by Dragonlance
Carefully, he moved his hand away from the hilt of his sword.
“He’s coming back,” Essana said, pointing. “Get ready. And for the love of Mislaxa, remember to bow before the king—all of you.”
Hult thought about that. Nakhil was a king, not his king, but Essana must have seen the question in his eyes because her face grew stern in a way he recognized. Forlo had cocked his head and furrowed his brow in much the same way when he was being serious. Reluctantly, he nodded.
Roshambur drew near, his golden beard bristling as he puffed out his chest. “His High Majesty, Nakhil the Second, called the Shrewd, King of Suluk and the Southern Isles, protector of the Straits of Grayveil and the Fogbound Shores, bids you welcome, and asks that you approach.”
Essana led the way, moving at a slow and stately pace, her hands steepled before her. Hult glanced at the watching bowmen as he followed her. All his warriors’ instincts told him to turn around, get out of this place; it was like being in a canyon, surrounded by tribesmen he didn’t know or trust. It took effort for him to step onto the walk between the elf and the shark-man, even more to lower his eyes back to the dais before them.
He could see it more clearly: a platform of black stone with seven steps leading to its top, standing among the wastes of Far Panak in the northernmost expanses of the mosaic map. Candles surrounded the platform, but he could see through their golden glare to the figure who stood upon the black stone, awaiting them. When he did, he hesitated and nearly stumbled out of surprise. Nakhil was a young and handsome man, swarthy-skinned, with a long, rust-colored beard gathered in two long braids that hung halfway to his stomach. His head was shaved bald, and a crown of silver and turquoise rested on his brow. His chest was bare, though he wore a green satin vest, embroidered with golden knot patterns. Heavy, gilded bracers covered both his muscular forearms. He might have been a young prince of one of the Tamire’s other peoples—the Purgi, perhaps, or the Alan-Atu.
Below his waist, however, he was something else entirely. From there on down was the body of a horse—a chestnut stallion, to be exact, with white marks on all four fetlocks and a harness of gold, set with sapphires and emeralds that sparkled in the candlelight.
“A centaur,” Shedara murmured. “Interesting. Hadn’t expected that.”
King Nakhil stepped forward, his hooves clattering against the stone of the dais. Hult was so shocked, he didn’t remember to bow when the others did. The centaur didn’t seem to care; his lips split into a grin full of large, white teeth.
“Travelers, ah!” he boomed, tossing his head. It was a disturbingly horselike gesture. “And a Uigan among you, no less. Never has one of the western riders come to these halls. It gladdens me to have one who loves horses as the steppe-folk do. Well met, all of you!”
The four of them stammered a reply, Hult muttering something that wasn’t quite intelligible. His people told legends of horse-men, but he’d never thought they were real. But then, he’d seen little but strange things for most of the past year. Why not a centaur too?
“Not as well met as Your Majesty might wish, I fear,” Essana replied. “We bring much news, and little of it good.”
Nakhil’s smile disappeared. “I feared as much. You are the one, then, who was friends with Azar? And this young man in the robes is his namesake? The years are long since Azar left to spy on the Faceless Brethren. Since he is not among you, I sense his tale has ended in sorrow.”
“Indeed, Majesty,” Essana declared. She bowed her head a moment, her face pinching with memory. “Great sorrow and much pain. But that is not the worst of it.”
“Say on, then,” Nakhil prompted, waving his hand. “What tidings do you four bring?”
Essana swallowed. “The Sleeper has woken.”
Roshambur gasped, his face turning pale. From above, a murmur arose among the archers. The king’s expression didn’t change, however.
“Maladar,” Nakhil said, his voice deep and heavy. “Yes, it fits. For months now, my dreams have been of darkness and distant fire. There is more, is there not? He is coming here.”
“Just so, Majesty,” Essana said. “Even now, an army of hobgoblins, drawn from Aurim’s ashes, gathers on the far shores of the Grayveil.”
Nakhil pursed his lips, his black tail twitching. One hoof pawed the dais. “So, then,” he said. “The day has come. We kings of Suluk have long expected it, though in our selfishness, we all hoped it would not happen during our reign. It seems, for me, that that hope must die.
“Very well, then. You will tell me all, and leave nothing unsaid. I would know what doom the Rainwards face. But not here. There are others who must hear this.”
The Ishan Tokh, the Vault of Eyes, stood at the top of the highest of Sevenspires’ towers, a room of eight tall windows that looked out on nothing: beyond their crystal panes was the white stone of the tower’s outer walls. The rest of the room was also white, featureless, and so was its floor, save for a circle of silver, inlaid in its middle, wide enough to hold a dozen people in comfort. Only six stood within the ring, however: Hult, Shedara, Azar, and Essana, and also the centaur king and his dwarf vizier. The air reeked with magic, strong and thick. To Hult, it smelled of wildflowers and blood, burning metal and distant rain. It felt dangerous, and it took all his will to keep his hand from straying to his blade.
“I heard tales about rooms like these,” Shedara said, looking around. “The Voice had designs on building one of her own one day. I guess that will never happen now.”
“Never?” Roshambur asked. He squinted at her, worry in his eyes. “Has some ill befallen the woods of Armach?”
Hult blinked, surprised. So did Shedara. “You don’t know? When was your last word from the westerlands?”
The dwarf thought about it, then shot a questioning look at King Nakhil. “Half a year?” he said.
The centaur nodded. “Maybe a little longer.”
Essana sighed.
“Then there is more tale to this than I thought,” she said. “Shall I begin?”
“Not yet,” Nakhil bade. “Bide a moment. Roshambur? Are they all prepared?”
The dwarf shut his eyes, concentrating. His lips moved, and Hult strained to hear what he was saying. The words were indistinct, however, barely louder than a breath. What was stranger, he could swear he heard other voices talking too—whispers just out of earshot. His scalp prickled; his sword begged for his hand. He forced himself to fold his arms. Whatever was about to happen, it was going to be far stranger than invisible voices.
All at once, Roshambur snapped back to himself. He looked confused for a moment, as if he didn’t know where he was, then he nodded once to Nakhil. “They stand in their vaults as well. Shall I begin?”
The king waved his hand.
The dwarf’s stubby fingers were already dancing as he turned and strode to the center of the silver circle. He moved with surprising nimbleness, his spellcasting gestures every bit as agile as Shedara’s as he drew down the moons’ power. White motes sparkled in the air as his deep voice rose in a spidery chant.
“The tower acts as a channel for the magic,” Shedara murmured. “Roshambur is powerful, but there’s more at work here than just him. This place is enchanted with magic from the old empire.”
Hult could taste the sorcery in the air, sour and burning on his tongue. It made his eyes water. He gritted his teeth and weathered it as the white moon’s light billowed like a stormcloud above their heads, then broke and rained motes of quicksilver upon them.
There was a ripping sound, as of a great sheet of linen being torn in two, and lightning flared in the room’s windows all at once. When it dimmed, the crystal panes no longer showed blank stone beyond. Each looked upon another room, identical to the one in which they stood, but with different figures in their midst: a cowled wizard and a robed and crowned figure; there were eight pairs of figures in all. There were dwarves and men, and even a half-ogre. One of the wizards appeared to be an elf; one king had wrinkled skin a
nd slanted eyes that reminded Hult of the Ice People of Panak. They all looked in through the windows, staring at him on all sides. It was as if there were nine rooms instead of one on top of the white tower.
No, it was not just nine—hundreds … thousands. In each room, Hult saw other windows, looking out on the other rooms beyond, and even more rooms beyond them, looking onto still more rooms, and on and on. He saw his own bewildered face, dozens of times over, staring back from the distance. Dizziness swept over him, and he swayed on his feet, forcing himself to look away. It was hard, though. In the blankness of the Vault, he kept turning back to the windows and the rooms beyond, stretching into infinity.
Shedara let out a low whistle. “Not bad,” she said, inclining her head toward Roshambur. “What do you do next—make the palace fly?”
The dwarf scowled.
“Hush,” Essana hissed as Nakhil stepped forward.
“Kings of the Rainwards,” spoke the centaur, “keepers of the Isles and Waters, I thank you for answering at such haste.”
“What is this, Nakhil?” demanded a dwarf king—no, actually a queen, though it took Hult a moment to realize it. Her beard and gruff voice made it hard to tell. “I was just about to ride out hunting. My falcons and my hounds await. Why so urgent the call to the Tokhu? And who are those people?”
Hult bristled at the way she said that last part. Yes, he was travel-weary and road-dusty, and their company were a strange lot to begin with, but the dwarf queen took the same tone as some of his people had when speaking of Kazar or goblins or others they considered unclean.
Nakhil dipped his head, patient before the dwarf’s bluster. “They are my guests, Pharga,” he said, “and have come to the Tokhu at my behest. They traveled long, across the wastes of Aurim, to find me.”
“Across Aurim?” asked another king, a man with skin the color of ebony and long white hair beneath his crown of iron. “Their need must be dire.”
“It is, Talkash.” Nakhil gestured to Essana. “This is the lady of Coldhope. She knew Azar before he … died.”
There was a ripple of movement on the windows, which carried on through the windows-within-windows, and so on. The Rainward Kings were startled, troubled. Some looked downright frightened.
“Azar … dead?” asked Talkash. “That is ill. What happened? Was he found out? Have the Faceless triumphed?”
“I know not,” Nakhil said. “I waited to call the Tokhu before I heard the tale, for it is long in the telling, or so they say.”
The kings and queens of the islands looked agitated. Hult felt their stares on him from all angles. It was daunting, but he had stood among the Tegins of the Uigan and watched the Wyrm-namer draw his last breath. He’d fought the Faceless and their minions and stood before Maladar himself. He could manage nine restless kings.
He looked at Essana. She looked at Shedara. Shedara sighed.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll start this off. I was in a town called Blood Watch to steal a painting from a minotaur named Ruskal Eight-Fingers …”
Chapter
13
HYO-KHAL, AURIM-THAT-WAS
Smoke clung to the air in sinuous drifts, shrouding the village, masking the smell of blood. The sounds of rending flesh, of screams, of harsh, barking laughter echoed through the pall. Here and there, a few fires still guttered, but most of what could burn already had. The battle was done, if it could be called that; in truth, it had been a slaughter. Maladar had brought only a small contingent of his army, maybe two thousand hobgoblins, leaving the rest to finish work on the flotilla that would carry them across the channel. Even so, he’d outnumbered the little harbor’s defenders twenty to one.
It had been much easier than Bishan: Hyo-khal’s folk were fighters all but lacked the skill of the treasure-raiders, and the village had little in the way of fortifications—just a ditch and stake-lined dike surrounding a wooden palisade. One simple spell had sent both stakes and walls up in flames, making a breach large enough for his hordes to boil through. After that, it had fallen to blade-work and burning, all of it done in an hour. One boat had managed to break free of the harbor, but before it got far across open water, Maladar burst its hull with another spell. It foundered and sank out of sight, its crew dragged down with it.
Most of the men and dwarves who lived in Hyo-khal were lucky: they either died in the fighting or were smart enough to take their own lives when hope ran out. For the foolish and unfortunate, things were worse. It was, after all, the hobgoblins’ first skirmish against the Rainwarders, and they were in a blood frenzy. They dragged their victims, dead and alive, off into the smoke and rubble to feast.
Maladar stood in the middle of the carnage, listening to it on all sides. His followers were ravenous and ate with relish and abandon. Inside, he sensed the soul of Barreth Forlo was upset, nauseated, and furious. He paid the feelings no mind, not even to take pleasure in Forlo’s suffering. It got boring after a while—the constant rage, the never-ending, futile attempts to wrest back control of the flesh Maladar wore.
Perhaps it is time take a new body, he thought. One of the survivors that hasn’t been eaten yet. They’re younger, fresher.…
But no. There were still reasons to keep that particular shell—four reasons, in fact: the four who had escaped from that very harbor only a few days earlier.
Especially the wife and the son.
Maladar walked through the cinders, down to the harbor, where smoke and fog blended into a brown haze. Blackened hulls sat swamped along the wharf: aside from the one boat he’d broken out on the open water, all the others had burned to the waterline. That was regrettable; he’d wanted to capture a decent boat so he had something in his fleet besides the miserable, leaky rafts the hobgoblins were building. He gazed across the foul water, where bodies bobbed among the flotsam. Fins plied the waters at the harbor’s edge, and occasionally a corpse vanished in a red spume. The sharks were hungry as well.
Beyond, there was nothing to see but mist. The fog banks over the strait had only grown thicker, hiding the Rainwards from view. He smiled at that. The mist would be useful if it held. The people of Suluk would know of his coming by now, but the mist would hide his fleet from their eyes. If they were quiet enough, the hobgoblins could be inside the city’s breakwaters before anyone knew they were close. The fighting would be hard, but he still had numbers enough to accomplish his goals.
He was still gazing into the fog, as if by will he might see through it to the far side of the water, when Ghashai found him. The warrior walked with a limp—an arrow had pierced his thigh, though not badly enough to cripple him—and blood covered him from snout to stomach. It was bright red, human blood, not hobgoblin black. As a warlord, Ghashai had the choice of the feasting, the youngest, tenderest meat. His eyes gleamed and his nose twitched, as if he could smell the flesh waiting for them across the strait. The day’s gorging was nothing compared with what was to come.
“What is it now?” Maladar demanded. “You always interrupt me when I’m thinking. I tire of it.”
Ghashai stopped, his mouth dropping open. Shreds of meat clung between his sharp teeth. “My lord. You bade me tell you if we found anyone who saw a boat leave the harbor, some days ago.”
“You found a witness?” Maladar asked, one eyebrow lifting. “And your people didn’t eat him?”
“Not … completely.”
Maladar’s lip curled. He hated the hobgoblins—their stupidity, their savagery, their hunger for human flesh. Their only virtues were their ferocity and their willingness to follow him. Once he had his empire back, once Aurim was risen anew, there would be no place for them in Taladas anymore. It would be a pleasure to get rid of them.
“My lord?” Ghashai asked. “Will you see the captive?”
Maladar nodded. “Bring me to him.”
The man’s condition made Maladar hate the hobgoblins all the more. His legs were both broken, and a deep gash across his stomach welled blood. Worse yet, there were other woun
ds on him, small tears that could only be caused by teeth. There was an art to inflicting pain, and the hobgoblins’ technique was indelicate. He gave Ghashai and the other creatures a glare that made them pale and draw back; then he bent down beside the man.
The man was dying; he wouldn’t live another hour even if the hobgoblins didn’t kill him. He probably would already be dead, but he was strong, sturdy … a stevedore, most likely. They’d found him at the docks. There was enough lucidity left in his eyes for Maladar’s purposes. He grabbed the man’s chin, turned his face toward him, fixed him with his gaze. Confusion creased the man’s features.
“It’s all right,” Maladar lied. “They won’t harm you anymore.”
“I … I know you,” the man said, his eyes rolling. He was delirious, beyond pain. “You were on the boat … but you were younger. And you’ve grown a beard.”
So, then—one question answered before he even asked it. The boy, the son, had been aboard.
“Who else?” Maladar demanded. “A barbarian? An elf? A woman?”
Weakly, the man nodded. “That’s them. I helped load the boat. But how are you back here? You should be on the other side of the Grayveil by now.”
“Where did they go?” Maladar pressed.
The man blinked, groggy. Maladar tightened his grip on his face and slapped him.
“Where?”
“S-Suluk,” the man groaned. “They were going … to warn the king.”
“They know we’re coming?” Ghashai asked.
“Be still!” Maladar snapped over his shoulder, then turned back to the dying man. “You have done well.”
“Don’t … don’t let them hurt me,” the stevedore breathed.
