Fortress of the Forgotten: Book One of the Swordmaster Series

by Rutger Krenn

  The Goblins, Arandur realized, numbered so many that their belief would be proven right. Death waited on the wall but it would only snatch away a handful of the whole army.

  They were preparing for another attack. To the left, atop a knoll, a rocky outthrust of the roots of Thromdar Mountain, was the center of command. It was to that single point the message runners, from all areas of the army, were either headed to or dispersing from.

  Shadows obscured the area. It was a sunny day and yet there was some kind of darkness there, a haziness that hid things from view. Arandur felt a familiar cold chill surge up his spine and pins and needles on the top of his tightening scalp.

  He had felt this before and knew a Turgil was encamped on that spot; one of the exalted servants of Eruthram. A mortal warrior, no matter his courage and luck, could not hope to prevail against such as he. They commanded deadly sorcery and it would be his task to counter it. As it had been in other places. . .

  This was a pivotal moment in the great game that was being played out. Aren Daleth, strong kingdom though it had become, was but a pawn in a larger design that was unfolding. He had played this perilous game for years uncounted but there was still no certainty about who would win. What was unequivocal was that Eruthram was stronger than all his opponents. He held greater power than the Wizard, had armies that would dwarf the one now surrounding Thromdar, and was merciless. Nevertheless, he was being defied by many of the free peoples of Andoras and from time to time they had successes against him.

  The Elves opposed the shadow in the south, and so too the Dwarves. Also, the Wizard went wherever they were needed most in Andoras, few in number but not to be underrated. Their help was sparing yet wisely given.

  Arandur put aside thoughts of the larger strategy. For now he must concentrate on trying to save Aren Daleth. It was beyond his powers, Wizard though he was, to do that by himself. He could try to delay things enough though so that Talon would be given the chance he needed.

  The Turgil would use sorcery. He would call upon dark powers to bring about the destruction of the castle much sooner than the Goblins could achieve by themselves. Arandur knew that he alone was in a position to attempt to thwart that; to pit his own power against the might of a Turgil. Wizards had done so in the past and died for their troubles. But he had opposed them and lived. He was resourceful. The Turgil would not kill him easily.

  The Northmen would expect him to use magic. But Wizardry was more than what people thought. It had complexities and consequences that few could understand. There was power in the naming of things, in words, and in the land itself. It was in the fast running of a stream, the stillness of a mountain, the settling of dew on grass, the frosty glitter of stars, the warmth of the sun or the relentless grip of glacial ice. It was everywhere. If you took energy from something you must return it. That was the law of nature. Nothing was created from nothing. In Wizardry it was the law of return. If you took, you must give back. But to take too much was to give too much. The Turgil avoided giving though: they just took and things sickened around them. But the law could not be broken as they thought and one day they must pay the price.

  The exchange of messages on the hill continued. Nothing would happen for some time yet, and the old man took the chance for a rest. Once he left the trees he’d be in plain view of the army and danger would grow with each step he took. He would be lucky, very lucky indeed, to make it to the castle. But he had devised a plan and it had worked so far.

  As he prepared himself for the trial ahead he thought about what had brought him here.

  It was known that some Wizards had premonitions, but few knew these could be deliberately sought by entering an otherworldly state. It was possible to venture into the dim realm between life and death where the spirit was free to soar from the body and travel through space and time. He had done so numerous times and seen some of the history and possible futures of the land. But it was a hazardous undertaking for in order to free the spirit the body must be brought to the very threshold of death.

  He had recently done so, prompted by instinct, and with his spirit eyes had seen the murder of Chow. He had witnessed the act of poisoning by Wu Chin and the instructions to do so from his master Shagga Lu. He had not revealed the latter to Talon. Was he right to withhold that information? What choice did he have? All that mattered now was that the Northmen army was reached in time. If Talon knew the full truth might he not abandon Thromdar and return immediately to the Chung to seek justice? Almost certainly not, but he was still grieving and the bond between him and Chow had been like a true father and son. The risk, however slight, must be countered. That he and Wu Chin would fight seemed a certainty. If he survived that, then it was time to reveal Shagga Lu’s guilt.

  He felt himself the sudden shock and regret of a life lost for nothing. Worse, many years ago Chow had been his friend, and there may have been, perhaps, time to save his life.

  Could he have reached Chow in time and warned him of the plot? And even if he had done so, what then of the future? Talon would not have needed to flee the Chung and come to Aren Daleth. Without him there would be nobody with the skills to evade the Goblin hordes and escape the valley in order to carry out the mission.

  Fate was a dangerous thing. To tamper with one thread was to unravel the whole cloth, and who among even the wise could predict what would happen then? No, it was Chow’s fate to die as he did, just as it was Talon’s fate to risk his life to save his homeland. Even as it was his own fate, Arandur thought helplessly, to often see what would happen and remain powerless to prevent it.

  The life of a Wizard could be harsh, and yet who else was there to keep the secrets that he must; to make the sacrifices necessary to guide the peoples of Andoras against an enemy who would crush them without pity?

  Resting beneath the shade of the copse he watched the serried ranks of the Goblins. The Turgil was some distance away but not so far that he could not ruin all his plans, but only if he suspected who or what he was. The Turgil's attention, however, would be fixed on the castle and the messengers and captains who were with him. At least so he hoped.

  It was now time to act the final scene of his play. He stood up and made sure the long black cloak he had put on after meeting Talon and Arell was wrapped properly over his shoulders and body and covered his white robes.

  Arandur stepped confidently out of the trees and into the bright light of day. He did not look back as he walked. Forward he went with self-assurance, or at least the look of self-assurance, for this was the centerpiece of his plan.

  The Goblins seemed very close now. Some had seen him almost straight away and others were turning to look. He strode directly toward them, gathering power about him like a second cloak. He walked straight and tall, taking long strides that ate up the distance between them. They were long, but not hasty, for he strove to avoid the appearance of one who hurried.

  He walked on and now that he was almost among the Goblins they looked at him with alarm. There was curiosity too, but mostly just fear. As he had hoped they were taking him to be a Turgil, and yet they knew that there was only one Turgil with the army, and he was on the hill.

  Arandur came among them. He spoke, his voice harsh and bitter, and it carried command and overwhelming arrogance in its tones.

  “Ashrak grindar, soflak singh!” he barked in the language of the Goblins. Walk behind, the shadow commands!

  The Goblins were long used to obedience. To be otherwise was to risk death, delivered instantly at the hands of a Turgil, and he knew they sensed his power. Yet they knew also that something was not right and he should not have been there.

  Whatever their doubts twenty of the closest formed up behind him instantly and followed in his path as though they were shadows trailing behind a darker shadow still.

  Straight through the mass of Goblins he walked and his honor guard walked with him, or so it would seem to those who now saw him for the first time. The ranks of the army parted before him like water plough
ed open by the passing of a ship.

  The hideous faces of Goblins peered furtively at him as he went. Peered at him and wondered, for their eyes asked “where is he going and what is he doing?”

  At length he came to the other side. The ranks of the Goblins were behind him. Open ground lay ahead. The slope up to the walls was empty except for the short grass, trampled by the hard booted feet of the Goblins in their previous attempt to take the castle. To his left the enormous presence of Thromdar Mountain rose in unscaleable cliffs. To his right rose the lesser, but still mighty peak of Hromdar Mountain whose slopes were marginally gentler but covered with treacherous crevasses and snow.

  Now was the greatest danger of all. So much could go wrong. Very soon he would be within range of the bows of the defenders. They had no reason to believe he was anything other than a Turgil and he was followed by twenty Goblins to confirm it. Would they shoot?

  Could he send the Goblins back now? Would they go? He wasn’t sure. They might obey, or they might suddenly see through his scheme. He could sense their doubt growing with every step he took. “Why was one of their masters heading for the castle? Did he plan to destroy the hated Whiteskins? Why did he need them? Would they die? Was this really one of the masters?”

  So he read their thoughts as he went on and carefully hid any shred of doubt or lack of confidence. He wrapped himself in ever deeper layers of power. It was like a shield that gave him strength and the Goblins could feel it like heat emanating from live coals. They could sense it, and yet still they hesitated. If he were not careful the Turgil would perceive him also and then his bluff would be discovered.

  Arandur measured the distance to the gates. One hundred paces to go. Ninety. Still no shot was loosed from above. He saw the faces of the defenders. They were curious, some awed, many fidgeting with their bows and wishing to shoot at him and the Goblins that trailed behind. But they had not yet received any orders.

  Arandur searched the battlements looking for the one who would give those orders. He hoped to see the Duke, for Kenrik knew him and would order the gates opened. At least he would do so if there were no danger from the Goblins.

  The Goblins. He did not see but suddenly knew they had stopped following him. He sensed their panicked minds, one second thinking they should flee, the next that they should use cold steel against his back; arrows, daggers or spears and then flee for their lives into the safe ranks of their brethren.

  He must keep them guessing. He must give himself just a little more time.

  His voice was soft when he spoke; soft as a whisper and faint as a spring breeze, but it held strength. Upward he lifted his hands as he continued moving forward and made some invocation in a tongue that the Goblins didn’t know. His voice grew louder. His body stiffened as though he were about to make some mighty blow. Clouds dimmed the sun and the whole valley seemed still as the grave.

  He held his hands high, his eyes upturned toward the sky, and looked for a face that he knew. It was there! The Duke, taller than any other there by more than a head, was watching from the battlements protecting the gates.

  There was surprise in the Duke’s eyes. Arandur knew he was recognized. Now the final test would come.

  Down came his hands and he spun on the Goblins. Rage was on his face; death shone from his eyes. He was the fury of the storm and the certainty of destruction. The Goblins looked at him and felt a wave of fear. “What had he done? What great sorcery had he performed? Would the earth turn to water and swallow them up? Would they be buried here beneath the tumbling walls of the Whiteskin’s stone houses?”

  “Aglak!” the master commanded.

  “Flee!” he yelled in the language that had been used for many years to command, but they knew it was death to turn their backs, for surely the Whiteskins on the battlements would shoot them.

  “Flee!” commanded Arandur once more and as he did so he became aware of a probing. He felt the chill mind of the Turgil groping toward his own and knew that at any moment he would be revealed.

  The valley was still. Goblins and men were motionless. His life, and the fate of the defenders of Thromdar, hung in the balance.

  And still the Goblins wavered.

  Chapter 10

  Talon and Arell entered into the wood and found the creek they expected. They were once more within cover and felt safe. Soon they would sleep and let their tired horses rest also. There would be fresh water to drink, food to eat, and a chance to recuperate before journeying again. And when they did so it must be with great haste. Against the odds they had slipped through the ranks of Goblins and made it onto the plains. They would be in good riding country when they left the shelter of the trees and the time for stealth had passed. What was called for from now on was speed.

  “This seems a good place,” said Arell. “Why don’t we stop here?”

  “Soon,” said Talon. “We should go a little further. If anyone was watching us we don’t want them to know exactly where we are. If they followed we’d be found straight away.”

  Talon guided the sorrel into the water of the creek. It was shallow and the bed was of loose stones instead of silt and would not easily show the passage of the horses. A silted bottom would have also made the water run cloudy for quite some time. Ten minutes later he left the water and felt confident that it would be difficult for anyone to pinpoint their camp.

  They rested then in a pleasant place surrounded by willows. There were hazelnut bushes close by and a small clearing with green grass that sloped slightly toward the bank.

  Wearily the two riders unsaddled and looked after their horses. Talon finished first and began to build a small fire and Arell, after brushing down her bay, took the water bags and refiled them.

  The afternoon went quickly. They had lunch and slept until a little before nightfall when they were up and about again, stoking the embers into another fire for dinner.

  “How long do you think it’ll take us to reach the Stone Mountains,” asked Arell.

  “A few more days,” said Talon. “It’s not all that far from here and we’re making good progress.”

  “Do you think that the army can return in time to save Aren Daleth?”

  This was a question that Talon had been asking himself from the beginning. “I don’t know,” he said. “They might be able to turn the tide in our favor but it’ll be a close thing. We’ve made the right decisions and now we’ll just have to trust to luck. There’s nothing else we can do.”

  “I suppose so,” said Arell, looking into the campfire. “It’s just that I worry about my father. He’s back there in Thromdar. I don’t know what’s happening or if he’s even still alive.”

  Talon wanted to reach out and comfort her. “I think he’s all right. He knows exactly what he’s doing and he’ll play for time. How long he can keep things together I’m not sure but I don’t think anyone else would have as much chance as him.”

  “He’s got Cadrafer with him,” said Arell with more confidence. “That’s got to help. He knows a lot about warfare and defenses. He'll help my father a great deal. I just hope they all come out of this alive.”

  “So do I,” said Talon, and he meant it. He wished there was something he could do or say to make her feel better.

  The fire was dying down and everything was nearly ready for them to go. They felt reluctant to face up to the rigors of the trail again. It was becoming hard to stay awake and even harder to sit with all the aches and pains that came with the long hours they had spent in the saddle.

  “I think we need to limber up,” said Talon as he stood. “It’ll make our riding easier and help us to stay in the saddle longer. There’s a curious thing about the Chung. In their tongue the term for a fighter is the same as it is for their people. Their skills, which are called Chung Fhat, actually means the warrior’s way, but they have gentle exercises for health and heeling as well. They’re a complex people.”

  Arell’s interest was aroused.

  Talon led her through a series o
f exercises called the Twelve Treasures. He explained they were designed to stretch all the limbs and tissues of the body. Also, each movement lengthened or contracted the major muscles of the body thus massaging and increasing the circulation of blood to the internal organs which they overlayed. The exercises were easy to perform and didn’t take much time, but they were complex in their effects and very beneficial to the human body.

  “Health,” said Talon “is the cornerstone of Chung Fhat. A warrior must have ease of movement and a relaxed frame.”

  Arell seemed to like the exercises. They were smooth and graceful and she said she felt refreshed as she performed them.

  Talon’s pendant had come loose without him noticing. Arell reached over and cupped it in her hand. He felt suddenly nervous. She was standing very close to him and he could feel the heat from her body. What was she doing? She seemed intent on only one thing however and studied the pendant closely.

  She looked up at him without letting it go. “I’ve seen this a few times before. What on earth are you doing wearing it?”

  “Why shouldn’t I wear it?” said Talon. “It was my mother’s and the only keepsake I have of her.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t know what it is?”

  “It’s an eagle of the north. The same as on Aren Daleth’s banner, I suppose.”

  Arell laughed. “I guess you don’t after all. You must have been too young when you left. It’s the eagle of the north all right, but not just any pendant. My father has one exactly like it. They were commissioned by the king. Some say the Dwarves crafted them but I’m not sure. There were only a handful ever made and fewer still given out. The king used them many years ago to reward deeds of outstanding valor. I mean really brave stuff. They were troubled times apparently, and he handed them out himself in a solemn ceremony.” She paused. “So who was your mother?”