The Sword Of Midras Part 5

Youre supposed to be a scout for the Obsidian Army, Aren observed, and you appear to be leading us from the back of the advance. How much sense does anything make? Do you know where we are going?

For now were headed toward a trading post called Kiln, Syenna said. Follow the Shimano River that far and then intersect with the southern trade routes. From there, our orders are to cross the Midmaer Northwest to the Blackblade Mountains and report at Hilt.

Hilt. Aren considered this news for a moment, gnawing at his lip. Thats the gateway to the Paladis and the Western Lands. And what are we supposed to do when we reach Hilt?

The army is to be reinforced, Syenna said as she looked about them to be certain they were not heard. Warriors from Drachvald and, so I hear, new Fomorian creatures from Desolis.

Indeed? Aren brightened at this bit of news. So the Obsidians have come up with some new toys for us to hurt ourselves with. Well, if were getting reinforcements at Hilt, then that means the Obsidians plan to push into Paladis. It means we have just finished one campaign only to begin another.

They came to the edge of the Shimano River. They paused there for a moment, allowing the horses to drink. Beyond the wide, slow-moving river, the Midmaer Plain rolled into the distance. There, at the horizon, stood the jagged teeth of the Blackblade Mountains beneath gathering, ominous clouds.

Aren sat back in his saddle and began whistling his tune once more.

Do you think Jester was right? Syenna asked quietly.

Who?

Jester"the teamster"do you think he was right? Syenna gazed at Aren with a furrowed brow. Are we chasing a horizon we can never reach? Are we never getting closer but only farther from home?

Aren gazed at her for a moment and then turned his eyes back toward the west. Once again, he began whistling his tune.

So you have no glib and easy answers you can fire back at"

The sudden rustle of wings and movement between them startled Syenna. Aren felt the claws scrabbling at his shoulders and eventually finding their perch.

h.e.l.lo, Monk, Aren said to the homunculus clinging to his back. I was wondering when you might find me.

Syenna shuttered. I dont think Ill ever get used to that thing.

You should be grateful to it. Aren smiled as he reached back to rub the creature under his chin. Unless I miss my guess, Monk here may have just helped us bring that horizon much closer than you think.

CHAPTER.

6.

Desolis The homunculus known as Monk flapped its wings with determination as it rose higher and higher above the Midmaer Plain. It had left the arm of Aren, its master, from the edge of the Midras ruins two days before and had been making its way eastward beneath daylight and starshine ever since. The homunculus was not a rapid flyer or, for that matter, a very good one, as its wings had been shaped by magic rather than by nature and were barely sufficient to support the miniature, humanlike body suspended beneath them. The barbed tail provided insufficient directional control even in the slightest crosswind. But for all that, the homunculus could unquestionably lay claim to two solid Virtues. Its wings, poor as they were, would never tire, and it was single-mindedly relentless in performing its a.s.signed task. The homunculus would die before it would fail.

Monk flew eastward from the still burning ruins toward the Shadowed Hills that led to the western slopes of the Spectral Peaks. It might not have been the most direct route to Monks objective, but within Monks altered and engineered mind, the homunculus knew that the rarefied air at the crests of those mountains would not support its flight or permit its aerial pa.s.sage. Had Monk been capable of it, it might have felt frustration of the knowledge, but instead its red eyes caught the bright ribbon the River Pashal shining far beneath it in the rays of the morning sun, and the creature wheeled on its wings northward to follow it. Before the sun had set on the same day, Monk had reached the confluence of the Pashal and Shimano Rivers. Just to the northwest of the confluence, the homunculus could see the burned-out ruins of a small town, its stockade walls shattered and charred. The ruins were cold; the fires had long since gone out, and no smoke rose from among the dead. The homunculus did not care; curiosity was not part of its current mission. Its only concern, if the term could properly be applied to the creature, was the building storm clouds to the northwest that were moving with uncharitable swiftness toward it. Monk turned eastward climbing higher as best it could with its eyes on a dark line on the fading horizon, known to its masters as the Sentinel Forest"the boundary between the plains of Midmaer and the Grunvald Prairie.

Monk pushed on through the sky, the storm gaining upon the creature with every beat of its wings.

The tempest overtook the creature in the night. Monks eyes were more efficient in the darkness"reading variations in heat was far easier for the homunculus than the visible spectrum of light"but the turmoil of the conflicting wind gusts, the torrential downpours of cold rain, and the almost constant veins of lightning crackling through the cloudy blackness made it impossible for him to proceed. The homunculus descended, but even in the caution that it took, the storm still managed to hurl the creature through the upper branches of the hardwood trees and slam it with painful force against the trunk of an oak tree. The homunculus clambered for some purchase with its clawed hands and feet across the wet bark, and managed to arrest its fall within a few feet. There, with the ground an unseen distance beneath it, Monk clung to the tree as the storm raged around it in the darkness. The homunculus rocked itself slightly through the night, trying to comfort itself as it was caught between its unquenchable need to fulfill its masters command and the storm that made its progress toward that objective impossible to fulfill.

The rain was still falling at midmorning when the homunculus took to the skies once more. It had crashed the night before on the western edge of the Sentinel Forest. Who had given the forest that name or why was of no concern to the creature. All it knew was that the storm was moving off toward the south so that it might exhaust itself against the Spectral Peaks. That meant that the skies would be clearing above the forest and gratefully permit the homunculus to continue.

The leathery winged messenger flew high above the treetops of the Sentinels through the rest of the day. By the time the sun was once again setting to the west, Monk was leaving the eastern edge of the forest behind him. The great, billowing clouds piled up around the small monster as it flew eastward, but through the occasional breaks, Monk caught glimpses of the Eylo River to the east. This filled Monk with a sense of antic.i.p.ation. It was familiar territory and, if it could be said that the conjured being had a home, it was nearing that place with every beat of its wings.

Once again, the sun fell below the horizon behind its flight. Monk flew through towering salmon-colored clouds beneath the twilight sky, but the beauty of it was lost on the creature. The glorious colors soon faded, and the more familiar darkness surrounded it. Monk welcomed the starlight shining down through the clouds, for it helped it to navigate. This part of the journey was at once more difficult and yet more familiar to the creature. There were few landmarks that broke up the monotony of the prairie below, but Monk knew where its flight led and with the help of the stars, could find its way.

Late that night Monk flew over the very source of the magic that had given it form: a great rent in the otherwise featureless plain where a piece of the sky had fallen and seeded the essence of magic into the ground. The homunculus did not even notice its pa.s.sing. The creature simply crossed over it in the night, its thoughts and its being intent on the sunrise that was to come, and on delivering the message to the one man who could release the creature from the ecstatic agony of its mission.

It would take the creature another full day to find him.

Personal message to Obsidian Evard Dirae. General Karpasic relieved me of combat command and is living up to our worst expectations.

Evard Dirae leaned back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests on either side. He pressed the index fingers of both hands against his lips as he listened carefully and considered the homunculus that perched on the stand before him. This was not an unusual event; the creature had returned to Evard from Aren with reasonable regularity every week or two since Evard had given him the creature at the beginning of the current campaign. Aren had even joked about the gift, saying it was just like Evard to give a gift that would constantly return to the giver.

I am now in charge of supply caravans.

Evard stood up in nervous agitation. Pacing in the small chamber that had been a.s.signed to him would be out of the question given the limited s.p.a.ce. When it had first been shown to him, he had thought it charmingly compelling. The scarred walls and the partial frescoes had a sense of history and connection to a time that was now lost. The ancient civilization that had once lived here in opulent splendor was arrested in all its glory when the sky fell, not terribly far from here, and punctured the crust of the world. The floor of the once verdant plain had buckled and heaved before its fury. The unnamed city had been buried and swallowed up by the ground, leaving only a number of domes of earth and stone to mark its grave. Centuries later the Obsidians had been drawn to the shard that had fallen from the sky, but it was in the discovery of the lost city under the mounds and its connection to the power of the shard that determined where Desolis, the home of the Obsidians, would be established.

Since that time, a number of the slaves of the Obsidians had been pressed into carefully recovering the ancient glory of Desolis room by buried room and street by buried street. The reality was that living in these rooms was generally cold, dark, uncomfortable, and a bit depressing. However, it was considered a sign of status among the Obsidians to be given quarters among the old ruins within one of the mounds, a connection to the glories of the past that the Obsidians had hoped to reclaim as their own future. Where your rooms were located in Desolis was a strong indicator of where you stood regarding your position in the cabal. At the moment, Evard reflected, his position was improving.

Evard brought his mind back to focus on the problem at hand. The honor of sleeping in rooms where people had died horribly centuries before was not nearly as important at this moment as the problem and opportunity that his old friend had just laid at his feet.

This army would benefit from your guidance in person.

Yes, I am sure it would. Evard smiled. But Im going to need something more than just your demotion to justify what I have in mind, my old friend.

The homunculus stopped talking.

Evard shrugged and frowned. He had just opened his mouth to begin dictating a return message when the homunculus abruptly began speaking again.

Recovered an ancient blade from the ruins here"possibly Avatar in origin. Come soon.

Evard took in a breath. Repeat that last.

Come soon.

Evard shook his head. No. Before that.

Recovered an ancient blade from the ruins here"possibly Avatar in origin.

A knowing grin slowly formed on Evards face. He turned and threw open the dull and dusty black trunk that sat at the foot of his bed. The contents had all been very neatly and carefully placed, allowing him in a moment to put his hands on the black cloth of his dress robes. They unfolded as he lifted them up. It was an elegant robe, carefully embroidered with metal thread designed specifically to bring to mind to any sorcerer the exacting nature of their craft. They were most often used, Evard reflected, when one presented themselves before the lords of the Obsidian Council.

Or at funerals.

And sometimes both, Evard said aloud to himself as he straightened the robe settling on his shoulders. I wonder which one this will be?

He was about to step out of his room when he suddenly stopped and turned toward the creature waiting expectantly on the perch. He reached forward impetuously and rubbed the homunculuss forehead between his tapered ears. Thank you, Monk, but I think you need a rest.

Evard glanced at the embroidered symbols on the sleeve of his robe to confirm the patterns of the spell. He reached within himself, connected with the magic within the homunculus, and unbound it.

Monks form suddenly lost cohesion. The creature dissolved at once into a settling cloud of dust.

Ill call you when I need you, Evard said as the dust drifted toward the floor.

The sorcerer stepped out of his small quarters and into what had once been a paved street. The ancient street had a stone sky: a mixture of dirt and cold lava flow held in place by rough-hewn timbers set as reinforcing beams. This particular mound had been one of the first excavated, and while the section that survived the ancient upheaval amounted in this case to only a handful of streets in what had been a residential district, it remained the most prestigious of residences to the Obsidians. There were few occupants of the section and the street before his room was deserted.

He could hear great winches turning in the distance and headed in the direction of the sound. A few turns of the road and he could see the light of the outside world streaming into the tunnel that the old avenue had become.

The sorcerer stepped past the pair of guards flanking the entrance to the mound known as Old Market, squinting into the morning sun. There were a number of these small, low mounds that looked like ocean swells formed out of the prairie earth. Each had been given a name largely a.s.sociated with some feature that had been discovered during the excavations beneath them"Temple, Ca.n.a.l, Millstone, Old Market, or Tombs"but all these were dwarfed by what the previous inhabitants of the region had called the Epitaph. It was a mountain plateau of stone that had been thrust up from the ground at the time of the ancient Shard Fall and had carried a great deal of the surface skyward in the process. It was largely comprised of sandstone infused with the ruins filled with ash and marbled with cold volcanic flow. It was the latter, however, that gave the site special significance to the Obsidians, for the lava tubes that had formed carried the power of the Shard Fall directly into the caverns beneath the Epitaph.

To Evard, however, it was one thing more. It was also home.

Master Evard!

The sorcerer winced inwardly upon hearing his name. The voice calling it was entirely too familiar to him. Evard stepped quickly away from the entrance to Zinas Mound from which he had just emerged and strode purposefully toward the primary entrance into the Epitaph. Much of the Vaughban Guard, one of three elements making up the Northreach Army, were encamped around the base of the Epitaph. He had the faint hope he might lose himself of pursuit amid the confusion of the five thousand warriors still sorting themselves out after their long march from the Drachvald.

It was a hope quickly crushed.

Master Evard!

Yes, apprentice uh Evard knew the mans name but wanted to at least pretend that he could forget it.

Acolyte Tren, the young sorcerer in training said, falling into rapid step next to Evard. Im serving under Mistress Norn.

How fortunate for Mistress Norn, Evard replied dryly. He had encountered this particular parasite far too often. Out of the several hundred acolytes being trained in the depths beneath Desolis, he wondered if he were actually being plagued by this sycophant or if it just seemed that way because the mere sound of his voice was annoying to him. Is there some purpose in your finding me or is this just a coincidence of the stars?

Evard kept up his rapid pace, slipping between warriors and even a few tradesmen who were trying to sell the soldiers some of their goods. The hoa.r.s.e shout of voices, punctuated with occasional bursts of loud laughter or swearing, made it difficult to hear, but it did not prevent the acolyte from speaking.

My mistress asks if any further progress has been made toward the shaping of the ogres, the acolyte begged. There was an implied accusation in the question that Evard had not done enough to move the experiment forward.

You may remind your mistress that I am not counted among the Obsidian Central Circle, Evard replied with as much patience as he could muster. Indeed, you may remind her that I answer to the Central Circle only, and not to any of its individual members.

My mistress is most keenly aware of that, Craftmaster, the acolyte continued as he kicked and stumbled for a moment over a helmet. The soldier began to swear loudly at them but, realizing who was pa.s.sing, quickly choked back his words. She wishes me again to express her regrets at the early pa.s.sing of your mother and looks forward to the day when you may ascend to her place in the Central Circle.

Evard held his tongue. His family had been at the center of the Obsidian Empire for four generations. Markus Dirae himself had written down the Prophecy of the Obsidian Eye at the edge of the Destiny Pool. He had ascended to the Central Circle and taken the place of his master upon his pa.s.sing. His son, Doran, had followed to take his fathers place as Obsidian Eye. His daughter, Malam, came to the council upon Dorans death and retained her own family name in marriage as a symbol of the dynasty she hoped to build. His mothers death had been a most carefully orchestrated event and was as plausible in its appearance of accident as it was convenient for the ambitions of several remaining masters and mistresses of the Central Circle.

Their one problem, however, was Evard, the son of Malam. His inevitable ascension to the Central Circle threatened the place of any grand master or mistress who might ally themselves with him. At the same time, none of them wished to cross him. As a result, the seven-member council that was the Central Circle and from which the reigning Obsidian Eye was sanctioned and elevated to position of emperor or empress, was more than willing to utilize his talents and fortify their position of authority so long as it did not threaten them personally. Evard was a prince of the Obsidian Order, whose influence was unquestioned despite his having no clear authority from the Central Circle, nor any single member of that council to whom he answered.

It was an awkward position for Evard, and he had long been searching for a way of distinguishing himself in such a way that the Central Circle could no longer deny him his rightful place in the Circle"as soon as a vacancy could be arranged.

Convey to your mistress my appreciation at her concern for my future, Evard said. He noted with grat.i.tude that they were approaching the gates of the Epitaph. The stone on either side of the entrance had been reworked into representations of dragon heads, each facing one another as stone guardians of the inner reaches of the Obsidians might and power. The acolyte, he believed, had no authority to pa.s.s these stone sentinels, and Evard would soon be rid of his questions. Tell her also that the problems with reshaping the ogres continue. More slave subjects will be required for the experiments.

My mistress would be most grateful for any increased diligence you might exert in this matter, the acolyte said quickly, also noting their approach to the gate. And, as the craftmaster appears to be on urgent business, may I inquire on my mistresss behalf how she might help you in your current efforts?

No, you may not, Evard said with relief as he strode between the statues and into the darkness beyond.

CHAPTER.

7.

Chamber of Souls Evards steps were familiar to him. They brought him past the Sentinels that lined the long hallway of the Maw, every step taking him farther beneath the Epitaph. They carried him into the Cavern of Night where the Old Citys layers were exposed around a funnel of stone piercing deep beneath the mountain. Obsidian Falls could be heard more than seen in the darkness, its waters roaring on his left as they tumbled down the northern wall. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, the only illumination coming from the lamps lining the Long Stair on the opposite side of the enormous cavity. It formed a great, descending arc back and forth along the eastern curve of the natural shaft plunging into the darkness beneath him. He could see movement down that staircase: another line of slaves being forced down the steps toward the laboratories of the Obsidian reshapers. Their flesh and bone would be twisted into forms and purposes more suited to the objectives of the Obsidian Cause: the will of the Central Circle and the vision of the Obsidian Eye.

If, Evard reflected, it worked.

And, as caveats go, it was a very big if. The truth was that Obsidian magic, despite its roots in the ancient Fall and generations of study, remained an imprecise and largely unpredictable craft. Its power unquestionably emanated from the shards that plunged violently from the sky at the time of the Fall, rending the Earth and transforming its features. Yet despite the presence of this power in the world for centuries, and the many decades in which the Obsidians had been studying and practicing to understand and harness its seemingly limitless capabilities, the power itself remained a mystery and its effects volatile and mercurial. Even when the Obsidian craft-sorcerers managed to stumble upon a magical configuration that gave reasonably consistent results"such as the shaping of elves"and even when those forms proved to be stable as living creatures, they had proven to be difficult to maintain under any kind of discipline. Most forms simply failed, ending either in misshapen creatures at best, or agonized monstrosities lashing out at their shapers in the throes of their suffering.

Despite all that, the Central Circle had been adamant in the continued research into shaping the living into a powerful army of creatures under their command. Evard wondered if it was because refugees and captives were easy to conquer but difficult to control. Transforming them into monstrous creatures that fought for you rather than against you, perhaps, seemed like solving two problems in a single stroke.

Its just as well they dont know what awaits them, Evard thought as he stood at the top of the Acolyte Stair, the nearer staircase that descended into the Cave of Night. The legend taught to the acolytes was that these steps followed the original path taken by Heb-Shar, the first Obsidian, when he first found the towering stone b.u.t.te he named Epitaph and followed the siren call of magic through a crack in the stone wall and down into the darkness below. Evard glanced at the stair and, with a shrug, stepped up onto the stone railing and leaped out over the plunging shaft below.

He murmured into the darkness and felt the rushing wind around him slowing. Magic was precious, and the expenditure would cost him, but he was in a hurry and did not want to appear at his appointment as though he had rushed to arrive. The air around him got cooler, and the lamps of the grotto floor below him were drifting closer. His feet touched gently to the stone just as he murmured again to release the spell.

He looked down another stair, this one straight as it led to a series of landings. To the left of the staircase were the Cascades, the lower part of the underground Obsidian Falls, tumbling over rocks. Evard stepped easily down the stairs, pa.s.sing a number of acolytes and several craftmasters along the way. At last he came to the courtyard at the foot of the stairs, and gazed out over the mirror-still surface of a lake.

This was Fates Lake, where Obsidian magic was first forged. Of course, the actual shard from which the magic emanated was now known to have fallen more than a days ride to the west of the Epitaph, but somehow its powers were carried by the channel of an underground river to this place. It was easy to imagine magic flowing from this hidden lake underground and, in fact, it was easier to channel the powers of magic here than from the surface. It was, he reflected, why he felt so free in using his powers to float down rather than walk the distance. Here, at least, he could recover quickly.

He would do so too, but first he had an appointment to keep that, he suspected, would be much to his purpose.

Evard turned and glanced up at the Obsidian Keep. It was set into the cavern wall, its polished black stone gleaming in the faint light of the lamps.

In this place, he thought, my ancestor stood by the Destiny Pool. In this place my forebearers built the foundations for an empire of sorcerers who would bring order to a world in chaos. This is mine by right. My destiny. My fate.

Beyond these final gates lay the heart of the Obsidian Empire.

A dark heart. Evard smiled to himself as he strode into the keep.

Ah, my dear Evard. The voice was nasal and high-pitched, echoing slightly in the large hall. It came from a tall, thin man in a crimson robe with golden filigree patterns embroidered throughout its cloth. What has brought you to extend this invitation?