The outer walls were formidable, with dark stripes down the sides, showing where hot tar or oil had been poured in times past. Circular turrets buttressed the walls at the corners, and the city gates opened beneath a raised portcullis. Despite impressive defenses, the stronghold had more of a monastic than military feel.
From this angle Arn could see that the hill sat perched on the edge of a large lake, the waters of which lapped fortress walls on the north side. Swampland stretched along the lake’s edge, leaving only the south side of the city approachable by land.
Stretching out from the front gates, a vast tent city stretched across the valley floor, as if the hill was a rotting sack of potatoes that had split, spewing forth its vile contents in moldy lumps. Throngs of vorgs and men milled about within the military encampment, working to build siege engines and ladders.
Arn’s thoughts drifted back to the dinner Rafel had given in honor of his and Carol’s engagement the night before he departed. In the banquet hall, as they had dubbed the longhouse structure, they had eaten and been toasted by the high lord, his key personnel, John, Ty, Kim, and Alan.
He remembered Carol’s attempt to hide her fears when Rafel turned the after-dinner talk to Arn’s mission. How had the high lord phrased his command?
“Just delay the protectors until the first heavy snow closes these mountain passes,” he had said. “If you can do that, the winter will prevent any attack until spring and allow us to complete our fortifications.”
Arn gazed out at his objective, thinking about his return to the type of work that had been his life, feeling the familiar heat leach from Slaken into his blood. There were times when he wanted to be free of his connection to the blade that was a symbol of the vengeance he had vowed as he knelt beside his mother’s corpse. This wasn’t one of those times. The protectors had tried to kill Carol and were preparing an army to finish the job.
He reached down and patted Ax on the neck. “Well, old boy, it looks like I’m going to have to let you go. I can’t take you where I now travel.”
With that he turned the horse away from the fortress, heading back toward the meadows and stream he had spotted in the woods to his east. At the edge of the meadow, he unsaddled and unbridled the warhorse. Then, with a slap on Ax’s rump, he sent the ugly beast trotting off.
Turning away, he stowed the saddle and his bedroll, keeping only the items he wore and the bundle with the priest’s robe and dagger.
Then he turned toward Temple Hill and surrendered to Slaken’s call.
20
Mo’Lier
YOR 414, Early Autumn
For two days Arn had patiently observed the fortress from a distance. Things were approaching a head in the encampment south of Temple Hill. The military organization outside the fortress walls appeared almost ready to move as the last of the siege engines and equipment approached completion. Arn had identified the tents of several of the vorg and human generals, not a difficult task considering the traffic of lackeys going to and fro.
Of particular interest to Arn were the comings and goings of the robed priests, who issued forth from the fortress walls periodically. They usually moved in groups of thirteen, passing through the crowds of soldiers in twin columns, hooded heads bowed. Vorgs and human soldiers scampered out of their way whenever they approached, although the top vorg leaders did not show this sort of deference, coming out of their tents to meet with the priests.
Arn easily observed that the priests were unhappy with the pace of activities and spent considerable time berating the army leadership in front of their own troops. The priests would then return to their fortress. After they departed each time, the vorg generals stormed up and down in a fury, throwing weaponry to the ground, slapping nearby soldiers, and hurling crude gestures in the direction of Temple Hill.
Arn moved back into the wood line, lay down on the ground, propping his head on the folded priest robe, and closed his eyes to await nightfall.
Darkness came. Arn killed a human soldier who strayed outside camp boundaries to relieve himself. He put on the ill-fitting and shabby armor, finding the helmet exceptionally uncomfortable but adequate for his purposes. He bashed in the corpse’s face with a large stone and removed the few coins found in the soldier’s pouch, spilling a couple on the ground beside the body.
The robbery completed, he shuffled off, entering the encampment but staying well away from the fires. He staggered drunkenly, slumping down adjacent to a trio of drinking vorgs.
“Gad,” Arn muttered, staggering to his feet. “Oh, thought I’d soiled myself, but I see it’s just some stinking vorgs. Why we has to have such trash in the army boggles the mind.”
“Looks like a stupid human is about to get himself killed,” said one of the vorgs, who rose to his feet and wheeled around to face the drunken soldier.
“Yeah? And who’s gonna do it? Not you, unless you can ugly me to death.”
“Kill the bastard and cook him,” said another vorg as all three rose to their feet and rushed forward.
Arn sidestepped the first attacker, disemboweling him and whirling the dying warrior into the path of the two immediately behind while extracting his knife from its sheath. The trailing vorgs went down in a heap. Before they could arise, Arn turned and disappeared into the night in the general direction of the nearest human camp.
He ducked between tents and turned at a right angle to the direction he had been traveling, now heading toward the fortress itself. He assumed a walk, ignoring the growing clamor as a minor riot erupted a hundred paces behind him and off to the left. The sound of the large fight grew in volume, augmented by the yells of commanders who swore and barked orders as they stumbled from their tents, trying to figure out what was happening.
As he neared the wall, Arn turned toward the spot where the lake met its western side, stripping off the filthy armor. Satisfied that the attention of any guards was directed toward the army encampment where all the commotion was ongoing, Arn climbed the wall, swinging his weight effortlessly from the fingerholds he found in cracks between the stones. He paused just below the top to peer over. Two soldiers stood together atop the wall, about five paces east of where he clung, both gazing out at the camp that spread out below.
He vaulted silently up, landing on the top of the wall in a sprint. The guard on the left turned as he struck, Arn’s vorgish blade rising and falling again and again, trailing a bloody spray. The second soldier staggered backward, struggling to pull his sword as Arn’s fury struck him, cutting his throat and putting a stop to his building scream.
Arn tossed the bodies off the wall to break on the rocks below, dropping the vorgish sword onto the ground beside them.
Climbing down the nearest ladder to the fortress’s interior, Arn disappeared into the gloom of the city streets.
In Areana’s Vale, a lone black wolf moved quietly through Carol’s dreams, slaver dripping from its fangs as it moved among the spring lambs.
21
Endless Valley
YOR 414, Early Autumn
Four days into the eight-day ranger patrol led by Jalon Owens, Lord Alan had endured just about enough of the awe with which the rangers regarded Ty. He found the Kanjari seriously annoying.
Ty had needed less than a day to discover he could get under Alan’s skin with needle-sharp comments. Once he had discovered the weakness, the Kanjari would not desist, particularly after noting that the rangers found his jibes entertaining.
What pushed Alan’s good humor to the breaking point was the way the rangers assumed that Ty could handle himself in battle. As far as Alan was concerned, just looking good without your shirt on and carrying a fancy ax didn’t mean a damned thing. Someday the blond barbarian would have to back up his reputation, and Alan wanted to be there.
As if on cue, Ty pulled Regoran into step beside Alan, his blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Ah, young lordling, I enjoy our talks.”
Alan kept his eyes straight ahead, determined to ignore the
Kanjari.
“I was just thinking about how you’ve missed your true calling,” Ty continued.
Alan promised himself that he would not yield to anger, not within view of the rangers. He would not grant the barbarian that satisfaction.
“Based on the vigor with which you attacked the khan’s table back in Val’Dep,” Ty said, “I would imagine your skills more suited to a woodcutter than a warrior.”
Gritting his teeth, Alan said nothing. He didn’t need to. This time, Ty’s comments failed to pull any merriment from the rangers, who apparently sensed the remark was cutting a little too close to home. Evidently Ty sensed their disapproval as well, because he sighed and urged Regoran into a trot that carried him away from the lord.
The rays of the sun cut golden swaths through the branches of a blue spruce when the sound of a loud splat and a chorus of cursing brought Alan’s head around. Not ten paces away, Ty sat astride his stallion, covered in the biggest slop of bird droppings that Alan had ever seen, the center of impact having been directly on top of the Kanjari’s head.
“By the deep!” Ty said. “A buzzard just dumped all over me!”
A wave of raucous braying broke out among the rangers, and Alan found himself swept away in the contagion. The harder he laughed, the weaker he became until he could barely maintain his seat astride his horse. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks, and the muscles in his face began to ache from exertion. The longer the rangers chortled, the redder Ty’s face became.
“Okay, you bunch of jackasses. I’m going to go find a stream and wash up.”
With that, Ty wheeled his stallion around and galloped out of sight through the woods.
The object of their good humor having departed, the patrol resumed its course, riding out of the wood line and up along a steep ridge toward a point where they could observe the country for leagues around. The group reached the promontory after fifteen minutes of rough riding due to the steep nature of the shale-covered slope.
Once off the slope and on the ridgeline, the view was breathtaking. Alan could see the hills drop away to the west in a washboard of canyons.
“Look there!” Jalon Owens pointed in the direction from which they had rode.
A league away, Alan could see a meadow through which a sparkling stream meandered. He could just make out the naked form of the Kanjari, his nemesis, splashing about in the water.
The chuckling that bubbled forth from the assemblage was cut short by the sight of two riders coming hard, heading directly toward the meadow through low brush, a group of vorgs rushing to overtake them as yet more vorgs poured down the hill to their front. And the whole mess was heading directly toward where Ty bathed, unaware.
“By the deep. How many are there?” Alan asked.
“Looks like twenty, maybe more,” said Jalon. “I don’t know if we can make it in time to be any help, but let’s try.”
Alan had already spurred his mount forward, plunging down the steep hillside in reckless abandon, followed by four rangers.
As his horse struggled to maintain its footing on the loose shale, his eyes remained locked on the scene unfolding in the distant meadow. The two horsemen had broken out of the trees into the meadow at almost the same time as the vorgs. One of the horses fell as an arrow cut short its flight, sending the rider rolling through the grass. His companion leapt off to stand beside him, battle-ax extended, as he stood across the body of his friend.
A wild cry split the air as Ty grabbed his weapon from its resting place alongside the stream and ran naked across the grassy opening toward the two men, the great ax glinting in the sunlight as he reached the leading vorgs.
Alan’s path continued down the slope as he found himself unable to maintain a clear view of what was happening. He passed between trees that blinded him, brief glimpses of the distant battle revealing that Ty was still standing, cutting a swath through the charging vorgs that caused those nearest to him to hesitate. The moment of indecision swept them from the land of the living.
Alan’s view of the scene ended as he reentered the tree line. He cursed in frustration as he ducked low across the big animal’s neck to avoid the low-hanging branches. Although the horse was fast, Alan could not imagine how his mount could cover the distance that separated him from the battle before it came to a bad end. Still, he pressed on, the sound of the rangers close behind him.
Pressing the pace, Alan began to distance himself from his companions, the bloodlines of his warhorse coming to the fore, the animal’s mighty lungs working like bellows as it propelled him toward his destination. Still, time slipped by, as did Alan’s hopes of seeing Ty alive.
Bursting from the wood line to take the stream in one mighty leap, Alan needed several seconds to absorb the scene before him. Halfway across the meadow, the muscles in the Kanjari’s arms and back flexed beneath a red sheen as the great crescent ax fell, splitting a vorg’s upraised shield on its way through the head and body behind it, then continuing in an arc that severed the sword arm of the soldier’s companion.
A handful of vorgs had dropped their swords and fallen back, desperately trying to fit arrows to their bows before the Kanjari could close with them. Upon seeing Alan burst from the wood line followed by the four rangers, they abandoned their efforts and fled, just as the last of the vorgs engaged with Ty after his companion fell to another stroke of the ax.
As Alan pulled his horse to a halt beside Ty and dismounted, the rangers raced past him, bows at the ready, hot in their pursuit of the fleeing vorgs.
The scene that confronted Alan lacked any semblance of reality. The Kanjari stood naked, his hair and body slick and dripping with the blood of his enemies. The crescent ax bled down from the blade along the handle so that no metal or ivory was visible. Only Ty’s eyes shone through the crimson.
The horseman who had fought beside Ty was a familiar-looking khan warrior, his hair streaming down onto his armor and his beard gathered into bloody twin braids. The warrior’s companion lay dead at his feet.
Suddenly the horseman dropped to one knee and bowed his head toward Ty. “Dar Khan.”
Alan was not familiar with the word, but the mannerisms of the warrior indicated that he considered himself to be in the presence of royalty. No, that wasn’t right. A god. The man seemed to think that Ty was some blood-drenched god of war. And as Alan shifted his gaze to Ty, he could not really blame the fellow for believing such a fantasy.
“I pledge myself to your service.”
Behind a red mask, Ty merely stared down at the kneeling man. His response surprised Alan.
“You are the khan’s son, Larok, are you not?”
“I am.”
Suddenly Alan understood why this horse warrior looked so familiar. Behind that blood-coated beard was the face of the man the khan had introduced in Val’Dep.
“Then return the body of your companion to your people and tell your father of this,” said Ty. “There may come a day when I will call for his aid.”
“As you command, Dar Khan.”
Ty turned to walk back toward the stream. From the look on his face, the prospect of yet another cold bath in the same day was less than appealing.
By the time Ty had finished cleaning up and getting dressed, the rangers had returned, having killed the vorgs they had chased. Larok told them that he and his companion had been scouting when they were ambushed by the vorgs. Beyond that, the khan scion would say little about his mission.
His reticence did not extend to the subject of Ty. Larok insisted that Ty was Dar Khan, the Dread Lord, a mighty warrior from the land of the dead. Legend said that he would eventually enter this world, taking mortal form for a time.
Larok told of how the Dread Lord would arise, clothed only in blood, and from his companions he would select a lone warrior to serve him. And that one, the Chosen, would draw to himself a group of mighty warriors who would fall gloriously in battle. These recruits would rise again in the land of the dead to fight alongside the Dar Khan.
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Alan shook his head. How someone as battle-hardened as this bearded warrior could believe such a child’s fable was mystifying. Even more surprisingly, a couple of the rangers seemed to be swept up in the myth.
Unbelievable.
The storytelling was finally interrupted by Ty’s return to the group. Unwilling to talk about the subject in Ty’s presence, the warrior draped his fallen companion across his horse, bowed slightly toward the Kanjari, swung up behind the dead warrior’s body, and departed.
Alan watched the man depart with mixed feelings. As the rider disappeared into the tree line, he had the strong impression that he had not seen the last of the khan’s horsemen.
22
Areana’s Vale
YOR 414, Early Autumn
Carol stepped out of her cabin onto the back porch, the cold morning air in the Glacier Mountains turning her breath to thin puffs of steam. She stretched her arms wide, rolling her head to either side to loosen her stiff neck. She gazed out across the valley to the mighty cliff walls rising on all sides.
The day was so clear that it did not seem real. Birds twittered in the trees around her cabin. A pair of squirrels rooted around in the pine straw by a clearing, raising their heads to listen in unison. Then deciding that there were no threats in the area, they returned to their food gathering.
Running her fingers through her hair, Carol was shocked to discover its matted condition.
What had it been, two weeks since Arn had left? During that entire time, she had closeted herself in the cabin, examining in detail the wielder’s book he had given her, only recently starting to read the tome from the beginning. She had requested of her father that absolutely no one was to disturb her while she studied her magic in preparation for the coming war.
First, she had wanted to satisfy herself as to the general nature of the book’s contents and condition. She had also been very wary that perhaps it contained some self-destructive trap that would destroy it upon examination by an unwitting reader. But she had found no wards or traps. What she had found left her confused, baffled.
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