by Doug Niles
“Ah, yes, good thinking,” said the lord regent, who had seemed to grow a few inches during the course of the meeting. “Perhaps you could let me see it, for approval. Then we will waste no time in spreading the word through the city.”
Hoarst completed his meditations in the laboratory of the gray castle in the gray mountains of Dargaard. His women fearfully avoided him—his coldness and aloof manner did little to entice them—and he, in turn, ignored them utterly. For this task, he would work alone.
Blowing the dust off of an ancient tome, he opened the spellbook on his table and spent more than twenty-four straight hours studying the complicated workings of a dangerous and powerful incantation. He didn’t sleep and only took small sips of water for sustenance. His entire intellect was devoted to the effort of absorbing the arcane symbols, mystical gestures, and almost unpronounceable sounds. Finally, certain that he could cast the spell flawlessly, he closed the book and made ready to leave.
Looking around at the huge castle, he shrugged off the feeling that the place was even darker and grayer than it had been since he had lost Sirene. His kind did not permit regrets, certainly not when he had such important work to do.
Still, he reflected, perhaps later, when the matter was resolved, he would undertake a search, questing across Ansalon, across all of Krynn, for another white-skinned beauty …
It was time to go. His plan required several stages of precise magical accomplishment. To begin with, he had to locate Ankhar. He could cast a spell that would lead him to a specific object. The more unique and powerful the object, the easier it would be to find. The Nightmaster had given him the perfect suggestion: a potent artifact of the Prince of Lies, the emerald spearhead that tipped the mighty weapon carried by Ankhar the Truth.
When Hoarst cast the spell, it gave him a clear indication of where the artifact could be found. The Thorn Knight determined immediately that his target was in a valley of the Garnet Range. Next was teleportation. He would not be coming back to his keep, perhaps for a very long time, so he made his final preparations for travel carefully. He would carry his sharp dagger, a few spellbooks, a wide array of components, and small bottles of potion.
Using the Shaft of Hiddukel as a guide, he teleported himself through the ether, landing right by the side of the half-giant.
The gray wizard materialized on a wide plaza with a pristine lake nearby and mountain ridges flanking the horizons. Ankhar the Truth was there, and shockingly, he was engaged in a fight for his life.
A fight, by all appearances, the half-giant was about to lose.
A man Hoarst recognized as Jaymes Markham was standing over Ankhar, sword upraised, ready to strike the killing blow. The half-giant was sprawled on the ground, clawing for purchase, trying without success to evade the inevitable blow.
Hoarst wasted no time. He spat one word, pointing at the emperor, and released a stream of magic missiles from his fingertips. The first of the blazing bolts struck the man in his shoulder, knocking him back, breaking the line of the downward stab so the big sword not only missed the half-giant, but even missed the ground. Jaymes stumbled again, gasping with pain as the second bolt seared into his chest.
The emperor recovered quickly and used the blazing sword to knock away the next of the magic missiles … and the next. Parrying each, he kept the blasts from striking his body but was forced steadily backward, away from the half-giant who was gaping in amazement at his unbidden benefactor. Slowly, groggily, Ankhar pushed himself to his feet. By that time Jaymes had fallen back to the rank of dwarves ringing the plaza. The half-giant raised his spear and started toward the human.
“No!” Hoarst barked.
“Who are you to give me commands?” growled the half-giant.
“The one who would save your life—and your army!” snapped the Thorn Knight. “Now come with me!”
He tugged at the brutish commander’s wrist, and perhaps because he was still stunned and shocked, Ankhar let himself be pulled along. Hoarst and the half-giant retreated through the line of ogres standing on the lakeside edge of the plaza. It was not hard to see the ogres were in dire straits: surrounded on three sides by superior numbers with the deep, impassable body of water at the rear.
“I can get you out of here right now! We’ll carry the fight to a fortress in the emperor’s heartland! Will you come with me?” demanded the Thorn Knight.
Ankhar cast an anguished glance at the line of knights and dwarves, rallying around their wounded leader. The half-giant growled, an ominous rumble of sound that came from somewhere deep within him. The massive body trembled, and Hoarst momentarily feared the brute would be guided by his savage temper.
But somehow the mighty leader shook off the temptation, merely smacking his fist into his palm with a great thwack. “All right,” he said, glaring down at Hoarst. “How will you do this?”
“Form a line; have your troops hold out as long as possible while the enemy attacks. I am going to cast a spell that will create a door to safety. When you step through this door, it will take you to the fortress I spoke about. And you can bring as many of your ogres as are able to get away.”
“Let me see this door!” demanded the half-giant skeptically.
“Very well. But once the spell is cast, I cannot change it. The door will last for some length of time, maybe half an hour. You should go through first, but tell your ogres to keep following you.”
Ankhar glowered at Hoarst. “Why are you helping me?”
“You will help me if you come to this fortress,” the Thorn Knight said honestly. “I need warriors, and you need a place where you can make a stand. I believe we are helping each other.”
Once more the half-giant had to struggle against his own instincts to charge the enemy Solamnics and dwarves. Companies of humans were taking up positions on the flanks, other men and dwarves were bringing forward water, replacement weapons, and fresh horses. Clearly the respite in the battle would not last much longer.
“Cast your spell!” Ankhar ordered.
Hoarst nodded, ignoring the half-giant’s brusque tone; there would be time for that later. He went to the wall of one of the great charcoal factories, behind a shed where they were for the most part out of sight of the enemy troops. He took several small diamonds from his pouch and pressed the hard chips of stone into the wooden panels of the wall, outlining a rough rectangle some five feet wide and almost nine high. Closing his eyes, he began to chant.
Ankhar knew enough about spellcasting that he simply stood there and watched while Hoarst worked his magic. It was a complicated chant, full of barely-human sounds, augmented with many intricate gestures of the spellcaster’s hands. For sixty heartbeats, the Thorn Knight spoke, then for sixty more, barely drawing a breath. When he finished, the Thorn Knight staggered weakly, and only the half-giant’s reflexive catch prevented him from falling.
“Look!” grunted one of the ogres.
Hoarst shook off the fatigue and did, indeed, look. The area outlined by the diamonds was a shimmering surface of blue light, with arcs of power crackling across it and sparks trailing to the ground. It hummed with an otherworldly force, a thrumming they could not only hear but also feel in the pits of their stomachs.
“What is that?” demanded Ankhar.
“It is the door—the door between dimensions!” Hoarst snapped. “Now let’s go!”
“You go first,” the half-giant prodded.
“All right,” said the wizard. “I will. But you must come quickly with as many ogres as you can; I don’t know how long it will last.”
Ankhar nodded and quickly indicated some of his warriors—and one terrified, plump ogress—bringing them into a queue next to the wall. At the same time, the humans and dwarves shouted their war cries and commenced another rush across the plaza.
Hoarst took one last look, then stepped into the blue aura, allowing the magic to sweep him away.
At sunset scouts brought word that a brigade of troops was marching down the road from
the High Clerist’s Pass, coming to cement the coup that replaced the emperor with the lord regent in Palanthas. Blayne went to the city gate to await the arrival of the brigade. The men of the city watch had already been informed by decree of the new order and the lord regent’s restored role. They willingly accepted Blayne’s presence at the watch command station.
If events were progressing according to plan, the men coming down the road ought to be troops of the Black Army, perhaps even Captain Blackgaard and the gray wizard Hoarst. As darkness fell, Blayne ordered the watchmen to light lanterns around the gate in the light posts set out along the road.
The men of the Legion of Steel had taken control of the palace and several key locations in the city. The city guards had caused no problem once the authority of the lord regent was invoked to support the coup. Sir Jorde, with two dozen of his men, waited in the courtyard below the gate tower where Blayne was watching for the troops. Sir Ballard was also due to arrive.
The waiting seemed interminable, but Blayne’s mood was lifted when the young nobleman felt a friendly clap on his shoulder and turned to see the first man he had met on his mission to Palanthas.
“Archer Billings!” Blayne cried, delighted to see the grinning guardsman. “It’s a great day today, is it not?”
“It is indeed, sir. It is indeed!” agreed the bowman, who wore his usual battered short sword in the scabbard at his waist. “I take it you had a hand in this, my lord?” he asked respectfully.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Blayne said. “The legion was ready to move, but they just needed a contact with the rebels outside of the city. You facilitated that.”
“The least I could do, m’lord,” Billings said modestly.
He stepped to the parapet of the watchtower, peering into the courtyard below. “My, they do look like they’ve waited a long time for this,” the archer said.
Jorde and his small company were dressed immaculately in gleaming armor in a mix of Sword, Rose, and Crown emblems. They were well armed and positioned in the shadows of the high walls. There were two gates, both leading into the gatehouse itself or the training yard around the barracks of the city guards.
“There they are!” shouted a watchman suddenly, and Blayne and Billings turned to look up the road. The column marched into view, the men in the black tunics and armor, and at their head rode Captain Blackgaard, the commander of the Black Army and the liberator of the High Clerist’s Tower.
The advance columns of the Black Brigade were mounted and rode at an easy trot. The sentries on the city walls pointed and watched expectantly as the riders drew closer.
Blayne didn’t hear who it was who shouted the warning, but the words rose suddenly from one of the footmen outside the wall. “Beware! These are Dark Knights!”
“No!” cried young Lord Kerrigan. “That can’t be!” But he realized even as he raised the protest that it was possible. Could he have been so stupid?
“I recognize that captain—he was the Butcher of the Dark Tower here, when Mina ruled!” cried another man.
“Close the gate!” Sir Jorde shouted to his men. They rushed toward the passage out of the courtyard only to have the gate slam shut in their faces.
And Blayne saw why: There was another man in the courtyard. He was dressed utterly in black, even to the point of wearing a mask over his face. His hands waved before him as he chanted arcane words—speaking in a strangely familiar voice. Almost immediately, a greenish-yellow mist swirled around him, a heavy vapor that seeped along the ground, filled the small courtyard, and rose to clutch at the legionnaires with sinister tendrils.
Blayne stared in horror as one of the legionnaires clutched his throat and doubled over, kicking violently then falling utterly still, his body grotesquely contorted. Another, then more of the trapped men toppled over, thrashing and gasping, though none of them struggled for more than a few moments.
“A killing cloud!” grunted Jorde, lunging toward the man in black. “We’ve been betrayed!”
The knight’s sword was in his hand, but the other person—he was a priest of darkness, Blayne realized—held up a hand in a gesture that brought Jorde to a sudden stop. His face twisted in anguish. Staggering, the legionnaire dropped to one knee, swaying clumsily before falling on his face. Like the other victims, all probably dead by then, he vanished beneath the miasma of mist that oozed and billowed across the courtyard floor.
“No!” cried Blayne, starting for the stairs. “We’ve got to close the city gate!” He spun toward Billings, and that movement saved his life.
The archer had his short sword out and was driving the tip toward Blayne’s back. The lord whirled away, pulling out his own weapon and smashing it sideways to block the blow aimed at him.
“You were more help than you’ll ever know,” Billings said tauntingly. “Bringing the secret knights out into the open, where the Nightmaster could find them!”
“You lie!” gasped Blayne, even though he realized it was the pathetic truth. In a frenzy he came at the other man, driving him back with savage overhand blows. The archer’s face betrayed fear as he retreated until the solid parapet was behind him, fighting desperately to hold Blayne’s furious attacks at bay.
But young Lord Kerrigan stabbed him in the right arm and, with a scream of pain, Billings dropped his sword. He squirmed back, between two of the battlements on the parapet.
Blayne charged forward, dropping his sword, pushing with both hands. Billings toppled over the wall, screaming for just a moment before he landed on his back, disappearing beneath the layer of gas that ebbed and flowed in the courtyard. Blayne watched for a moment, making sure that the traitor didn’t get up from the ground.
By then the first of the Dark Knights were through the gates. Blayne frantically released the winch, and the portcullis came crashing down, splitting the formation in two. He looked down to see that only a score of black-clad horsemen were inside the city. They dismounted with smooth efficiency.
“Up there!” cried the masked priest, indicating the tower where Blayne stood alone. “Kill him and open the gates again!”
In a rush, the Dark Knights headed for the stairway leading up to the gatehouse platform. Blayne raised his sword, already slick with Billings’s blood, and took a position at the top of the stairs.
He wondered what it would be like to die.
Coryn teleported directly to the temple of Kiri-Jolith, where she startled Melissa du Juliette in the midst of her midday prayers.
“I’m sorry for intruding, but I think I’ve located Selinda!” the white wizard exclaimed.
“You found her? Where is she?”
“Actually, I’ve located the ring I gave her. It’s in the city, near the waterfront. I can find the place, I’m certain.”
“Let’s go!” the high priestess said, dropping her prayer beads and throwing a ceremonial cloak over her shoulders. She snatched up a stout cudgel of ironwood with a steel cap at the head. Impressed, Coryn noted the formidable weapon and hoped they wouldn’t need it.
The two women hurried from the temple, one in her robe of immaculate whiteness, the other in the flowing green garment of her high station. After a moment’s consideration, they wrapped themselves in cloaking magic, muting the distinctive colors of their garments so it looked as though they were both wearing simple woolen cloaks. Coryn led them toward the waterfront, and they quickly made their way down a dark street, so narrow it was almost an alley. It was well after nightfall, and the darkness was thick around them.
“Hello, pretty ladies,” came a voice from the shadows. “What brings such illustrious lovelies to our little corner of the city? May I welcome you to the Hale and Farewell? I am Hale, himself!”
He lifted a hand, indicating the dark door behind him. Coryn saw a flash of silver on his finger and felt a jolt of recognition. He wore the ring!
The man continued speaking as he limped toward the door to his establishment. “I guarantee you will find the finest—”
Hale never got to finish his remark as a blast of magic struck him from behind, propelling him into the door, which cracked and broke open under the impact of the man’s body. He sprawled on the floor just within the entry.
But Hale was tougher than he looked. He jumped up from the floor, drawing his dagger as the two women pushed after him. An unseen force knocked him against the wall of the room, so hard that he slumped to the floor. Struggling against the unseen power, he dropped his knife and raised his hands in front of his face.
The two females came closer, and close up they looked very different than when he had accosted them on the street. One was dressed in a pure white robe, and the other wore a cloak of bright green, emblazoned with the fist of Kiri-Jolith. Hale uttered a strangled sound, holding up his hands as he struggled to his feet.
Melissa du Juliette, high priestess of Kiri-Jolith, raised a hand and the invisible hammer of her god—the force that had blasted Hale against the door—slammed into the man again.
Stunned, Hale collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain.
Coryn stood over him, the sheer brightness of her white robe causing him—and every other patron in the place—to throw up a hand against the blinding glare. “Where is she? The woman who wore that ring in here?”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Hale murmured, reaching to cover the ring with his right hand.
Coryn gestured, and a sparking missile smashed against his free hand, drawing a howl of pain. Hale lifted his burned, blistered fingers to his mouth, groaning.
“Tell us!” demanded the priestess. “Or her next missile will be a death blow!”
“She—I turned her over—she’s in the palace! The lord regent’s palace—he sent his agent to collect her!”
Coryn blinked in surprise at the news, but that didn’t stop her from stepping on the man’s ankle and pressing down with her weight. “Did you hurt her? Or her baby?”
“She’s pregnant?” Hale gasped, clearly horrified. “But—but, she drank the Red Lotus!”
