His objectives were still the same. Only the approach had changed. His original plan had been straightfor shy;ward: frighten the thieves into producing the gem-studded object and then kill the leader in retribution and as an object lesson to the accomplice. However, he knew kender were utterly fearless-no intimidation, no bluff would produce the locket, or even an apology. Still, the little folk tended to be far more naive than the typical human thief. Perhaps he could trick them. If worse came to worst, he could kill them and find the treasure him shy;self.
His decision made, Ariakas stepped around the tree and walked up to the fire as if his appearance here were perfectly natural. His sword remained in its scabbard, while his left hand held the clump of dry pine branches behind his back.
"Oh, hello there," said the first kender, who had just joined the cook by the fire. "You're almost in time for supper!"
The second turned with no visible expression of sur shy;prise. Ariakas felt another jolt as he saw that this was a female. Delicate lines scored her slender face-a face that might have belonged to a young girl except for its creases of maturity. "Did you bring that lavarum?" she chirped. "That'll be the perfect thing with this bacon-potato goulash!"
Despite his preparation, the directness of her remark took Ariakas by surprise. "Yes-yes I did," he blurted after a moment.
"Say, that was good stuff!" agreed the male, amiably indicating a place by the fire for Ariakas to sit. "I'm Cornsilk Tethersmeet-and this is my friend, Keppli." The female bobbed her head, a welcoming smile on her face.
Suddenly the ridiculousness of the situation infuriated Ariakas. Disgust rose like bile in his throat. He cast away the brittle branches-he saw no need to night-blind the kender.
"Look," he declared, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "I've come to get my locket back-which one of you will get it for me?" His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword in none-too-subtle accent.
"Your locket?" Cornsilk Tethersmeet squeaked in sur shy;prise. "What makes you think we have it?"
"I know you have it," replied the human grimly. "Now, one of you get it for me!"
"I'm beginning to think we'll just keep this supper for ourselves," challenged Keppli, huffily. "You can just build your own fire, if that's the way you're going to be!"
Ariakas refused to alter his course. Carefully watching the pair, he sidestepped over to their packs and flipped open the flap of the first one.
"Hey! You can't do that-that's mine!" shrilled the female kender, jumping to her feet.
Ignoring her protests, he rummaged inside the leather satchel, pulling out a horseshoe, a blacksmith's hammer, a gem-studded brooch in the ornate platinum image of an eagle, and several bottles and flasks that apparently contained food and drink.
"Stop it!" protested Cornsilk, stepping toward him.
Ariakas drew his sword with his free hand and raised the blade. The little fellow stopped, a scowl of concentra shy;tion wrinkling his face.
Plunging his hand into the second backpack, Ariakas pulled out a variety of boots-many of them too large for kender feet, and none with an obvious match-as well as a plush robe of soft brown fur. Finally his fingers touched a familiar leather-covered bundle.
"This!" he declared, pulling forth the chain. He allowed the gleaming locket to swing in the firelight, dangling before the startled kender. Orange glimmers danced across the platinum, and the rubies at the locket's corners glowed in reflection like baleful, accusing eyes.
"That's not yours!" declared Cornsilk Tethersmeet with a determined shake of his head.
"Do you remember where you got it?" challenged Ari shy;akas.
"Sure-I found it!"
"Where?"
"In the mountains-last night," explained the kender patiently, as if he believed that he could change the human's mind.
"You stole this from my pack while I slept!" Ariakas barked.
The kender's eyes widened in shock and indignation. "I did no such thing! Why, if it had been in your pack, then you stole it-and I found it there!"
Growling in irritation, the warrior shook off the bar shy;rage of objections. Sword raised, he advanced on Corn-silk Tethersmeet. The final measure of justice remained, and to him it mattered not whether the thief was human or kender. The little fellow's next words stopped him in his tracks, however.
"That locket belongs to the lady in the tower," the kender protested, vexed by Ariakas's lack of under shy;standing. "It's even got her picture in it! Why, I might even have remembered to give it back to her," he con shy;cluded with injured dignity.
"What lady?" inquired the human, intrigued in spite of himself.
"Why, the lady that the ogres of Oberon caught," explained the kender in exasperation. "They keep her in the tower over there." He gestured vaguely to the east.
"Who is she?" demanded Ariakas. He remembered the name Oberon, a bandit lord reputed to command a band of ogres to the north of Bloten. "And how do you know the locket's hers?"
"I told you who she is-the lady held prisoner by ogres! And I know it's her locket because she told me about it. She lost it before-or maybe it was stolen. She told me about those four big rubies in the corners, and the little clasp. Even that raven carved into the back. Plus, it's got her picture in it-right there! There can't be two lockets like that, can there?"
Ariakas resisted the urge to answer. "Tell me more about the lady."
"She's a princess, or a queen, or something," Keppli piped up. "I know that she's rich-or she was before the ogres got her and put her up in that tower!"
"Where does she come from?" the warrior pressed.
The two kender looked at each other and shrugged. "Go and ask her," Cornsilk Tethersmeet said, impatience registering in his voice. "Now, if you'll be kind enough to be on your way…."
"One more question," stalled Ariakas, the hilt of his sword nestling comfortably in his palm. "Where is this tower, this place where the lady is imprisoned?"
"Over there," declared the kender. "About three days travel, I should say. It's on the border of Bloten, but I think the ogres who live there are just some kind of rene shy;gade band. They have their own warlord-the one they call Oberon."
"How is it that you know so much about them?" in shy;quired Ariakas. He remembered Oberon's name with growing interest since Habbar-Akuk had mentioned the same brutal monster.
"Oh, we stayed there for a week last winter. They gave us a nice room, up near the lady's, where we could see for miles-all the way to the Lords of Doom, on a clear day."
"But then," Keppli interjected, "we heard them talking about us and, well, it wasn't very pleasant-"
"And we never did get to meet Oberon!" asserted the male.
"… not very pleasant at all," Keppli continued with a firm shake of her head.
"So we left," concluded Cornsilk. "As if those locks could hold anyone!"
"They hold the lady?" pressed Ariakas.
"Well, yes," admitted the kender, though he seemed prepared to argue the point. Then he shook his head. "So you see, you can't have her locket. If you'll just put it down-"
"I'm taking it. Nothing you've told me changes the fact that you're a thief-the worst kind of pilfering rogue, to sneak through the darkness and threaten a man while he sleeps!"
"Why, I-"
"Quiet!" Ariakas's voice became a roar, and the kender's mouth clamped shut in surprise. Cornsilk's dark, surprisingly mature eyes studied the warrior ap-praisingly-and with a total absence of fear. For some reason the kender's refusal to be afraid enraged the human. "Here's your justice, thief!" he barked, thrusting sharply with the sword.
Cornsilk was prepared for the move, but he hadn't anticipated the warrior's speed. The kender dropped and rolled to the side, but not before the tip of the sword ripped into the exposed side of his neck.
"Hey!" shouted Cornsilk, clapping a hand to the wound and staring in confusion at the bright, arterial blood spurting between his fingers. Then his eyes closed, and he sprawled to the ground.
; "I will spare you," Ariakas said to Keppli, clasping the locket in his left hand as he held his sword at the ready.
Warily he eyed the female kender. "But pray remember this lesson before you steal again."
The fury in Keppli's eyes astonished him. She could not have blasted him harder by unleashing bolts of fire. In a steady, uncompromising voice, she taunted him. "Hail the human warrior, brave enough to murder! The goat who was his father would be proud! The sow that gave birth to him would squeal in delight!"
"Would you face your companion's fate?" he demanded, flushing angrily.
"It's nothing beside the fate in store for you!" she cried, her voice tinged with an edge of laughter. "Before the gods are done with you, raven wings will beat around your bones-lizards will crawl between your legs!"
"You're mad!" he snarled, slashing wildly at her, furi shy;ous as she skipped beyond range of his sword.
"Madness is a thing you should know!" she sang, fierce triumph ringing in every word, biting into Ariakas like the sting of a poisoned blade. "Blood of insanity flows through your veins-only the shade of a heart beats within you. Oh, yes-madness is a thing you know too well!"
Ariakas lost all vestige of control. He lunged through the dying campfire, hacking at the nimble form. Some shy;where in the back of his mind a voice of reason, of cau shy;tion, told him that this was dangerous.
Even so, he dived after Keppli, darting the tip of his blade across her heel, drawing a squeak of pain as she tumbled to the ground. He leapt, but she rolled away from him, and as he skidded to one knee, she bounced to her feet.
Cold steel gleamed in her hand.
Raw instinct took hold of the warrior's arm, bringing his blade through a desperate arc as he toppled back shy;ward, striving to avoid the blade that snicked past his throat. Somehow he raised his sword.
Thrusting, he drove the weapon through the kender's body, cursing as her dagger sliced his chin and lip. Kep-pli spoke no words-she simply collapsed and died. Ari-akas let his blade fall with its victim, clasping both hands to the blood that jetted from the long wound across his face.
Chapter 3
Fortress Oberon
It took nearly a week to find the tower, but when he did, no doubt lingered: before him loomed the dour keep where the lady pictured in the locket was held prisoner.
The lofty structure rose into the sky like a massive, weather-beaten tree trunk. Upthrust from a craggy sum shy;mit of dark stone, the high, cylindrical tower seemed to defy gravity, to defy all worldly constraint as it soared above the peaks of the Khalkists. Clouds whipped past the parapets of its upper ramparts while mist shrouded the valleys-gorges actually-that lay a long plummet to all sides.
The fortress itself was taller than it was wide, and it seemed to perch like some serene vulture on its lofty pinnacle. Its black stone walls rose flush with the cliffs, soaring to narrow parapets. Near the top, six flanking spires jutted outward from the central tower and en shy;circled the upper ramparts. A cone-shaped roof capped the main structure, though the surrounding spires were topped with the notched rims of stone parapets.
For the most part, the keep and its unassailable sum shy;mit stood apart from other mountains, separated from them by wide chasms and gorges. Yet one mountain, equally lofty, rose close beside the fortress. A steep, treacherous pathway led to the summit of this adjoining peak. A drawbridge raised almost flush with the tower's wall could be lowered to span the gap between the pin shy;nacles, giving the winding trail access to the keep's only door. Still, with the drawbridge raised, it seemed to the warrior that the fortress was as well protected as a castle floating on a cloud.
Groaning in weariness, Ariakas slumped against a boulder. The stone was hard, angular in shape, and so cold that it sapped the heat from his body despite the fur cloak he had made from the kender bedroll. Yet even now, in the shadow of an obstacle that loomed as impreg shy;nable as anything he had ever faced, he hadn't consid shy;ered turning away. The temperature continued to drop, and an icy wind drove bits of snow like stinging needles against the exposed skin of his face. But no notion to seek a lower elevation entered his mind.
Instead, he looked about for a place to make his camp. The primary attribute of this camp, he knew, would not be shelter, though of course that was desirable. More importantly, however, he looked for a place from which he could observe the tower while remaining concealed. In time, he found a narrow niche in a steep slope, a dozen feet above the winding trail that approached the drawbridge. Here he was protected from the wind, and two large boulders screened his tiny camp from the tower's observation. He could lie prone, exposing just the top of his head between those two stones, and gain a good view of the lofty fortress-from its low gate to the soaring pinnacles of its six spires.
Making himself as comfortable as possible, Ariakas settled onto the ground to study his objective. In the hours since he had discovered the tower, he had seen no sign of movement nor any life within or atop the structure.
He stared for a time at the high gates, visible behind the drawbridge. They seemed to be a pair of narrow doors, rising together to a point. Before those doors stood the tall, plank roadway of the drawbridge, now raised almost to a vertical elevation by chains that emerged from slits in the tower's wall, forty feet above the entrance.
As Ariakas studied the place, his hand came to rest against his chin, and he explored the deep scar that remained from the slice of the kender's knife. No mirror allowed him to inspect the cut, yet his fingers had told him many times in the past week that the wound was wide, gaping from the ridge of his chin into his lower lip. He could press his tongue between the two halves of that cut, and though the injury had healed without infection, it created difficulties in eating and drinking. His imagi shy;nation told him that the raw flesh in the cut glared angry and red.
Since his encounter with the kender, Ariakas had spent many hours reflecting on his carelessness. He felt bitter shame for his loss of control, knowing that-if he'd kept his wits about him-he could have avoided that slashing blade. Why had the bitch been so foolishly self-destructive? He wrestled with the question for the thou shy;sandth time. Surely she knew she had no chance against his sword. Or had she really felt that he'd lose complete control, enabling her to strike a killing blow?
An unusual sense of disquiet permeated the warrior's thoughts. His confidence sorely waned with the memory of his last challenge-a simple retrieval of his locket, an operation that left him maimed. Was that failing the fac shy;tor that brought him now to this formidable tower, con shy;templating this mad task? Or was it, perhaps, the ogres? He bore no love for the beasts, and the murder of his father, plus a thousand other outrages, had given him ample desire for vengeance. Did rank hatred propel him into this suicidal course?
He knew that he was driven by more than this. Uncon shy;sciously, he reached his hand into the pouch at his side and curled it around the solid box of the locket. Then, as always, his imagination completed for him the image of a woman-the woman, she had become.
As always, he was amazed at the clarity, the consis shy;tency of his mental image. Of course, he had the likeness of the tiny picture to begin with, but a full array of addi shy;tional details had been added by his mind. Only the woman's clothing ever changed-now in his thoughts she wore a flowing dress of powdery blue, whereas this morning his imagination had pictured her in a filmy gown of silky white. Her shoulders were bare, for the dress was cut low, and her long, ink-black hair was coiled upon her scalp with queenly majesty.
Her face was long, sculpted in a beauty too serene for words. Her dark eyes alternately flashed and wept, and her sweeping neck was adorned with glittering jewels. Graceful fingers rose to her face, as if she felt his intru shy;sive presence. But, too, it was an intrusion that he sensed she wanted, for her breasts rose and fell with the increased tempo of her breathing, her lips parted, moist, in silence that he took as invitation.
Why did he feel compelled to reach her? The "lady" in the tower, she had b
een to the kender…. She was rich, a princess, perhaps. Ariakas liked money, had felt the draw of wealth throughout his life-had even known the pleasures of extravagance, when coins had flowed from his fingers like water over a dam. It was a grand feel shy;ing-wealth-and a powerful summons.
But it was not the thing that drew him now.
Night pulled in its shutters, and the tower disap shy;peared from view-except for one high window, where a yellow light broke the stygian darkness like a solitary star. Clouds lowered, and flurries of snow eddied around Ariakas, but still that light gleamed like a bea shy;con, calling him onward and upward.
He rested through the night, sleeping little. When he did close his eyes, the image of the lady grew and burned in his mind. After a few moments of this, he would awaken and stare at the tower, at the lone light that still flamed in the sky, even as dawn began to color the eastern horizon.
Despite his restless night, he crawled from his bedroll with a sense of vigor and purpose. The mist had burned away, and the tower stood out in stark black outline against the clear sky. The sun sent its first probing rays from beyond the horizon, and these illuminated the highest peaks-and, soon, the tower. Yet when sunlight struck the dark walls, it seemed that the brightness van shy;ished into the black stone surfaces.
His observation was interrupted then by a strange sound-the first noise he'd heard in many days other than the moaning of the wind or the splashing of a mountain rivulet. It was the unmistakable clink of metal against metal, and in a few moments Ariakas discerned the measured beat of footsteps.
Pulling down behind the security of the twin boulders, he studied the pathway below. Shortly a large metal-clad figure came into view, swaggering up the trail. It took Ariakas less than a second to recognize the brute as an ogre. A great, toothy mouth gaped wide below a blunt snout, and twin tusks, yellowed with age, jutted upward from the corners of the jaw. The creature stood fully eight feet tall, with a barrel-sized chest and two huge, stumpy legs. As it marched it cast wicked eyes to the left and right, diligently searching the slope above the trail.
Emperor of Ansalon v-3 Page 3
