Emperor of Ansalon v-3

by Douglas Niles

  A thin stream splashed through the steep-sided vale at the foot of the ridge, while another slope-it could have been a mirror image of the incline they had just descended — stretched toward the sky beyond the brook.

  Lyrelee, leaning between the two dwarves, limped toward the streambank, while Ariakas kept his attention riveted on the dwarves above. The Zhakar hastened for shy;ward, but now they were too far back to catch the group before the waterway.

  At the edge of the water, Tale Splintersteel stopped, though Ferros and Lyrelee stepped right into the stream. The channel was barely two feet deep, which would have been no higher than his chest, but the Zhakar mer shy;chant dug in his heels. The attackers surged forward, so Ariakas planted a firm kick in his companion's backside, flinging Tale far from shore before the cursing dwarf splashed into the water.

  Ariakas waded after, fetching the spluttering figure up from the current, surprised to see Splintersteel quivering in terror. Desperately the dwarf clutched at the warrior's waist, and in disgust Ariakas carried the wretched figure the few steps to the far side of the stream. Ferros and Lyrelee had already emerged, and the dwarf helped the priestess stumble away from the shore. The Hylar's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as Ariakas tossed the dripping Zhakar onto the bank.

  Once out of bow range, the party looked back at their pursuers, gathering along the bank. Ferros Windchisel spoke to the bedraggled Tale Splintersteel.

  "Do all of you hate the water so much?"

  Still muttering, the dwarf gave a surly nod.

  "We might have bought ourselves some time," Ferros noted with an appreciative look at the stream. Several slick rocks broke the surface, but anyone trying to cross without getting wet would be in for a real challenge.

  They continued away from the stream and toward a steep gully leading up. In moments they had climbed beyond arrow range from the valley floor. Tale Splinter-steel's teeth chattered, and he shivered uncontrollably- altogether the picture of extreme misery. True to the companions' deduction, the pursuing Zhakar reached the banks of the stream and began to curse and catcall after them, but made no attempt to wade across.

  One of the Zhakar jumped to a rock in the stream, perching awkwardly on the rounded top. When he tried leaping to the next intended stepping stone, however, he slipped and plunged into the water. Shrieking in pain or horror, he frantically splashed back to the shore and crawled out.

  Lyrelee groaned and sagged to the ground.

  "Keep an eye on that bunch!" Ariakas warned the dwarves, kneeling beside her. The priestess closed her eyes, wincing in pain, and Ariakas saw that the arrow penetrating her side had been jostled and wrenched in its wound. Lyrelee's breathing was shallow, her color pallid.

  The man felt a burning determination-she would not die! Yet only with the aid of his goddess could he hope to help her.

  Everything else vanished into the background as Aria shy;kas remembered his training in the temple. "Takhisis, mighty Queen of Darkness," he uttered softly, "summon forth the healing strength of my faith, and bring it to bear against this woman's hurts!"

  He felt the power of the goddess thrumming through his limbs, and-with hands that felt almost detached, as if they belonged to someone else-he first touched the shaft embedded in the wound, and then, very gently, removed it. Lyrelee's eyes flashed open, and she placed a hand over his, drawing strength from the power of the man and the Dark Queen.

  Within a few minutes she sat up, and when he helped her to her feet, she stood alone, steadily. The sparkling determination returned to her eyes, and the pale cast of her skin was the only visible reminder of her weakened condition.

  "The little beggars are inventive-I'll give them that," noted Ferros Windchisel, indicating the dwarves across the stream.

  Ariakas saw that the Zhakar had formed a chain of laborers, passing large rocks from one to the next. The last dwarf in the chain stood at the bank of the stream, pitching the rocks into the water as they reached him. Slowly the line of boulders extended into the water, forming an impromptu jetty, with gaps to allow the water to flow through. Within a few minutes the rudi shy;mentary bridge extended most of the way across the stream.

  "We'd better get going," Tale Splintersteel urged, his voice tense and agitated. "They'll be after us!"

  "You three go on ahead," suggested Ariakas, the beginnings of a plan taking root in his mind. He studied the Zhakar who gathered at the streambank waiting for the completion of the bridge. "I'll stay back-see if I can't give them a little something to remember us by."

  Gently carrying the sword with the crimson blade, Ariakas started back down the slope, taking care to remain out of bow range. Several of the cloaked dwarves saw his descent, shouting and jabbering excitedly, point shy;ing toward the warrior and brandishing their weapons in fury.

  With a few crashes and splashes, the bridge was fin shy;ished, and the Zhakar began to pour across, leaping the narrow gaps where water continued to flow. The crowd shy;ing was so frantic that several of them stumbled from the irregular surface, splashing into the liquid they had tried so hard to avoid. Nevertheless, at least fifty of the runty dwarves surged forward in a mass, infused with blood-lust.

  As the tightly packed horde raced toward him, Aria-kas slipped and slid farther down the incline until he had almost reached the level of the valley floor. The near shy;est Zhakar raised their weapons, no doubt wondering at the folly of this human who accepted such an unequal battle.

  The warrior lifted his sword toward the front of the pack, murmuring a plea to his goddess. As before, Takhi-sis heard, and granted him her favor. The blade began to glow, so brightly that the leading dwarves faltered slightly in their charge, uncertain what would happen next.

  They never had time to realize what did. Without a sound, the sword suddenly spit out a searing, brilliant tongue of flame. The fire embraced the leading Zhakar with greedy fingers, devouring flesh and torching robes. Before they could open their mouths or utter any cries of pain, a dozen dwarves had died, blackened to crisp, charred corpses scattered along the valley floor.

  Ariakas hefted the blade slightly, allowing the billow shy;ing cloud of fire to expand outward and upward. Now the sound of roaring flames rumbled around him, mixed with the pathetic shrieks of Zhakar dwarves who saw death approaching and could do nothing to avoid it. Flames licked across shriveling dwarven skin, and bod shy;ies wrapped in fire fell to the ground and writhed, smok shy;ing bundles of agony. Billows and sheets of oily flame hissed from one dwarf to the next, seeking, killing.

  Those dwarves on the fringes of the assault turned and fled back across the bridge, starkly proving the depth of their water abhorrence. Even in blind flight, the Zhakar crowded onto their impromptu bridge. None of the wretched creatures plunged into the stream, even as the scalding fireball drifted closer.

  Finally the swordsman turned the full brunt of the attack against those dwarves who tried to get onto the bridge. The mass of Zhakar disappeared in a howling, smoking inferno, and even when the gouts of fire ceased to belch from the sword, the pile of corpses burned, sending a cloud of black smoke billowing upward into the sky.

  Ariakas looked across the valley bottom. He saw a dozen or more Zhakar, still alive, desperately scrambling away from him. Good, he thought. He wanted survivors so that the tale of his might and his brutality would reach the ears of the Zhakar king. Instilling fear within that monarch was a major part of the warrior's plan.

  Only then did he look down at the blade. A chill of portent ran through his body as he saw it. When the fires had died and the weapon had performed its deadly work, the steel surface had faded from red, as he had known it would. Now, however, it became a deep, rich blue.

  Chapter 20

  The Walls of Zhakar

  They rested for a full day after the battle, making their camp in a niche on the leeward side of the tall ridge. There they recovered from the exertion and tended their many wounds-all of which, save Lyrelee's, proved to be minor. Though the priestess had been near dea
th during the fight, the regenerative power of Ariakas's healing magic proved astonishingly effective. By the second night there was no sign that her skin had been punc shy;tured.

  During this period of rest and recovery, the compan shy;ions kept a careful watch for attackers. The Zhakar knew where they were, they reasoned, since it would have been impossible for them to effectively hide in the open terrain. Still, they saw not a single sign of the stunted dwarves.

  "Did we scare them that well?" Ariakas wondered as the sun set that night.

  "It's that sword," Tale Splintersteel offered, pointing to the now-azure blade. "I told you-my people know good weapons, and that is one of the best."

  "Know them, sure. But do they really fear this sword that much?" The idea that the weapon was all that deterred another attack seemed just a little unsettling to Ariakas. After all, now that the blade had turned blue he was not about to use it for a routine battle demonstra shy;tion. The Dark Queen's prophecy still resounded through his mind, and he vowed not to employ the power until he understood what she meant.

  "In the heart of the world, it will set fire to the sky." he murmured, pondering the gleaming weapon.

  "What was that?" asked Lyrelee, reclining near the low fire Ferros had built out of dried brush.

  "Nothing-just my mind wandering," Ariakas replied hastily.

  She looked at him quickly, a glance that seemed to penetrate right through his lie. Still, she settled back onto her rocky pillow and closed her eyes, apparently uncon shy;cerned.

  "Keep sharp lookout, tonight," Tale Splintersteel sug shy;gested from his bedroll as Ariakas rose to take the first shift of guard duty. "Zhakar eyes are keen in the dark- and my country folk often favor the early morning hours for an attack."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Ariakas retorted scornfully. Just the same, he held his blade out of the scabbard as he climbed to a rocky perch above their camp. From here he could see the slope to all sides of them, as well as the val shy;ley floor stretching to the right and left and the face of the ridge rising opposite them beyond.

  The Zhakar made no appearance even through the darkest hours of the night, and when dawn found Ferros Windchisel in the watch seat, there had been not the slightest disturbance or intrusion. They ate a cold break shy;fast and finally returned to the trail, resuming the steep climb that had been interrupted two days before.

  Ariakas watched Lyrelee carefully. Though she wore a pack nearly as heavy as his, her steps were firm, her breathing strong. She climbed without speaking, and seemed to show no sign of the nearly fatal wounds she had suffered in the attack.

  They crossed three ridges on this day of vigorous marching, and late afternoon found them on a narrow trail that circled the waist of volcanic, looming Mount Horn. Tale Splintersteel had explained that not only did this mountain mark the border of Zhakar's inner realm, it held a watch post garrisoned with a company of dwar-ven guards.

  Ariakas didn't like the looks of the trail. As it scaled the steep sides of the slumbering volcano, it provided room for them to walk only in single file. To the right, the sloping shoulder of the mountain swept downward and away for thousands of feet. It wasn't exactly a precipice, but anyone who fell would certainly roll for a long way before coming to a bruised and battered halt.

  Even more nerve-racking was the sight of the moun shy;tain's cone-shaped summit rising steeply away to their left. The rocky surface concealed numerous niches and crannies wherein ambushing Zhakar could have con shy;cealed themselves by the dozen.

  "The watch post's up there," explained Tale Splinter-steel, pointing to a notch in the trail before them. Ahead, the slope of the mountain rose into a jagged shoulder, and the steep pathway passed between that shoulder and the main summit. The gap was barely twenty feet wide, with rough cliffs of basalt to either side.

  "Can we go around it?" wondered the warrior. Yet even as he asked the question, he looked at the moun-

  tainside and realized that the watch post had been well chosen.

  Below the rough shoulder, a cliff plunged for at least a thousand feet downward, and below that a jagged tumble of large rocks and loose scree offered a time-consuming nightmare of a crossing. The scree slope spilled all the way to a deep, white-water river scoring a channel along the valley floor.

  Above the watch post was a slope that was nearly as steep as the lower cliff, here soaring all the way up to the mountain's sharp, angular summit. Though the place could possibly be circumvented by the upward route, any Zhakar lurking in the notch would have no diffi shy;culty moving upward faster than those approaching along the trail.

  "They're certain to have already seen us," the dwar-ven merchant said helpfully. "Might as well march right up there and see what they do-just keep your sword handy," he added to Ariakas.

  The warrior nodded, not liking this. The steel blade would provide him no more protection than inherent in its design, he knew, for he would not unleash the magic of the blue blade here.

  The companions kept their eyes on the narrow notch as they moved steadily upward. With sunset and the coming of dusk, the wind grew chill, and the stony gap, a half mile away, took on an even more sinister appear shy;ance.

  "Should we stop here and wait for morning?" asked Ferros Windchisel, mindful of the fading daylight.

  "I think we should push on through," Ariakas declared. "This is a damned poor place to sleep, for one thing-no shelter from the wind, no firewood. Not even a flat place to rest besides the trail!" What he didn't say, but knew, was that he couldn't bear the tension of wait shy;ing. Whatever fate awaited them at the watch post of Zhakar, he wanted to find out now.

  "I agree," Lyrelee added. "Even if we don't go any far shy;ther tonight-at least up there we'd have a chance for a windbreak.

  "Let's go," said Tale Splintersteel with a resigned shrug. "Just make sure they can see that sword," he reminded the human warrior.

  They hurried, anxious to reach the notch before dark shy;ness surrounded them. The first star had twinkled into sight by the time they made the approach, but the western horizon still shed pale light across the mountain heights.

  "Let me go first" suggested Ariakas, moving past the others. The bare blade extended before him, he advanced cautiously toward the gap. The stone walls to the right and left loomed upward, dark and mysterious. Between them, not more than a dozen steps away, the gap opened out again. Even in the darkness Ariakas saw a wide val shy;ley beyond, much flatter and more gentle than the ter shy;rain they had crossed thus far.

  But most of his attention remained on the walls to the right and left. Countless niches and ravines scarred the rough surface, cloaked with shadows his eyes could not penetrate.

  His companions waited behind while Ariakas cau shy;tiously passed through the notch. He saw no sign of any other occupant, and so he reversed his course, this time closely checking the niches to either side of the path. Nothing there-though several of the cracks were too deep for a foolproof check. For a brief instant he consid shy;ered casting the light spell, but quickly discarded the idea. Though it would give him the ability to penetrate some of the shadows, it would dramatically outline him and his companions to watchers anywhere in the sur shy;rounding valley and heights.

  "Seems clear," he reported.

  All four of them advanced through the notch, Lyrelee and Splintersteel following Ariakas while Ferros cau shy;tiously brought up the rear. Again the passage occurred without incident; for all appearances, the notch had been completed vacated.

  "Not bad," Tale Splintersteel murmured, clearly sur shy;prised. He nodded at the blue sword. "Word must have gotten around."

  Ariakas smiled grimly, his relief immense. They camped in a little swale that provided some protection from the wind. The night passed without incident, and in the first light of dawn they finally got a look at their destination.

  Zhakar Keep stood on a slope above the broad valley. The river that circled the base of Mount Horn continued through that vale, widening into a long, narrow lake
for part of its length. High, rugged peaks surrounded the two sides of the valley, and the river's outflow dropped out of sight several miles away, suggesting a channel that might be a canyon or a gorge.

  The stone-walled keep dominated the entire central section of the valley. Terraced slopes spread downward from the keep to the river, and behind it towering peaks rose toward the sky. The walls were black, as were the squat towers located at various places along those sheer barriers. The place did not resemble a castle so much as a walled compound, for within the walls the companions could see no buildings. Four long, black columns rose upward from the courtyard, and one of these belched a cloud of black smoke. Tale Splintersteel explained that these were the chimneys of the Zhakaran great forge.

  "Where are your countrymen?" Ariakas asked, gestur shy;ing to the well-tended-but apparently abandoned- vista. Though the terraced fields were obviously devoted to carefully nurtured crops, no one labored there. Like the watch post, now behind them, the valley stood silent, by all appearances completely deserted.

  "It's strange," Tale Splintersteel observed. "We must be creating quite a stir-look's as though they're expect shy;ing a siege!"

  For the better part of the morning they approached the dark fortress. Throughout that time, they saw no sign of the valley's inhabitants, though the keep seemed to grow more ominous and sinister with each step closer. The only sign of life was the black stream of smoke that con shy;tinued to drift from the chimney.

  They approached along a graveled road that led be shy;tween the fields of the terrace. Ariakas came first, with the naked blade resting casually on his shoulder, gleaming like some surreal but precious metal-liquid turquoise or azure. He made certain that the weapon remained in clear view at all times.

  Reaching the double gates, the four companions stood before a wide portal consisting of two solid iron plates mounted on stone hinges. Ariakas knew that each gate must weigh an unimaginable amount. Inwardly, he raised his estimation of Zhakaran skill as craftsmen and builders. Quietly, calmly, he rehearsed the incantation to the spell Wryllish Parkane had taught him. It had been intended to give them access to the keep, but he had never imagined the full scale of the portal that would stand across the path.