Road of the Patriarch ts-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  Calihye's mouth moved weirdly, trying vainly to form words.

  "Perhaps I should simply incinerate you," Knellict mused. "A slow burning fire, carefully controlled, that you might feel your skin rolling up under the pressure of its heat. Oh, I have heard strong men reduced to whimpering fools under such duress. Crying for their mothers. Yes, it is a most enjoyable refrain.

  "Or perhaps for such a one as pretty as you—well, as you once were before a blade reduced you to medusa-kin…" He paused and mocked her with laughter.

  Calihye was too terrified to respond, to show any emotion at all. She knew enough of Knellict to understand that they were by no means idle threats.

  "Still, you are a woman," Knellict went on. "So you are possessed of great vanity, no doubt. So for you, perhaps I will summon a thousand-thousand insects, that will bite at your tender flesh, and some that will break through. Yes, your eyes will reveal your terror no matter how stubbornly you choke back your screams when you see the bulge of beetles boring underneath your pretty skin."

  It proved too much for the warrior woman. She exploded into action, leaping forward at Knellict with raking fingers aimed at his smug expression.

  She went right through him and stumbled forward. Stunned, off balance, Calihye tried quickly to re-orient. She spun around, focusing on the image, which was even then fading to nothingness.

  "It was so easy to fool you," came the wizard's voice, over by her sword. She looked that way, but he was not to be seen. "You were so terrified by the thought of my presence that a simple illusion and an even more simple ventriloquism had you feeling my touch."

  Calihye licked her lips. She shifted her feet beneath her, setting her balance for a spring.

  "Can you get to the sword, do you think?" Knellict's disembodied voice asked, and it still seemed to be coming from very near the weapon.

  Before he had even finished the sentence, Calihye's hand reached behind her, grabbed the dagger, and whipped forward, launching the missile at the voice. It seemed to stutter in its progress for just a moment, before pressing on with a flash of bluish light. Then it hung there, in mid-air, hilt tilted down as if it had struck into some fabric or other flimsy material.

  "Oh, and it is a magical dagger," Knellict said. "It defeated the weakest of my wards!"

  His position confirmed, Calihye swallowed her fear and darted for her sword. Or tried to, for even as she started, the archmage materialized. Her dagger hung limply, caught in a fold of his layered robes. He extended his arm toward her, finger pointing, and from that digit came a green flash of light. A dart shot forth to strike the woman in the midsection.

  "My dart is magical, as well," Knellict explained as Calihye doubled over and clutched at her belly. Her grimace became a loud groan, then a continual scream, as the dart began to pump forth acid.

  "I have found gut wounds to be the most effective at neutralizing an enemy warrior," Knellict said with detached amusement. "Would you agree?"

  The woman staggered forward a step.

  "Oh please, do press on, valiant warrior woman," Knellict teased. He stepped aside, leaving the path to her sword clear and visible before her.

  With a growl of defiance, Calihye grasped the dart and tore it free of her belly with a bit of intestine, yellow-green acid, and bile dripping forth from the hole, followed by the bright red of blood. She threw the dart to the ground and grabbed for her sword.

  As soon as her fingers touched the blade, a jolt of lightning arced from it and through her body, launching her back across the room and to the floor. She tried to curl, but her spasms allowed her no control of her body. Her hair stood out wildly, dancing from the shock. Her teeth chattered so violently that her mouth filled with blood, and her joints jolted repeatedly and painfully. She wet her breeches, as well, but was too agonized to even realize it.

  "How did you ever survive the trials of Vaasa?" the archmage taunted her, and the sound of his voice told her that he stood right over her. "A first-year apprentice could destroy you."

  The words faded along with Calihye's consciousness. She felt Knellict reach down and grab her hair. She had the thought that he would kill her conventionally—a knife across the throat, perhaps.

  She hoped it would come that quickly, at least, and was relieved indeed when darkness descended.

  * * * * *

  The heavy cavalry were the first to come through the open gates into the frozen marshland of Vaasa. Four abreast they rode, breaking off two-by-two to the left and right, the plated armor of knight and horse alike gleaming dully under the heavy gray sky. The clatter of hooves continued for a long while, until a full square of cavalry, seven ranks of seven, had formed at each flank of the gate. Forty-five of the riders in each square were veteran warriors, trained in lance, bow, spear, and sword, and tested in battle. But every other row, one, three, five, and seven, was centered by a man in white robes, which, like the chestplates of the warrior's metal armor, was emblazoned with the White Tree symbol of the king. They were Emelyn's warriors, the wizards of the Army of Bloodstone, well-versed in defensive magic and well-trained to keep the magical trickery of an enemy at bay, while the superior warriors of Bloodstone won the day. Well-respected by the armored warriors who surrounded them, the wizards were affectionately known as the Disenchanters.

  Behind the cavalry came the armored infantry, ten abreast, marching in unison and presenting a deliberately ominous cadence by thumping their maces against their shields with every other step. They did not veer to either side, but continued their straightforward march, until fifty full ranks had cleared the gate. There too, the ranks were speckled with Disenchanters, and few wizards in all the region could hope to get a spell, even a sorely diminished spell, through the web of defensive magic protecting King Gareth's men-at-arms.

  Then came more riders, the mounted guard of King Gareth Dragonsbane, encircling the paladin king and his entourage of six trusted advisors, including the greatest wizard of all in the Bloodstone Lands, Emelyn the Gray.

  The rest of the heavy infantry, fifty more ranks often, the core of the Army of Bloodstone, followed in tight and disciplined formation, similarly playing the cadence of mace and shield. As they passed out onto the field, the cavalry began its march again, riding wide and stretching the line to aptly protect the flanks of the core group, eleven hundred men and women, many the children of warriors who had fought with Gareth against the Witch-King.

  If the infantry was the backbone of the force, and the cavalry its arms, and King Gareth and his six friends its head, then next came the legs: a second cavalry force, less armored and with swifter mounts. They were Olwen's men, rangers and scouts trained to act more independently. And behind them came still more infantry, lightly armored spearmen, mostly, serving as protection for the batteries of longbowmen.

  On and on it went. More light infantry, battalions of priests with carts full of bandages, caravans of supply wagons, lines of strong men carrying ladders, horses towing rams and beams for siege towers….

  Men and women lined the top of the wall, watching the procession as it issued forth from the Vaasan Gate for hours, and when at last those great gates swung closed, the sun was beginning its western descent and more than eight thousand soldiers, the heart and soul of the Army of Bloodstone, marched out to the north.

  "It surprises me that Gareth moved so quickly and decisively on this," Riordan Parnell said to Olwen and Kane, the three of them bringing up the rear of Gareth's diamond set between the main ranks of heavy infantry.

  "That has always been his strength, as Zhengyi learned," Kane replied.

  "To his great dismay," Riordan agreed with a wide grin. "Zhengyi's, I mean," he added when he saw that his two companions were not similarly smiling.

  While the others rode, Kane walked, his face as stoic as always, his eyes set with his typical grim determination. On the far side of Kane, on his lightly-armored but large horse, Olwen obviously stewed, and his great black beard was wet around his mouth from chewi
ng his lip.

  "Still," Riordan argued, "we have merely a simple piece of paper. It might mean little or nothing at all."

  Kane motioned forward with his chin, directing Riordan's gaze to Gareth and Dugald, and the two wizards, Emelyn and Arrayan.

  "The half-orc woman was very clear that the castle had returned to life," the monk reminded. "Our apprentice knight and his dark elf cohort meddle with the artifacts of Zhengyi. That is not 'nothing at all. »

  "True," Riordan admitted, "but is it sufficient to rouse the Army of Bloodstone and abandon Damara at a time when we have gone to open war against the Citadel of Assassins?"

  "The Citadel has been dealt a severe blow—" Kane began to answer, but Olwen cut him short.

  "It's worth it all just to get the answers on the death of Mariabronne," he said, a throaty growl behind every word, so that it seemed to his companions as if he might use some ranger magic and turn into a bear at that moment.

  It occurred to Riordan that the ranger's horse might not enjoy that experience, but the bard kept the thought to himself—though he did begin composing a song about it.

  "Those two were involved, I'm sure," Olwen went on.

  "Our information says they were not," said Kane. "Mariabronne scouted forward of his own volition, and contrary to the orders of Ellery. It is a convincing tale, particularly given Mariabronne's reputation for risk-taking."

  Olwen snorted and looked away, his meaty hands working the knuckles white by clenching at the reins.

  "Well, they are two people, and foolish ones at that," Riordan quickly put in, trying to get the conversation away from a subject that was obviously too painful for his ranger friend. "Even if they are dabbling in Zhengyian magic, as this report from Palishchuk and the words of the dragon sisters might indicate, are they truly such a threat that we should open our flank and our kingdom to the retribution of Knellict and Timoshenko?"

  "Nothing is open," Kane assured him. "Spysong's network is fully ready to repel any moves by the Citadel, and if we are needed Emelyn can get us back with a wave of a wand."

  "Then why didn't Emelyn just take us six there, leaving Gareth and the soldiers in place?"

  "Because this is the opportunity our king has been patiently awaiting, to fully reveal his influence in Vaasa," answered another voice, that of Celedon Kierney. The eavesdropper slowed his horse to bring him in line with the three. "Gareth's aim here is not the castle—or at least, not the castle alone."

  Riordan paused and considered that for a moment, then said, "Palishchuk." He glanced at Kane, who nodded knowingly. Olwen gave no indication that he was even listening. "He's showing Palishchuk that they are vital to his designs, and that when they are threatened, he will take that as seriously as if it were Heliogabalus itself under the Zhengyian shadow," Riordan reasoned on the fly.

  The looks from Celedon and Kane showed him that he had correctly sorted the puzzle.

  "That's why he's the king," Riordan added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

  "I expect that by the time we return through the Vaasan Gate, the Kingdom of Bloodstone will be whole, Vaasa and Damara united under the banner of Gareth Dragonsbane," said Celedon.

  Suddenly, to Riordan, the day seemed just a bit brighter.

  CHAPTER 13

  A BET HEDGED

  The half-orc city was on edge. And why not? Word had reached Jarlaxle, and so it had reached Palishchuk as well, that King Gareth was on the march, his formidable army rolling northward across the Vaasan bog to challenge the claim of King Artemis the First. The news had surprised Jarlaxle—who didn't much like being surprised. He hadn't thought Gareth would move so decisively, or so boldly. Winter was coming on, which alone could destroy an army in Vaasa, and Gareth was dealing with drow, after all. Gareth had no idea what Jarlaxle had arrayed against him—how could he? And yet he had marched out at once, and in force.

  Jarlaxle's respect for the man had multiplied with the news. Rarely had he encountered humans with such confidence and determination.

  He made certain his boots clicked loudly even on the slick, rain-soaked stones on the side of the hill. He did not want a fight with Wingham, and did not want to startle any of the nervous sentries surrounding the half-orc.

  Wingham stood near a small fire at the center of the hillock's flat top, with another, larger half-orc—Olgerkhan, Jarlaxle realized—close beside him. They noticed Jarlaxle's noisy approach and turned to greet him.

  As he neared the pair, Jarlaxle recognized the anxiety in their expressions. A bit of fear, a bit of anger, all very clearly revealed in the way they, particularly Olgerkhan, kept glancing around them. Olgerkhan even had his burly arms crossed over his chest, as sure a sign of resistance as could be offered. The differences in racial habits occurred to Jarlaxle at that moment. In Menzoberranzan, when a drow male crossed his arms over his chest, it was a sign of obedience and respect. On the World Above, though, and as with the drow matrons, it was a signal of steadfast defiance, or at least defensiveness.

  "Master Wingham," he greeted sweetly. "I am honored that you answered my call."

  "You knew I would come out," Wingham replied, his tone less diplomatic than usual. "How could I not, with the winds of war stirring about my beloved Palishchuk?"

  "War?"

  "You know that King Gareth has marched."

  "To celebrate the coronation of King Artemis the First, of course."

  Wingham put on a sour expression that seemed even more exaggerated in the dancing shadows of the small fire.

  "Well, we shall learn of his intent soon enough," Jarlaxle offered. "Let us both hope that King Gareth is as wise as his reputation indicates."

  "Why have you done this?"

  "I serve the king."

  "You challenge the rightful king," Olgerkhan interjected.

  From under the great brow of his ostentatious hat, Jarlaxle narrowed his red-glowing eyes and thinned his lips, locking Olgerkhan in a stare that surely reminded the burly warrior of his recent adventure beside the drow. Olgerkhan's crossed arms slipped down to his side and he even stepped back a bit, the aggressiveness melting from his posture. With that one look, Jarlaxle had reminded him of Canthan, to be sure.

  "The Bloodstone Lands were opened to you and Artemis Entreri both," Wingham said, forcing the drow to look back his way. "Opportunity awaited you. With respect and song, and the appreciation of all the people, you and Entreri could have had much of what you desire without this confrontation. Would King Gareth have denied you the castle?"

  "I doubt he would approve of the magic it offers," the drow replied.

  "Even without it! A knight of the order can lay claim to a barony that is as yet unclaimed and untamed. Negotiations with Gareth would have handed the castle to you, and would have earned you the allegiance of Palishchuk, as well, a friendship we were all too willing to extend. Likely, King Gareth would have been grateful to have such worthy warriors helping him to tame the northern wilderness."

  "And why should we help Gareth extend his claim? Are you so willing to kneel, Wingham?"

  Both half-orcs stiffened at the insult, but Wingham didn't back away. "Kneel?"

  "If King Gareth tells Wingham to kneel, his knees will soil, no doubt."

  "It is respect freely given."

  Jarlaxle laughed at him. "It is the obedience of resignation."

  Olgerkhan grumbled something indecipherable, shaking his head, and Jarlaxle wasn't really surprised that he had confused that one. Wingham, though, just continued to stare, his expression showing clearly that he wasn't buying the premise one bit.

  "Ah well, it is a sad state, is it not?" Jarlaxle asked. "It is the way. The way it has been for millennia uncounted, and the way it will be until the end of time."

  "And you accuse me of resignation?"

  "I accept the truisms of ambition," he explained. "What is resignation to you is relished by me." He looked down and pulled his fine piwafwi open a bit to reveal his black leather trousers. "I do not dirty my fine c
lothes. Not for any man. Not for any king."

  "King Gareth will tarnish them with your own blood!" Olgerkhan promised.

  Jarlaxle shrugged as if it did not matter.

  "You called us out here," said Wingham. "Is there more a point to it than this banter? When you came through Palishchuk, you asked nothing of us, and we were glad to offer you the same."

  "But now King Gareth marches," Jarlaxle replied. "The situation is changed, of course. Palishchuk finds herself caught between the breaking waves of possibility. To remain between them as they crest is to be crushed by both. It is time to swim, Wingham."

  Olgerkhan stood with his tusky jaw hanging open, a look upon his ugly face so perfectly blank that Jarlaxle nearly laughed out loud. Wingham, though, nodded as he grasped the analogy and its dire implications all too clearly.

  "You would have us war with King Gareth, who saved us from the Witch-King and has been a great friend to us?" the worldly old half-orc asked.

  Jarlaxle grinned knowingly as he weighed the determination in Wingham's words—a resolve that he knew he would not weaken however great the threat of Kimmuriel's drow armies. In fact, it was a resolve that he had counted on since he had learned of Gareth's bold initiative against the new King of Vaasa.

  "Palishchuk will not betray King Gareth," Wingham stated, and the drow knew that he was speaking truth.

  "We do not forget the time of Zhengyi," Wingham went on, and his need to justify his position amused Jarlaxle. "We remember well the darkness of the Witch-King and the light named Gareth who risked all, who risked his life, his friends, and all of Damara to ensure that we were not out here all alone against a foe we could not defeat."

  "It is a fine tale," the drow agreed.

  "We will not betray King Gareth," Wingham said again.

  "I never said that you should," Jarlaxle replied, and Wingham's steely gaze melted into one of confusion. "The Army of Bloodstone has marched, with their fine glittering weapons and shining armor. A most impressive sight, to be sure. They come armed and armored, and with wizards and priests aplenty.