The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars)

by Tom Bielawski

  “I won’t bore you with all the details. Suffice it to say, Malric was exactly as the townsfolk said, so he was. A twisted and evil spirit, if ever I met one. And a dabbler in dark magic, he was. Malric had fearsome powers. He could blast us with freezing air that would make a man’s heart stop cold. His touch was death itself, sucking the life force from a body like a vampire bat, so it was.

  “After we defeated him, and that was a near deadly ordeal, we found dried out husks of bodies of the villagers. Husks leftover after the bastard sucked their lives from them.

  “During our investigation of the castle, we found Malric’s experimentation rooms and his laboratory. A bloody affair, that. And we learned what happened to him. Malric wasn’t always a bad person. But he struck a deal with an Ice Demon, a prince of the underworld who inhabits the frozen wastes of Hades. And eventually he went mad.

  “As Delfyd explained to me today, a Zuharim necromancer came to him one night. They offered him the powers of the very Ice Demon we vanquished so long ago; and he took it, so he did.”

  “And I am the filth,” said the knight, disgustedly.

  “His wits are muddled. We shall enjoy no end of harassment from him now.”

  “Can you not try and condemn him publically?” asked Carym.

  The bishop smiled sadly. “No, Carym. We cannot. We enjoy a high level of prosperity in Myrnwell, thanks to the people. We are, and have long been, entrenched in the security of this land. It is a precarious balance.”

  “For that I apologize, Your Eminence. It seems now, that because of me, your order may suffer.”

  “Our order, you mean,” said the bishop, seeing Ederick’s eyes darken. “Yes, by virtue of your pardon, you are now a member of the Sword. You could renounce it and all knightly orders, however you would lose my protection. Protection that will prove to be valuable, I think.”

  “You mean this military escort. You expect an attack by the forces of Delfyd Rhi, then?” asked Carym.

  “Indeed, Carym. His mind is full of vitriol and hate. He is spiteful and of late vindictive to a fault.”

  “An Ice Demon,” said Carym dully, wondering if it was just another coincidence that pain and suffering appeared everywhere he went. “Will you help us get to the border, bishop?” Carym asked.

  “Aye. It is the will of God that you were delivered to me. He would be none too happy with me if I didn’t aid you on His divine mission,” smiled the warrior-bishop. “In fact, you will be under the protection of the Church while we prepare for the journey, and teach you the ways of the Hand. Although the border is but a few days north of here, the weather has turned. Beyond the border the snow and wind will be too strong. The Ogrewall Mountains will be impassable.”

  “I hate snow,” grumbled Bart. “Doesn’t snow much on Ayre. Might be we should just winter here, so it seems?”

  The warrior-bishop smiled at that, but said nothing. Carym smiled too, as he peered from the warm and friendly face of the bishop to the magnificent heavy bull cavalry as they walked along behind his coach. Even though the dangers of this journey were still on his mind, he finally began to relax. The rhythmic plodding of the horses pulling the coach, made him doze off.

  Carym dreamed of heavy snows in the mountains to the north, blanketing the land in heavenly white. He saw trees glistening as the ice in their branches caught the rays of the cold winter sun. Beauty which he had never truly experienced in the milder climates of the Arnathian Continent. But his dreams were troubled by images of a dark army camped hastily, but skillfully, constructed wooden forts and massive wooden walls. Swaths of bare earth and stumps revealed forests that had been cut down to contribute to the defenses of the massive army.

  Then his dreams shifted to that of the mountain range, and away from the army forts which spread along the foothills of the Ogrewall Mountains.

  A bump in the road awoke Carym from his slumber, Ederick and Bishop Rohan were in deep conversation about the merits of the order to which Ederick now belonged. As Carym dozed in and out of sleep he recalled hearing the conversation shift to that of an army encamped at the foothills of the Ogrewall Mountains. He awakened at that point, trying to determine if perhaps the conversation triggered his dreams, or if had dreamt of this before the men spoke of it. As the fog of sleep drifted away, he realized it didn’t matter and listened more closely.

  “Our agents report that the enemy’s search parties have found nothing that will lead them to the Tomb. And that leads me to believe that you and your companions are the only link this Prophet-General has to finding the Tomb.”

  “Aye,” said Ederick. “So what of my fellows who are fighting and dying in Al Zocar, then?”

  “Alas, it is not the will of Zuhr to take Al Zocar yet. That time will come, and when it does the Hand will go there in force. But there are bigger things afoot than losing those islands to the followers of Qra’z and Umber.”

  “We have sent numerous dispatches to the Zuharim who still fight there. Our answers have been met with disdain. We offer our fleet to aid in their retreat and to bring their men home to safety, yet they refuse. Their pride will lead them to complete destruction at the hands of their enemies. I believe this has been orchestrated by the forces of the wayward brothers Qra’z and Umber in their hopes of weakening their Great Father’s power.”

  Ederick said nothing, but it appeared to Carym that he had accepted Bishop Rohan’s authority and logic. Perhaps, having come from Al Zocar so recently, the knight had been somewhat aware of the pitifulness of his leaders and their failure to accept aid from the Hand.

  “In any case,” Bishop Rohan continued, “there is no way for you and your companions to venture beyond the Cklathish lands and into the Jaguar holdings”

  “Which is why I propose that you all stay here under my protection and train with us. Teach us what you can Carym, and we will teach you what we can. I think you will find that the Hand of Zuhr has discovered some very powerful gifts which will help you.”

  “Why not march the Hand of Zuhr to engage this new army of foreigners now?” asked Bart, ever impatient.

  “The enemy’s army is far greater in numbers. And our presence could provoke a far greater war than we are capable of handling. Until our numbers grow, we have adopted a strategy wherein specialized harassing missions are carried out by covert personnel. Missions which will disrupt the enemy, weaken their morale, destroy vital supply sources, obtain special weapons for our army, and gather critical intelligence against theirs. It is our hope that we can weaken them sufficiently before the snows melt so that when we do face them the advantage will be ours.”

  Bart nodded, accepting the wisdom from one who knew far more than himself on such strategical matters. “So we have some time to rest and refit then.”

  “That will be nice,” said Carym, sleepily thinking of spending some time alone with Gennevera. He wondered if her new order had restrictions against such things.

  “Long enough to accomplish what I believe will make your mission successful. Then we will escort you to the Jaguar lands where you can begin the search for the Tomb.”

  “How long until we reach the training complex, Bishop?” asked Carym, feeling his eyelids getting heavy again.

  “Another two hours until we reach the barracks of the Hand of Zuhr, I’m afraid. We must make our way all the way through the city and there are many people about to slow us...” Carym smiled, nodded, and leaned his head back against the soft seat of the coach and drifted off to sleep.

  C H A P T E R

  12

  The Prince of Hybrand.

  A Change of Luck.

  Cannath paced the length of his office fuming over his most recent run-in with General Craxis. How dare the man insult me and treat my people that way! The General was ruthless, tyrannical, and treated all Hybrandese as second-class citizens. As far as the general was concerned, Hybrand existed only for the exploitation and settlement of wealthy Arnathian merchants and nobility. Cannath believed the old gener
al’s plans included the systematic enslavement of the entire Cklathish people.

  Always composed and bearing an impenetrable expression when in public, Lord Cannath was given to angry tirades in his quarters deep beneath the Temple of Qra’z. Today he gave in to one of his most vicious tirades ever, a fact to which his servants would readily attest. Indeed, Cannath’s outer office was in shambles. The chair was broken into pieces, the cabinets were shattered and files lay every-which-where. Cannath stood there breathing hard, sword in hand, trembling with rage. The door swung crookedly on a noisy hinge, the bottom bumping into pieces of broken wood and a nervous face peered inside.

  Lord Cannath, or Prince Cannath, as he called himself in private (to say so in public would amount to treason) glanced silently at the door and met the questioning gaze of a servant. The young man knew his lord well and immediately ducked back out of the doorway, fully aware that he may yet begin another tirade. Cannath forced himself to control his breathing and bring his rage under control again. There was certainly no danger of discovery by the Arnathians, but he did not want any of his subjects wishing an audience with him to find him in this state.

  Craxis had recently ordered the round-up of several “suspected insurgents” and shipped them off to the Imperial Capital for the Great Games. It was no secret that each territory must provide a certain number of criminals, based on a percentage of its populace, to be executed for sport in the coliseums of Arnathia. Evidently, Craxis’ jail didn’t have the required amount of prisoners so he contented himself with raiding the outlying villages and seizing citizens on trumped-up charges.

  No matter, thought the man. Craxis has just sealed his own fate. I have something special planned for him!

  A bead of sweat rolled down his nose and struck the floor as he sheathed his sword, he was irritated that the general’s antics could trigger such a violent rage in him and angrier still that he had given in to his emotions. At least, he mused, the general would never know how much he got under Cannath’s skin. The sounds of the door being forcibly opened against the cluttered floor brought Cannath’s wrathful gaze to bear upon the intruder. “Come in, Hugh. I have need of your council, old friend!” Cannath said wearily, the anger draining from him.

  “Forgive me, Highness, but it is I, Gavinos,” said Gavinos as he forced the door open far enough to squeeze into the now ruined outer office. “A messenger has arrived, sire.” Gavinos looked around the room and a brief look of disdain flashed across his face, but it was gone so quickly Cannath wasn’t sure he had seen it. He filed that away in his mind for later use.

  Cannath forgot his mood and beckoned Gavinos closer, his desire to begin the ousting of Craxis overshadowing all else. “What is the message, Gavinos?” he asked as his friend gingerly picked his way over and around broken furniture.

  “It is the Prophet Shalthazar. He is sending a contingent of soldiers under the command of Lord Captain Coronus who commands a ship called Eradicator; he will arrive within two months’ time. We are commanded to be ready to begin the overthrow of Arnathian rule upon his arrival.” Gavinos was exuberant and for some reason the man always had a calming effect on Cannath. Cannath wondered exactly how large this contingent was and how soon it would arrive. No matter, he would learn these facts as they became available.

  “He ‘commands’ us?” Cannath asked quietly. “That is a word one uses toward subjects, Gavinos. Not allies.”

  “Forgive me, Highness. Sometimes I am a bit too eager and meanings can be lost or misinterpreted by messengers. I assure you, Holy Prophet-General Shalthazar does not view you as a subordinate, as he does me.”

  “Hmm,” Cannath replied. “This Lord Commander Coronus, he is an elf too, yes?”

  “In fact he is, Prince Cannath,” Gavinos replied; was that a flash of disdain again? It was gone too quickly to be certain.

  “Very well. You say you have connections within these Spiders?” asked Cannath; the mere mention of that word triggered bile to rise in his throat. Gavinos answered with a nod. Cannath continued, “I wish to meet with this Eriagabbyn and formulate our plan.”

  Gavinos bowed in acknowledgement of Cannath’s wishes and went to who-knows-where to facilitate a meeting between two out of the three most powerful men in Hybrand.

  Cannath left the wreckage of the outer offices and entered his private office to think. He seated himself at his great, ornately carved desk and put his head in his hands and did something completely uncharacteristic; he prayed.

  “Lord Cannath,” the servant spoke hesitantly, never eager to interrupt her lord when his mood had run afoul. “Lord Gavinos and one Eriagabbyn are here to see you.” Cannath eyed the servant with a distant and cold look, one which was inwardly pensive yet mistaken by the servant as one of anger. She had ensured that the prince’s loyal servants toiled dutifully to remove all signs of the prince’s earlier tirade.

  “Thank you, Rashel. Find Hugh for me, he has taken ill, it seems.”

  Seeing that her message had been clearly received by her lord, Rashel Cheval hastily left Cannath alone and went to find Hugh Renaul, her immediate superior and Cannath’s trusted adviser. Rashel trusted Cannath, and she was instrumental in keeping his servants loyal to him despite his predisposition to angry tirades. She knew Cannath very well and she cared for him deeply. She was a capable fighter and she commanded his personal guard. There were many who believed a deeper relationship existed between Cannath and Rashel, yet none could say for certain.

  If Cannath was in love with Rashel it was an intensely secret affair, as he took no notice of her departure and certainly few would ever suspect such a relationship existed. He was certain he had only been sitting in his private office for less than an hour while Rashel oversaw the cleanup of his outer office. Gavinos must have assumed what the outcome of their earlier meeting would be and had already contacted the leader of these Spiders. Which meant that out of the three of them, Cannath was the last to truly know the outcome of this planning. Had anyone else dared to be so presumptuous with him there would have been severe punishment. But Gavinos was a trusted friend and Cannath would rather assume the man was merely trying to be being efficient rather than conspiratorial.

  Cannath stood and ensured his appearance was impeccable; he firmly believed that one of his station should always project a commanding presence. He had already strapped on his Cklathish leathers and greaves and was armed with sword, daggers and a shield strapped to his back. One couldn’t be too careful in a meeting with the local lord of assassins and thieves. Too bad he would not be putting the man in irons. Another time, perhaps.

  Cannath met the men in the receiving area of his underground chambers. A servant had seen fit to start a fire in the hearth and placed some hot tea on a table. Noting that one person in particular had been in the room with that tea while it was unattended, he reminded himself not to drink any.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” he said abruptly. “I am loathe to ask how someone such as yourself made it through the Temple Grounds without detection, so I won’t.” The other man extended his hand and bowed slightly in respect, but Cannath did not return the gesture.

  “Very well, my prince. The chase it is,” said Eriagabbyn. The use of the royal title was not lost on Cannath. The Lord of Thieves, as he had been known, knelt before Cannath and pulled out a pair of long fighting daggers called latani, and laid them at his feet. “I and my men are yours to command, your highness.”

  Cannath looked at him, inwardly disbelieving, outwardly stoic. Cannath took the latani from him and bade him to rise. “The dawn of our freedom is at hand, wouldn’t you say, Eriagabbyn?” Cannath asked with a raised brow.

  “Indeed, your highness. You must be thinking that revolution makes strange bedfellows-”

  “It had crossed my mind,” Cannath interrupted curtly as he watched the man rise.

  “Sire, you must understand. We have been committed to the liberation of Hybrand since our inception.”

  “Why is
that? What possible reason would you have to take up with my cause? Other than the obvious profitability factor?” Cannath asked with ill-disguised skepticism.

  “Your highness, there is something about me that you do not know. My father served your Great Uncle, the last Thayne of Hybrand.”

  Cannath continued to give the elf his skeptical stare and said nothing, waiting for him to continue. It was rumored that some elves were quite long-lived; he had yet to meet any. “My father was part of an officer exchange between Hybrand and the Moutainheym Elves of Chonju. You are familiar with that long-standing tradition, your highness?”

  Cannath gave the slightest nod and his look changed to one that said: this-better-be-good-or-I’ll-kill-you-now.

  “You will find an account of his services in the Royal Archives, if General Craxis has not had them destroyed. My father learned much of your culture and became fast friends with General Manx MaKonle. In the fifth year of his service, the thayne led a raid into the Wastes beyond Herkenberg where they battled the infamously cruel Na’Drog hurkin Warclan, which had been planning to expand into Herkenberg and Eagle Forge. During the final battle my father was wounded by an arrow that pinned his shoulder to a tree. Your great uncle, the thayne, found him as a party of the Na’Drog were approaching to finish him off. The Na’Drog hold special hatred for all elvenkind and the thayne knew what they would have done to him.

  “He saved my father’s life that day. My father returned to our homeland in the Mountains and raised me, along with my brothers, to become military officers in hopes of continuing that tradition. When Hybrand eventually fell to Arnathia he was devastated and pled with the Elders to send military aid. The situation was hopeless, however. The Arnathian numbers were too great and the Elvish and Cklathish allies could not be united.

  “It is a great failing of our nation that we could not support your Great Uncle in his time of need and it stains our honor,” the elf said.