by Ryk E. Spoor
Slowly the little Toad dragged himself over and yanked the sword out. Then he looked up.
The demon’s portal was still there. Beginning to flicker slightly, but still present. “Speak my name.”
“What? I didn’t summon you.”
It laughed, a screeching sound that sounded like tearing steel. “You stopped them, for I would have performed their bidding and your people—and others—would have died. Now you may gain that power for yourself. I will swear the same oath to you I did to this one. Give me my freedom and you shall have that power.”
“Sorry.” The little Toad wiped the sword clean on the dead wizard’s pant leg. “Besides, I don’t know your name, so I can’t do it.”
“Easily remedied. I am Voorith.” The name echoed through the cavern like a threat of fear. “Though your god and I have ever been at war, I care not for that, if only you free me.”
The Toad looked up and suddenly stuck his tongue out. “Go back where you came from, until Blackwart comes and eats you. You look like a bug so I’ll bet he’ll find you tasty!”
The demon screeched in frustration, and with that final denial began to truly fade, its summoners gone and its last chance of escape having rejected it. “Then tell me your name, Toad, as I have told you mine. Our fates have been intertwined, and one day we shall speak our names to each other again.”
Name?
He suddenly realized that this was the moment. He was small, but no longer was he young. But what to choose? For in that choice he would be defined, and there was no changing once chosen. He thought back over the entire adventure, for this surely would give him the answer . . .
And saw the answer, the moment that defined the point when he became who he was. He looked up at the fading demon and smiled with the corners of his mouth. “Poplock,” he said proudly. “Poplock Duckweed. Remember it.”
“Oh, I shall.” The voice was a whisper, a promise of impotent doom. “And so shall others. For this was not my plan, nor theirs, and you have inserted your tongue into something far more perilous than you can even begin to imagine . . . Toad.” And the gateway was gone.
He blinked and glanced around in the fast-fading light. Got to get out of here. But . . .
Some minutes later, he eased his way from a narrow crack into the lowering light of the setting sun, near the Evermist of the Burning Waters. With him he dragged a small pouch from the wizard’s waist, stuffed with the few objects the little Toad could find before the light went out. Without light, the fresh breeze had been his real guide.
“Not a bad first try . . . for a small adventurer.”
Cheerfully, Poplock Duckweed headed back to the village. He had quite a story to tell . . . and then a much bigger world to go find.
7
Tobimar squinted across the water. There was nothing to see, just more water, as the Lucramalalla continued through the five-foot seas. Of course, that was part of what bothered him; until now, the huge Sauran-built ship had sailed always just in sight of land, able to see ports and cities as they passed, ready in case they were hailed or if there was some need to stop. But sometime during the night, it seemed, they had swung far out to sea.
Still, even that didn’t seem enough to cause his unease. He felt something was wrong, almost could see it, like heat-ripples from the sand, but he couldn’t put a name to it. He looked around the ship.
To his mild surprise, he saw T’Oltha standing alone on the second deck, high above the first, immobile as a statue, looking out to sea as he had been. Well, there’s my best source of information.
It only took a few moments to make his way up; the eight-foot creature was still standing where he had seen her.
“A good dawning, T’Oltha.”
The draconic head turned slightly. “A good dawning to you as well, questing prince.”
Of course the ship’s captain knew exactly who he was and something of the errand he was on. He just hoped it wouldn’t be general crew knowledge; better to avoid too many questions that he didn’t invite. “If it is no secret, why do we sail so far from land this day?”
The Sauran gestured with her taloned hand. “For this day, and for many more days, indeed, we must sail by guidance of stars and the gods, for there lies Elyvias.”
That made sense. He hadn’t realized they’d come so far already; yes, they had left Tor Port, a major city of the Empire of the Mountain, quite some days ago, but the great inacessible peninsula of Elyvias jutted from the southernmost reaches of the continent. “So we cannot even sail in sight of the land?”
The headshake was like the weaving of a snake. “The Maelwyrd extends full forty miles from the land, with but three miles nearest the land safe to sail for those who live there.”
Tobimar glanced up. He had heard something of the latter, but never spoken of with the matter-of-fact certainty that T’Oltha used. “How do you know there is such a safe zone?”
T’Oltha gave a rumbling laugh like distant thunder. “Twice, under the guidance of the Lady of Aegeia, I sailed the shifting maze of the Maelwyrd and found my way safe to Elyvias. I have sailed those waters, young prince, seen what was left when the Archmage and Dragon King duelled at the end and sank part of the continent beneath them.”
“If you have sailed them before—”
“Only under the Lady of Wisdom’s guidance,” she said, emphatically. “And only following the partly known paths through. Here we are on the northern frontier of Elyvias, a narrow shore backed by the Northern Cataclysm Ridge, and where the mazakh have a stronghold. We still must follow the currents and land in a general sense, and so shall turn northward again to round the portion of the peninsula that projects in that direction. But only in the southernmost waters has the Maelwyrd been mapped at all, and only with the Lady Athena’s guidance, or that of S’mbanullah or Elbon Nomicon himself, would I attempt even that route, let alone seek to penetrate the uncharted Maelwyrd here.” The weaving shake of the head again. “No, we shall make no port again until Olthamian’ a’ ameris.”
“Shipton.”
A snort. “As you and the other derntera call it, yes, as you remove the poetry and meaning of Fanalam’ T’ ameris’ a’ u’ Zahr-a-Thana T’ikon and say ‘Zarathanton.’”
Tobimar grinned, but had to admit that the Sauran had something of a point. Changing “City of the Sea of Stars” to what amounted to “place with ships” did seem rather a step down. On the other hand, as the name of the capital city illustrated, the Sauran names could get to be long enough to need a couple of breaths to finish. “We are blessed neither with your longevity nor your lung capacity, o T’Teranahm,” he said.
That gained him another deep laugh. “Truly said, little human. Truly said. As long as you remember the poetry that lies beneath, then the surface is of no matter, or so S’her once said.”
He looked up at the ancient reptilian captain again. The Saurans had inhabited Zarathan for longer than almost any other race of beings (save of course for the Dragons, their forebears and possibly one or two others), and—though they had, of course, had their own epics of betrayal and tragedy—had always been a force of stability and wisdom for the younger races; Khoros had often mentioned how much he had learned from the dragon-descended creatures.
That decided him. “T’oltha, you know something of our quest. Where do you think I should start my quest? Which port?”
To his surprise, the Sauran captain bowed to him. “You ask my advice? It is well. For know, that while my ship has carried many of your questers, since first I took this ship six millennia agone, none have ever asked. Your mother’s sister chose the northern route, landed at the White Blade. Before her, a man, Karilar, and his choice was Tor Port itself, to seek an audience with the Archmage. Others, many others, yet none asking of me what my thoughts were.” She looked up to the sky. “All sought in places of peril, of distant lands; one even took passage through the Maelwyrd to seek on Elyvias.
“I say instead that you begin in the city where al
l once began, and where one of my people still sits atop the Throne that is older than all the derntera combined. Go to the First City, take ship with me all the way to Zarathanton, and there I think you will find, if not answers, the path to your answers.”
The capital city? Greatest of all cities? The idea made sense. He had thought before of Shipton itself, the great port, or of Aegeia, isolated and proud deiocratic state whose ruler was, it was said, the living incarnation of one of the gods of Wisdom. But T’oltha’s advice resonated, fit with the part of him that could find a safe path across a room in total darkness.
“I thank you, Captain. Then I am with you to the end of this journey.”
“The end of this voyage, young one.” The Sauran smiled, showing a fearsome array of teeth. “My journey is far from ending, and yours has not even begun.”
8
The room was large and open, of polished marble and obsidian worked with patterns of gold and sapphire and silver, but few decorations outside of these. A bed was set back against one wall, with a locked chest at its foot, a small dresser nearby, all looking rather small against the expanse of the room with its twenty-foot ceiling. A short distance away sat a table, draped in cloth so black that it seemed to drink in the light, leaving the area nearby in inexplicable shadow; a single chair was placed at the table. Two spheres of blue light glowed, suspended in nothing, above the farther corners of the table.
In the center of the table was a scroll, partially unrolled and locked in a mounting that held it still, a scroll two feet high and opened four feet wide. A scroll that seemed made of purest gold, a scroll that shone like a metallic mirror—or, to be more accurate, like three mirrors, for the unrolled piece of enchanted metal was engraved such that it was divided into three equal portions. The engraving scrollwork, on close inspection, consisted of powerful symbols, runes, and mystical metals inlaid into the reflective surface, which within those three portions was inlaid with platinum or silver, shining white against the gold.
The man seated at the table glanced back at the bed and dresser and smiled faintly. Well, one appreciates austerity on occasion, and a passage at austerity makes one appreciate luxury the more, as well.
The door was closed, but not locked. The others knew not to disturb him in this chamber. Though they were, perhaps, his equals in many things, they knew that he directed their actions, that he was able to direct the favor of their patron as well. If any of them dared disturb him while that door was closed . . . well, it had best be deadly important. Or else it will become deadly important, indeed.
He looked at the gemclock; its shimmering symbols showed that the time had arrived.
And now the polished auric and argent metal did not reflect his face, did not show the mostly empty room. Instead, three other beings looked out from the reflection of other rooms than this.
Beings—but not human beings.
The central of these—a presence of pure blackness, a humanoid shape in a chamber so dark that the figure should have been invisible, save that the thing also had eyes of a terrible blue flame and its darkness made that which surrounded it appear merely the gloom of dusk—slowly surveyed the others. The man knew that while he only saw three other participants, each of those three had others—their second in commands, their assistants, advisors, or strategists—watching, perhaps even waiting to speak. It is a most deadly fence to walk, he thought. To say nothing risks little; to speak could gain you favor . . . or cost you your life.
The same was true of the other two visible in the meeting-mirror, of course, but they had power of their own, and long history in speaking to that dark presence which commanded the central mirror.
“Some of you,” the dark thing said, and its voice was the deep rumble of a vortex descending to unnameable depths, overlaid with the scream of tortured air. “Some of you have already heard the rumors. We have commanded this meeting to examine the situation, and determine a course of action.”
The blacker-than-black figure glanced to the left, at a creature that combined the worst features of lizard and mantis, or perhaps warrior ants. “Voorith has reported considerable losses of his forces, at a moment when we had been preparing other forces to move.” The burning blue-white gaze was unblinking, frightening even to the man seated at the desk, and he wasn’t the focus of that deadly regard. “We are most disappointed, Voorith.”
The mazolishta bowed, chattering in its own tongue. The apology was long and detailed, and there was no mistaking the fear in the insectoid demon’s voice.
“Enough of the apologies. They do not matter to us. How much has been lost?”
The King of All Hells is no more fooled than I; all that apology was an attempt to evade giving these details. It must be worse than we had heard—and I had heard things were very bad. The being in the third portion of the mirror—humanoid in seeming—met the watcher’s gaze knowingly; the man returned the gaze with a nod, for this was his patron. It smiled as Voorith replied, “. . . there have been . . . significant losses, O Consuming Star.”
The eyes if the black thing in the central mirror flared slightly. “Evasions gain you nothing either. How much?”
“I . . .” Voorith shuddered, recognizing it had no recourse but the truth. “All was lost, Majesty.”
“All?” the human-seeming figure in the third panel repeated, its voice startled and amused. The man at the table kept himself under control, but it was a shocking revelation. I’d realized Voorith must have suffered quite a humiliation, the summoning falling through and its consequences, but to have lost all of the gathered resources and thus not even prepared . . .
“Yes, all.” Voorith gave vent to a curse. “It was intervention, I feel sure.”
As Voorith recounted exactly how everything had fallen apart, the being in the third mirror did not bother to restrain a laugh. The man did not quite dare join in, but inwardly he was laughing indeed. Oh, my, yes, this is most amusing.
The black-on-black thing with the blazing eyes did not apparently see the humor. “Restrain your amusement or leave this council. I concur with Voorith’s assessment. The Golden-Eyed God arranged this.”
Stifling another chuckle, the man’s humanoid patron nodded. “It would seem likely. Though it could simply be poor luck. Still, if the old Toad-God wasn’t involved before, we can rest assured he’s noticed this undersized menace by now, and he’ll be in the game.” It narrowed its eyes, with an expression just short of reproach. “And if I understand correctly, the Toad-God is not subject to the little arrangement you managed to convince most of the other Powers to agree to on pain of cataclysm.”
The black thing seemed to tower up in fury; the figure raised a single finger in admonishment. “This plan is of my devising, O Kerlamion. It is of course in service to you, as are all things here. But I will not be treated as though I were no more than one of your millions of guards. I shall speak when I wish, and how I wish. And we would be wise to keep to the subject. Better these scrying scrolls are than meeting in person, yet still those with enough power, perception, or fortune might recognize that a hidden council is being held.”
And the fact that it can speak thus to Kerlamion, King of All Hells, is what convinces me I have chosen my patron very wisely. The seated man decided now was an opportune time to join in. “Then by all means, let us speak of the subject. How long of a delay does this incident create?”
Kerlamion’s blazing-fire eyes had not yielded to the calm azure gaze of the third mirror-figure, but he spoke. “Voorith? You have knowledge of what was arranged, what will be needed, and so on. Your honest estimate of time?” Kerlamion’s glare finally shifted, and the seated man once more had to restrain a smile. The emphasis of the word “honest” meant that Voorith would be held responsible for keeping the timeline offered. Of course, if he offered too long a timeline, there was always the possibility that the King of all Demons might simply choose another to do his job . . . and Voorith would have more immediate concerns of survival.
&n
bsp; After a hesitation, Voorith sank to the floor of its own chamber in a submissive bow. “It . . . will take at least four years, O Consuming Star of the Uttermost Destruction.”
“Four years . . .” To their surprise, Kerlamion gave vent to a laugh of his own, an eerie and frightening sound indeed, as of the air itself being rent and destroyed. “Satisfactory, yes. Four years it shall be. Voorith, if you succeed in this, by four years from this day, then shall I reward rather than punish you.”
Voorith’s voice was shaken and puzzled, but there was relieved gratitude in every tone. “Of course, Lord.”
Kerlamion leaned back, its throne barely visible. “The lands have their unwitting reprieve. All other plans shall be adjusted. You will attend to that personally.” He glanced at the figure in the third mirror.
“Indeed I shall, great King.”
“Do any others have anything to add? For know that now is the time to speak, if any of you believe anything threatens the plan, especially with this change in timing.” Kerlamion’s tone was moderated from its initial leashed anger, and he was clearly demanding honest responses now.
The man in the chair considered briefly. Well . . . a few things to discuss with my patron, but nothing to bring up with . . . him.
Several others did speak, asking questions, clarifying requirements. Even though he understood the overall goals, the man watching still felt a chill of . . . awe? fear? simple excitement? . . . as he heard the mention of carefully devised strategies against every possible stronghold of the enemy, and realized that all of these plans were to culminate on the same day, four years from this moment.
Soon the discussions were finished, and the black-glowing figure surveyed them all one last time, and nodded.
“Then this council is at an end.” Kerlamion vanished, as did Voorith. As he had expected, the third figure remained, and smiled.
