The Staff of the Winds (The Wizard of South Corner Book 1) (16 page)

Commander Furstiv al Bardon was a hero of the Baraduhne. Veteran of the wars with the Maragong to the north, he had never lost a battle. A huge man, and powerfully built, he had the reflexes and agility of a cat. In even the direst circumstances in battle, he was completely without fear. Fear was the enemy’s problem when they learned that Furstiv al Bardon led the army that they faced.

Fear came as an uninvited stranger to al Bardon this day.  He was crossing the sorcerer’s bridge with the Deep lying black and smooth far below.  From his perspective, the mountains and forests that bordered on that expanse of still water and should have been reflected in it seemed to get swallowed in its depths.  The Commander had watched the initial expeditionary force cross this same bridge a little over a week ago.  Fully a third of that force had fallen from this bridge into the dark mere and the waiting tentacles of the trigitch before reaching the other side.  He had observed that the gorn, with their bare feet gripping the gritty surface, had faired better than the soldiers in their leather boots, so he had worn his iron studded field boots to give him better purchase.

The bridge consisted of stone torn by a sorcerer’s ring led by the High Sorcerer Adham al Dharr from the mountain behind him and cast in a steeply arching span across the deep. Though made with magic, it contained no magic and was not sustained by magic. The trigitch would not have allowed its continued presence over the Deep if it were. Rather, it was one continuous extrusion of burned and tortured rock that crumbled and flaked under the weight of the men who crossed it.

Wide enough for four men to walk abreast onto its western end, the bridge narrowed as it climbed so that it was only wide enough for one man as it approached its zenith. From there it arched down to the eastern side, becoming gradually steeper and steeper as it descended towards the shore, at which point it was less than a foot wide.

Commander al Bardon had read reports that it required twelve Sorcerers and senior mages, linked together with High Sorcerer Adham al Dharr to create the bridge. It had to be done all in one working, in order to anchor the far end before the entire thing collapsed into the mere, and as al Bardon heard it, three of the mages had died—their desiccated bodies sucked completely of their life essence—the rest had collapsed near to death, and even the Great Sorcerer himself had to be carried from the scene. It was unlikely that the work could be repeated. Most had thought the building of it impossible before it was done.

The span was not flat on top, but rounded noticeably downward towards the sides. In places along its edges, chunks had fractured off and plummeted to the waters below, taking with them the incautious soldier who had slid or stepped too close to the edge, and making the top that much narrower for those who followed.

Honeycombed with small air pockets, the stone material was surprisingly light. That along with its thickness of nearly eight feet at its smallest end and its high arch made it reasonably stable, but with the way the substance had degraded under the tread of the soldiers, al Bardon doubted whether many more could be brought across in this manner before the entire structure collapsed, or until enough of the edges flaked off to make the top surface too narrow to be used.

The Commander started across this singular working at first light with two of his aides. On the upward climb, his men had followed behind him, but before the span narrowed near the top, he had given them the lead. He did not intend to be taken off the bridge if one of his men should lose his footing on the treacherously eroding surface.

“Curse Kadeen. Curse all sorcerers!” he muttered repeatedly under his breath. He was taking short steps, his knees bent, his arms spread slightly, keeping the studded soles of his boots as flat on the surface as possible as he worked his way slowly down the terrifyingly narrow and ever steepening span. The three men were maintaining adequate separation so that the sliding feet of one would not kick the feet out from under the next person in line.

Suddenly the inevitable happened, and Lt. Toriguerre, who was midway between his Commander and Lt. Basnard began to slide uncontrollably down the span and towards the eastern edge. A long low wail of dismay escaped his lips as he fought to regain traction on the gritty surface, but the more he struggled, the more material broke up under his boots acting like small marbles, expediting his progress down and off the side of the span. In a last desperate attempt to save himself, Toriguerre lunged forward and grabbed Basnard’s right ankle as he went over the side. Realizing what was happening, Basnard dropped to the bridge, managing to hook his left leg and his left arm over the other side.

“Let go, you fool!” yelled Basnard at his associate, kicking at his head to try to dislodge him. “You’ll take us both off.”

“Pull me up! Pull me up!!” screamed Toriguerre, trying desperately to pull himself up Basnard’s pant leg.

Leaning as far to his left as he could, Basnard freed up his right hand, drew his sword, and with a curse hacked at Toriguerre’s face.

Shrieking with pain and fear, Toriguerre let go of Basnard’s leg to cover the wild slash that tore open his left cheek, and fell eighty feet toward the waiting Deep below.  Just as he struck, the water boiled around him, alive with the sickly gray tentacles of the trigitch.  Toriguerre did not even have time to repeat his scream before he was torn to pieces by the denizen of the Deep.  His field pack and a spreading stain of blood were all that remained visible on the surface of the black pool, and even the pack gradually absorbed water and sank out of site.

Managing to retain his balance on the bridge, Basnard lay face down with the gritty surface hard against his cheek, desperately hugging both sides with his arms and legs while he gasped for air and his heart beat wildly in his breast. Dust from the fracturing rock billowed out with each exhalation.

When Toriguerre began his slide, al Bardon had planted himself firmly and remained stationary throughout the crisis. He had made no attempt to intervene, lest he end up contributing to the disaster. Now he waited impatiently for his junior aid to regain his self-control and continue his descent. If he did not move soon, the Commander had every intention of planting his studded boot in the man’s backside to move him along, either on down the bridge or over the side. He had no desire to remain in his current exposed position any longer than was absolutely required.

“Lieutenant! Do you plan to set up camp there, or are you going to get moving before I come down and walk over the top of you?”

“No sir, I mean yes sir,” Basnard answered weekly.  For a long moment, he remained flat on the bridge, his arms and legs clinging to the sides of the porous rock arch, his head pointing down the slope.  Finally, he slowly worked his way to a sitting position, and turning around to face up the slope he managed to get back to his feet.  Trembling noticeably, he turned back to the east and once again resumed his trek down the treacherous slope, but slower and much more carefully than before the fall of his hapless comrade.

The two men finally reached the ground, sliding for much of the final twenty feet, but without further incident.

Commander al Bardon and Lt. Basnard crossed the old, weathered, wooden drawbridge over the river gorge and entered Carraghlaoch just as the sun disappeared behind the snow covered peaks of the West Wall. They had pushed hard to complete the trek before nightfall. Captain Saglam met them at the gate, with a salute to the Commander.

“Report, Captain, and give me the brief version for now.”

“Sir.  We lost thirty-two men and eleven gorn coming over the bridge.  As briefed, we found all of the fortifications on this side abandoned and in disrepair.  We marched to the northeast in good order and discovered the target village on the evening of the third day.  Just after midnight we entered unopposed and took the villagers captive.  There were no casualties.

“As ordered, I delegated two men to confront the wizard there with the High Sorcerer’s amulet. The wizard was killed, and my men and the amulet were consumed in the blast. We were able to locate and secure all of the books on the list, and we came away with the entire able-bodied population. We arrived back here this morning, without incident, sir.”

“Very good, Captain. Where are you holding the prisoners?”

“There is a stone stable area just inside the gate along the western wall, sir. We have them in there, still bound and under heavy guard.”

“Have you explored the castle yet?”

“No sir.”

“Have a detail gather some torches and locate the castle dungeon. Once they find it, I want to know the shortest route down to the lowest level, and I want torches lighting the stairs and hallways down to that dungeon.

“In the meantime, separate out all of the male prisoners between the ages of fifteen to twenty-five and bring them out to the courtyard bound and under heavy guard.  Post a few archers on the walls overlooking the courtyard just to be sure.  Sorcerer Kadeen believes that the wizard’s apprentice is a young male among your captives.  The dungeons in this castle are spelled to sap a wizard of his strength.  I want all of the young men secured down there as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it immediately.”

“Oh, and Captain, where are you keeping the wizard’s staff?”

“We did not recover the staff, sir. It was destroyed in the blast caused by the amulet.”

“
Khara
! Kadeen’s not going to be happy about that news. Well, what’s done is done.

“Did Sardang make it to this side of the bridge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have somebody find him and tell him to report to me. That’s all for now. Get to it, Captain.”

“Yes, sir,” Saglam responded, delivering a crisp salute, pivoted on his heals and trotted off, calling out orders to his waiting men.

After an appropriate delay, Sardang swaggered up to Commander al Bardon in a manner meant to convey to his file that the meeting was his idea, not the human’s.  At the same time, he kept his eyes averted so as not to incur the Commander’s wrath.  Furstiv, with many years of experience dealing with the gorn ignored Sardang’s manner.

Most of the officer corps hated dealing with the gorn. They found them to be undisciplined, unreliable and untrustworthy; al Bardon distrusted them more than most. The uninitiated thought that the gorn were a good choice for night guard duty because of their superior night vision. Furstiv knew that this was foolishly naïve. It was true that the gorn could see much better in starlight than could a man, but getting the average gorn to take the duty seriously and responsibly was nearly impossible.

Properly employed, gorn warriors could be very useful in battle, but when not closely watched, they were just about useless in al Bardon’s opinion. The only nighttime task that he thought they were worth assigning was independent patrols, or murder squads in enemy territory. In the dark, they were quick and quiet, and could bring terror to an enemy; but at all times they were unpredictable, and hard to control.

The alliance between the Baraduhne and the gorn was always tenuous at best, and it was not unusual for a company of soldiers to be turned on by a file of gorn, especially at night, especially if the gorn had significantly superior numbers, and especially if there was no more interesting activity to keep the gorn occupied.

Now that this patrol had completed its initial mission, Furstiv believed that the possibility of a gorn revolt and slaughter was more likely than not.  All the conditions were in their favor, and there was the added lure of the unarmed prisoners.  Fortunately, al Bardon had a solution at hand.

“Sardang, what is the condition of your file?”

“We good, Commander. We watch prisoners.”

“I have a more important task for you. Now that these prisoners are secure, we need additional slaves to dig and drain the Deep. I want you to take your file back to the farms around the village and round up every man and woman able to work. The old and the children you can use for your own amusement, but I want those able to work unharmed.

“In addition, bring me all available grain and livestock from the farms that you raid. You can keep what you need for your file, but we need to supply this position. Logistics from across the Deep are going to be difficult.

“Also, bring me shovels, picks, anything that can be used to dig, and heavy wagons to haul away the dirt and rock. Do you understand these orders?”

“Yes, understand.”

“Good. Get your file together and head out tonight. I’ll expect to see you back here with the first load of supplies no later than three weeks from now.”

Furstiv knew this assignment would appeal to the gorn. It was a free license to pillage, torture and burn—to generally wreak havoc among the farms of the parish. It would also serve a number of strategic purposes. The Baraduhne would need as many slaves as possible if they were to accomplish the great excavation of the dam that held back the waters of the Deep. After his passage over the bridge, it was obvious to al Bardon that their original plan to bring slaves and supplies from the other side of the Deep was totally impractical. They’d lose half, maybe two-thirds before they even reached the eastern shore, and in the process the bridge would be degraded even further.