chapter 16
Amric drew rein before the eastern gate of Keldrin’s Landing and studied the flurry of activity taking place there beneath the damaged archway. He took in the scorched and blackened stone, the shattered remnants of the great ironbound doors, and the deep, raking marks that scored the length of the massive city wall. A veritable legion of sappers scrambled here and there under the bellowed direction of a stout, red-faced man who must have been the combat engineer in charge.
With a practiced eye, Amric assessed the fortifications the men were constructing: rows of outward-facing spikes jutting from the ground, deadweight drops suspended in the archway, staggered trenches carved through the paving and waiting to be filled by the precisely placed barrels of oil, an archer’s wall in the courtyard beyond.
The city had suffered a concerted attack, and was preparing for war. From the frantic pace of the sappers, they expected the next assault to come at any time. Amric noted the way the setting sun ahead painted the top of the city wall a burnished red-gold hue, and he decided they might have good reason indeed to make haste. He wheeled his bay gelding about to face the others. Valkarr and Syth looked upon the preparations with stony expressions, comprehension plain upon their features. Halthak’s eyes were wide, and he divided his attention between the gate and the road that stretched out behind them, winding like a ribbon over the rolling hills as the deepening dusk gnawed steadily at its distant end. Bellimar sat his old nag with his usual composure, but his eyes devoured every detail as they approached.
Few words had been exchanged that morning when the party emerged from the cave with the horses and found the old man standing in the road, his cloak drawn tight around him. Amric had met the vampire’s gaze and held it for a long moment, waiting until he was certain that Bellimar read the warning and the promise contained therein. When understanding passed between them, Amric handed him the reins to his sway-backed mare and they both mounted without another word.
The warrior had elected not to comment on the fact that Bellimar’s silver hair was now streaked with dark grey, and some of the fine wrinkles on his ancient visage had faded over the course of the night. He preferred not to dwell overlong on the implications such changes raised for how Bellimar had passed the hours alone until morning.
Thalya sat with a stiff back upon her glossy black mare. She looked as if she had swallowed that broad-bladed hunting knife of hers sideways, an expression she had worn since Bellimar rejoined them in the morn. Her narrowed eyes never strayed far from the man who, for his part, affected not to notice her icy glares.
“Valkarr, come with me,” Amric said. “The rest of you, wait here.”
The two warriors rode to the gate, keeping to an unhurried pace. Guards watched every step of their approach, hands resting on weapons and arrows nocked to bows. Amric smiled grimly to himself. Gone was the blithe indifference among the city’s forces, replaced by a much more vigilant mien. Two soldiers strode out to meet them, and Amric hailed the men as they drew near.
“This gate is closed to travelers,” shouted one of the men, a tall, bearded fellow with a barrel chest. “You and your party will have to circle around to the southern gate.”
His companion, a lean, hawk-faced man with a scar running from forehead to chin, eyed the newcomers but said nothing.
“What happened here?” Amric asked, nodding toward the ravaged entrance. “What force inflicted this damage?”
The larger man glowered at him. “Does it look like we have time to trade idle chatter with every fool straying from the city?” he demanded. He waved one meaty hand in a curt gesture. “Be on your way, and let us return to our work. We have much to do yet before nightfall.”
Amric bit back his first response. He was road-weary and caked with dirt and dried blood, and he intended to be within the city wall before the sun fell below the horizon. All the same, there was no reason to vent his temper on a man who was merely doing his duty. He took a breath and tried again.
“We are travelers,” he said. “We have been away for almost a week to the east, into the forest and back. I would speak with your commander, to share the things we have seen on the road back to the city. It may well have some bearing on what has taken place here, and what comes next.”
“You would have us believe that you and your motley handful here have been wandering about the countryside, day and night, and that you even ventured into that accursed forest? And somehow you all survived to make your return?” The guard boomed out a harsh laugh. “If we were swapping tales in a tavern, I’d toss a copper your way for your creativity, but I have no time for this folly just now.”
“Very well,” Amric said. “Then do me the kindness of pointing me to your superior, who hopefully puts his skull to better use than simply keeping his helm from clattering to the ground.”
The burly guard’s expression darkened and his beard bristled as he thrust out his jaw. “You’ll not be staying on my good side, lad, with talk like that.”
“Imagine my dismay,” Amric replied. “Now run along.”
The guard’s hand tightened on the sword hilt at his hip, but his eyes roved over the warriors as if seeing them for the first time, taking in their weaponry and their relaxed manner. His gaze lingered on Valkarr, who was regarding him as he would a struggling insect of no particular interest, and finally the guard relaxed his grip, drumming his fingers upon the pommel once before letting his hand fall to his side. “A signal from me,” he growled, “and those archers back there will feather you with arrows.”
Amric shook his head. “Not in time to save you, my friend. Now, as you pointed out, you and I have nothing left to discuss. Fetch your commander, and leave your friend here. Surely not every member of the city guard is so poor at making conversation.”
The barrel-chested guard glowered at his companion, and then at Amric. Muttering into his beard, he turned and stalked back toward the gate.
“Do not judge him too harshly,” said the hawk-faced guard as he watched the fellow’s retreating back. “He is a good man in a scrape, and everyone’s nerves are frayed at the moment. He is right that we do not have much time.”
“It is already forgotten,” Amric replied. “And I will not waste your commander’s time. Now, tell me all you know of the attack.”
By the time the lean, scar-faced guard had recounted the events of the previous night, a dozen soldiers on horseback were picking their way past the fortifications and riding out from the gate. The warriors shifted their mounts to facing the approaching contingent. The man in the lead, a powerfully built fellow whose irritation showed in the firm set of his square jaw, began shouting as he drew near.
“What in blazes is this idiocy? I do not have time for––”
Amric interrupted in a clear, carrying voice. “The spiked creatures are called varkhuls. They attack in swarms and cannot tolerate light, and though they have not the cunning to form strategies, they are tenacious and will flow like water around any obstacle. They can scale almost any surface and their talons secrete a mild venom that induces lethargy in their victims. You will need many more torches atop the city wall if you are going to prevent them from overrunning it. Flaming arrows in their midst will also sow chaos among them, sometimes even making them turn on one another in the confusion. Once established, varkhuls multiply like mad around any food source, and you have hordes of them infesting nearly every farmhouse and other shade-providing structure between here and the heart of the forest. The forest mines alone must contain thousands of them. You may be able to blunt the attacks at night by sending forces during the day to raze every structure and burn out every cave.”
The leader slowed his mount, his eyes narrowing as he fell silent, and his men slowed with him.
“The huge creatures that battered down your gates are known as shamblers,” Amric continued. “They seem to be primitive elementals driven somehow mad by the twisting of the land’s magic. They draw a coating of armor about themselves from nearby rock, dirt and vegetation. You must tear that shell apart and fracture it into pieces too small to operate on their own, to force the animating spirit to abandon it and flee. The serpent creatures are greels. They usually dwell deep underground in damp caverns, and no one knows what has driven them to the surface. Just as no one knows why these disparate creatures and many others, who bear no love for each other, are growing ever stronger in numbers and attacking human outposts in a blind rage.”
The commander drew his mount to a halt, and his men fanned out to form a line behind him.
Amric jerked his chin toward the eastern gate. “You have a good start on fortifications. You might consider soaking the spikes or sheathing them in iron so that the burning oil does not destroy them too quickly. Also, if you mount enough torches and spikes high along the archway wall and angle your rows of ground spikes more to funnel the varkhuls toward a center path, their own numbers will inhibit them and your archers can concentrate all their fire there. The same trick might work with torches projecting from the wall crenellations to direct the focus of the varkhuls, so that your men need not spread too thin up there.”
The commander stared at him. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Amric, a warmaster of the Sil’ath,” the warrior replied. “I and my party have just traversed the full length of the eastern road. When we left the city days ago, we saw scattered tracks around the abandoned farms. Today, I doubt you could enter any building out there without encountering them. They are moving in droves at night, spreading from the forest.”
The commander cleared his throat, and gave a solemn nod. “I am Captain Borric, commander of the Keldrin’s Landing city guard. You bear grim news, Amric, but I thank you for every scrap of it. At least we are forewarned.” He ran an appraising look over the warriors. “When the next attack comes, I could use every available sword in defending this city. If it is gold you are after, the wealthy here may prefer to finance their own private armies, but they are finding sudden cause to contribute more generously to funding the public defense.”
Amric laughed. “If the attack comes tonight, Captain, rest assured that we will join in the defense of the city. At the moment, however, I am after the first hot meal we have had in almost a week. And if I do not wash away all this grime soon, I may be mistaken for a shambler myself.”
Borric chuckled and waved him away. “Be on your way then, Amric, and fare you well.”
“You as well, Captain,” Amric said, wheeling his mount about. He and Valkarr rode back to the others as the sounds followed them of Borric shouting new orders to his men. The party wended its way around to the northern gate as the sun sank behind the eastern horizon.
The massive fortress of Stronghold leered down, as lifeless and empty as a grinning skull, upon the forest crowded around it. The setting sun was impaling itself upon the towering, primordial trees to the east, bathing one side of the mountain structure in deepest crimson even as the other side blackened into shadow. The place was silent, like dust settling in a crypt, and yet a distant, steady power still pulsed and thrummed somewhere far beneath its broken core.
In the sprawling courtyard within the innermost defensive wall, before the titanic main doors of the fortress, the evening air began to crackle. Light gathered there, a multitude of swirling motes drawing together to form a wavering, brilliant weal against the deepening gloom. The rift parted, torn open with a hiss, and the man in black robes stepped through. He cast a swift glance about, probing the long shadows thrown by constructs of pitted stone as the air hummed with the power gathered about him. He found nothing, and the tension eased from his tall form as he released some of that power. The rift closed behind him with a sizzling sigh, its luminance fading after it like a dying candle flame, and the man began to walk.
He had not really expected an ambush. Everything he had sensed thus far suggested a foe that was clumsy and inexperienced. Otherwise he would not have risked opening a Way directly here. It had been easy enough to orient upon the site of the event, given some time, and it was always liberating to be on a world where such travel was unknown and therefore not warded against. Tearing open a temporary Way was still a draining effort, however, and could leave one vulnerable to ready resistance on the other end. As he had surmised, there was nothing of the kind awaiting him. Still, a phenomenal amount of power had been employed here, more than enough to give him pause, and he had not survived so many years doing such dangerous work by being careless.
There were also, of course, the savage denizens of this world to consider. They should not pose too great a risk to one of his abilities, provided he employed reasonable cautions. As the Essence Gate in the ruins of Queln continued to operate, however, the magic of this world grew more and more unstable. The magical elements here, then, would swell in number and become increasingly maddened. They would do a marvelous job of keeping the more civilized occupants busy, but at the same time they would also make it more challenging for him to travel unmolested. All the more reason to complete this unpleasant business and be gone before it all began to crumble. This ripe world would descend into madness on its path to becoming a lifeless, desiccated husk, and he did not care to be present to witness any of it first-hand.
He considered for a moment whether he would prefer to remain here as the end approached or return empty-handed again, and the sting of a chill sweat broke out on his brow. It must not come to that.
The black-robed man climbed broad steps and stepped onto the sweeping terrace level that girded the imposing front of the fortress. He knelt there, placing one splayed hand upon the stone beneath his feet. The pain of this place ran very deep, like black rot devouring the heart of a great tree all the way down to its roots. It went down well into the earth. Those fingers of corruption had found fire there in the very veins of the world, and even that cleansing flame had not been sufficient to scour this place of its disease. He was always mesmerized at the ways in which primal essence could twist the weakness of flesh and structure both, seizing that which was thought buried and bringing it unwilling to the fore, quickening it in impossible, exquisite agony.
He found the signature of the one he sought, of course, a blazing brand smoking against a still quivering hide. From there, however, the signs tapered off again, albeit slowly, as if that other had been almost reluctant to resume masking himself.
The man rose to his feet once more. If he could trace his quarry’s steps, he might well be able to discern a faint auric trail, and then it was but a matter of time. Few enough could mask this much power effectively, and fewer still could hide thus from a trained tracker such as he. Yes, it would be but a matter of time, now.
He strode toward the immense marble arch that marked the imposing front entrance to Stronghold. The metal doors cast back dull gleams from within the shadows of the archway, as if the fortress itself bared its teeth at his presence. He began to draw in power, a predator’s grin stretching tight across his face. It was time to give a polite knock.
Amric pushed away the empty plate and drained the last of the mug of ale. Beside him, Valkarr tore into a third heaping plate of food with feverish abandon, shoveling each new bite between wedge-shaped jaws as if his meal would evaporate before him at any moment. Amric smiled, feeling a wash of relief. It was the most enthusiasm his old friend had shown since he had nearly perished in Stronghold, and though his hands still shook slightly with each rapid movement, it was still a good sign that his recovery was gaining momentum. And he had to admit, whatever else one might say about the Sleeping Boar inn and its gruff owner, the Duergar Olekk, it served food of surpassing quality.
He glanced around to the others at the table, and burst out laughing. Halthak, Syth and Thalya, having finished their own meals, were staring at the ravenous Sil’ath warrior with wide eyes, and their expressions ranged from incredulous to appalled. The healer had been explicit that Valkarr’s body would require a great deal of extra rest and nourishment to replenish the enormous amount of energy taken from it by such an intense healing. Although Amric had long ceased to marvel at the ability of the Sil’ath to gorge themselves and then go without sustenance for much longer than a human could, he sometimes forgot that not everyone had grown up with it.
His laughter elicited a gimlet-eyed glower from the Traug, but at least the hulking creature managed not to growl at him as when he had walked through the door an hour before. Evidently forgiveness would be a long time in coming for his baring steel against the Elvaren within the confines of the inn. He gave the Traug a cheery wave, and earned in return a curl of thick upper lip that bared a jagged row of teeth. Amric chuckled.
“Winning hearts and minds wherever you go, eh, swordsman?” Syth asked with a grin.
Amric shrugged. “Mayhap all this road dust is inhibiting my natural charm.”
“Mayhap there is nothing beneath that road dust except more of it,” Thalya said with a snort. “Speaking on behalf of all fellow occupants of the room, when will you be taking that bath you mentioned?”
Amric flashed her a rogue’s grin. “Soon enough,” he said. “There is one more odious task left to complete the evening, and then soft bed and hot bath can duel for my attention. Ah, here we are, then.”
Thalya turned to follow his stare and stiffened in her seat. Bellimar had appeared at the inn’s front door, his gaze sliding around the crowded common room before he entered. As he glided toward them, Amric noted how the patrons sitting at the tables to either side of his path unconsciously leaned away from his passing presence. The warrior shook his head. He had known from that first meeting that there was something unusual about the old man, but he had attributed it to the fellow’s past association with sorcery. Little had he suspected at the time that his wildest suspicions would prove but pale wisps next to the truth of Bellimar’s nature. He recalled the reluctance with which he had decided to endure the man’s company as a necessary evil, tainted by his history of magic as he was. Since then, it seemed as if every step of the journey had been steeped in magic from all sides, and Bellimar had somehow proven to be the least of it so far despite his dark origins. Amric gave an inward sigh; he was not certain whether to be pleased or alarmed at having made such personal strides against his aversion. In a land increasingly ravaged by magic, he could not afford to be paralyzed by its proximity if he was to succeed in his mission. Still, it was discomfiting to realize he was becoming more accustomed to such forces than he would ever have thought possible.
Bellimar reached their table and slid into an empty oaken chair with a perfunctory nod to everyone. If he took note of the huntress’s hateful stare, he gave no outward sign. The serving girl passed by, giving Bellimar a questioning look, but he responded only with a warm smile, ordering no food. Amric recalled the untouched meal sitting before the old man when they first met, and realized there was little need for further pretense on such matters now, with this group.
“My contacts report that no other Sil’ath have been observed entering or leaving the city since our departure,” he told Amric. “This includes the harbor as well as the gates, though it is getting increasingly difficult to monitor the traffic at the quays. The number of people desperate to secure any available passage away from Keldrin’s Landing has increased greatly in the wake of last night’s attack. My contacts will remain vigilant, however. They will raise your name to any Sil’ath sighted, as you have requested.”
Amric nodded his gratitude, disappointed but not surprised. He knew by this point that his friends would not be so easily found. “And the other matter?”
“It is arranged,” Bellimar replied. “Morland is waiting for us.”
“You mean to return to that serpent’s lair?” Halthak blurted.
“I mean to keep my word,” Amric said. “We would not have found Stronghold so easily without his maps, and he put us on the right trail, even if not out of altruism. I will pay his price by delivering news of Grelthus’s fate, though doubtless he will not be pleased by the outcome. We shall see if the serpent then keeps his word and lifts the price on our heads.”
Valkarr sat back from his empty plate, drawing one forearm across his mouth. “I am ready,” he announced with a belch.
“No, my friend,” Amric said. “Bellimar and I will go. You and Halthak still require rest. We both know that black-hearted devil’s estate is very heavily guarded, and I cannot have you infiltrating it again until you are more recovered. There is no need for Morland to know this, however. I ask that you both remain in your rooms while we are gone. If you are out of sight, then we do not have to test whether Morland ever truly bothered to suspend the price on our heads, and he still has to worry about a stealthy blade prowling somewhere about his mansion.”
Valkarr grunted and rolled his eyes in a very human gesture, but finally nodded. Halthak gave his own reluctant agreement as well.
“What of me?” Syth asked.
“Morland may already know that you are with us, if he has been watching for your return,” Amric admitted. “You are welcome to accompany us to see the merchant, if you wish. He will no doubt be eager to determine if you brought anything he seeks in your return from Stronghold. Nonetheless, I am not your keeper, and you are also free to vanish.”
The thief pondered a moment before breaking into an impish grin. “I find myself wanting to be there when that shriveled mask he calls a face cracks with disappointment.”
“And I will come as well,” Thalya put in, with a cold sidelong look at Bellimar.
“No, you will not,” Amric said. Her head snapped toward him, green eyes flashing with outrage. Her lips twisted with the beginnings of an angry objection, but he cut through it in a tone that brooked no further argument. “I can say nothing as to the right or wrong of your vendetta with Bellimar, as I can only speak to how he has conducted himself in my presence. I can, however, choose not to allow your conflict to land in my lap at a time and place that could get us all killed. We are heading into a viper’s den where cool heads must prevail, and no good will come of inviting upon yourself the attention of a powerful and soulless man like Morland. You are not going.”
The two locked gazes for a long moment, but Amric did not waver, his grey eyes dispassionate under her withering glare. At last she sat back with a dark scowl directed alternately at the warrior and the old man.
“Cool heads, eh?” Bellimar remarked with a sly grin. “The heavens forbid we do anything in his presence to fan the flames of his wrath.”
Amric flushed, but his expression remained resolute. “Much as I despise the man and his disdain for the lives of others, one power-hungry lordling is too far down the list to concern ourselves with at the moment. He certainly has the means to interfere with our more important goals, however, so we should make every effort to avoid incurring any more of his ire than is strictly necessary. If all goes well, we will conclude our business with the man tonight and be rid of his involvement for good. Valkarr is recovering rapidly, and it is my hope that after two nights of rest here in the city we will be ready to depart again on the following morn. Any who wish to accompany us, meet us here at dawn of that day. Any who do not, I wish you well in your travels.”
Halthak’s brow furrowed. “Depart? To where?”
“To follow a suspicion,” Amric said. He sat back and took in their puzzled expressions. Only Bellimar straightened in his chair, eyes glittering with prognostication. The swordsman took a breath and continued. “As you know, we lost the trail of our Sil’ath friends at Stronghold. If Grelthus is to be believed, they were fighting their way from the fortress, likely wounded and weakened but still alive when last seen. I have been trying to reason where they would have gone if they did manage to win free, and what might have befallen them from there.”
“What makes you think they did not simply die there?” Thalya demanded.
Amric turned flint-hard eyes upon her. “They are Sil’ath,” he said. “We do not die easily.” At his side, Valkarr lifted his chin and hissed a note of assent.
The huntress raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He let out a breath, and the edge faded from his voice. “I know nothing for certain, but I have seen no evidence of their demise, and until I know their fate I must consider all avenues. These are some of the best warriors of a people born into battle, who have fought together since childhood. They may not have had the advantage of Halthak’s miraculous healing ability, but five such warriors can cross hostile terrain like so many ghosts. I will grant you that they might have fallen prey to the hideous perils of the forest, or were entombed in the fortress, but somehow it does not ring true. No, I believe they survived Stronghold, just as we did.”
“We survived by seeing the very heart of the place, along with its rabid inhabitants, crushed in a strange surge of power unlike any I have seen,” Bellimar reminded him. “I am not so certain one can draw parallels to our own experience.”
Amric shook his head. “I can offer no better explanation, and I have no proof one way or the other. All I have is my intuition, and I intend to follow it. I cannot ask anyone else to do the same.”
He fell silent, glancing around the table at expressions that were by turns skeptical and pensive. He noted that Bellimar was studying each of them as well, his dark eyes making a slow circuit of the table beneath iron grey brows. A half smile brushed at the vampire’s lips, and broadened slightly when Halthak cleared his throat to speak.
“Tell us of your suspicion, Amric,” the Half-Ork said. “Where are you going, two days hence?”
“I believe,” Amric said, “that there is more than one force in operation here, possibly working at different purposes. We have seen creatures brought from the depths and barrows of the land, driven mad by the raging essence swelling in the region. Most are like rabid beasts, mindless in their fury, slaying indiscriminately and assaulting mortal life wherever they find it. This is what we faced in Lyden, the distant ripples of the same spreading wave that is engulfing Keldrin’s Landing. Here and in the forest, we are much closer to the source. This wave emanates from the east somewhere, from something so powerful that the Essence Fount at Stronghold was but a symptom, as Grelthus admitted. Whether it lies in the forest or beyond it, we have not found that source, that center, yet. We only know that the magical essence is being drawn that way, becoming more potent the further east we go, and that the corruption of the land and its creatures worsens as well. And while most of those creatures hunger for flesh or life force, there is one type that seems to have a different purpose: the man-like, cloth-wrapped black creatures.”
“They capture rather than kill,” Valkarr murmured.
Amric nodded. “We have faced most of these creatures back home as the attacks worsened,” he said. “These are something we have not seen, something new. And they have fled in the same direction each time, with their prey.”
Thalya and Halthak each shifted in their seats, exchanging an uneasy glance. For both, it was all too easy to recall being borne helplessly along in the clutches of the implacable creatures, before these very warriors had saved them from an unknown fate.
“Yes, you are correct,” Bellimar hissed, sitting forward as he grew more animated. “They are not corrupted spirits or elementals, not dwellers in the dark or enraged beasts. They bear the remnants of clothing or wrappings, as if they have been made by the hand of another, rather than formed of or mutated by magic. Yes! I should have seen it before now.”
“Our friends were wounded,” Amric continued. “Regardless of whether they believed the Essence Fount to be the source of the corruption or understood the source to be further east, they would have been forced to retreat for a time to recuperate. On the way, they may have encountered the same strange man-like creatures and chosen to investigate, or some of them could have been captured in their weakened state and the rest set out to recover them. We have not found any of their bodies or equipment, which implies some or all of them were not taken, since the black creatures have shown no interest in anything but living captives.”
“Your analysis of these peculiar creatures is perceptive, swordsman,” Bellimar said with a slow shake of his head. “The thread of logic concerning your friends, however, is tenuous at best.”
Amric sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “A suspicion, as I said. And it is all I have, so I will pursue it. I intend to trace these black creatures back to their source.”
Syth stared, disbelief and admiration warring in his expression as his brown hair swirled about his shoulders in subdued eddies. “Swordsman, have you ever passed a hornet’s nest without wanting to wear it as a hat?”
Amric barked a laugh. “Well, there you have it,” he said. “We leave after two nights, if the fates allow it. I will not blame you if you want no part of this mad scheme. You owe me nothing.”
“I will be ready tomorrow,” Valkarr asserted, hammering a fist onto the thick oaken table and causing the plates to jump and rattle. “Already I feel the strength returning to my limbs.”
“Then you will be even more ready the following morning,” Amric said with a smile. “You have come a long way from death’s door, my friend, but I need you back at your best. You saw how hard those unnatural things were to kill. In any event, the extra day gives us time to gather supplies and rest the horses as well. After all, the next leg of the journey may well prove as strenuous as the last.”
He pushed back from the table and stood, drawing another suspicious glare from the Traug towering in the far corner of the room. Showing what he felt was remarkable restraint, he elected not to bait the surly creature again.
“It is time to conclude our business with Morland,” he said, with a final glance around the table. Bellimar and Syth rose with him and together they headed across the raucous common room of the inn and made for the doors.
“If you are meeting with a nobleman, perhaps you should take that bath first,” Thalya called after him.
“Not a chance,” Amric said over his shoulder. “There is nothing noble about this man, and I fully intend to leave muddy footprints all over those priceless rugs of his. Besides, I would only need another after we met with him.”
Syth chortled to himself as he and Bellimar followed Amric from the inn and into the night.
Morland sat in the high-backed chair, drumming his jeweled fingers on the table. His cold eyes shifted, sliding over each of them in turn with deliberate indolence.
Without looking away from the merchant’s cadaverous visage, Amric studied the glowering guards flanking the man. The one on the left was too bulky to possess much speed, and the one on the right was a touch soft. Even unarmed as he was, the warrior felt reasonably certain he could down them both before Morland was more than a few steps from his chair. He sensed the presence of the guards several paces behind him as well, heard the periodic creak of leather as they shifted with nervous tension. The merchant had seated his guests farther away from him this time, as well as increasing the number of guards in the room, and he seemed to think himself safe.
Amric let a slow smile play across his lips and a brash invitation creep into his gaze. Break your word, merchant, he thought, and we will discover together if that confidence is misplaced. If Morland took any note of the goading, however, he was betrayed only by an almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of his eye.
“Let me see if I have the right of this tale,” Morland rasped at last, tapping his index finger twice more on the table before his fingers became still. He looked at Amric. “You, who were to return with word of my business contact, instead slew him.” He turned then to Syth. “And you, who were to return with my misappropriated belongings, instead left them all behind.”
“You left out the part where we collapsed the place, in all likelihood burying or destroying your belongings in the process,” Syth put in helpfully. “I am quite certain we mentioned that part.”
Morland’s face twisted in sudden fury, but Bellimar interrupted before he could respond.
“The Wyrgens tapped into primal forces they could not hope to control,” the old man said. “The consequences drove Grelthus and his people to bestial madness, even as it weakened the very structure of Stronghold itself. We were fortunate indeed to escape that place of death, so that we could return to you with this news, as was our agreement.”
His tone was level and eminently rational, and he placed a subtle emphasis on the last words. Morland’s angry gaze flicked over to him, and it was evident that the reminder had registered.
“Despite the embellishment of our friend Syth here,” Bellimar continued, “only a central portion of the fortress actually collapsed. While it is indeed impassable, much of the structure was unaffected. Once travel to the east becomes less hazardous, a man of your considerable resources could no doubt mount an expedition to Stronghold. It may yet be possible for you to retrieve the artifacts you seek.”
“Perhaps,” Morland said, letting the word escape through clenched teeth.
As Bellimar resumed speaking, the soothing quality of his voice deepened to embrace an almost mesmerizing quality. Amric, not even the target of it, nonetheless felt the liquid timbre slide beneath his skin with a numbing and almost hypnotic effect.
“We regret, my lord, that we bring unfortunate tidings. We can only hope that the regrettable fate of your ally will not prove too disastrous to your business endeavors. But even as I utter the words, I know them for a foolish worry! A man of your shrewd nature will have readied a way to achieve the necessary ends despite this minor setback. You are no doubt already cultivating alternate plans.”
“Of course I am,” Morland snapped. “Your incompetence on this matter pains me, but I have designs of greater significance in motion as well, so no matter.” He blinked as if surprised at his own words, and his lips tightened into a bloodless line as he glared at Bellimar with sudden suspicion.
“Then, since we have fulfilled our obligation to you, the price on our heads can now be removed,” Amric said. He gauged the distance to the guards again. If treachery was afoot, now was the time. He hoped Syth was ready as well. The merchant stared at them with half-lidded eyes for long seconds. His fingers, as if of their own volition, resumed their rhythmic drumming upon the table.
“It would seem so,” he finally grated.
Amric nodded, studying the man for any twitch of betrayal, and then rose from the chair in a deliberate movement. Despite the care he took to move slowly, he heard a momentary shuffle of boots behind him accompanied by the telltale rasp of several inches of steel being bared.
Morland’s gaze never wavered, but he flicked a finger in a dismissive motion, and the guards fell back.
Syth and Bellimar stood as well, and the three of them turned toward the exit at the far end of the long room. A handful of the guards fell into step behind them, but on sudden impulse, Amric stopped and turned back to Morland.
“Merchant, have you heard any word of peculiar man-like creatures in tattered cloth wrappings, black inside and out, roving in packs intent on capturing rather than slaying?”
Morland sat motionless, regarding him steadily. When he spoke, his voice was cold, impatient. “I have not heard of such things. Why do you ask?”
“We encountered these creatures deep in the forest and on the road back to Keldrin’s Landing,” the warrior replied. “These black things are very hard to kill. We were only able to stop them each time by severing their heads. If you send your men into the countryside, they should be forewarned.”
The merchant’s hawkish countenance tilted in a sardonic nod. “Very thoughtful of you to consider my welfare.”
“It was not for you, but for your men,” Amric said evenly. “After all, it seems the city can expect to be under siege soon, and we are all in this together, are we not?”
“The refrain of the helpless and needful,” Morland sneered. “Do not seek to draw parallels between your fate and mine. Now take your banalities and be gone.”
Amric gave him a wintry smile and spun away, striding from the room with the others on his heel.
It was a short time later, as they sat in the carriage clattering its way across the bridge leaving Morland’s estate, that Bellimar leaned toward him.
“He was lying,” the old man said.
“I know,” Amric said.
“What made you test his awareness of the black things?”
“I do not know,” the warrior admitted. “Nor do I know yet why he would conceal his knowledge.”
Bellimar nodded, frowning in thought. “The man is involved in something he does not want known,” he mused. “He has found some way to profit from the suffering of others.”
“Do the wealthy do aught else?” Syth remarked. “And what of the subtle spell you wove back there? He was drawn to reveal more of his plans than he meant to. The man parts with nothing unless he can sell it dearly.”
The vampire turned to him, lips peeling back into a smile. His eyes were scarlet embers in the shadowed interior of the carriage. “My curse is not without its benefits, thief.”
Late the following night, the same carriage rumbled away from the southern gate of Keldrin’s Landing. A score of soldiers on horseback surrounded the vehicle, and the torches they held aloft formed a flickering halo against the pressing blackness as the procession snaked its way along the southbound road.
Within the carriage, Morland stroked his clean-shaven chin as he stared out the window into the night. Beside him sat the mercenary Vorenius, scratching his dark, unkempt beard like a boorish reflection of his urbane relative. On the opposite bench sat the twin Elvaren assassins, Nyar and Nylien, lounging with an insolent air of boredom. One of the twins––Nyar, thought Morland, though he could never be certain––appeared to be dozing sitting upright, while the other seemed engrossed in the study of his fingernails on one pale hand. Vorenius shifted in his seat, casting surreptitious looks from the merchant to the assassins. Morland ground his teeth, striving to ignore the man’s irksome presence. Vorenius leaned forward to peer out the window, chewing his lip. Morland flicked an irritated sidelong glance at him, and unfortunately the man noticed and took it for an invitation to air his vapid thoughts.
“Since when does one have to ply the gate guards with a pouch of gold merely to exit the city?” he demanded, scratching again at his beard.
Morland sighed, mourning the broken quiet. “Since I do not want them sharing news of my comings and goings,” he said. “You saw their reactions when I dismissed their warnings about venturing out after dark.”
“So I did,” Vorenius muttered. “And I have to admit, I heard merit in their arguments. I do not understand what could be important enough to draw us out here. There was no attack on the city last night, but there is nothing to say it will not come tonight, nor that the next assault will be restricted to the eastern wall.”
“Do not seek to question my decisions,” the merchant snapped. “The reward will warrant the risk, and that is all you need know for now.”
The man sat back, raking his lower lip with his teeth. Opposite him, the assassin looked on with evident amusement, twirling locks of his white hair between his fingers.
“It is quite agitated, is it not?” the Elvar murmured.
The mercenary leaned forward, coarse features twisting in anger as he jabbed one thick finger at the assassin. “No one asked you, you pasty––”
“Vorenius,” Morland said in a sharp tone. “Let your tongue be still, for once.”
Vorenius flinched at the rebuke. “I am sorry, uncle. I––”
“And do not call me uncle,” Morland interrupted, his lip curling. “I am a distant cousin at best, and it strains my belief at the best of times that we share blood at all.”
“Of course, u––Morland,” the mercenary stammered. “I do not mean to be ungrateful. You are gracious to give me this chance to redeem myself in your eyes.”
“You handpicked your best men for this trip, as I asked?”
“Yes, all except for the handful which are from your personal guard.”
“Good. Fear not, Vorenius, you will prove your worth yet.”
Morland watched the man’s twitching movements in throwing another look outside the carriage. How did the fool think himself a leader of men, when he had a spine of water?
“What is my role to be in this venture, then?” Vorenius asked. He swallowed and hastened to add, “So that I may serve you better.”
“I reached out to powerful allies, and they have accepted my overtures,” Morland replied. “You will be an instrumental part of securing their trust. This alliance is an important step toward achieving the loftiest of my goals, Vorenius. Tonight’s meeting will be a pivotal point in my plans.”
Vorenius eyed him and gave a rapid, earnest nod. “I will not fail you, Morland.”
“I trust you will not,” the merchant said with a brittle smile.
They traveled in silence for a time, the carriage rocking over the rutted road. At last it slowed and lurched to a halt, and the languid demeanor of the Elvaren changed in an instant. The eyes of the dozing assassin snapped open, and he curled forward and slipped through the door in one liquid movement. His twin vanished out the other side with equal alacrity, leaving Vorenius craning his neck back and forth in a vain effort to see what was transpiring outside. Morland sat with hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes closed and head tilted back to rest against the carriage wall behind him.
Voices carried to them, men’s voices and something else, something deep and rough like granite boulders colliding. Minutes later the assassin Nylien reappeared at the carriage door, holding it open. The merchant climbed down and his mercenary cousin followed, with the assassin close behind.
Morland looked back at Keldrin’s Landing. Good, the city was little more than a glow in the distance. His men’s torches might be seen faintly from the city walls, if the guards there happened to look in this direction, but it was too great a distance to distinguish more than that. He strode forward, passing the front of the carriage where the driver struggled to calm the team of horses. All the soldiers’ mounts were tethered at the rear of the carriage, and they were nervous as well, snorting and prancing in place. A handful of men remained there with them, a hard-bitten lot with torches held high and scarred faces set in grim, impassive silence. None of them sought to make eye contact with the merchant.
Ahead, the remainder of the men formed two standing lines across the road, facing something further down the road. Morland approached with Vorenius at his heels, and the guards parted to allow their passage. As they passed through, a strangled gasp escaped the mercenary.
A large shape waited in the center of the road, a dozen yards away. What little light reached it from the ring of torches was all but absorbed by its dark hide, but Morland was able to discern a hint of its outline. It was a huge form, squatting or perhaps kneeling, with long, thick arms that reached down to knuckle the ground. Its front was smooth and matte black, though a forest of protrusions jutted from its back and shoulders; whether they were spikes or tentacles of some kind, Morland could not tell without getting closer, and he had no intent of doing that. Just being out here was a show of faith on his part, but past a certain point promises and alliances were just empty words without actions to prove them.
Nyar stood several paces ahead of the wide-eyed array of guards, and Morland drew abreast of him. Vorenius halted a pace behind, his face drawn and pale. Nylien stood at the man’s elbow with a smirk twisting his fine Elvaren features.
“I am here,” Morland announced.
An elongated head shifted toward him. He tried to pick out its eyes amid that nightmare countenance, but it was a futile effort. Every bit of the thing was black, just as the previous representatives had been. An eerie, grating sound emanated from the thing in a grotesque parody of human speech.
“A Nar’ath queen speaks through me,” it said.
“Very well,” Morland said. “What has your queen decided of the arrangement I proposed?”
A murmur ran through the men, but the merchant ignored it.
“The arrangement is agreeable,” the creature rumbled.
“And I shall have all that I was promised?” Morland asked, eyes narrowing.
The creature dipped its head and its bulk shifted. “The arrangement is agreeable,” it repeated. “All your conditions shall be met.”
The merchant suppressed a fierce surge of exultation, keeping his tone level. “Then tell your queen that the Nar’ath have an agreement. When is it to be?”
“Tonight,” it responded.
A momentary chill played along Morland’s spine. “I need more time to prepare,” he said. “Can it instead be two nights hence?”
The creature shifted again, torchlight playing along the low ridges that ran along its black skull. The seconds ticked by and Morland quailed inside, though he let not a ripple of his fear show on the surface. They needed him, he reminded himself, just as much as he needed them. Each side would achieve its goals much faster, this way. And so he waited, outwardly calm, though the hands laced before him tightened painfully to keep them from shaking.
“Two nights hence is agreeable,” the thing finally said.
“It shall be done,” Morland said. He heard the faint quaver of relief in his own voice, but he dared not glance around to see if anyone else had noticed. “I bear a word of warning for your queen, however. I spoke with men in the city yesterday who showed knowledge of the Nar’ath. They have seen your kind and somehow survived.”
“It matters not,” came the rumbling reply. “We grow strong now, and the time for concealment is almost done.”
“As you say. I wished only to share the information I had gained, in the spirit of maintaining no secrets between allies. These men are few but dangerous, and if I am not mistaken they have command of some modest magic as well.”
The hulking thing rocked back and forth, but did not respond.
“Very well, is our business concluded, then?” Morland asked.
The creature gave a rolling shrug and leaned forward, the protrusions on its back flexing in some odd movement that was lost to the darkness. The light thrown by the torches caught on a lighter hue against the thing’s hide: strips of tattered cloth, caught amid those protrusions and draping across its back. Morland caught the flinch his body tried to make, and gave an inward sneer at the almost-weakness.
“There is one more matter,” that unnatural voice grated in a basso drone. “The queen requests a demonstration of commitment, now, tonight.”
“I expected as much,” the merchant replied with a humorless smile. He turned to Vorenius, who swallowed hard and tore his round-eyed gaze from the creature. “Cousin, it is time for you and your men to prove your worth. Give our new ally what he requires.”
Morland turned on his heel, Nyar and Nylien fell in behind him as he strode toward the carriage. The thin, stammering voice of Vorenius floated after him.
“W-What does it want? What am I to give it?”
The merchant paused at the carriage door, lifting the richly embroider hem of his robes in preparation to step up into it. He glanced at the handful of men clustered around the vehicle. Their eyes were forward and resolute, and their features might as well have been carved from solid stone for all the emotion they betrayed. He then turned his gaze back toward Vorenius and his dozen or so hand-picked men, standing on the road with torches clutched in white-knuckled fists.
“Do not worry, cousin,” he called. “This is one job you cannot fail.”
Even as he said the words, a chorus of rustling sounds arose all around them. Scores of man-like figures rose from the tall grasses on either side of the road, black as jet and swathed in ragged cloth. They scuttled forward like converging waves of chitinous black scarabs, encircling the cluster of men in the road with silent and implacable efficiency.
“Morland!” cried Vorenius, ripping his sword from its sheath at his side. “It is an ambush, we are betrayed!”
The merchant did not reply, but instead took an unhurried step onto the rail of the carriage, still staring at the mercenary. Vorenius cast a bewildered look around as his men turned their blades outward at the foe. His frantic gaze shifted from the approaching Nar’ath to Morland, and then to the small cluster of men about the carriage who were making no move to draw their own blades. Comprehension dawned, and shock and disbelief gave way quickly to rage.
“You black-hearted devil spawn!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “You would sell out your own kind, your own blood, in some unholy pact with fiends such as this?”
A steady string of epithets followed as Morland looked on, his face a frozen mask. The Nar’ath gathered around the trapped men, and like a swarm with a single mind, they pounced as one.
Blades rose and hacked as wiry limbs struck and enfolded the men. Vorenius ran one of the creatures through the chest, but though his sword jutted from its back, the thing was not slowed. It lunged toward him, pinning the mercenary’s arm between them, and wrapped steel-strong limbs about him. Morland’s last view of the man as he disappeared under the seething mass showed him screaming in fury toward the carriage, his teeth gleaming in the torchlight amid his dark beard. Then a black hand covered his mouth and most of his face, and drew him to the ground, and he was lost to sight.
The battle lasted only moments, for the Nar’ath greatly outnumbered the unprepared men. One by one, the torches tumbled to the hard-packed road and were snuffed out below the press of bodies. Cries of pain and anger echoed through the chill night air, but swiftly dwindled in number until only the sound of scuffling remained. The horses, which had been shrieking and jerking against their bindings throughout, were at last brought under control by the remaining guards around the carriage.
On the road, the Nar’ath wasted no time in hoisting their unconscious prey to black shoulders and threading away like a chain of otherworldly insects, moving at a dead run.
The Nar’ath lieutenant, as Morland had come to think of the larger ones that could speak, faded back into the blackness and was gone. Aside from the brutish lieutenant, the Nar’ath had made no sound whatsoever during the encounter. Morland suppressed a shudder as he watched them disappear into the darkness. In mere moments, the only signs of what had transpired were the unlit torches strewn about like charred bones. The merchant considered the agreement he had made and felt an odd twinge, but he quelled it savagely. A man of his refinement and station should not be engaging in such base activities, that was all. In the future, he would leave such visceral deeds to lesser men.
He turned and ducked into the carriage.
“What of the extra mounts?” one of his men asked in a hushed tone.
“Bring them along,” he replied. “There is no reason to waste good horses.”
Nyar and Nylien joined him in the cabin and shut the door behind them. The carriage wheeled into a turn, and soon was trundling on the road back to the city. Morland leaned his shaved pate back against the carriage wall and closed his eyes. It was several minutes into the ride before the silence in the cabin was broken by a quiet voice.
“My lord,” murmured one of the Elvaren. “We will return to the city with fewer men and a number of riderless horses. The guards at the gate may raise questions.”
“Tell them whatever you wish,” the merchant said without opening his eyes. “Remember their faces, however, for you will then seek them at their shift change later in the night and make sure their tongues do not wag to anyone else.”
“Yes, lord,” the assassins whispered together.
Morland allowed his mind to wander, lulled by the rocking motion of the carriage. He had many preparations to make and not much time in which to make them. Fortunately, in sharp contrast to the ride from the city, the return trip was quite pleasantly free of annoying chatter.