Obsidian Ridge

by Jess Lebow

  “And you still have me, and your sister, and a kingdom that needs your leadership if it is going to survive.”

  Purdun spun to catch another assassin just under the chin, taking his jaw from his face with a single blow and sending the man reeling—no longer able to scream.

  Korox took a deep breath and looked into the eyes of his old friend. “We fought hard to get here,” he said, remembering the battles they had won when they both had called themselves Crusaders.

  “And we must fight hard to stay here,” said the Baron of Ahlarkhem, pausing long enough to cleave the golden-haired symbol of Waukeen from the chest of an incoming assassin and add him to the pile of dead at his feet. “The tides have turned against us, and only you can turn them back.”

  Korox looked out at the battlefield. He did not know exactly how long he had been wallowing in self pity. However long it was, it had been too long, and things had changed.

  Xeries’s army had them surrounded. The assassins of Waukeen had turned back against him and his men, and most surprisingly—the Matron had arrived. She spurred her forces onward, her veil flowing in the afternoon breeze, casting spells into the battle at her whim.

  She had come here to see him removed from the throne. She had come to see him killed at the hands of her assassins.

  Korox picked up his sword and hefted it toward Lord Purdun in a salute.

  “You are right, my friend—my brother. I have a duty to uphold, and I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Purdun bowed his head. “I am your humble servant.”

  “Then you will fight by my side, one more time?”

  The Baron of Ahlarkhem smiled. “One more time would be an honor. Let us hope it is not the last.”

  With that, the two men charged back into the fray, pushing their way past the Magistrates, Watchers, mages, and elite guards to cut into those who would threaten their home, their kingdom, and the nation they fought so hard to free from the rule of Tethyr.

  The Matron had been successful in turning her assassins back to the task of killing King Korox, but it had been a poor tactical decision. Xeries’s army of beasts did not take the time to distinguish between those fighting the king and those fighting with the king. The obsidian beasts mauled and ripped and macerated everything in their path.

  The Matron’s desire to take the throne had trapped her minions between two foes, and now they paid the price. The assassins had been compelled to turn their attention away from the invaders to attack the king and his troops. For their efforts, they were simply chewed to pieces from behind. The beasts came at them with their mouths agape, killing a man in one bite, a half-orc in two.

  Praying to the goddess Waukeen as fast as she could, the Matron tried to aid her followers. Where one took a wound, another was healed. Where one was outnumbered, he suddenly found himself with the strength of four men. But no matter how fast she countered the beasts of Xeries, she was still not fast enough.

  Realizing her error, the Matron called her men back. “To me, my assassins!” she ordered. “We let the beasts fight the king and his troops, then we move in for the kill.”

  Casting one final spell, the Matron inscribed a magical circle on the ground—a protective ward that would make it more difficult for the black creatures to reach her and those near her.

  “Give them a reason to eat the other soldiers first,” she said, smiling at the cunning of her plan. “The path of least resistance leads directly to Korox and his men.”

  Her assassins fell back to her and the protective circle. Some were cut down in the process, but it was no matter. The Matron only needed enough to mop up whoever managed to survive the onslaught.

  A few more than twenty of her minions made it back to her side. The black beasts lunged at them, their open mouths drooling in anticipation, but they were held back, blocked by the magic powers of the goddess Waukeen.

  They jumped and clawed, growled and hissed at the invisible wall, but none of them managed to make it through. Though they were stupid creatures, they eventually tired of trying to get past the Matron’s barrier. Then they turned their full attention toward the king and the rest of his men.

  “This is it,” said the Matron. “Our hour of victory is at hand.” She straightened her veil, eager to see King Korox Morkann fall and the throne of Erlkazar become open for her to plunder.

  On the edge of the battlefield, Quinn stopped to look for something. There was little left here, only dead grass and barren trees, the reminders of the king’s disobedience.

  The desolation made him smile.

  Scanning farther along, past the edge of the square buildings and ruined shrubbery, he found what he wanted.

  “That’ll do nicely.” He walked to the tall statue of a rather regal-looking woman holding a book, seemingly engrossed in its pages.

  The plinth that she stood upon was nearly the full height of a man—perfect for him to perch on and watch his black beasts punish the foolish king and his followers. Grabbing hold of the stone edge, he struggled to pull himself up.

  With some effort, he managed to get to his feet to stand beside the woman and look out at the battle that raged in the courtyard. As soon as he did, the stone beneath him began to vibrate, almost like the soft undulations of the Obsidian Ridge. The feeling was rather comforting, and it made the victory he was about to witness that much more pleasant.

  A wind began to blow, ruffling the dry grass and the robes of the man on the plinth. Motes of white light and tiny glowing orange orbs floated up from him, swirling around each other, once, twice, then shooting out in all different directions.

  Quinn’s body began to transform. Muscular arms, straight back, and smooth skin withered and bent, becoming a hunched, pock-marked monstrosity. Buboes and pus-filled lumps appeared. His armor and cape morphed into oddly cut wizard’s robes.

  The magical visage of Quinn fell away, leaving behind only a twisted and decrepit overlord.

  When the transformation was complete, the wind died.

  “That’s very strange,” said Xeries, his voice and appearance having returned to their true forms. “I did not release that spell.”

  He looked up at the carved stone woman standing beside him. She seemed to be looking right back at him, her eyes fixed on a single spot.

  A strange chill ran down his spine.

  Shaking it off, he let out a timid snicker. “Don’t be foolish Xeries,” he said to himself. “It’s only a statue.”

  Turning back to the battle at hand, he let out another laugh, this one louder. The arch magus sounded like wind chimes as he reveled in his soon-to-be victory.

  The twin red wyverns on his chest had all but disappeared under a thick coat of blood and gore. King Korox stood beside Lord Purdun. It seemed the two men were eternally fighting for the freedom of their kingdom. Perhaps that was their fate, to fight and die for what they believed in.

  Pulling his blade from another downed opponent, the Warrior King surveyed the battlefield. His men were pinned, and the Matron had found a way to turn the black beasts’ attention away from her own assassins. The tide of this battle had shifted so many times that he was starting to lose count. He was tired, and so too were the men who fought at his behest.

  That’s when he spotted Quinn.

  The man he had trusted with the life of his daughter had failed him, had betrayed him. Now, it seemed, his one-time bodyguard was going to climb atop the memorial statue of the queen and mock Korox in his final moments.

  Spheres of orange and white light shot up into the air over the statue. Korox rubbed his eyes, not sure if what he just saw had actually happened. He looked again. Quinn was hunched over, his body twisted and bent.

  That wasn’t Quinn at all. It was Xeries.

  Spinning around, Korox put his fingers to his lips and let out a short, shrill whistle. Then a second. The sound of a horse whinnying rose over the clashing melee, and the king’s own black war steed, wounded as it was, appeared at the edge of the fighting. I
ts heavy hooves stomped down a pair of black beasts as it galloped obediently toward its master.

  Grabbing the reins, Korox threw himself onto the saddle. The aches and pains, the weariness and fatigue all disappeared as his focus turned to just one thing.

  “Heyaw!” he shouted, bounding away from the battle toward the statue of his lovely wife and the wretched beast who stood on it, befouling her glory.

  Behind him the fate of Erlkazar was being determined. His men, his subjects—his friends—fought off the largest threat the kingdom had ever seen. But at that moment, none of that mattered, nothing else existed. Korox could see only ahead of him—could see only the man who had taken his daughter and tormented his realm.

  His sword held high in the air, he urged his loyal steed onward. He was no longer a king. He was no longer a man. He was a devil with malice in his heart and pure hatred in his veins.

  If this was to be the last thing he would do as the King of Erlkazar, then he would gladly trade in his life to do it.

  Closing the distance in a matter of moments, Korox could see the look of recognition on Xeries’s face. He smiled as he watched that look turn from understanding to terror. The twisted arch magus raised his arms to cast a spell.

  A beam of orange energy shot from Xeries’s hands, howling as it soared toward Korox. Then, just as suddenly as it had been conjured, the beam dissipated, splashing harmlessly against the chest of the king’s black steed.

  “But-but that-that was-was the-the finger-finger of-of death—”

  His echoed words were cut short as the Warrior King leaped from his saddle. Korox hurled himself forward, both hands on the hilt of his enchanted blade. Like a bird of prey he descended upon Xeries, screeching as he dropped from the heavens to take vengeance on the master of the Obsidian Ridge.

  His feet hit first, knocking the arch magus to his back and crushing bones as the withered man absorbed the force of Korox’s impact. Then the king’s blade came down, slicing through flesh, pus, and the withered black heart at the center of this ruined wizard.

  Korox dropped to one knee, placing all of his weight down on top of the frail arch magus, holding Xeries to the stone plinth.

  “But-but my-my spell-spell …” gurgled Xeries.

  Korox’s lip curled up as his hatred bubbled over like a pot left too long on a fire.

  “I see you’ve met my wife,” he said, shrugging his chin up at the statue. “She looks after me, even in death.”

  The Warrior King twisted his blade, and Xeries convulsed in pain, hissing through blackened teeth. Xeries tried to focus his eyes on the king through all of his pain, but it was clear he was having a hard time. He reached up, opening his mouth to say something, perhaps cast a spell. But it was no use. His whole body trembling around Korox’s blade, the tormentor of Erlkazar let out one final breath—a sound like wind chimes crashing to the ground—then he slumped back, dead at the feet of the king and queen.

  Inside Xeries’s private chamber, the dying gasps of nearly three dozen women echoed off the walls. Their faces bent upward in smiles of relief. Together, each of them released their hold on life, falling finally into a well-deserved rest. Had there been anyone in the chamber to listen, they would have heard all of those final breaths used to form the words, “Thank you.”

  At long last, the chamber was silent.

  chapter thirty-seven

  The black beasts stopped dead in their tracks—even those in the middle of chewing a soldier to pieces. They closed their fanged mouths. They retracted their scything claws. They stopped moving, and all of them, every single one, sat down on their haunches and hung their heads, right in the middle of the battlefield. They were like obedient dogs, all of which had seemingly been told to lie down.

  Silence settled over the blood-strewn grounds surrounding Klarsamryn. The ring of metal and cries of dying men slowly faded. It was calm in the heart of Llorbauth for a brief moment.

  Then a shout went up across the line of soldiers. Hope had returned.

  “Cut them down!” shouted King Korox from behind the battle. He hobbled back toward the fighting, returning from the edge of the courtyard and the now-lifeless body of Arch Magus Xeries.

  Every solider within earshot hacked down upon their stationary foes. Not a one of Xeries’s beasts moved, not a muscle, as King Korox, Lord Purdun, Captain Kaden, and all their men fell upon the enemy.

  The beasts that had terrorized Erlkazar only moments before died by the dozens. They did not whimper. They did not cower. They simply waited their turn to be slaughtered. Their blood ran in rivers across the parched earth.

  The Matron could hardly believe her eyes. One moment the end was near for the ruler of Erlkazar. The next he had taken the field. His troops had not suffered as many casualties as she had predicted, and they now outnumbered her assassins more than twenty to one.

  “Assassins of Waukeen!” shouted King Korox, as his men surrounded them. “Your treachery here today will not go unpunished. Throw down your weapons, and you will be tried justly. If you resist, you will be killed.”

  The Matron’s face burned with anger and frustration. “Do not listen to him! The throne is ours! Take the king! Take Llorbauth by force!”

  Quinn stared up at the three huge floating gemstones. A line had been chiseled into the ground, connecting the base of each to the others. The space in between the rubies described a triangle, large enough to fit nearly fifty men, if they were standing shoulder to shoulder.

  Coming a little closer, Quinn reached out to touch the nearest stone. A narrow thread of magical energy lifted away from the ruby and connected with his hand. When it touched him, he could feel every hair on his body stand on end. It was like being too close to a bolt of lightning, yet at the same time, the power coursing through his body was somehow invigorating.

  He placed his entire palm on the humming ruby. A hundred other strands of magic reached out to him, creating a thin barrier of energy between his skin and the surface of the stone. As he pulled his hand away, the narrow threads stretched and combined, reaching across the distance to keep contact with his skin. The farther away he got, the fewer, thicker strands connected him to the ruby, until finally he broke the connection and the energy receded back into the floating stone.

  Stepping inside the inscribed triangle, he made a connection with the first ruby then reached out his other hand to the second of the three stones. Another stream of energy lifted off its surface and attached itself to his hand.

  This time though, as soon as it touched him, his feet were lifted from the ground, and he began to float in the air. He wobbled a bit, his balance a little shaky, as he was sucked in deeper toward the center of the triangle. The third ruby reached out to him as well, lifting him higher into the air as it added its energy to that of the other two. More and more of the magical threads touched his skin, like hands holding him aloft.

  It was an extraordinary experience—hanging in midair, suspended between the humming rubies, weightless and free to move as he pleased. By lifting his hands over his head, he could rise toward the ceiling. By lowering them to his sides, he would drop back toward the floor. A shift to his right or left would move him around the triangle.

  The closer he was to the center, the more control he had. At the edges, he would lose the connection to one of the rubies, and he’d drop a few feet. If he lost the connection to more than one, then he’d fall back to the floor altogether.

  His feet touched the ground, and he stepped out of the triangle. Being inside was rather exhilarating, but it was also quite tiring. His heart was beating very quickly, and he sat down, a rest to catch his breath.

  “I think this belongs to you.”

  Quinn spun to see a man watching him from the other side of the triangle. His face was warped and cast in an orange glow from the humming rubies and their magic. In one hand he held Quinn’s bladed gauntlet.

  It took him a moment, but Quinn eventually recognized him. “Jallal.”

  �
�Put this on,” Jallal demanded. “Perhaps it’ll prolong your inevitable death. I’ll enjoy it more that way.”

  He threw the weapon at Quinn, tossing it into the triangle. Tiny threads of energy shot from the gemstones. The magical strands wrapped themselves around the blades, slowing the gauntlet and lifting it high in the air. Reaching the ceiling, it came to a stop, suspended between the rubies at the highest point in the room.

  Taking two large steps, Quinn leaped into the triangle, his arms held high over his head. He could feel the gemstones’ magic take hold of him and shoot him into the sky. As he reached the ceiling and his weapon, he kicked his legs out and spun his body around in a somersault. Grabbing his gauntlet as he passed, he flipped over, landing feet first on the ceiling.

  Standing upside down, he strapped the gauntlet to his wrist and motioned at Jallal. “I don’t know how you got here,” he said. “But if you want a fight, then I’m happy to oblige. Come and get me.”

  Jallal stared up through the orange light, a look of confusion on his face. Then his eyes narrowed, and he stepped across the inscribed line on the floor. The moment he made contact with two of the rubies, he was lifted into the air. He hovered not far off the ground, his arms and legs flailing while he got used to the weightlessness.

  Quinn didn’t wait for him to find his balance. Diving down on Jallal, he slashed the man across the back of his neck, tumbled over, touched the floor with his feet, then shot back up to the ceiling.

  Drops of blood glistened bright red in the strange light of the rubies. They fell from the fresh wounds but did not hit the floor. Instead, they remained floating in midair. Tiny threads of magic reached out to each one.

  Jallal growled at the pain of four keen-edged blades ripping his flesh. “I suppose I owe you my thanks. If you hadn’t killed me that night in the slaughterhouse, I never would have been given the gifts I have now.” He straightened, admiring his powerful limbs. Then he turned his glowering gaze up at Quinn. “But you owe me for killing my brother. And I have come to collect on that debt.”