by Dragonlance
They eat the flesh of those they kill, he thought. Fight them, and you will be gnawed bones by tomorrow.
“Your prize is dead,” he said, letting the axe fall and shifting his sword back to his good hand. “Who wishes to follow him?”
The hobgoblins hesitated, glancing at one another. Their dismay wouldn’t last long enough. They would find their courage and rush him. Already their faces were contorting into masks of rage, their weapons rising.
Eight, he thought. Nine. Ten.
His blood tingled. The world turned to glass, then solidified again. The hobgoblins howled in surprise, wondering where he’d gone.
Hult turned and ran, leaving them far behind.
Chapter
10
WHITEWOLD, AURIM-THAT-WAS
The sound of axes filled the air, blades hewing and chips flying, and mighty trunks crashing to the ground. There was a music to it, a grim cadence of purpose. Humans or dwarves might have chanted to its rhythm, might have sung to ease the drudgery, but not the hobgoblins of Aurim. They sang in battle only, for to them, that was the only joy. They simply destroyed one tree after another as they killed the land’s last forest.
Maladar stood on a crumbling hill overlooking the scene, frowning. He was in an odd mood that day, and it was because of the trees. He’d known that forest, had hunted in it with the local lords. In his day, men had called it Fel Skotos—in the local tongue, the Forest of Night. It was an old and supposedly enchanted wood that went on for mile upon mile, packed with massive trees, dark-leafed and moss-bearded, their branches woven into a carpet that let almost no light through. The villagers near Fel Skotos had revered the place as holy, and riding beneath that high, vaulted canopy, Maladar had understood why. It had been like a church, a still and peaceful place where daylight broke through the dark in fat, golden spears that lanced the fern-carpeted floor. Maladar had never been one given to sentiment, but the place had affected even him. It had been one of Aurim’s wonders, exceeding all but the mightiest works of men.
And now he was destroying it.
To be fair, what remained of Fel Skotos could hardly be called the same place. The Destruction, and centuries of poisoned wind and rain, had seen to that. More than three quarters of it was utterly gone, swallowed by the sea when Aurim’s northeastern provinces fractured away from the mainland. What remained was more boneyard than a church.
Many of the largest trees still stood but were petrified, turned to hard, dead spires that clawed at the clouds. Their stony trunks had changed color, from black to bone-white. Among those lifeless spires grew the newer forest, a gnarled tangle of brambles and evergreens whose diseased bark sloughed off in sheets to reveal pale wood underneath. It was terrible wood, soft and crumbling, with wine-colored sap that stank like rotten flesh and made the trees look as if they were bleeding. Given his druthers, Maladar would never have chosen it for his purpose, but there were no other options left to serve his aims, not for hundreds of leagues.
The hobgoblins were hard workers, driven by the promise of plunder and a new home far away. It would have taken human slaves months to topple the Whitewold, even if he worked them to death. The horde had been there just short of three weeks, gathering strength on the shores of the northern sea; now little of the woods remained. Another four or five days, and all that would be left of Fel Skotos would be the looming bone-trees, dead monuments to forgotten ages and beauty.
But soon to be renewed, Maladar thought. The forest’s death was one more step on his long road. Soon he would have his army. Then he could return to the Cauldron. Then the Chaldar would rise. He could see it in his mind, blazing above the Burning Sea.
He was so close.
The massacre at Bishan had accomplished all he’d expected. The hobgoblin clans had rallied to him, marching from all across the north of Aurim, bearing the tattered remains of the maimed men he’d sent them as trophies. By the time the horde reached the wold, it had swelled from four thousand to more than four times that many and had doubled since. Thirty-three thousand hobgoblins answered to him, the largest display of military might seen in the east of Taladas since the skies fell. It would be enough for what he needed.
He walked on, downhill toward the seashore. There the rocks had splintered, forming jagged fingers that groped out above a beach of gray sand. He strode along one of those ledges to an overlook that gave him a view of the sea. Below, more hobgoblins swarmed over the beach, hammering and sawing and lashing boards together. The creatures were no shipwrights; it was a wonder anything they built could float at all. But the crude rafts they constructed were much like the horde itself—they would suffice.
Already they had built two hundred boats and were working on a goal of a thousand. Even then the craft would be overloaded. Some would capsize upon the waves; others would founder and sink. Maladar guessed that he’d lose one in five during the voyage, but that was all right. The hobgoblins were expendable, and with bloodlust singing in their veins, they would never turn back.
His gaze rose from the beach to the waters beyond. They were rough, white-capped and frigid, the color of lead beneath the heavy sky. A storm flashed, far across the waves. Beneath, he thought he could see a distant arc of land; then it was gone, swallowed by mist. The Rainwards were close, almost within his grasp. He hoped his goal wouldn’t be snatched away, as the fire minions had cheated him in the Cauldron. If it were, Hith would have much to answer for, much and more.
Footsteps interrupted his brooding. He turned, and there was Ghashai. The warlord was moving briskly, his lips curled back into a kind of smile full of yellow and brown teeth. He strode to the end of the promontory, then stopped to bow before Maladar.
“Most high, I bear glad tidings.”
Maladar nodded. “Then you are welcome. What news?”
“More clans have come,” Ghashai replied, his chest swelling with pride. “Seven, including the Black Tongue.”
“The Black Tongue,” Maladar repeated, relishing the name. Good. They were the only tribe he’d sent one of the mutilated Bishani that hadn’t yet answered his call. “Where are they?”
“Close by, my lord,” Ghashai replied. “Two leagues. Their out-runners reached us just now.”
“Excellent,” Maladar said. “Summon the other chiefs. We will welcome them when they arrive.”
The warlord bowed and loped off, back down the rock finger toward the main body of the horde. Maladar watched him go, satisfied. After the Tongue, no other large tribes remained who dwelt close enough to worry about. There might be other, smaller clans still coming, but they mattered little. The bulk of the horde was assembled. He turned to stare across at the Rainwards again. They waited for him, behind the fog. He smiled.
After a moment, though, his expression faded, giving way to a puzzled frown. He noticed something else out there, something small, little no more than a speck upon the wide gray channel—a dark speck, with a lighter one above it. For a moment he thought it might be the crest of an oddly large wave, but … no, it was going the wrong way. It was something else, something that moved against the current.
A boat?
Maladar squinted, cursing Barreth Forlo’s eyes. His soul hadn’t claimed a young man’s vision, and he had trouble focusing. He muttered a spell to help his sight, and after a surge of magic, things became clearer. Yes, it was a boat—a smallish sailing ship, like a fisherman’s cog. It was tacking back and forth, moving away from him, toward the far shore. Tiny, dark figures stood upon its deck, working its sails as it zigzagged toward the islands.
Strange …
Maladar watched the boat, wondering who would be sailing upon these seas on the cusp of a storm. Finally, the vessel vanished, swallowed by darkness and haze. Behind him, the blare of war horns cut through the din of axes on wood.
Still wondering, Maladar turned away and walked back toward the dead forest to greet the Black Tongue.
The Black Tongue were many, more than two thousand strong, and they were fi
erce warriors who—true to their name—tattooed their tongues black when they came of age. They filled a valley, a mile east of the main horde, sticking out those inky tongues in ferocious leers while they thumped the butts of their spears against the stony ground. It was a sign of intimidation, and indeed, some of the lesser chiefs arrayed on the hillside behind Maladar shifted and muttered warily. The clans had warred with one another, year after year, for as long as they’d dwelt in Aurim. There were skulls and shrunken heads of rival tribes on the Tongue’s standard poles. Maladar shot a look at Ghashai as the Tongue continued to drum their weapons against the rocks, and the warlord turned a fierce glare upon the muttering chiefs.
“They may kill you when the fighting is done,” Ghashai rumbled, “but if you are not still, I will do it now.”
Sulking, resentful, the chiefs fell silent.
Maladar stepped forward, to the edge of the slope, and folded his arms across his chest in greeting. Down below, the hobgoblins of the Black Tongue returned the gesture. Their eyes all were fixed on him.
“Where is your chieftain?” Maladar asked. “Where is the offering I sent you?”
The hobgoblins looked at one another, many of them drawing their tongues back into their mouths.
Maladar pointed at one tall warrior, near the front. “You. Do you speak for your tribe?”
The hobgoblin turned pale, staring at the ground. “N-no, my lord. I am not—”
“Shargath,” Maladar intoned, and the magic flowed.
The hobgoblin’s eyes widened; then it began to make an awful sucking sound, the noise of a man unable to draw a breath. Its hands flew to its throat, and it groped and clawed, trying to open its windpipe again. Its claws tore its skin, yet that didn’t help or matter. Its lips blue, the creature pitched forward onto its face and lay still, save for the slightest twitch of its legs. Its tattooed tongue hung from its mouth.
Maladar pointed at the hobgoblin who’d been standing next to the warrior he’d just killed. “You. Do you speak for the Black Tongue?”
The hobgoblin had to tear its startled gaze away from its companion. It looked up at Maladar, squinting as it considered its options. “I—will speak for them,” it said at last.
“Wise,” Maladar replied. “Now … answer my questions. Where is your chief? Where is the offering?”
The hobgoblin swallowed, trembling. A new stink filled Maladar’s nostrils, telling him that at least one of the creatures hadn’t been able to control its terror. His lip curled.
“My lord,” the hobgoblin said, “there was a—a man. A warrior. He killed our chief and the offering. We burned them both, back by the Dourlands.”
“Burned them,” Maladar said. Rage welled in him, then subsided. “What of this man, then? What did you do to him?”
The hobgoblin shook its head. “N-nothing, my lord. He … he escaped. He had magic to help him.”
A warrior. Magic. Maladar’s eyebrow rose.
“Describe him,” he said. “What did he look like?”
The hobgoblin began to weep. “I—I did not see.…”
Maladar lifted a finger. Moments later, a second corpse lay sprawled in the dirt, hands clutching at its throat.
“Who did see him?” Maladar thundered, sweeping the assembly with his gaze. “Someone answer, and answer true, or I’ll tear those fearsome tongues from all of your heads.”
Silence answered him. Anger boiled in him, burning. He raised his hand, and the black moon’s power began to flow.
“My lord,” one of the hobgoblins ventured finally. He stepped forward, his head thrown back, arrogance sparking in his eyes. “I was there. I saw him.”
Maladar lowered his arm. The magic slowed from a torrent to a trickle, but he still held it inside, ready, waiting. “Speak.”
“He … he was short, for a human. Brown-skinned. His hair was black … and he had markings on his face.”
“Tattoos?” Maladar rumbled. “Like your tongue?”
The hobgoblin nodded.
Somewhere, deep inside, Forlo stirred. Maladar felt the unbidden spark of joy within his body and heard names in his mind. Hult!
The Uigan, the one that had been at Akh-tazi. And if there was magic at work, the elf had to be with him—Shedara.
“Were there others?” Maladar asked, intrigued. “A boy, perhaps?”
The hobgoblin shook his head. “We saw no one. Only the Uigan. He killed our chief then disappeared into thin air. We searched for him for half a day but found no sign.” He bowed his head. “I swear this is true, my lord. I would keep nothing from you.”
One of Maladar’s eyebrows quirked. “Oh?” he asked. “And what is your name, most honest of hobgoblins?”
“Kuvosh, most high.” The pathetic creature was trembling.
“Kuvosh.” Maladar nodded slowly. “You are braver than your fellows. You will make a fine clan-chief.”
“My lord?” Kuvosh looked up, amazed. “Chief?”
“Yes,” Maladar replied. He swept his hand across the assembly. “As the Black Tongue has not yet chosen a new leader, I must do so. Chief Kuvosh, step forward and take your place among my counselors.”
Kuvosh grinned as his neighbors shot him dark looks. “Thank you, my lord.”
He strode past his fellow hobgoblins to join Ghashai and the other chiefs. They threw him disdainful looks, wrinkling their noses as if he reeked—which he did, but so did they—but they made room for him all the same. None dared displease Maladar.
“The Black Tongue are welcome in these lands,” Maladar proclaimed, raising his hands. He let the killing spell seep out of him again, the magic rippling the air but doing no harm. “Tonight, you may rest. In the morning, you will join the others at their work. By the time the silver moon rises full, we shall have our fleet. And then … then we will cross the sea, and plunder will be yours. Let the Rainward Isles tremble! Their doom is at hand!”
The hobgoblins cheered. Maladar glanced at Ghashai, who smiled a feral smile. “Take care of them,” he said. “I will be back at the shore if you receive further word.”
The warlord bowed, and Maladar left, walking back toward the promontories of broken stone. As he did, his thoughts turned to the boat he’d seen, out upon the gray water. It had been sailing away from Aurim, toward the Rainwards. There had been figures upon the deck, too small to make out, but he realized that the Uigan and the elf must have been among them. There might have been others too.
The woman—Essana. The Taker. So they’d gone to the Rainwards to warn those who dwelt there. When Maladar’s horde reached the far shore, those the hobgoblins meant to slaughter would be alerted. It didn’t really matter, anyway, in the long view. The hobgoblins could live, or they could die; it was all the same. The Chaldar would rise either way.
He stood upon the rocks as the sun set and the storm clouds rolled overhead. Rain slashed; thunder shook the air. Gusting winds raised high waves upon the sea. Inside, Maladar felt Barreth Forlo tremble. Starlight, the man’s thoughts kept saying, over and over. I’m coming.
Yes, Maladar thought. We are. And war is coming with us.
Chapter
11
THE GRAYVEIL STRAIT
Nothing was visible astern of the Swiftwing—nothing, indeed, in any direction, beyond maybe a few hundred feet of open water. Fog had closed in on the little skiff, dark and brooding, clinging to the strangely becalmed waters in writhing shapes like ghosts. It swallowed light, devoured sound, soaked through the thickest mantle. Krenaz Bur, the boat’s crew called it, forking their fingers at the sky in a show of disgust as they worked the sails: the World Between, their vision of the afterlife.
Shedara thought it apt. In a way, that was where she was—on the way from one life to the next. She hadn’t been in a city for more than half a year, maybe more. Really, Blood Eye had been the last: she could hardly count her brief but violent sojourn in Kristophan, where the emperor had died on Forlo’s blade. Since then, it had been nothing but ships and the wi
ld. But not that night. That night, they would pass through the blanket of mist that gave those waters their name, and at last they would reach the Rainwards. That night … she would have a warm bed, good wine, food in her belly that tasted like something. The trip had been long, but finally it was coming to an end.
She glanced again toward the boat’s stern. There was nothing to be seen back there, but a figure stood at the rail nonetheless, bundled in a woolen cloak, watching behind. Threads of mist clung to the figure, caressing it like fingertips. The sight made Shedara think of stories mariners told in wharfside taverns, back on the far side of Taladas: every sea captain had a tale or two of a haunted ship, where specters lurked in the hold or high in the rigging. More often than not, as sailors tended to be men, the phantom was a woman, a wife or lover who died while her man was at sea.
The figure was not dead, but she did seem to be dwelling in another world. Essana had spoken hardly at all since they’d left the Dourlands, finishing the long trek to the coast once the Black Tongue hobgoblins broke their bivouac and moved on. Even when they’d found the Rainwarders’ little harbor of Hyo-khal, hidden in a socket of the rocky coast as Shedara had promised, Essana had stayed quiet, lost in thought, always looking behind.
She was thinking about Forlo, of course. When Hult returned from his raid and told them what he’d learned, all of Essana’s grief and worry had returned, twice as strong as before. Then, as they began their voyage across the Grayveil, they’d passed close to an ancient woodland where the hobgoblins were camped. There, on the cliffs overlooking the water, they thought they might have seen him: a man, standing dark against the dusky sky, soon lost in the fog.
Barreth.
That had been hours ago; Essana hadn’t left the aft rail since. She stood still as a statue, her eyes fixed on the point where they’d seen that lone man. None of them went near her; Shedara had tried, once, but the look on the woman’s face had driven her back. There was sorrow there, of course—long damp tracks shone on her cheeks—but there was something else as well. It was a deep and burning anger, an emotion Shedara had never seen in Essana before. It made Shedara shiver and look away.
