Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  Agravhask had crushed the Isle of Kordain’s resistance and exterminated its nobles in about three days. The island’s commoners had been taken in hand and forced to work their fields for the glory of the Heptarchy. The Isle of Kordain had become a satrapy of the Seven Temples, a forward base and supply cache for Agravhask’s host.

  A host that was even now on its way to attack Andomhaim.

  Morigna had to do something, anything to stop it, to warn Andomhaim of the hideous storm that was about to land on its shores. But what? She dared not kill Agravhask. For one thing, Morigna doubted she actually could kill him. Agravhask was too cunning and too well protected. If Morigna tried, the likely outcome would be her death and Agravhask’s survival. For another, the high priestesses clustered around Agravhask like scavengers following the wake of a predator. The priestesses resented Agravhask’s authority, but they dared not challenge him. Yet if they realized that Morigna was here, the priestesses of all Seven Temples would put aside their differences to kill her. The mantle of the Guardian made Morigna a powerful wizard, but she could not fight so many wielders of dark magic at once.

  She had to do something before it was too late.

  Bootsteps creaked against the deck of the ship, and Morigna turned.

  A spiderling and two mutant orcs approached.

  The soldiers of the Heptarchy were the arachar orcs, their skin crimson instead of the usual orcish green. Most female urdmordar had only a few dozen arachar orcs around them, giving the orcs drops of their blood to make them stronger and faster. The twisted genius of the Visionary had figured out how to breed arachar orcs on a vast scale, creating entire nations of them to sire legions of soldiers for the Heptarchy. The arachar orcs were stronger and more resilient than their cousins, though the mutations turned their skin red. Sometimes, though, the mutations went a little too far, and an orcish boy was born with a third eye in his forehead. These orcs became the Chosen Guards, the elite of the Seven Temples, capable of wielding both sword and dark magic with equal skill. Two of the Chosen Guards stared at Morigna, watching her with a respectful expression. They wore elaborate crimson plate armor adorned with reliefs of spiders, and swords enspelled with dark magic hung at their belts.

  If they knew what she really was, they would kill her without hesitation.

  A spiderling priestess walked between the Chosen Guards, clad in a flowing black robe with a crimson spider sigil upon the chest. In Andomhaim, the spiderlings were usually hybrids of human and urdmordar, or perhaps orc and urdmordar. In the lands that would become the Heptarchy, the seven urdmordar had enslaved and then exterminated the dark elves on their continent, though not before the Visionary had harvested the dark elves’ blood and bone and seed to create new kindreds. The spiderlings of the Heptarchy were the spawn of a female urdmordar and an enslaved dark elven father…and far more powerful than the spiderlings of Andomhaim.

  The spiderling woman looked at Morigna. Like all spiderlings, she was tall and thin and pale, though her ears came to an elven point. She had thick dark hair and vivid green eyes, though the six hidden eyes on her forehead were currently concealed, and her talons and pincers were hidden.

  Morigna offered a bow, hand tensing against her staff. “High Priestess Taztaloria.”

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. If the priestesses had seen past her concealing spell, Morigna was about to die. Or Agravhask might have realized who she really was and laid a trap for her. He was so cunning that it was impossible to know if she was safe from him or not.

  But Taztaloria inclined her head. “Priestess Masrivia.”

  Morigna resisted the urge to let out a relieved breath. “How may I serve, High Priestess?”

  Morigna’s magic let her turn herself invisible, impervious to all forms of detection. But the spell was a great effort, and she could only maintain it for so long. It was far easier instead to wrap herself in an illusion, using the Guardian’s mantle to render it impenetrable, and masquerade as a priestess of the Crimson, another of the seven urdmordar. A minor priestess named Masrivia had been killed by bandits on her way to join Agravhask’s armada, and Morigna had taken her identity.

  “Come,” said Taztaloria with an imperious gesture. She spoke the common dialect of the Heptarchy, orcish peppered with loanwords from the dark elves, the Azrikai halflings, and the urdmordar themselves. “We are commanded to attend High Priestess Mayascora. A dispute has arisen among the men, and she will bring it to the Warlord for his justice.”

  Morigna nodded and fell in alongside the spiderling woman, the two Chosen Guards following them. Their presence made her shoulder blades itch, but there was nothing to be done about it. To the east and the west of the flagship, Morigna saw countless masts and sails. The Heptarchy armada was nearly two thousand ships strong, and almost all of them had left the Isle of Kordain for Cintarra.

  “Would not the High Priestess render her own judgments?” said Morigna.

  “The seven goddesses themselves made it clear that Warlord Agravhask was to command this host, and the priestesses of the Temples were to serve him,” said Taztaloria. “The High Priestess Mayascora merely follows their wishes.”

  Morigna knew what that meant. Mayascora hated Agravhask and thought that she should have been in command of the great invasion. She had attempted to undermine the Warlord at every turn. No doubt Mayascora had found a case that would make Agravhask look bad or ineffectual.

  “That is a dangerous game,” said Morigna. “The Warlord is a subtle man and not one to be trifled with.”

  “Mayascora is the highest priestess of the Crimson,” said Taztaloria, her voice harsh. “It is not ours to question her, sister.” Morigna lowered her head in acknowledgment, but a troubled look went over Taztaloria’s face. “But we shall see, will we not? All things shall be as the goddesses will.”

  They reached the middle deck of the great warship, and Morigna saw that a practice fight was underway. Agravhask faced off against six different arachar orcs, all of them veterans, all of them skilled with every weapon used by the Heptarchy’s armies.

  It wasn’t a fair fight.

  The soldiers should have brought friends.

  Agravhask stood nearly eight feet tall and wore only trousers and heavy leather boots, a sheen of sweat glittering on his chest and shaven head. The muscles were huge beneath his crimson skin, his arms thicker than both of Morigna’s legs put together. His face was brutish, thuggish, with a swollen brow ridge, a protruding jaw, and two tusks that rose like jagged spikes. He looked like the image of a violent orcish warrior, an unthinking brute of a man.

  The black eyes of the six orcish soldiers facing him glimmered with crimson battle fury, but Agravhask’s eyes remained hard and black.

  Even as Morigna looked, Agravhask leaped forward, the wooden practice sword in his hand blurring. One of the orcish soldiers fell stunned to the deck, and the others closed around Agravhask.

  Taztaloria stopped next to another priestess. This spiderling had a pale, pinched face, a chronically annoyed expression on her lean features. She always looked as if she had just taken a bite from something sour. All eight of her eyes were open beneath her mane of blood-colored hair, and they gave off an eerie green light. Taztaloria bowed before the spiderling, and Morigna followed suit.

  Mayascora, the highest priestess of the Temple dedicated to the Crimson, the most warlike of the seven urdmordar, was not a woman to offend for any reason.

  “Sisters,” said Mayascora, her voice as harsh and strident at her expression. “You may rise.” She made it sound like a grudging concession. Morigna straightened up just in time to see that Agravhask had knocked down a second of the soldiers. No, a third – only three of them were still on their feet.

  “The wretched brute,” said Mayascora in a low voice. “Playing at swords when we ought to be preparing to bring the humans of Andomhaim to the worship of the goddesses.”

  A fourth soldier went down.

  “Is it wise to provoke him, High
Priestess?” said Taztaloria. “We are close to the invasion. Perhaps we should wait until Agravhask has subdued the humans before we undermine him.”

  “Then the glory will belong to Agravhask and his soldiers, not in its proper place with the priestesses of the Seven Temples,” said Mayascora. “No, sister, we shall start chipping away at his authority now.”

  She did not address herself to Morigna. “Masrivia” was of sufficiently low rank to be beneath Mayascora’s notice. The Seven Temples had many high priestesses, but Morigna had realized the rank was like that of an ancient Roman centurion – there were many different grades and levels of high priestesses. Taztaloria was Mayascora’s second, one of the most powerful individuals in the Heptarchy, but Mayascora’s word was law within the Temple of the Crimson.

  Unless, of course, the Crimson happened to decide to kill Mayascora that day. The urdmordar could be mercurial.

  Agravhask knocked the last of the six soldiers from his feet and looked around. He was sweating, but likely that was from the heat of the day. The Warlord wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Well fought, men,” said Agravhask. His voice was quiet and deep, almost meditative.

  One of the orcs shook his head as he got back to his feet. “You handled us like puppies, Warlord.”

  “You will learn from the experience and grow in wisdom,” said Agravhask. “You are each granted an extra ration of wine with the evening meal.”

  The soldiers bowed and moved off, and Agravhask snapped his fingers. Six halfling engineers hurried forward. The halflings of Andomhaim tended to work as domestic servants or merchants, but in Owyllain, Morigna had met the Takai, nomadic halflings who ranged over their steppes on struthian mounts, hunting and fighting each other. Ridmark had told her of the halflings of the Ghost Path, another nation of halflings that dwelled far to the east of Andomhaim beyond the Qazaluuskan Forest.

  These halflings called themselves the Azrikai and were followers of the Visionary’s Temple. Just as most humans of Andomhaim believed that God had intended halflings for domestic service, most of the inhabitants of the Heptarchy believed that the Azrikai were naturally cunning artificers, artisans, and smiths. The Azrikai served as the engineers and armorers of Agravhask’s army. The halflings that converged on Agravhask were about four and a half feet tall. Each one of them had shaved his head, their scalps and faces tattooed with intricate designs of blue ink. One of the Azrikai unfolded a small stepstool, climbed atop it, and started toweling the sweat from Agravhask’s heavy arms.

  “Warlord!” Mayascora chose that moment to speak, striding forward and stopping with her arms folded in front of Agravhask. “I would have words with you.”

  Agravhask’s expression was as calm as a mountain lake, but his eyes were like deep wells into darkness.

  Did they linger longer than they should have over Morigna?

  “Of course, High Priestess,” said Agravhask. “I am always eager to hear the words of the Seven Temples.” He couldn’t have meant that, but Morigna heard no trace of sarcasm in his tone.

  “I regret the necessity to interrupt your…frolics,” said Mayascora, “but there is a serious matter of theft. You must hear the matter and render a judgment immediately.”

  “The warrior enslaved to his routine is soon defeated,” said Agravhask. “Very well. Bring forth the accused.”

  Mayascora’s lips thinned further. “Perhaps we should wait until your…grooming is finished.”

  “I would not have the High Priestess think that my comfort is more important than the business of the Temples,” said Agravhask. “Bring forth the accused.”

  A flicker of annoyance went over Mayascora’s face, but she snapped her fingers. One of the Chosen Guards turned and descended below deck. A moment later he returned. Four more Chosen Guards followed him, escorting an arachar orc in plate armor, his face thunderous.

  A gray-skinned kyralf in a somber blue robe walked after him.

  The kyralves were another of the Visionary’s experiments. Typically, when a dark elf impregnated an orcish woman, the result was an urdhracos or some other creature of dark magic. But with her dark magic, alchemy, and secrets of natural science, the Visionary had created the kyralves, hybrids of dark elf and orc. They had dusky gray skin, with the pointed ears of the dark elves and the thick, heavy features of the orcs. The kyralves had a natural affinity for magic, and they served the urdmordar as battle wizards, scribes, and administrators. Kyravles who joined the Temples had the rank of Ordinariate, though like the title of high priestess, the rank had many different grades.

  “The accuser is…”

  “They are familiar to me, High Priestess,” said Agravhask as two of the halflings pulled on his gambeson. He nodded towards the orc in plate armor. “This is Vhorshak, chief quartermaster for this squadron of the fleet. The accuser is Mythkhar, an Ordinariate for the Temple of the Crimson.” And Mayascora’s own scribe, Morigna knew. “What is the accusation?”

  “Warlord,” said Mythkhar, pointing at Vhorshak, who scowled at him. “As part of my duties, I conducted an audit of the supplies aboard the vessels of this squadron. As you know, it is of paramount importance that our supplies are rationed until we secure a source of food in Andomhaim.”

  “I am aware,” said Agravhask.

  He was calm, so calm, but Mythkhar flinched for just a second.

  “Yes,” said Mythkhar. “I discovered that we were consuming our supplies of wine faster than planned. I feared that some of the soldiers were stealing the wine, so I placed watchers to observe the supply hold. My surprise was indeed profound when I witnessed Vhorshak stealing wine from the supplies and selling it to the soldiers.”

  “I see,” said Agravhask.

  The halflings finished pulling on his gambeson and then began adding the armor.

  “Warlord!” said Vhorshak. “I…”

  Agravhask raised his hand for silence, and Vhorshak stilled.

  “As you can see, this is a very serious matter, Warlord,” said Mayascora. “You appointed Vhorshak as overseer of supplies for this squadron, did you not?”

  “I recall,” said Agravhask. The halflings lowered a hauberk of crimson chain mail over his torso and then began adding plates of crimson steel. The armor made Agravhask look bigger, more ominous.

  “I demand you make an example of Vhorshak at once,” said Mayascora. “The supplies aboard these vessels are the property of the Seven Temples and therefore the goddesses themselves. To steal from them is blasphemy.”

  “The accused are permitted to speak,” said Agravhask. “What have you to say for yourself, Vhorshak?”

  Vhorshak drew himself up. “Warlord, these charges are a lie. I have kept the trust you gave me. I have not stolen from our stores.”

  “Then how do you account for this missing wine?” said Agravhask.

  Dismay flickered over Vhorshak’s features. “I do not know. Only I hold the keys to the hold, and the lock was not broken.”

  “Do you deny the testimony of an Ordinariate and wizard of the Temple?” said Mayascora, gesturing at Mythkhar. “You have heard his words! Render judgment, Warlord.”

  “I shall render judgment, High Priestess,” said Agravhask, “when I have heard the facts to my satisfaction. The wine, Vhorshak. Is it stored in skins or in casks?”

  Vhorshak blinked. “In…in skins, Warlord. It is easier to move on and off the ship and less chance of spillage.”

  “My sword belt,” said Agravhask.

  Two of the Azrikai halflings lifted a leather belt, and Agravhask took it and wound it around his waist.

  The dark soulblade Shieldruin bumped against Agravhask’s left hip.

  Morigna’s Sight observed the mighty dark magic gathered within the weapon, and she stopped herself from shuddering. All the army knew that Agravhask wielded a weapon of dark magic, and most assumed the goddesses themselves had given him the sword, or he had found it in some ruin. No one knew that the Warden himself had given Agravhask the sword. Th
e urdmordar feared the Warden, and if they had known Agravhask was a Herald of Ruin, they would have killed him…but the army was a long way from the Heptarchy.

  The Azrikai finished with the armor and stepped back, and Morigna did shiver this time. The armor transformed Agravhask into a tower of crimson steel. The Warlord considered Vhorshak and Mythkhar for a moment, and then Agravhask took three quick steps forward. He stopped in front of Mythkhar, who flinched back.

  “Where do you sleep aboard this ship, Vhorshak?” said Agravhask, still looking down at Mythkhar.

  “In…in the common hold, Warlord, with the other soldiers,” said Vhorshak.

  Agravhask nodded and walked back to the Azrikai halflings. For such a huge man, he moved with almost dancer-like grace. It was almost mesmerizing to watch, at least until Agravhask killed someone.

  “Ordinariate Mythkhar has a private cabin below,” said Agravhask to the halflings. “Go and search it immediately. Bring me whatever you find beneath his bunk.”

  “I protest!” said Mythkhar. “I am an Ordinariate of the Temple of the Crimson, and I…”

  “And you are the accuser,” said Agravhask as the Azrikai bowed and disappeared into the depths of the great ship. “Since you submitted to my judgment, I will seek out the necessary evidence. Do not fear. It will not be a long wait.”

  It wasn’t. A few moments later, the halflings returned, carrying seven wineskins between them. Each of the heavy leather skins were about as long and thick as Morigna’s leg, and she heard the wine sloshing within them. One of the seven skins was only half-full.

  “What is this?” demand Mythkhar, but he had started sweating.

  “We found these beneath his bunk, Warlord,” said the Azrikai halflings, bowing.

  “I see,” said Agravhask. “How many skins of wine were missing from your accounting, Ordinariate Mythkhar?”