Bladesinger (9 page)

Which was why she stood suddenly, almost leaping from the ancient throne to tower over the trio of goblins prattling on in their damned language. The hag watched with satisfaction as two of the goblins jumped back in fright, their normally dull, slack-jawed expressions replaced with expressions of overwhelming horror; their dirty orange skin paled to an almost dusty rose. She pointed a gnarled finger at the third goblin who, the hag noted with an inward snarl, had held his ground. The creature stood almost a head taller than his companions, with thin arms that hung almost to the ground. When it gazed up at her with its pale yellow eyes, she caught a glimmer of calculation, of a sly intelligence that regarded her carefully. Not for the first time, she regretted having to involve herself with these loathsome beasts.

“Mistress,” it hissed in its guttural language, casting wide eyes humbly to the ground. “Giznat not mean to offend you!” The other two goblins had fallen to their knees, whimpering. “Giznat serve Great Mistress,” the goblin continued, “Giznat’s tribe serve too.”

Rather than calming her, the sound of their pathetic mewling sent her temper rising.

“Then do not bother me with your ungrateful begging,” she snapped. This sent the kneeling goblins to the floor, fully prostrate.

“Ah,” said Giznat, nodding his head in agreement, “but I not have to beg if Great Mistress give Giznat what she promised—gold, jewels, and glittering things.” Its voice dropped to a soft whisper, almost crooning out the last words.

The hag nearly screamed in frustration. Giznat’s tribe lived beneath the abandoned village of Rashemar that sat at the base of the long hill upon which the citadel was built. In addition to providing additional bodies for her army, the filthy goblins served as her first line of defense, spotting the approach of scouts and other would-be invaders from the heart of Rashemen, as well as the occasional band of adventurers. At first, Giznat had been satisfied with the castoffs from those unfortunates that her forces had captured and eventually killed. The creature’s foul mind had turned quickly to thoughts of more wealth, and it wasn’t long before he had started to pester the hag for a larger share in the spoils. She knew, however, that Giznat would never be satisfied with what he received. The goblin’s greed was matched only by his propensity for treachery.

“Why should I give you any more of what is mine?” the hag asked, adding inflection on the last word to make sure that the goblin’s limited intellect would catch her meaning. She remained standing, forcing the goblin chief to crane his neck far back to gaze up at her. Its efforts gave her some small measure of satisfaction.

“Giznat could serve Great Mistress better with more treasure,” he answered after a moment. “Tribe want more gold. If Giznat bring tribe more gold, then tribe know Giznat great leader. Listen to Giznat more. Serve Great Mistress better,” he finished this last with a smile on his face, the wide mouth gaping open to reveal small, sharp fangs.

“Indeed,” was all she answered, gazing down upon the goblin chief and his two hapless companions. She moved back to the throne and sat down, thinking. Behind her, she could sense the hulking forms of the broad-chested ogres that served as her own personal bodyguards. As always, they lurked in the shadows like statues. With one signal, the hag knew that she could put an end to the disgusting creatures before her. However, the goblins did have their uses, and she rarely enjoyed moving with undue haste.

Within the span of a few heartbeats, she had made her decision.

She stood once again.

“I have decided,” she said as regally as she could muster, “to grant you your desire, Giznat.”

The goblin chief looked at her with a gleam in its cold yellow eyes. She could sense the anticipation running through its tiny body.

“For your service,” the hag continued, “you will receive exactly what you deserve.”

She clapped her monstrous, blue-skinned hands together and spoke a single word into the vast chamber. Waves of amber energy emanated from the hag’s clasped hands, surrounding the goblin chief. Giznat began to gibber mindlessly, shrieking out his fear. Behind him, his two companions watched as the amber energy passed through Giznat’s skin, forming a hardened shell. The goblin chief stopped shrieking and turned to run. His lithe form seemed ungainly, however. He stumbled once then stopped, frozen in mid run. The amber shell faded completely, revealing smooth gray stone.

“You,” the hag called out to one of the remaining goblins. “What is your name?”

The goblin stared at her for a moment, before answering. “Ha—Hazbik, Great Mistress,” it stammered.

“Well, Hazbik,” the hag said, approaching the still-prostrate goblin, “I suggest you run along to the tribe and tell the shaman he needs to pick a new chief.”

Hazbik stumbled to his feet and bowed low, nearly tumbling back down to the ground. “Hazbik goes, Mistress,” he replied then grabbed the remaining goblin. After a few moments of fumbling, the two creatures managed to make their way to the door.

“Oh and Hazbik,” the hag called after them, “see to it that you remove this statue.” She pointed to the transformed Giznat. “Please send it to your new chief as my way of… honoring him.”

The hag didn’t wait for Hazbik’s reply but turned back to the throne and dismissed her ogre bodyguards with a wave of her hand. Killing the goblin chief had eased her tension somewhat, but she still wasn’t satisfied. She was tired of lurking in shadows like the villain in a bad children’s tale, tired of hiding in the ruins of an ancient keep, plotting and planning.

It was time to strike.

She sent a mental summons to the priestess who served as her lieutenant and walked toward the back of the vaulted chamber. There, hidden in the dirt and crumbling mortar, stood a simple circle scribed in dried blood. She stepped into the gruesome circle and spoke a single word before disappearing in a flare of purple light.

The wind’s mournful wailing echoed in the vast, empty chamber.

Yulda sat in the confines of her spartan room, waiting for Durakh’s arrival. She had removed the spell of seeming she had cast on herself moments after the teleportation circle delivered her here. Now she sat amidst the broken remains of once-fine furniture and the tatters of sumptuous bedding, grateful to be wearing her own skin once again. Though her spell had only been illusory, she felt far more comfortable without any such glamour. Illusion had its uses—after all, wearing the form of an annis hag made it far easier to command her growing army of monsters—but she still preferred her true form. Walking around for too long under the distorting effects of an illusion spell felt like wearing clothes that were ill fitting and confining. She always felt a moment of relief when the spell faded. Even as a master of her lore, she wrestled with the small fear at the base of her spine that the illusion would somehow end up permanent.

Yulda chuckled at her foolishness as she gathered the length of a black robe around her and surveyed the parchment laid out on the rickety desk before her. The broad, confident strokes of the cartographer stood out in the light of her room, and the witch could clearly see the path her army would take as it began to challenge the wychlaran for dominion over Rashemen. She and the priestess Durakh had spent several months crafting and birthing their plans. The forces at her command slumbered restlessly in the dungeons and caverns beneath the citadel, and each day she stayed their hand made it more difficult to control them.

Her army couldn’t win in open rebellion. She found that fact as deeply frustrating as it was true. The Iron Lord and his damned warlords controlled too many forces eager to shed their blood in defense of Rashemen, so she hunkered down within the ruins of Citadel Rashemar, biding her time, consolidating her power, and waiting for the right moment to unveil her strength.

That moment had finally come.

The secret, of course, was not to focus on the martial power of the Iron Lord. He and his band of thick-headed louts would find plenty of humiliation at her hands. It was the combined might of both the wychlaran and the vremyonni that posed the single biggest threat to her plans. The only way to defeat them, Yulda knew, was to separate them—to cause a division where there had never been any before.

She thought of the Old One, wasting away in her mountain demesne, and smiled. The old fool had not revealed a single secret to her, yet she had forced him to give her something far more precious—the very essence of his power. Using forbidden lore taken from the heart of the abyss, she had managed to forge a link to the core of the vremyonni’s being. Even now, the wizard’s power flowed through her, a slow wave of energy that surged, crested, and surged again, supplementing her own arcane strength and fueling her spells with eldritch might.

By attacking and overpowering him, the witch had broken a bond forged centuries ago. That would certainly have an effect on the arcane protectors of Rashemen. Already she could feel their spells of divination and their oracular gifts searching the land for her. They pressed against the mystic screens both she and Durakh had erected to conceal their location—pressed but did not penetrate.

And would not penetrate so long as the vremyonni and the wychlaran were not working in concert. Beneath their combined power, not even Yulda’s own heightened gifts could deceive them.

A loud knock from behind the thick stone door of the chamber brought her attention to the present.

“Chaul,” she heard a husky, feminine voice say from the hallway beyond. “Are you there?”

Yulda moved aside the thick rolls of parchment and picked up a clear crystal about the size of an egg sitting on the corner of the desk. She blew on it once, and as her breath touched the crystal, its surface shimmered with milky incandescence. The light from the crystal soon faded, leaving the image of a shadowy stone hallway and a single figure standing before a door.

Durakh.

Voluminous folds of earth-brown robes covered the broad expanse of the figure’s shoulders and back but hung open in the front to reveal a suit of unmarred jet-black plate mail and plate leggings. Yulda could see that the priestess’s left hand still touched the haft of her mace as she stood before the door. Red runes spilled down its length, pulsating hotly in the darkness of the hallway. A thick metal bracer with four wicked-looking metal claws covered the length of Durakh’s other hand, from her wrist to beyond her fingertips.

The witch trusted Durakh, as far as anyone in her position could trust another person, which is to say very little, so she had set a permanent divination spell in the hallway. Even as her alter ego Chaul, the annis hag, she still had trouble controlling the more willful components of her army. Already, three of her subordinates had tried to kill her, one through assassination and the other two with traps designed to make it look like an accident. Their bodies were staked up outside the walls of the keep as a warning—and a promise. For all that, she knew that for as long as her purpose and Durakh’s remained the same, she could trust the priestess with her life.

“Chaul,” the figure called out from the hall once again.

Yulda sighed at the artifice. Durakh knew her true identity. Indeed, the priestess had been the one to suggest the idea in the first place, and now they played an elaborate game for form’s sake. The witch couldn’t wait until the day when she would walk triumphantly through the decimated ranks of the wychlaran and reveal to them that their undoing came at her hands. The delicious agony she would see marked upon the faces of the weak-willed fools she had betrayed would make this infantile cloak-and-dagger game worthwhile.

She gestured and silver sigils writhed and flared across the door of her chamber before it creaked open, stone grating on stone. Yulda stood up to greet her guest, placing the crystal back on her desk.

Durakh Haan wore a grim face as she entered the room. Yulda regarded the cleric carefully, measuring each tic of the priestess’s eyes and each indrawn breath. She was searching, calculating, as she always did with someone she deemed a threat, for some advantage, a heartbeat’s span of warning that might allow her to prevail if something unexpected were to happen.

The priestess’s eyes were a smoky gray, set deep within a harsh, square-jawed face. A wide-bridged nose and thick, sloping forehead easily proclaimed Durakh’s orc blood, though the effect was softened somewhat by high-set, delicate cheekbones and full lips. Three scars, faded to a dull purple with age, crisscrossed the cleric’s chin, traveling in ragged lines down toward her rough-skinned throat. The half-orc’s hair flowed in thick brown waves around ridged ears and spilled into the folds of her robe. A thick chain hung down from the cleric’s neck, suspending a circular onyx disk with a silver Orcish rune inscribed upon it.

If Durakh took offense at such obvious scrutiny, she gave no indication. The cleric bowed her head slightly upon entering and sat upon the simple chair Yulda offered. The door swung closed behind her.

“You summoned me,” the cleric said, and though Yulda listened to each word carefully, she could hear no indication of irony or contempt—just a simple statement of fact. Durakh’s voice was deep-timbred and rich, though Yulda would never use the word warm to describe it. To her ears, it sounded hollow and cold—like stone in winter.

An apt description for the young priestess.

A nameless sense of menace surrounded the priestess, a sense of the deep, dark places of the land, lying always in shadow. Yulda couldn’t quite suppress the shiver that ran up her spine.

“Yes, I did summon you,” the witch said, though whether to remind Durakh or herself, she couldn’t be sure. “We have been preparing for more than a year. Are our forces ready?”

Yulda asked the question casually, in an almost friendly tone, as if the answer meant nothing more to her than if she had inquired about the weather. Her gaze, however, remained riveted on the cleric. Failure was an option.

For her part, the half-orc returned Yulda’s stare before answering, though the witch knew Durakh well enough to see the telltale signs of tension in her lieutenant. It was clear to the Rashemi that Luthic’s cleric felt uncomfortable beneath the lidless gaze of her missing eye—a fact that caused Yulda a fair degree of satisfaction.