The Sword Of Midras Part 8

10.

Hilt.

Evard Dirae, Craftmaster of the Cabal of the Obsidians, rode his horse through the last and grandest of the gates of the fortress at Hilt. The challenge that the guards tried to voice at his approach died on their lips, each falling silent at the pa.s.sage of a sorcerer.

Evard kept his cold, pale-green eyes forward as he pa.s.sed into the upper courts of Hilt. He did not need to look back down over the multiple concourses that formed the fortress. He had taken them all in with mounting anger as he rode up the various switchbacks, pa.s.sing through each gate with increasing disdain. Now, as he pa.s.sed through the final gate, he felt entirely too familiar with the grand structure and, so far as he was concerned, the true reasons for its existence were all too evident.

What had once been a small mountain bowl nestled above a steep, stony canyon, was now an unfortunately crowded construction site. A grand tower keep, far more impressive than practical, was nearly complete toward the front of the bowl just behind the still incomplete defensive curtain wall. The five cascades from the surrounding peaks contributed to the deep glacier lake at the back of the bowl. This, in turn, emptied into the swiftly moving river that plunged through a gap in the curtain wall and down its restricting channel over the concourses below. In every other reasonably dry spot, buildings of various size and design were evident in every conceivable state of incompleteness. Some were cleared ground only, whose foundations had barely been laid out. Others had their walls partially completed with stone pillars standing free, either in their intended place or on their side. A very few others appeared to be nearly complete, only lacking in a few finis.h.i.+ng details such as a roof or doorway. The shod hooves of Evards horse rattled against the newly laid cobblestone paths that wound between the structures.

Such a pointless waste, Evard thought. A monumental conceit that served no real purpose.

Evard tugged at the reins of his horse, riding the creature across an ornately carved bridge to the other side of the mountain river. There he could see the one structure that he knew to be complete, due in no small credit to the help of the mountain itself. Carved directly out of the face of the cliff, it had the appearance of a stone building with six columns in the front. Between the columns on either side, the likeness of two thirty-foot-tall warriors had been carved from the stone in relief. The armor depicted in the carvings was obviously modeled after the Obsidian design, with the ornate filigree in the breastplates and the menacing spikes at the forearms and shoulders. Each of the depicted warriors held a sword in front of them, its tip touching the ground and their hands folded over the pommel. Evard noted that each was depicted without a helmet, and he suspected that the faces were intentionally carved in the likeness of the four generals of the Obsidian Army.

The sorcerer considered the third of the likenesses. He had ridden for nearly a week in order that he might meet with the much smaller and equally dull version of the carving.

Evard slowed the horse and then dismounted as they reached a small gra.s.sy patch just before the doors. The sorcerer immediately caught the reluctant eye of the nearest of the two guards standing watch on either side of the door.

You, Evard said, pointing at the guard.

He was resplendent in Obsidian armor, its black surface polished like a mirror, its red and silver markings s.h.i.+ning even in the nearly perpetual shadow of the mountain. Despite evincing an outward calm, the guards eyes were blinking furiously, and his voice broke slightly in his reply.

Yes, sire?

Your a.s.sistance is required, Evard said in quick, flat tones. You will take my horse. You will walk her. You will keep walking her until I come and tell you to stop.

Yes, sire But, sire"

My suggestion is that you take her to that lake at the back of the canyon where, it seems, it is the only place large enough to do the job properly.

Yes, sire I understand, sire. The guard stammered. Its just that"

I see. Evard nodded, his eyes looking not so much at the guard as through him. Evard was tall"just slightly over six feet"which allowed him to look down slightly at the guard as he stepped uncomfortably close to him, his deep voice mumbling quietly as he spoke. What is your name?

The guard swallowed hard. Garvin, sire!

You are, no doubt, the most diligent guard in the service of the Obsidian Cause and a devoted warrior who, a.s.suredly, would never, ever abandon his post. As I understand it, your duty is to prevent unexpected people such as myself from disturbing the peace of your commanders ensconced beyond the doorway. However, as you see, I am a sorcerer of the cabal who has come on Obsidian business with your general. I dont suppose you would care to know exactly what my business is with the general, would you?

The guard shook his head in such violent denial that Evard thought his helmet might come loose.

You are quite right; you most certainly do not want to know my business. You may be thinking that abandoning your post would almost certainly incur the wrath of your general. On the other hand, not taking care of my horse and trying to prevent me from seeing the general will most certainly incur my wrath. And so now I am standing here wondering just which wrath a guard named Garvin would prefer?

Evard knew he was taking a luxurious amount of time with this young guard, but watching him squirm was the only pleasure the trip had afforded him thus far.

Besides, it was good practice for what was about to come.

S-sire, the guard stammered quietly. I believe I was ordered to walk this horse over by that small lake. With your permission, Id very much like to do that right now. And oh, sire?

Yes, my wise friend Garvin?

Would that order also include my brother? Garvin gestured to the second guard standing with the petrified stillness equaled only by the stone statues to the left of him. Its an awfully important horse, sire. Im sure you would insist that it would take us both to walk her properly.

Evard gave a thin smile of amus.e.m.e.nt. You are quite correct, Friend Garvin. I now recall being quite clear that the order explicitly included your brother.

The two guards quickly moved away with the horse. Evard smiled to himself as he bounded up the few short steps to the open doorway and stepped inside.

The dimly lit interiors made it difficult to see, but Evard did not mind. He had been in many darker places than this. His eyes quickly adjusted to the torchlight of the long hallway that lay before him. A series of columns supported the arched ceiling twenty feet overhead. Between each of the columns, the walls held framed carvings depicting various battles and conquests of the Obsidian Army. The floor itself was polished marble, finished to a fine s.h.i.+ne that reflected the light of the torches mounted on each of the columns and lit the way toward the warm bronze doors at the end of the hall.

Evard knew that it was all a facade. Torches were a terrible source of light, burning only for about twenty minutes at a time before having to be replaced. No doubt, some hapless warrior was being punished with the never-ending task of replacing and lighting these torches. The hallway itself was a fraud: beautiful stonework that hid the rough original cavern walls just beyond. Before he had left the cabal in Desolis, he had gone to the archives to familiarize himself with Hilt before he departed. He, therefore, knew the history of its construction and, by inference, its true purposes. He drew his shoulders back and strode down the hall, pausing a moment at the doors.

The sorcerer glanced down at his own attire. He wore the black, hooded tunic of a sorcerer of his order. The long, more formal robes of the cabal looked nice in paintings or when depicted in statues, but were not terribly practical for purposes of craft. This costume suited his purposes far better; the hooded tunic had been embroidered with infinite care from metallic threads of gold and silver into very specific filigree patterns that wound around from his chest to the back, and ultimately up over the truss of his head. They served a number of purposes in Obsidian magic, some of which had to do with spell mnemonics and remembering the construction of incantations. There were many who believed that the tunic itself had magical properties, a deception and misdirection that the Obsidian sorcerers never corrected. Evard also still wore a riding cape of similar design, which had kept him reasonably warm on the road and occasionally had offered him shelter from the rains. Beyond these absolute symbols of his sorcery, his dress was rather commonplace, with cloth leggings and high boots to the top of his thighs.

However, he frowned not so much at the thought of what he wore, but the state of his clothing. The intervening rains of the previous week, and mud that followed, had left both him and his clothes in a dreadful mess. He would have preferred to appear before the general in more pristine, and therefore intimidating, attire.

Well, he thought, Ill just have to depend on the force of my personality.

Evard pushed open the enormous double doors with both hands and stepped into the generals reception hall.

As Evard expected, this room was a rotunda with a raised platform opposite the doors. To one side of the rotunda, a wooden scaffold reached up from the floor to the domed ceiling thirty feet overhead. The sorcerer glanced up at the dome, which had been plastered over in white with the faint lines of charcoal sketching over its surface. A number of lanterns were fixed at the top of the scaffolding, where a pair of figures had begun work on the fresco that would someday adorn the ceiling.

On this platform sat four thrones representing each of the four generals who commanded the Obsidian Army. Only the third of these thrones was currently in use, its occupant surrounded by nearly two dozen members of his staff. Each of these was hovering like a moth about a flame, trying desperately not to get too close while simultaneously terrified of being too far away. The generals voice echoed throughout the hall, thundering about the nervous chatter of the sycophants.

Evard turned and drew within himself, calling with surety on the power he knew was there. He felt the sudden connection with nothing and with everything that was so familiar to him, and stole from the universal part of that chaos that threatened to consume him every time he approached it. He was a successful thief, for no sorcerer survived being caught by the chaos. With the fragment of chaos now taking form within him, he reached out with his hand and released it into reality with a flick of his wrist. As he did so, he felt, rather than saw, a lock of his own hair turn white.

The enormous bronze doors slammed shut with such violence that their sound shocked everyone else in the room into silence.

Evard turned back to the platform, striding across the rotunda as he spoke in loud, clipped tones. I am Evard Dirae, Craftmaster of the Obsidians, and your obedience is required.

The wide-eyed general pushed himself to his feet. This is a closed council of war! I gave no permission"

My businesses is with General Karpasic, the sorcerer continued in a booming voice, his booted footfalls across the polished floor never hesitating in their relentless beat. It is a confidential matter between the general and the cabal. Anyone else who wishes to be party to that conversation will do so at their peril.

The staff and warriors in the room s.h.i.+fted their glances quickly to the general. General Karpasic considered the approaching sorcerer, watching him until he stopped at the foot of the platform. Evard gazed back at Karpasic, waiting.

I believe our conference is concluded, the general said to the courtiers after a few moments. Why dont all you make an inspection of your commands while I consult with this Obsidian?

The staff members and warriors moved quickly out of the hall. Even the artisans scurried down through the scaffolding and hastily exited, closing the bronze doors behind them as quietly as possible. All the while, both Evard and the general stood in silence, considering each other. Neither of them moved or spoke until the sound of the last door closing died in the hall.

Evard was not, by nature, a happy or outgoing man under the best of circ.u.mstances. His calm, placid features generally displayed a disdainful indifference to events around him. He had a narrow face that came down to a chin that was almost feminine in its softness. His pale-green eyes, however, were hard and cold. Everything about him was carefully ordered with the singular exception of his hair, which was a dark, wavy mane with something of a will of its own.

Except, of course, when the magic marked it with a streak of white. The mark it left would fade back into its natural color over the course of the week, but for Evard, it symbolized his giving something back to the magic. He had never believed in getting something for nothing.

My apologies for not having received you personally, the general spoke first. We knew, of course, of your arrival, but as you can see, we are very busy with plans for the coming campaign and"

The Obsidians are certainly most acutely aware of the plans for our warriors, and more particularly, the plans of the generals that command them, Evard interrupted, his voice cool with disdain. It seems you have been busy indeed here at Hilt.

Hilt is certainly the most important strategic position in all the Blackblade range, Karpasic said, caution in his voice.

It is certainly strategic, I will give you that, the sorcerer said, his eyes s.h.i.+fting about the rotunda. You and your fellow generals have achieved a great deal here at Hilt. You have created a fortress"a monument, if you will"that has all the appearance of the great empires of the past, without having to bother with any of its substance.

Master sorcerer, you go too f-far, Karpasic sputtered.

Indeed? Evard reached up and undid the clasp of his cape as he stepped up onto the throne platform. The Cabal of the Obsidians would undoubtedly agree that I have not gone far enough. I must admit, it is a remarkable achievement. You have managed to divert the labor of campaign slaves entirely toward an installation that benefits only the military. I deal in sorcery, but I must admit, you generals have performed a rather phenomenal magic trick of your own. While no one was looking, to have transformed an open rock quarry into a monument to your own might and, it seems, this enormous lava cave into what pa.s.ses for an underground palace.

It is truly a magnificent achievement an achievement to the greater glory of the Obsidian Cause, Karpasic added quickly. It is, as you say, a demonstration of the una.s.sailable might of both the strength of arms and the arcane power of the cabal. We have even begun construction on the Tombs of Eternity, where the memory of our achievements together shall stand for all time"

Tell me, General, just how deep are these caverns and lava tubes that are accommodating this installation?

We We do not know, the general answered, his eyes studying the floor as he spoke.

You dont know? Evards eyes narrowed. How deep have you extended your construction?

We have constructed ten levels so far, the general continued. The lowest are where we have set those magnificent tombs to the honor of the Obsidian Cause. Those are constructed in a winding maze of lava tubes, but the workmen have not reported finding an end to them. It is, perhaps, another reason why we call them the Tombs of Eternity, as they seem to go on"

And so, as I understand it, Evard said as he folded his arms across his chest, you sent Captain Bennis into the h.e.l.lfire Rift searching for a path that almost certainly does not exist when you have unknown underground pa.s.sages in the foundations of your fortress.

Captain Bennis is performing his duty, the general a.s.serted. Besides, he is carrying a cursed sword. I thought it best that he remove it from our encampment For the safety of our other warriors.

Ah, very n.o.ble of you, Evard spoke in more of a hiss through his clenched jaw. Unfortunately, the Cabal of the Obsidians have a considerable curiosity about such cursed swords.

Oh, the general said quietly. That is unfortunate.

General Karpasic, the sorcerer said with emphatic fidelity. You will recall Captain Bennis at once, and you would do well to remember that"

I am sorry, Master Sorcerer, the general said, shaking his head. That is not possible.

Not possible?

The captain and his guide were due back two days ago, the general said, licking his lips. I myself sent runners to retrieve them. Theyre missing.

Evard clenched his teeth, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g tight his eyes in frustration. You have lost the captain and the sword?

Captain Bennis was performing his duty, the general reiterated as though, if he said it often enough, it would somehow save him. It is a dangerous place. Things happen.

Yes, General, Evard said, casting a cold and calculating look at Karpasic. And sometimes even to generals.

Evard stood atop a partially completed watchtower. All of Hilt, and its partially completed glory, lay beneath him. Only the peaks of the Blackblade range were above him, each s.h.i.+ning in the light of a brilliant sunset.

Evard began to whistle. It was a strange, simple tune. Its notes were not entirely precise nor was the sound so loud that it might attract attention of the many warriors or artisans moving in the courts below.

But it was heard.

A dark shape flitted among the peaks. It suddenly rose, bounced, and plunged in the unpredictable winds across the mountain face against which it struggled. With great effort, it crossed over the tower wall and landed without grace at the foot of the sorcerer.

Evard reached down as he leaned over, extending his arm.

There you are, Monk! Evard smiled.

The homunculus scampered up the sorcerers arm and quickly came to perch on his right shoulder. Evard reached up, stroking under the monsters chin. Well, my friend, it looks as though your master has gotten himself lost. There is no need to worry. Ive known Aren since he wasnt much bigger than you. Hes too stubborn to die. But now it seems he stumbled onto something thats a matter of prophecy, and I fear hes in over his head.

Evard reached back and lifted the homunculus. He set the creature on a section of the battlement wall in front of him. He consulted one last time the embroidered markings on his tunic, then reached deeper within himself than he had for a long time. Both satisfied and shaken, he raised both hands above his head, weaving them down in front of him in precise patterns, then focusing his palms toward where the homunculus s.h.i.+fted nervously on the wall.

Expanding spheres of light erupted all around the homunculus. The creature screeched, then two screeched, then four screeched Eight Sixteen Within moments, more than five dozen of the small winged creatures were flitting about the top of the tower, each one identical to the first, and each answering to the name of Monk.

Evard collapsed to one knee, a wide swath of his hair suddenly gone brilliant white. He staggered to his feet and reached up with both hands toward the cloud of homunculi circling above him.

Weve got to bring him home before any more damage is done, Evard commanded of the creatures. Find him and tell me where he is.

Sixty-four homunculi exploded across the evening sky.

CHAPTER.

11.

Mistral Where am I? Aren moaned.

So the sleeping warrior awakens, came a familiar voice from somewhere beyond the overwhelming pain that encompa.s.sed his head. Aren screwed his eyes shut tightly against the light that threatened to explode if he allowed it into his throbbing skull. He could feel that he was sitting with his back against something uncomfortably hard. Some protrusion was digging into his back, next to his spine.

Why wont the ground hold still? he asked, his mouth dry.

Because youre on a boat, Syenna said.

Arens eyes flew open despite his better judgment. The brightness of the day nearly overwhelmed him, but he had to get some sense of his surroundings. After an agonizingly long moment, the glare resolved itself into shapes and colors.

That they were on a s.h.i.+p he had to accept largely on the evidence that, so far as he could tell from where he sat, they were surrounded by water. He had seen s.h.i.+ps before, but he had never been this close to one, let alone on the deck of one.

He tried to take it all in. While everything looked extraordinarily well ordered, he could not make sense of his surroundings. It seemed to him an extraordinarily complex conglomeration of various sized pegs, pulleys, beams, masts, and enormous canvas sheets all held together by metal bands and an incomprehensible web of ropes. Above his head, there were men"sailors, he supposed"moving like spiders about this web of ropes, listening to the barked orders of their master at the back of the s.h.i.+p and answering back with tugs on various ropes or s.h.i.+fting the beams from which the masts hung. Everything seemed to be connected to everything else.

A boat of course, Aren answered with a calm he did not feel. He carefully and deliberately got to his feet but was suddenly unsure as to what he could safely touch without upsetting the balance of the entire, incomprehensible system. He concluded that the railing appeared both solid enough to support him and not critical to the operation of the vessel. He gripped it as though it were the only stable object in his life.

A s.h.i.+p named the Mistral, Syenna said, her eyes fixed on him, watching him carefully as he regained his senses. She is a bark, to be precise.

Aren swung his head with deliberation away from Syenna, still gripping the railing hard to help him remain upright. As he did, he could see a dark, mountainous sh.o.r.eline that appeared not more than half a league in the distance, filling the horizon.