Obsidian Ridge

by Jess Lebow

  The figure dropped to the passage floor behind them, silent—a cat, smaller than its prey, yet no less dangerous.

  The sentries turned to head back down the hallway just as the figure pounced. It had claws on one hand, just as they did. Its body was covered in black, just as was theirs.

  But the figure was not one of them.

  It was smarter. It was faster. It was more ferocious. And it came for them now, tearing into their flesh like a ravenous dragon.

  Xeries had bred his minions personally, experimenting with them for hundreds of years. He had tortured and mangled their bodies and souls until he had developed the perfect killing machine—strong, obedient, and afraid of nothing.

  That is, afraid of nothing until now.

  The figure climbed back into the ceiling, the sentries dead on the floor.

  Xeries raised his hands, and his wife’s body lifted from the floor. Gently, carefully, he levitated her onto the stone table, just below her final resting spot. She was not quite ready to pass from this world to the next. She would never fully die. Not at least until Xeries did, and if all went as he had planned, that would never happen.

  Eventually, though, she would reach a state of limited consciousness, just like all the rest of his wives. For now though, she would hang on. They all had clung to that last ray of hope, that last bit of life. There was not enough of her life-force left for Xeries to claim. His immortality required more than she could give. But he remained bound to her, as his wife, until she gave up on her survival instinct, until she no longer wished to live.

  It was then that he could put her to rest in her place up high on the wall. When that happened, he could wed Princess Mariko and continue his immortal life. But until then, while his wife was between life and unlife, he would age, just like all the rest of humanity. He would bleed, just like the rest of humanity.

  Xeries hated this time, this waiting while he was mortal again. He disliked the vulnerability.

  A vision came to him as he finished lifting his wife from the floor. Connected to his creatures through telepathy, Xeries watched his sentries torn to shreds by the man who had accompanied the princess into the citadel.

  “This was not part of the arrangement.” He glared at Mariko. “Who is this disease you have introduced to my home? Who is this man that stalks my halls?”

  Mariko sat on the floor, the mimmio cradled in her lap. “He’s just one of the king’s soldiers.” She smiled. “They’re all just like him.”

  Xeries growled. “I told your king there would be consequences, yet he has defied me.” Reaching into a pocket on his robes, he pulled out a small pile of dried, brittle bones. Dropping them on the floor, he spoke the words to a spell, one he had not used often, but he had committed it to memory all the same.

  “What are you doing?” asked Mariko through her furry translator.

  “I am delivering on my threat,” said Xeries, his echoing voice giving away his glee. “I’m drying the land. Turning your home into a desert.”

  He smiled big, a mouth full of crooked teeth showing. “Let’s see your father defy me now.”

  Xeries left the room, waving the doors closed behind him. He crossed to the dais and sat down in his throne. It felt empty here without a wife. It had been a long time since he had replaced one.

  This last one had been very strong, had lasted a long time. He would remember her fondly. Lifting a goblet from the table, he brought the wine to his lips and took a drink. Yes, he would remember her fondly.

  In another part of the Obsidian Ridge, Quinn looked down from the ceiling on a third patrol of sentries. They were traveling in groups of six now, but that didn’t matter. They were all about to die.

  Gathering his feet under him, he readied himself to pounce—teach them what it meant to feel helpless and terrified in their own home. He wanted Xeries to know that he was coming for him, wanted the man who had taken his love and terrorized his home to suffer for what he had done.

  Silently dropping to the ground, he went to work on the sentries. The first one squealed in fright as Quinn’s blades cut into it. The others had very little time to react.

  When he had finished, he climbed back up into the cracked passage and moved on, leaving the remains on the floor as a warning to Xeries.

  This was no longer about justice or even saving Erlkazar. It had become something more—this was revenge.

  chapter thirty-one

  Kleegor handed another crate full of Elixir to Talish and walked down to the end of the dock.

  “Good to see you back up and around,” said Talish.

  Kleegor nodded.

  “I take it you don’t want to talk about it.”

  The half-orc grunted.

  “Well, I told you not to throw it in her face. I told you I agreed with you, but you should’ve just—”

  Suddenly, the sky began to roil.

  “Whoa, will you look at that.” Talish pointed over Kleegor’s shoulder.

  The half-orc nearly dropped his crate of Elixir.

  Huge gray clouds swept in from the east over Shalane Lake and the west over the Snowflake Mountains. The wind picked up, and the clouds coalesced over Llorbauth and the Obsidian Ridge. They swirled together, forming one massive, turning storm that blocked out the mid-morning sun.

  The storm moved faster and faster, and its center stretched out like a long finger—a funnel of twisting air reaching for the ground. Where it touched, high up on the wall of the valley, the ground simply dried up. The grass, flowers, and trees instantly turned brown, shriveled, and died.

  Bolts of lightning shot from the clouds. Where they hit, the dirt turned to sand, the stone crumbled and cracked, the puddles and streams evaporated. A tremendous clap of thunder shook the dock under Kleegor’s feet.

  “What’s happening?” Talish had his hands pressed against the side of his head, shaking it in amazement.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” said a voice. “The king has betrayed us.”

  Kleegor looked down from the building storm into the face of the Matron.

  “My lady,” said the half-orc, falling to his knees and dropping his head to the splinter-torn wharf.

  The Matron approached the half-orc and the dark-skinned man.

  “On your feet, Kleegor. You do not need to bow to me.”

  He did as he was told, getting back to his feet.

  The Matron put her finger under his chin, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “I have come here, Kleegor, to give you my apology.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “You were right.” The matron waved her arm back at the slowly growing storm as it continued to devour Llorbauth, turning the fertile land of the valley into little more than a desert. “We never should have trusted the king to do the right thing. His blind affection and shortsightedness may end up being our undoing. I should have listened to you, and now we have to make it right.”

  The half-orc stood up straight. He puffed his chest out, feeling some of his previous courage returning.

  “And how do we do that?”

  “The king’s betrayal has brought this destruction upon us. I had hoped to avoid it, but he leaves us little choice.” She turned to look one more time at the valley being transformed into a barren wasteland. “King Korox must die. The palace must fall. Prepare your assassins, Kleegor. We take Llorbauth by force.”

  The walls hummed. The floor moved, and a low buzz filled the air, washing out the sounds of footsteps and doors opening.

  Slipping out of the wall, Quinn perched himself behind a jagged chunk of obsidian. Settling in, he melted into the blackness, blending in and disappearing from view.

  Below him, Xeries sat, drinking from a goblet. The deformed arch magus slumped in his throne—or at least the way his bulbous spine curved over on itself made him look as if he were slumping.

  There was no sign of Mariko or Evelyne. But that didn’t matter right now. Quinn would find them—all in good time.

  For now
, the only thing he wanted was a clear shot at the ruler of the Obsidian Ridge.

  Quietly, he lowered himself to the next perch, then the next. The buzzing covered his tracks, and he reached the floor very quickly. Staying close to the wall, he circled. When he was fully behind the throne, he approached, slowly, carefully, until he was crouched right behind Xeries.

  He paused to relish this moment, something Quinn had never done before. Up until now, killing in the name of Erlkazar was something he had done out of loyalty and honor. It was his job, and one that he took no great pleasure in.

  But he was going to enjoy this.

  Lifting his left hand high in the air, he swung with all of his might.

  He shouted—uncontrolled rage spilling out as he came down on Xeries’s twisted body.

  His blades slipped through the arch magus’s hunched back, viciously slashing off a huge hunk of flesh. Blood and pus shot from the wound, and Quinn’s gauntlet carried on, slamming into the throne. So fueled by anger and hate was this attack that his blades buried themselves in the thick obsidian and plowed right on through.

  The throne shook like it had been hit by a sledgehammer. Chips of stone rattled to the floor, mixed with bits of flesh and trails of blood.

  Xeries screamed, his yowls of pain echoing again in the confined chamber. The arch magus rolled forward and turned to face his attacker.

  Quinn circled the throne, his long sword in his right hand. “I am here to collect on your sins, Xeries,” he said, closing the distance.

  Xeries’s eyes were wide, and his breathing heavy, labored. He backed away, limping and crouched over. “Do not come any closer. I’m warning you.” Despite the echo of his voice, he sounded panicked.

  “Are you afraid, Xeries? Do I frighten you?” Quinn made a sudden jerking move forward, taunting his prey.

  Xeries jolted back, startled.

  “You are wise to be afraid.” Pulling the blade of his sword closer to his chest, Quinn threw his body forward into a tumbling roll.

  Xeries scrambled backward, trying to get out of the way.

  Quinn unfurled in front of him, coming out of his roll with a leap, flying at the arch magus with his long sword cocked over his head. The blade came down, and Xeries ducked, but not before Quinn cleaved another huge chunk of the hump from his back.

  The lord of the Obsidian Ridge let out a second painful wail as another piece of his decrepit, deformed body fell to the floor.

  The doors to throne room burst open, and a flood of Xeries’s brutes charged in. They washed over the floor like a huge toxic wave, sloshing up and over the dais, covering the broken throne as if it were a rock caught in the surf.

  Unable to take on so many in such a large space, Quinn was pushed back. Reaching the wall, he scaled the jagged stone in three huge bounds.

  “I’ll come for you again, Xeries.” And with that, he slipped into his shortcut, disappearing from view.

  Arch Magus Xeries retreated into the private chamber off of his throne room. His wife lay motionless on the slab. Princess Mariko stood beside the coffins, examining his previous wives. She turned around when he entered.

  “Looks like you’ve had a run-in with Quinn,” said the mimmio.

  “Is that what you call that disease?” spat Xeries, his echoed voice dripping with venom.

  He trailed blood and pus behind him as he limped. It ran down his back and off his legs, and he could feel the squish of each footstep as he went. Reaching a cabinet near the slab table, he retrieved an alabaster globe and quickly pulled the top off of it.

  Inside was a smooth opalescent salve, which he scooped up in his fingers and smeared on his back—the remnants of his hump. The burning throb that had spread across his flesh was cooled, and he could feel the skin on his back tighten as it knitted back together.

  His hunched-over frame would forever be scared from the wounds he had taken, but at least that madman had not managed to kill him.

  Returning the globe to its place, Xeries snapped his fingers. “Come to me, my pets,” he said.

  A silvery portal opened in the wall, next to the coffins of his discarded wives, and through it stepped his most trusted minions. These were his assassins, the smartest, most deadly of all his creations. Over the last hundred years, he had created only a half a dozen. One he had sent to its death as a message to King Korox. The other five now stood before him.

  Smaller than his regular soldiers, they would be able to fit into the tight spaces this man was using to travel through the citadel.

  “Find the man called Quinn. Kill him and return here with his remains.”

  chapter thirty-two

  He saw them coming.

  These beasts were unlike the others he had fought. They were cunning. They had more patience, and they worked together, watching every direction as they moved through the cracks in the walls of the Obsidian Ridge.

  Quinn clung to the ceiling of a wide passage, completely hidden against the pitch black rock. Xeries’s creatures worked their way past, scrutinizing everything, leaving no nook unsearched. They were hunters, killers sent out to find Quinn and destroy him.

  At the end of the passage, all five of the creatures split up, each going their own direction. Quinn picked one and followed, silently stalking the beast from above. The creature’s deep black skin made it hard to see in the obsidian corridors. Its soft, padded feet and smooth gait made it hard to hear against the constant humming noise of the citadel. But neither of these things hindered Quinn in his pursuit.

  Had Xeries’s hunter not been an adversary, Quinn might have admired its stealth and dedication to its work. He might have tried to study its instincts and see if it had something to teach him about their shared craft of killing. But it was an adversary, and now it needed to die.

  Drawing closer, he came down the wall, still concealed in the darkness, silent as a tomb strider. The beast did not see him. It did not hear him.

  Lifting a shard of broken stone from the floor, Quinn slipped it underneath the creature’s neck and jammed it through the bottom of its throat. The beast scrambled sideways, pawing at its face. It tried to hiss at Quinn, but its mouth was pinned closed.

  “Let me help you with that.” With a slash, Quinn cut the creature’s face from its head.

  The beast shook, thrashing violently back and forth across the corridor, bashing its head against the walls. It could not see. It could not scream—just the way Quinn wanted.

  “Time to go to work,” he said, then he lit upon the creature with both hands.

  Xeries watched the chase through the eyes of his assassins. These minions were not dependent on him. They could search for the disease that ran through the halls of his home without him controlling their every move. It was a luxury he thoroughly enjoyed. They would seek out this Quinn, and he would watch as they tore him to shreds.

  The youngest and smartest of the group led them all as they descended into the bowels of the citadel. At a crossroads, they split up, each going their separate ways. There were many places to hide, and his assassins had to check them all.

  The tubes and passages that ran through the walls were remnants from a day when the Obsidian Ridge had been an active volcano. Xeries had chosen this mountain as his home many hundreds of years ago, when he was still with his third wife.

  They had been far from Faerûn then. So far east, many people would not have believed it was still on the same plane. A place where the earth raged day and night. Red-hot lava shot into the sky, rocking the ocean with earthquakes. The molten rock landed in huge clumps, making jagged mounds as far as the eye could see. It was really quite beautiful, the reds, oranges, and yellows spat from the mouths of the angry volcanoes, juxtaposed on the deepest black of the mountains themselves.

  His third wife had so admired this mountain that Xeries couldn’t bear to leave without giving it to her as a gift. For three days and three nights he labored to devise a spell that would tear the volcano from the ground. It had worked quite well,
and his wife had been very impressed.

  It took several months for the stone to cool sufficiently for them to be able to finally go inside. Seeing his minions scurry through the lava tubes deep in the bowels of the citadel reminded him of that time. He and his third wife would take strolls through the tubes often, reminiscing about the places they had traveled and the things they had seen.

  When his third wife had become no longer of use to him, he stopped going down to the tubes. His fourth and fifth wives did not care for them, and so he all but forgot they were there. He doubted any of his wives since then had ever even seen them.

  A stabbing pain shot through the neck of one of his assassins, and his reminiscing came to an end. His minion was struggling, and for some reason it couldn’t get its mouth open. There was something in the lava tube with it.

  A second pain shot across his minion’s face, and suddenly its sight went out.

  The creature was still alive, that much Xeries knew. He could sense its pain, but he couldn’t see anything through its eyes. The creature was confused. It thrashed around, trying to get its balance, not understanding why it couldn’t see.

  Through the assassin’s ears, Xeries heard Quinn’s voice.

  “Time to go to work.”

  Another pain shot through the beast’s body, and Xeries winced. Waving his hand, he severed the magical connection he had with the creature. It was dying, and he did not need to see the end.

  His other minions circled back. Responding to his commands, they raced through the tubes toward the dying assassin. It did not take them long to arrive at the spot, but when they did, Quinn was already gone.

  Left in his place were piles of tortured, mangled black flesh, cut from the bones of the assassin and laid out on the floor to spell the words, YOU’RE NEXT.

  Quinn stalked his prey through a very narrow corridor. They had to know he was following. They had abandoned their usual ritual of stopping to sniff the air and searching the cracks as they passed. No, they were headed somewhere—or rather, they were leading him someplace where they could fight at an advantage.