
That would draw preening little Malraun into a frantic effort to quell the fighting. He would want to salvage some part of this army, after all, and seek to conquer Galath not on the battlefield, but by storming and coercing the mind of its new king. Thus gaining dominion over a Galath as undamaged as possible, not a kingdom ravaged by war or plunged into fresh and ongoing civil strife as this or that ambitious arduke or baron sought the throne.
Yet thanks to Lorontar's deft reminders, worked in one mind here and another there, King Melander Brorsavar of Galath was now protected by the diadem given by the meddling Aumrarr to a long-ago predecessor, to keep the mind of he who sat the Throne of Galath shielded from hostile magics.
Malraun might get an unwelcome surprise or two. If he was foolish enough to bring Taeauna along with him as he sought to master Brorsavar, one of those surprises might be a long, cold length of warsteel plunged up his backside a long and bloody way inside him.
Then he could put his Matchless mastery of magic to work trying to save his lifeblood, before it all ran out of him. While a certain not-dead-enough Archwizard of Falconfar tried to put his magic to the task of teaching Taeauna how to cast a spell that would turn her Master's blood to fire in his very veins, and cook him alive from within.
Now, that would be fun.
Above her, still brightly aglow, Malraun looked all about over the night-shrouded carnage of Darswords, eyes boyish-bright with excitement at all the bloodshed, exulting in his victory.
Abruptly his fingers tightened on Taeauna's head, digging in with cruel force to drag her upright. She rose willingly, not to escape the pain but out of ardent desire to please and obey him.
Showing all his teeth in his most hungry smile, Malraun swept the wingless Aumrarr into a tight embrace and bit her throat lightly. "Do off your armor," he murmured, releasing her. "Quickly."
She unbuckled, wriggled, and shrugged her way clear of warharness in deft, supple haste, but it was still heaped all about her knees when he growled, freed himself, and started to make love to her, brutally, there on the moonlit hilltop in the midst of all the blood-drenched dead.
Embracing him, yielding and urging him on wordlessly with her caresses, Taeauna smiled. She was beneath him, and his ardent kisses were below her chin, so he never saw the smile on her face.
It was the deep, triumphant smile of Lorontar.
Ahead of Rod Everlar there was a brief, almost soundless commotion, a
straining and whispering of cloth and boots, and then something that might have been a long, trailing groan under firmly-clamped, muffling hands. Then there came a sort of thud, and a louder scrape of a boot heel being dragged across stone.
One of Syregorn's knights had killed another Lyrose guard, and they were another step closer to setting foot in Lyraunt Castle.
Its walls loomed over them, almost unseen here in the deep darkness beneath these trees, but the moonlight was almost frighteningly bright back behind them, on the lawn that separated Lord Lyrose's fishpond from the scullery port. A side door too small and simple to be called a gate, the port was set deep into the wall. It was tall but narrow, was sheathed entirely in thrice-banded oiled iron, and was about two feet thick, to boot.
Rod doubted Syregorn's men had been stretching tales to impress him; now that they were settled into stone-faced readiness to slay, he doubted this lot would seek to impress their own grandmothers. In any way, and for any reason. They were like foxes padding through the night. Silent and patient, until they were close enough to pounce.
Ahead of them, there was a brief flicker of lantern-light as the scullery port swung open again-and the hand on Rod's shoulder forced him down onto his knees. He froze there, seeing the knights ahead of him doing the same, as a muttering of low voices rose briefly by the port ere it swung shut once more.
Oblivious to the stealthy doom fast approaching them, Lord Lyrose's guards seemed to be busily engaged, this night, in their usual habits of visiting some of the maids to trade coins for their embraces and for leftovers from Castle feasts. The scullery port had swung open and shut seven times now, just since the Hammerhand band had rounded the fishpond.
Though it was now too dark for Rod to see Syregorn, he knew the warcaptain was frowning like a grim mourner at a funeral. An entire Lyraunt Castle guard patrol was missing.
