by Dragonlance
When he was gone from sight, she turned her attention to the others. Azar could barely meet her gaze. She studied him a while, not for the first time since she’d looked inside his mind. She could see the scar, faint and pale across his throat, so wide that it nearly touched either earlobe at its ends. She bit her lip, remembering the sounds he’d made when the Master’s blade cut him.
Essana watched her with earnest eyes. They hadn’t spoken of Maladar or Forlo since the other night, but the woman’s belief that her husband still lived had only grown since then. And Shedara was no longer so certain that Forlo was dead. There was a logic to what Essana had told her. Shedara’s rational mind told her it was only wishful thinking to believe he hadn’t been killed at Akh-tazi, but she’d given someone up for dead too early before, when Eldako fell to Gloomwing’s breath on the shores of Neron. She’d been wrong then: he’d survived, though grievously injured. She might be wrong about Forlo too.
Perhaps.
After a while, she heard movement from above. A few pebbles dropped down, then a shower of grit. She glanced up, frowning; then her mouth went dry when she saw Hult, half sliding, half climbing back down the chasm with the rope still clutched in his hand.
“What’s going on?” Essana asked.
“Shh!” Shedara hissed, holding up her right hand. A dagger dropped into her left, just in case. “Keep your voice down.”
They watched in silence as he grabbed the last overhang, then let his legs swing down and free. His maimed hand scrabbled at the rock but lost its grip, and Shedara jumped forward to catch him as he fell the last short span to the ground. He sat on a rock, panting hard. There was a cut above his right eye. Shedara dabbed at the blood there with the hem of her sleeve. Waiting tensely for him to catch his breath, she bit the palm of her hand—a habit she’d picked up from Hult without realizing it until that moment.
“What happened?” Essana breathed, bending down beside the Uigan. “What did you see?”
He coughed, looking at them. “Hobgoblins,” he said. “There are hobgoblins everywhere.”
Shedara hauled herself halfway out of the crevice, looked around, and felt cold. Astar’s arrows, she thought, I’ve led us right to the midst of an army.
She and Hult had climbed up together, with spells to make them silent and invisible. She glanced at him—she alone could see him, just as he alone could see her—and he nodded.
No matter where they looked, there were hobgoblins, hundreds—no, more than a thousand, by her guess. They huddled around dung fires, sharpened axes and swords, wrestled in the dust, shot bows at lashed-up corpses, and drank black brew from leather flasks. A few tents stood here and there, made of crudely stitched-together hides, but most of the creatures slept in groups for warmth, with skins and fur blankets to cover them.
Somewhere, in the distance, a hoarse voice was screaming. She couldn’t see who it was, but the sound was so full of anguish that her skin prickled. She looked at Hult, who shook his head.
They climbed back down.
“All right,” she said when they reached the bottom, where the others waited. “We’re staying in the hole for now.”
Hult described what they’d seen for Essana and Azar. They both glanced up at the sky above, as if expecting to see cruel, apelike faces peering back at them.
“It’s just a bivouac, not a real camp,” Shedara said. “They’ll probably be moving away at sunset. Hobgoblins travel at night.”
“But … an army?” Essana asked. “Where are they headed?”
“To join a bigger army, probably,” Hult said.
“Why? Who are they fighting?”
The Uigan shrugged, looking at Shedara. She spread her hands. “I don’t know,” she said. “But the hobgoblins in the Steamwall Mountains are always warring with each other. It’s what keeps their numbers down, thank the gods. Some tribe probably profaned another’s sacred ground or killed the son of a chieftain, and things went out of control from there.”
“No,” Hult said. “It’s more than that. Someone’s gathering a horde.”
They all looked at him. A chill settled in Shedara’s stomach. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’ve seen clan-fighting among my people,” he replied, “and I’ve been part of a horde. I know the difference.”
“No one lives here but the hobgoblins,” Essana said. “Who else would they be attacking?”
“Perhaps they aim to leave Aurim,” Hult answered.
Shedara shook her head. “You don’t know any of this,” she said. “Not for certain.”
“No,” he replied. He glanced up, one hand resting on his sword. “Which is why I plan to find out.”
Chapter
9
THE BLIGHTED PLAIN, AURIM-THAT-WAS
Hult’s hand hurt like the Abyss by the time he got to the top of the cleft again. He’d cut it and nearly ripped one of the nails out of its bed, fighting for purchase with only half as many fingers as he ought to have. He didn’t care; he’d even refused the climbing spell Shedara offered him, which would make his fingers stick to the rocks like a spider. It was a matter of pride: climbing was something he’d always been good at, and he wasn’t going to use magic just because of a little blood and pain.
He hadn’t refused all of Shedara’s spells, of course. He wasn’t a fool. She’d made him invisible again, and silent as well. They were more potent versions of the spell than the ones she’d cast before. The spells were more complicated, had taken more time, and drained more of Shedara’s strength.
“When you fight,” she’d warned him after the magic bored into him, settling into his bones as he faded from view, “you’ll be visible—but only for a while. Count to ten afterwards, without taking a swing at anyone, and then the spell will take hold again.”
“Ten,” he’d replied. “That’s a long time to be standing in the middle of a hobgoblin army.”
She’d shrugged. “So don’t get into a fight in the middle of an army. Or better yet, don’t do this at all. It’s too risky.”
“Maybe,” he’d said. “But we need to know what these hobgoblins are doing. An army of them, here, just as we’re passing by … it’s too great a coincidence.”
Neither of them had said what answers they thought he might find, though both had the same guess. It felt like bad luck to speak Maladar’s name, however.
He lay on the rim of the chasm, breathing hard, getting back his strength, then rose into a crouch. The nearest campfires were close by, about ten paces away; they went on from there, hundreds of them, sending black, greasy cords of smoke writhing into the sky. The stink was abominable, burning his nose: sweat, piss, dung, rotten meat. The worst place he’d ever smelled had been the cave of the Wretched Ones, the goblins who dwelt beneath the Ilquar Mountains. The reek coming from the hobgoblin camp made that seem like a bed of wildflowers. He fought back the urge to retch.
He held still, watching the hobgoblins. They went about their business, laughing, fighting, drinking, oblivious that a human was so close by. Occasionally one would glance his way, its small, yellow eyes gleaming with reflected firelight, and his heart would turn to ice, but they always looked away again without noticing him.
If the spell faltered, even for a moment, he was dead. A ten-count would be an eternity.
Holding his breath, Hult eased his sword from its scabbard. Unoiled for weeks, it rasped loud enough to make him grit his teeth, and he had to remind himself that only he heard the noise. He could clash the blade against the rocks and bellow Uigan war chants at the top of his lungs, and no one would hear. He dwelt on the thought, chuckled, and set it aside.
He stayed where he was for a quarter of an hour, crouching and observing, his sword laid across his knees. He watched how the creatures moved, where the guards patrolling the camp went, what the safest places were to slip past the guards … and he rose swiftly and strode straight through the camp’s midst. It felt like madness—there were hundreds of the brutes all around him,
each well armed and a full head taller than he was—and his heart hammered in his chest whenever he came close to touching one of them. He and other Uigan had played a game like that, when they were children: at night, they would slip into the pastures around their tribes’ villages and try to pass among the sheep or cattle without waking them. They called it utanka, and he’d been one of the best at it.
That day he played utanka with the hobgoblins, his sword held close to his body, ready to fight in case things went wrong. He knew he’d never get away if it came to bloodshed, but he would send as many of the monsters to the Abyss as he could before they brought him down.
He followed the screaming he’d heard before. It was a hideous sound, bereft of sanity, the noise of a bowstring stretched too taut, ready to snap. It was thin; it warbled. There were no words—only agony and despair. Part of him didn’t want to see what made that sound, but he couldn’t leave without knowing. It was much of the reason he’d come back up there.
Before too long, he reached the camp’s other side. The ground was rocky, dotted with white, wind-worn boulders that towered over the plain. The chieftains’ tents were set among the rocks, along with tribal totems of bone and skin and insect shells. There were, in fact, very few hobgoblins near: the leaders were out among the clans, threatening and cajoling and carousing with their troops. One old warrior, his shaggy mane the color of bleached bones, sat asleep against a rock. There were three guards he could see, each armed with a horn-and-sinew bow. And there was the screaming man.
Hult’s gorge rose when he saw the poor wretch. The man was lashed hand and foot to a long, wooden pole set into the ground, his arms high above his head. Blood dripped from his toes into a sticky pool beneath; fat flies buzzed around, occasionally landing on him to feast. He’d been stripped naked, and his skin was bruised a dozen different colors, crusted with filth and dried blood. One of his legs hung at an odd angle—broken. One of his shoulders was misshapen too—dislocated, probably. And they’d done much worse to his face. His eyes were gone, his ears, and his nose. His hair was scorched away, leaving angry, red puckers on his scalp. His teeth were jagged shards. And when he opened his mouth wide to let loose a piercing howl, Hult saw the gnarled stump that was the root of his tongue.
They’d cut him other places too. Most of his fingers were gone and one thumb. Several toes were missing. And also …
Hult looked away, tasting vomit.
What he did next, he did without thinking. Later, he would look at his actions and think them foolish, but he had no other choice. He had no idea who the man was; though, from what Shedara said, there were few good men in Aurim. Still, no one deserved such a fate—not the most cowardly, goat-thieving robber of the Kazar tribes, not the minotaurs who’d tried to have him killed at the Kristophan arena, not even the Faceless Brethren.
He ran, heedless of the dust his heels kicked up as he charged one of the guards. The hobgoblin never saw him, never knew: he simply stood there, squinting into the afternoon sky, until Hult’s blade snapped around, struck him in the back of the neck, and sent his head spinning away. Blood plumed, and the guard’s body fell to its knees, sat back on its heels for a moment, then slumped onto its side.
And just like that, Hult was visible again, standing near the corpse, black blood on his face and his blade. He began to count. One … two … three …
There was no chance, though. The other guards saw him plainly. He wondered—too late to do anything about it—if any of them had a horn to blow to call reinforcements. Fortunately, neither did, though, he noted, the headless hobgoblin had had one on a baldric. By sheer stupid luck, he’d killed the one who could have summoned help. He muttered thanks to Jijin, weaving his sword in arcs before him as he charged the other guards.
The man lashed to the pole—no, that wasn’t right; he was spiked to it, with iron spearheads—screamed on and on, oblivious.
The hobgoblins were good fighters, but Hult was better. They traded blows, his teeth clenching every time metal clashed against metal, and after four quick passes, he ducked under one creature’s whistling axe, stepped in close, and pounded the pommel of his sword into the creature’s mouth. Bone cracked, and the monster went down with a yelp, clutching its broken jaw. He kicked it in the head, sent it sprawling, then turned to parry a crashing sweep of the other hobgoblin’s morning star. The force of the blow jarred his whole arm, but he didn’t break stride. Whirling, he raked his blade backhand across the guard’s belly. The hobgoblin clutched his stomach, blood pouring over his hands, then fell on his face. He let out a whimpering groan and lay still.
Nodding, Hult turned back to the one he’d kicked. Swaying, woozy, it was trying to get back on its feet. He drove his sword deep into its left armpit. Hot, dark heart’s blood shot through the air, and he yanked out the blade and turned to face the old warrior before the body hit the ground.
The warrior stood near the stake, sword in hand. “If you mean to rescue him,” he said, jerking his head toward the mutilated man, “then you are a fool. He is ruined and will soon die.”
Hult’s eyes took in the screaming man. What the old hobgoblin said was true: the man would be dead by nightfall. Judging by how old and fouled some of his wounds looked, it was amazing he was still alive at all.
“I am not here to save him, filth,” he said. “I am here to punish you for what you did to him.”
The warrior threw back his head and barked a laugh. “What we did? He was already broken when he came to us. Do not call our kind filth when it was one of your kind, a human, who wielded the blade.”
Hult’s stomach clenched. A human. He knew where the conversation was leading. Part of him wanted to be certain; another part wanted to remain ignorant. It would be a happier life, not knowing the truth. He nearly gave in to the temptation, nearly attacked the warrior rather than asking.
But he couldn’t not know.
“Who?” he asked. “What man would do such a thing?”
The warrior smiled, baring broken, yellow tusks. “He is our savior,” he said. “The one who will deliver us from this place. We answer his call. He will lead us across the sea, to the gray isles and their riches. He is Maladar, the true lord of Aurim.”
Hult showed no sign that he knew the name except for a tightening of his lips. In his mind he pictured the Faceless Emperor, wearing Forlo’s body like a suit of armor. He saw Forlo with a blade in his hand, bent over the bloody thing that hung from the pole. Rage swelled within him, clouding his eyes with red mist. He raised his sword …
And the world disappeared.
Hult stopped, startled. It happened in a flash; he could see through the stones and dust, as if they were made of water, then, just as fast, everything else came back. The hobgoblin, however, stood stunned, his jaw dropping open. And Hult understood, feeling the tingle of magic in his veins.
A ten-count had passed. He was invisible again.
“Where did you go?” roared the warrior. He raised his blade. “What trickery is this?”
Hult smiled. He strode forward, moving around the warrior in a wide arc, sword at the ready. Anger pulsed inside his head, made it throb. He stopped an arm’s length from the hobgoblin, on the creature’s left. He watched it shy back a step, fear in its eyes.
“Show yourself!” the hobgoblin bellowed, shaking his sword.
“Very well,” Hult said, thrusting the tip of his sword into the warrior’s face.
The blade went in just under the creature’s eye, and the spell broke a second time, leaving him visible once more. The hobgoblin stiffened, trembling where it stood. Its hands went slack, its sword falling into the dust. A line of black blood crawled down Hult’s blade.
Carefully, Hult twisted the blade. The hobgoblin screamed nearly as loudly as the man on the stake, blood pouring from its nose. Then Hult jerked the sword down and out. Gore streamed from the ruins of the hobgoblin’s face, and it crumpled to the ground. It kicked its legs twice then lay still.
“Better
than you deserve,” Hult whispered.
He glanced around. No one had come to see what the trouble was. Likely no one knew there was trouble. He nodded, counting to himself. One, two …
No—there was something yet to be done. The man still hung there, squirming and yowling. Hult went over to the first hobgoblin he’d killed and picked up its axe. Three quick chops brought the pole crashing to the ground. It fell forward, on top of the man; straining, Hult flipped it over, wincing at the sight of the wretch’s wounds up close. There were maggots in some of them, squirming and burrowing. A sour taste flooded his mouth, and he spat and spat. He wanted to kill every hobgoblin in the camp, in Aurim, in all of Taladas. More, he wanted to kill Maladar.
“Jijin, forgive me,” he murmured. “I do this out of mercy, in your name.”
An old prayer, that, one of the first he’d learned. When a horse broke its leg or got too old to run, the Uigan spoke it before cutting its throat. They did the same for dying men after battle. Grimacing, Hult held the axe poised over the poor wretch’s neck. He took a deep breath, held it, and raised the weapon.
“Stop!” thundered a voice somewhere to his right. More snarls and shouts joined it. The hobgoblins had found him.
He brought the axe down. The screaming stopped.
The red mist was still all around him as he turned to face the next lot. He tried to count them, lost track at thirty, and settled on guessing that there were probably twice that number, all armed, eyeing him hungrily. They edged toward him, armor clattering.
