by Jack Lovejoy
Khal was sardonically delighted by this reaction; more delighted still with the smoke and gloom and ruin that lay beneath him; most delighted of all that the royal governor of Kazerclawm and his lords and ladies, all dressed in court finery, now stood abjectly before him. He was only disappointed that none of the captive women was a flawless cream white: Srana evidently was not among them.
“And which of these nobles is Severakh?” he asked in a raspy hiss that caused still more fur to stand on end.
“Alas, lord,” said a bandit chieftain, “there was a breakout from the fortress within the hour. It is believed that the captives have fled the city by now....”
Maglakh, watching apprehensively from the mine doorway, did not wait to hear any more. Neither did the wretched Nizzam. They had both seen Khal begin to tremble with insane fury, and threw themselves blindly into the depths of the ancient mine. That they soon lost their way did not matter, only that they had taken themselves out of the way of his wrath.
From the cries of pain and horror reverberating through the mountain it seemed that others had not been so lucky. Hours passed before Khal’s insane rage at again losing his prize captives had slaked itself. The silence that followed encouraged the frightened pair—antagonists only hours ago, but now clinging to each other in the groping blackness—to hope that Khal had left the mountain, or at least forgotten about them. Nizzam began to think about his empty stomach.
Then a burst of greenish light took away his appetite. Khal stood beneath the mysterious globe in all his liskash hideousness, his iridescent robe spattered with blood and tufts of fur. He seemed calm, as if his vengeance were momentarily appeased, although his ruby eyes still glittered with mad intensity.
“Come, my faithful servants.” He beckoned Nizzam and Maglakh out of the shadows where they cringed with their arms around each other, their fur standing on end. “I have just received word that the cohorts promised by the Eastern Lords”—he sneered at their name, as if he considered them but an inferior breed of his own master race—“have at last arrived. We are now strong enough to march upon Cragsclaw, and still leave a garrison here. I want both of you with me. Yes, I have special plans for you there.”
His dark laughter rang through the mountain like a shriek of madness.
The Walls of Ar
FIRST UNDER the glorious reign of Talwe, then under the still more glorious reign of his son Talwyn, Ar had aggrandized year by year in wealth and power and splendor until it was now the great city of the mrem, its mighty walls a wonder of the world. Nor were even these its most formidable defense.
Centuries past, a market village had stood here at a crossing of the Mraal; that the greatest city in the land should arise beside its grandest river seemed foreordained. But only through wise policy had the channel of that river been so engineered that Ar now stood on a veritable island, its walls rising sheer out of the water, defying siege by even the most rapacious hordes.
It was hordes of another kind that now burdened the citizens of Ar. The thousands of refugees from Kazerclawm had at first been welcomed; but then more thousands, fleeing the doom of Cragsclaw, poured into the city, straining its resources. The fall of the great fortresses had brought satisfaction to rival city-states, until they in turn were overrun, further crowding the roads to Ar with miserable refugees.
Their misery was exploited to the full by the courtiers of the dissolute young king, who saw the invasion as no more than a chance for personal profit. By levying special taxes, fees, licenses, customs duties, tariffs, assessments, and fines that were virtual ransoms, they acquired the heirlooms and other valuables of the refugees at desperation prices, leaving many utterly destitute. And the pickings grew ever more lucrative as more and more nobles, even kings, sought refuge in Ar from the invading hordes.
A despicable trade, thought the venerable figure who stood alone upon the ramparts each evening at twilight, until the last refugees of the day—on foot, in carts, salvaging such valuables as they could from the debacle—straggled through the city gate below. For the first time since the erection of these mighty walls, the drawbridges were raised at nightfall from the two stone spans that arched across the bifurcated river, north and south.
As both queen of Ar and queen mother, Sruss had seen these mighty walls grow yearly until many thought them impregnable—especially her grandson’s greedy courtiers, who troubled themselves about no welfare but their own. But she had known too much of warfare in her long lifetime to believe any ramparts truly impregnable, and knew too well the implacable hatred of the Eastern Lords for her people. Neither walls nor rivers would long protect a corrupt and disunited people against such malice.
She also knew the fierce independence of her people.
Highlanders feuded eternally with lowlanders, some feuds between rival city-states were carried on from generation to generation; royal houses and nobles alike inherited old enmities with their coats of arms. Many resented the aggrandizement of Ar into the great city of the land, even some who now sought refuge within its walls.
She peered down the eastern road, flanked by rich farms and orchards, amber gold in the setting sun. The road was now deserted, as were the farmhouses themselves. There was no familiar form among the last stragglers of the day now crossing the bridge below, and she turned away with a sigh.
Was Srana still alive? All Sruss had discovered thus far, from those who had survived the fall of Kazerclawm, were rumors that the house of the Sentinel had been destroyed in flames. So reclusively had he lived that nobody she had questioned even knew he had a granddaughter. A few had known about a White Dancer residing there, but assumed she was just his nurse; for the single neighborhood she-mrem who had survived blessed Srana for healing her sick kit months ago.
That was just the problem in gaining information. The survivors were disproportionately made up of villagers who had come to Kazerclawm for its annual festival, and garrison troops, the citizens themselves had foolishly believed their own walls to be impregnable, and had perished in tragic numbers during the sack. Nor had the wizards of The Three been able to help her, even those possessing fragments of the Khavala. The mind was most receptive to contact during the dream state, but even then telepathy at such long distances was unreliable. Especially when it was not even known whether the subject was alive.
Besides, The Three were now trying frantically to summon all the powerful to Ar. Their failure to contact the Sentinel had made it all but certain that he at least was dead. What had become of his granddaughter, the favorite and most gifted pupil Sruss had ever had, none could say.
A long life brings many joys, and many sorrows. Sruss had known the love of a great warrior; she had seen their son ascend the throne of Ar, and preside over its rise to unrivaled splendor. Both had died tragically before their time. As queen mother her counsel had often been sought by her son, but she had never interfered in the everyday administration of his kingdom, not even in his choice of a queen. She wondered now if she had been too forbearing.
Rhenowla had indeed been beautiful. Her attractiveness was suspected to be magical; this had never been proven against her, though none doubted her ambition and love of power. Nor had she in turn any qualms about interfering in the administration of her own son, the young Tristwyn. He sat upon the throne, his word was law; but it was really she who spoke.
Hardly more than a boy, he was immature even for his years. His dissipations were a public scandal. It was rumored that his mother actually encouraged him to consort with none but the idle and dissolute, to indulge himself in riot and debauchery. There were even darker rumors about how the beautiful Rhenowla kept her hold on him; but like the suspicions about her magical attractiveness, these had never been proven.
As Sruss descended into the bustling streets below—teeming with bizarre costumes, the accents of far-flung peoples, and furs of many colors; redolent with the rich spicy smells of suppertime—she
noticed two men turn and pretend to consider the wares in a peddler’s cart. The Silent Ones followed her everywhere these days. Under her guidance, her late son had suppressed delation throughout the realm. But now spies and informers flourished as never before. It was no use trying to evade them; that would only make Rhenowla more suspicious. She probably knew already about tonight’s meeting, and would certainly try to place one or more of her Silent Ones there.
Not much chance of that, thought Sruss, as the crowds parted deferentially before her; she-mrem curtseyed, mrem bowed and doffed their hats. She wore no royal trappings, only the robes of a senior White Dancer, but her moral authority in the land surpassed the might of kings. Many of those very kings—refugees from the marchlands, those whose small city-states lay helpless in the path of the invaders—would gather tonight in her gardens. Any spy would be conspicuous among them, and dealt with summarily. In that alone could the kings and refugee nobles be expected to act with unity.
Which was why she had agreed to such a conference in the first place. In peace, the fierce independence of the city-states was a glory to the land. In war, it was suicide. Nor was there any doubt that the agents of the Eastern Lords were everywhere fomenting the old feuds and rivalries. Their bloodthirsty hordes grew daily in numbers and ferocity, united in a common lust for vengeance and plunder. Unless the kings of the land also combined, they would fall one by one beneath the onslaught of relentless evil, never to rise.
Sruss paused and frowned, but then continued through the deferential crowds, parting everywhere before her.
Shamelessly, in the open air, prepared to go on haggling even after the light of day had faded into night, the streetcorner auctions still drew crowds. The most shameless haggling, of course, took place behind closed doors. The prices involved, although so low in relation to the real worth of the goods as to constitute virtual theft, were still beyond the purses of street-corner idlers. Often the heirlooms salvaged by refugee nobles were all they had of value in the world, their sole means of keeping themselves and their families alive. The courtiers knew this, and acted in collusion to hold prices to a minimum, thus growing rich on the misery of the land.
Sruss did not have to glance over her shoulder to know she was being followed—if not by the pair she had spotted by the peddler’s cart, then by others, everywhere she went these days. No matter. They could not harm her, and she ignored them. It may have rankled the jealous vanity of Rhenowla to see another more revered than herself, but she was too cunning to harrass a senior White Dancer, the legendary queen and queen mother during Ar’s ascendency, in public. If she gnashed her teeth, she did it in private.
Sruss was more concerned for the wizards of The Three.
They were not sacrosanct, certainly not revered, in a land where all magicians were distrusted. Especially now, when a confused and frightened people were beginning to look for scapegoats. She had already heard dark rumors about the fate of magicians in those borderlands threatened with invasion. It was well that The Three were now rallying to Ar—while they still could.
No thanks to Rhenowla, who was suspicious of any kind of unity as a challenge to her supremacy. There were other dark rumors that she was goading her son with hints about a plot to seize his throne. So far she had succeeded only in an official ban on all public—and private meetings of wizards—at the very time when their unity was most desperately needed. She had also let it be known, unofficially, that any meeting with the old queen mother would offend her—and set spies to watch.
That these spies should still call themselves H’satie, the Silent Ones, was perhaps Rhenowla’s most baleful perversion of all. Insidiously she had turned what was once the eyes and ears of justice, the first defense against wickedness, into her personal secret police. Those with scruples resigned; those unwilling to do her dirty work lost their jobs. Yet in so vast and teeming a city, if one had friends—the Silent Ones no longer had any—there were always ways of evading them. Not too obviously, though; for Rhenowla might have construed that as proof of conspiracies against the throne, a pretext for more stringent measures.
Turning a corner where yet another auction was in progress, she strolled through the deferential crowds into a mercer’s shop, which she was long known to have patronized. In fact, she needed some precious silkwares, if she was going to don once more the regal trappings of a queen mother. But first things first, and she exchanged a meaningful look with the old mercer and his wife, and stepped through a sliding panel into the fitting room.
The seamstresses had been dismissed for the night; the shop itself would normally be closing at this hour, but Sruss was a very special customer, and she was here for a very special reason. The old wizard rose as she entered, and bowed.
“My lady.” He came straight to the point. “The news is even worse than we anticipated. All that we have feared so long has come to pass. The Evil One has somehow regained possession of the Third Eye.”
“Are you strong enough to challenge him?”
He frowned. “By uniting the powers of The Three we may just be able to neutralize him, but no more. As you well know, true wizards tend to be solitary. Getting a whole council of wizards to agree on any common purpose, without endless wrangling, is seldom easy. But it must be done, and done before our very deliberations become known. It was only by taking the Evil One unawares, while he indulged himself in insane orgies of vengeance, that we were able to overcome him the first time.” He hesitated. “You seem troubled, my lady. Have I spoken too bluntly?”
“You were ever blunt, Dollavier,” she said. “Ever forthright and worthy of trust, and I appreciate those qualities now more than ever. What troubles me is the vengeance of the Evil One, for one I love may have fallen into his hands.”
“Indeed something to be troubled about, my lady. For all of us have friends and loved ones similarly endangered. It has become dangerous even to contact them.”
“How so?”
“Long entombment has left the Evil One wary of our united power, although he surely knows that not one of us dares face him alone. Thus far he has avoided open confrontation. Instead he’s placed himself strategically to probe our dreams, to interfere with all attempts at telepathy, perhaps to render teleportation a trap.”
“Where?”
“Cragsclaw. Do you know it?”
Her reaction startled him, and for a moment he was afraid she had been taken ill. She had no expression on her face, her mouth fell slack, and her eyes stared blankly past him as if in shock. Then she sighed and hung her head.
“Alas, I know Cragsclaw till too well. Too well to hear of its being so befouled without a wrench at my heart.” With an effort, she at last regained her composure, and by a natural association of ideas turned to one who had shared many of her youthful adventures at Cragsclaw, even the very rebuilding of the city. “And what of dear Mithmid? Why hasn’t he answered my summons?”
“He is even now on his way to Ar, my lady. But, as I say, teleportation would leave him dangerously vulnerable to the Evil One. His capture would incite an orgy of vengeance indeed, for no one was more decisive in entombing Khal beneath the Kazerclaw, or so vigorous in questing for the Third Eye. Alas, even he will be able to do little to unify us, when at last he arrives here.”
“So I fear.” She remained silent for the next several minutes, rapt in thought. The blunt old wizard was for once too tactful to interrupt. “It has long been my policy never to interfere in the administration of the kingdom,” she said at last. “But there may soon be no kingdom, if I do not. Just as The Three must stand united against the Evil One, so too must all the kingdoms of the land unite before the hosts of the Eastern Lords. We have been accustomed to meet in this place every third day. Let our next meeting instead be on the fourth day from today, for on the third day hence I go to the palace.”
“Very well, my lady. All the power I wield is at your disposal, even should you r
eclaim the throne.”
“No, my good Dollavier,” she said. “That is something I must never do. Though there were questions at the time about her true lineage, Rhenowla was accepted in law as a princess royal, and hence the king inherits his throne through her. Unity is all in all to us now, and few kings would form ranks behind a usurper. Difficult enough just to get them into the same room together....”
It was in fact unlikely that anyone but Sruss herself could have done it. At least, not without brawls and challenges to combat.
Her gardens were all that remained of the old palace, in the oldest quarter of the Old City. A small pavilion for herself, a few servants, and her pupils; an open space for dancing, a pleasance for tutelage and conversation; she had hoped to pass her final days here in peace and honor. All had changed with the emergence of the Evil One from entombment.
The gardens themselves were now too crowded with the tents of refugees—all the White Dancers who had fled Kazerclawm were here—for tonight’s gathering. The humble pavilion, converted from the servants’ wing of the old palace, hardly seemed adequate to contain so many kings. But not one of them felt his grandeur slighted, not one of them squabbled over rank or precedence, for the renown and moral authority of the legendary Sruss transcended even the vanity of kings. They stood deferentially before the armless wooden chair on which she sat facing them as if it were a jeweled throne, with their sons and chief retainers.
“My lords and gentlemrem,” she addressed them, “you who have suffered invasion, and you whose realms now lie open to attack, know full well the evil that threatens us. Us, I say. All of us. For it is only through unity, only by leaguing personal interests in a common cause, for the common good, that we may hope to prevail. In peace, independence is a glory to the land. In war, it is folly. Old feuds must be resolved in a new spirit of cooperation. No matter who is to blame, or where the fault lies,” she added quickly, as she noticed hostile looks being exchanged by two kings. “No matter what scores remain to be settled. We must all stand together, shoulder to shoulder, every sword pointed against the common enemy, or one by one we shall all perish. Be assured that, although the armies of the Eastern Lords seek only plunder and vengeance, the Eastern Lords themselves seek nothing less than our annihilation....”
