But it was working, and now he had brought in two rival tribes simultaneously with positive results. Torga and Grock had entered Cryshal-Tirith, each searching for a way to kill the other without bringing on the wrath of the wizard. When they left, though, after a short discussion with Kessell, they were chatting like old friends about the glory of their coming battles in the army of Akar Kessell.
Kessell lounged back on his pillows and considered his good fortune. His army was indeed taking shape. He had frost giants for his field commanders, ogres as his field guard, verbeeg as a deadly strike force, and trolls, wretched, fear-inspiring trolls, as his personal bodyguard. And by his count thus far, ten thousand fanatically loyal goblin troops to carry out his swath of destruction.
“Akar Kessell!” he shouted to the harem girl that manicured his long fingernails as he sat in contemplation, though the girl’s mind had long ago been destroyed by Crenshinibon. “All glory to the Tyrant of Icewind Dale!”
* * *
Far to the south of the frozen steppes, in the civilized lands where men had more time for leisure activities and contemplation and every action wasn’t determined by sheer necessity, wizards and would-be wizards were less rare. The true mages, lifelong students of the arcane arts, practiced their trade with due respect for the magic, ever wary of the potential consequences of their spellcastings.
Unless consumed by the lust for power, which was a very dangerous thing, the true mages tempered their experiments with caution and rarely caused disasters.
The would-be mages, however, men who somehow had come into a degree of magical prowess, whether they had found a scroll or a master’s spellbook or some relic, were often the perpetrators of colossal calamities.
Such was the case that night in a land a thousand miles from Akar Kessell and Crenshinibon. A wizard’s apprentice, a young man who had shown great promise to his master, came into possession of a diagram of a powerful magic circle, and then sought and found a spell of summoning. The apprentice, lured by the promise of power, managed to extract the true name of a demon from his master’s private notes.
Sorcery, the art of summoning entities from other planes into servitude, was this young man’s particular love. His master had allowed him to bring midges and manes through a magical portal—closely supervised—hoping to demonstrate the potential dangers of the practice and reinforce the lessons of caution. Actually, the demonstrations had only served to heighten the young man’s appetite for the art. He had begged his master to allow him to try for a true demon, but the wizard knew that he wasn’t nearly ready for such a test.
The apprentice disagreed.
He had completed inscribing the circle that same day. So confident was he in his work that he didn’t spend an extra day (some wizards would spend a week) checking the runes and symbols or bother to test the circle on a lesser entity, such as a mane.
And now he sat within it, his eyes focused on the fire of the brazier that would serve as the gate to the Abyss. With a self-assured, overly proud smile, the would-be sorcerer called the demon.
Errtu, a major demon of catastrophic proportions, faintly heard its named being uttered on the faraway plane. Normally, the great beast would have ignored such a weak call; certainly the summoner hadn’t demonstrated any ability of sufficient strength to compel the demon to comply.
Yet Errtu was glad of the fateful call. A few years before, the demon had felt a surge of power on the material plane that it believed would culminate a quest it had undertaken a millenium ago. The demon had suffered through the last few years impatiently, eager for a wizard to open a path for it so that it could come to the material plane and investigate.
The young apprentice felt himself being drawn into the hypnotic dance of the brazier’s fire. The blaze had unified into a single flame, like the burn of a candle only many times larger, and it swayed tantalizingly, back and forth, back and forth.
The mesmerized apprentice wasn’t even aware of the growing intensity of the fire. The flame leaped higher and higher, its flickering sped up, and its color moved through the spectrum toward the ultimate heat of whiteness.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Faster, now, wagging wildly and building its strength to support the mighty entity that waited on the other side.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The apprentice was sweating. He knew that the power of the spell was growing beyond his bounds, that the magic had taken over and was living a life of its own. That he was powerless to stop it.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Now he saw the dark shadow within the flame, the great clawed hands, and the leathery, batlike wings. And the size of the beast! A giant even by the standards of its kind.
“Errtu!” the young man called, the words forced from him by the demands of the spell. The name hadn’t been completely identified in his master’s notes, but he saw clearly that it belonged to a mighty demon, a monster ranking just below the demon lords in the hierarchy of the Abyss.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Now the grotesque, monkeylike head, with the maw and muzzle of a dog and the oversized incisors of a boar, was visible, the huge, blood-red eyes squinting from within the brazier’s flame. The acidic drool sizzled as it fell to the fire.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The fire surged into a final climax of power, and Errtu stepped through. The demon didn’t pause at all to consider the terrified young human that had foolishly called its name. It began a slow stalk around the magic circle in search of clues to the extent of this wizard’s power.
The apprentice finally managed to steady himself. He had summoned a major demon! That fact helped him to reestablish his confidence in his abilities as a sorcerer. “Stand before me!” he commanded, aware that a firm hand was necessary to control a creature from the chaotic lower planes.
Errtu, undisturbed, continued its stalk.
The apprentice grew angry. “You will obey me!”‘ he screamed. “I brought you here, and I hold the key to your torment! You shall obey my command, and then I shall release you, mercifully, back to your own filthy world! Now, stand before me!”
The apprentice was defiant: The apprentice was proud.
But Errtu had found an error in the tracing of a rune, a fatal imperfection in a magic circle that could not afford to be almost perfect.
The apprentice was dead.
* * *
Errtu felt the familiar sensation of power more distinctly on the material plane and had little trouble discerning the direction of the emanations. It soared on its great wings over the cities of the humans, spreading a panic wherever it was noticed, but not delaying its journey to savor the erupting chaos below.
Arrow-straight and with all speed Errtu soared, over lakes and mountains, across great expanses of empty land. Toward the northernmost range in the Realms, the Spine of the World, and the ancient relic that it had spent centuries searching for.
* * *
Kessell was aware of the approaching demon long before his assembled troops began scattering in terror from under the swooping shadow of darkness. Crenshinibon had imparted the information to the wizard, the living relic anticipating the movements of the powerful creature from the lower planes that had been persuing it for ages uncounted.
Kessell wasn’t worried, though. Inside his tower of strength he was confident that he could handle even a nemesis as mighty as Errtu. And he had a distinct advantage over the demon. He was the rightful wielder of the relic. It was attuned to him, and like so many other magical artifacts from the dawn of the world, Crenshinibon could not be wrested from its possessor by sheer force. Errtu desired to wield the relic and, therefore, would not dare to oppose Kessell and invoke Crenshinibon’s wrath.
Acid drool slipped freely from the demon’s mouth when it saw the tower image of the relic. “How many years?” it bellowed victoriously. Errtu saw the tower’s door clearly, for the demon was a creature not of the material plan
e, and approached at once. None of Kessell’s goblins, or even giants, stood to hinder the demon’s entrance.
Flanked by his trolls, the wizard was waiting for Errtu in Cryshal-Tirith’s main chamber, the tower’s first level. The wizard understood that the trolls would be of little use against a fire-wielding demon, but he wanted them present to enhance the demon’s first impression of him. He knew that he held the power to send Errtu away easily enough, but another thought, again implanted through a suggestion of the crystal shard, had come to him.
The demon could be very useful.
Errtu pulled up short when it passed through the narrow entryway and came upon the wizard’s entourage. Because of the remote location of the tower, the demon had expected to find an orc, or perhaps a giant, holding the shard. It had hoped to intimidate and trick the slow-witted wielder into surrendering the relic, but the sight of a robed human, probably even a mage, threw a snag into its plans.
“Greetings, mighty demon,” Kessell said politely, bowing low. “Welcome to my humble home.”
Errtu growled in rage and started forward, forgetting the drawbacks of destroying the possessor in its all-consuming hatred and envy for the smug human.
Crenshinibon reminded the demon.
A sudden flare of light pulsed from the tower walls, engulfing Errtu in the painful brightness of a dozen desert suns. The demon halted and covered its sensitive eyes. The light dissipated soon enough, but Errtu held its ground and did not approach the wizard again.
Kessell smirked. The relic had supported him. Brimming with confidence, he addressed the demon again, this time a stern edge in his voice. “You have come to take this,” he said, reaching within the folds of his robe to produce the shard. Errtu’s eyes narrowed and locked onto the object it had pursued for so long.
“You can not have it,” Kessell said flatly, and he replaced it under his robe. “It is mine, rightfully found, and you have no claim over it that it would honor!” Kessell’s foolish pride, the fatal flaw in his personality that had always pushed him down a road of certain tragedy, wanted him to continue his taunting of the demon in its helpless situation.
“Enough,” warned a sensation within him, the silent voice he had come to suspect was the sentient will of the shard.
“This is none of your affair,” Kessell shot back aloud. Errtu looked around the room, wondering who the wizard was addressing. Certainly the trolls had paid him no heed. As a precaution, the demon invoked various detection spells, fearing an unseen assailant.
“You taunt a dangerous foe,” the shard persisted. “I have protected you from the demon, yet you persist in alienating a creature that would prove a valuable ally!”
As was usually the case when Crenshinibon communicated with the wizard, Kessell began to see the possibilities. He decided upon a course of compromise, an agreement mutually beneficial to both himself and the demon.
Errtu considered its predicament. It couldn’t slay the impertinent human, though the demon would have truly savored such an act. Yet leaving without the relic, putting off the quest that had been its primary motivation for centuries, was not an acceptable option.
“I have a proposal to offer, a bargain that might interest you,” Kessell said temptingly, avoiding the death-promising glare that the demon was throwing him. “Stay by my side and serve as commander of my forces! With you leading them and the power of Crenshinibon and Akar Kessell behind them, they shall sweep through the northland!”
“Serve you?” Errtu laughed. “You have no hold over me, human.”
“You view the situation incorrectly,” retorted Kessell. “Think of it not as servitude but as an opportunity to join in a campaign that promises destruction and conquest! You have my utmost respect, mighty demon. I would not presume to call myself your master.”
Crenshinibon, with its subconscious intrusions, had coached Kessell well. Errtu’s less-threatening stance showed that it was intrigued by the wizard’s proposition.
“And consider the gains that you shall someday make,” Kessell continued. “Humans do not live a very long tine by your ageless estimations. Who, then, shall take the crystal shard when Akar Kessell is no more?”
Errtu smiled wickedly and bowed before the wizard. “How could I refuse such a generous offer?” the demon rasped in its horrible, unearthly voice. “Show me, wizard, what glorious conquests lie in our path.”
Kessell nearly danced with joy. His army was, in effect, complete.
He had his general.
11. Aegis-fang
Sweat beaded on Bruenor’s hand as he put the key into the dusty lock of the heavy wooden door. This was the beginning of the process that would put all of his skill and experience to the ultimate trial. Like all master dwarven smiths, he had been waiting for this moment with excitement and apprehension since the beginning of his long training.
He had to push hard to swing the door in on the small chamber. Its wood creaked and groaned in protest, having warped and settled since it was last opened many years before. This was a comfort to Bruenor, though, for he dreaded the thought of anyone looking in on his most prized possessions. He glanced around at the dark corridors of this little-used section of the dwarven complex, making sure once more that he hadn’t been followed, then he entered the room, putting his torch in before him to burn away the hanging fringes of many cobwebs.
The only piece of furniture in the room was a wooden, iron-bound box, banded by two heavy chains joined by a huge padlock. Spiderwebs criss-crossed and flowed from every angle of the chest, and a thick layer of dust covered its top. Another good sign, Bruenor noted. He looked out into the hall again, then shut the wooden door as quietly as he could.
He knelt before the chest and placed his torch on the floor beside him. Several webs, licked by its flame, puffed into orange for just an instant, then died away. Bruenor took a small block of wood from his belt pouch and removed a silver key that hung on a chain about his neck. He held the wood block firmly in front of him and, keeping the fingers of his other hand below the level of the padlock as much as possible, gently slid the key into the lock.
Now came the delicate part. Bruenor turned the key slowly, listening. When he heard the tumbler in the lock click, he braced himself and quickly pulled his hand from the key, allowing the mass of the padlock to drop away from its ring, releasing a spring-loaded lever that had been pressed between it and the chest. The small dart knocked into the block of wood, and Bruenor breathed a sigh of relief. Though he had set the trap nearly a century before, he knew that the poison of the Tundra Widowmaker snake had kept its deadly sting.
Sheer excitement overwhelmed Bruenor’s reverence of this moment, and he hurriedly threw the chains back over the chest and blew the dust from its lid. He grasped the lid and started to lift it but suddenly slowed again, recovering his solemn calm and reminding himself of the importance of every action.
Anyone who had come upon this chest and managed to get by the deadly trap would have been pleased with the treasures he found inside. A silver goblet, a bag of gold, and a jeweled though poorly balanced dagger were mixed in among other more personal and less valuable items; a dented helm, old boots, and other similar pieces that would hold little appeal for a thief.
Yet these items were merely a foil. Bruenor pulled them out and dropped them on the dirty floor without a second thought.
The bottom of the heavy chest sat just above the level of the floor, giving no indication that anything more was to be found here. But Bruenor had cunningly cut the floor lower under the chest, fitting the box into the hole so perfectly that even a scrutinizing thief would swear that it sat on the floor. The dwarf poked out a small knothole in the box’s bottom and hooked a stubby finger through the opening. This wood, too, had settled over the years, and Bruenor had to tug mightily to finally pull it free. It came out with a sudden snap, sending Bruenor tumbling backward. He was back at the chest in an instant, peering cautiously over its edge at his greatest treasures.
; A block of the purest mithril, a small leather bag; a golden coffer, and a silver scroll tube capped on one end by a diamond were spaced exactly as Bruenor had lain them so long ago.
Bruenor’s hands trembled, and he had to stop and wipe the perspiration from them several times as he removed the precious items from the chest, placing those that would fit in his pack and laying the mithril block on a blanket he had unrolled. Then he quickly replaced the false bottom, taking care to fit the knothole back into the wood perfectly, and put his phony treasure back in place. He chained and locked the box, leaving everything exactly as he had found it, except that he saw no reason to chance accidents by rearming the needle trap.
* * *
Bruenor had constructed his outdoor forge in a hidden nook tucked away at the base of Kelvin’s Cairn. This was a seldom traveled portion of the dwarven valley, the northern end, with Bremen’s Run widening out into the open tundra around the western side of the mountain, and Icewind Pass doing likewise on the east. To his surprise, Bruenor found that the stone here was hard and pure, deeply imbued with the strength of the earth and would serve his small temple well.
As always, Bruenor approached this sacred place with measured, reverent steps. Carrying now the treasures of his heritage, his mind drifted back over the centuries to Mithril Hall, ancient home of his people, and to the speech his father had given him on the day he received his first smithy hammer.
“If yer talent for the craft is keen,” his father had said, “and ye’re lucky enough to live long and feel the strength of the earth, ye’ll find a special day. A special blessin’—some would say a curse—has been placed upon our people, for once, and only once, the very best of our smiths may craft a weapon of their choosing that outdoes any work they’d ever done. Be wary of that day, son, for ye’ll put a great deal of yerself into that weapon. Ye’ll never match its perfection in yer life again and, knowing this, ye’ll lose a lot of the craftsman’s desire that drives the swing of yer hammer. Ye may find an empty life after yer day, but if yer good as yer line says ye’ll be, ye’ll have crafted a weapon of legend that will live on long after yer bones are dust.”
The Crystal Shard frid-1 Page 10
