Storm's Clouds, page 8
part #2 of Stormfall Chronicles Series
Simulacrums or not, Baxter knew he was liable to receive a harsh blow to the head if he didn’t pay attention to the here and now. He turned to where the ogre towered over him, his heart beating wildly. He braced himself, wondering where to strike first. What had Iolyn told them? Oh yeah, never go up against an ogre with nothing more than a sword if you could avoid it. It gave the ogre all the advantage in terms of reach. How he wished he had brought a spear.
The ogre was looking down on him, its eyes locking with Baxter’s. It was moving its lips, but Baxter couldn’t hear what it was saying. He couldn’t hear anything, not the forest birds, the river, not even Iolyn’s shout in warning. The only thing Baxter could feel in that moment, staring into the ogre’s eyes, was an overwhelming desire to sleep. Everything went blank.
When Baxter opened his eyes again, he was on his back, staring up at the Captain of the Royal Guard. “You’re awake?” Iolyn asked.
“I guess,” Baxter replied. “What happened?”
“You got yourself killed, that’s what happened. A sleep charm. It’s one of the things ogres are known for. They can charm you into dropping your weapon, lowering a city gate, or put you into a deep sleep. If the ogre had been real, you’d be dead now.”
“I thought those were simulacrums,” Baxter replied, sitting up.
“The sleep charm was real enough. It’s how we train our troops to be prepared for its effects.” Iolyn gripped Baxter’s forearm, pulling him to his feet.
Still feeling dizzy, Baxter realized that at least half of the fae youths were still prone or asleep as well. “I didn’t realize it could be so strong.”
“Not all ogres can do it, and they have to be close enough for it to take effect. They also have to be free to concentrate long enough to chant the spell.”
Baxter rubbed his eyes again. “They’re really like that?”
“Really. When fighting a spell-caster of any variety, you always want to strike first. Keep them off-balance. If you give them time to focus, they’ll be sure to make you regret it.”
* * *
Sima drove his pole into the lake bottom, propelling his small boat forward through the dark, nighttime waters. He eyed the three passengers at the prow of his boat with no small amount of suspicion. He didn’t like passengers, even paying passengers. He didn’t like people in general.
It was a moonless night, with little wind. The fetid odor of the marshlands lingered, while ahead the outlines of the cursed mountain loomed – a darker patch of black against the night.
The flat-bottomed boat skimmed across the surface of the water. It was not often Sima ferried passengers across – at least not passengers who came willingly or would pay. The three men sat placidly enough, their dark hoods drawn over their heads, watching the mountain loom larger as they approached. True, he had been paid handsomely enough, but Sima distrusted everyone – distrusted, or perhaps hated. Besides, what kind of person would be willing to pay to get closer to the cursed mountain? At night no less.
Sima pushed off against the bottom of the lake as his boat skimmed closer to the shore. The nightly chorus of frogs and insects, which had been so loud when they were passing through the marshlands, was slowly fading as they approached. Sima knew the pattern well enough, allowing a malevolent smile to cross his scarred lips. He would see soon enough whether his passengers had the stomach for trading with the kind of patrons who only came out on nights like this. Ahead, violet-hued lights blinked into view, just as he had expected. Violet lanterns, set onto poles at the edge of the lake, illuminating a cluster of figures who awaited them.
The boat came to a stop at the edge of the lake, and two tall, burly figures came forward to grasp the boat and haul its prow up, onto the edge of the shore. These ogres were particularly broad and menacing – even as ogres went. Their tusks bore the wear marks of many fights – clawing their way up the clan hierarchy. Their armor underscored their status, ornately decorated with skulls and runes. Each had a large, studded mace hanging from their belt. Although hideous, both their armor and weapons were clearly not of ogre-craft.
Unperturbed, the three passengers arose from the prow of the boat and strode forward onto the shore. The swords and daggers on their belts glittered in the light of the pale, purple lanterns. Sima stayed behind, standing in the stern of his boat, watching. He would wait and see whether his passengers wanted to pay for a trip back across the lake, or if he might receive payment for service of a different kind. He knew well enough where to dump unwanted bodies in the lake, and how to weigh them down.
A dozen figures stood ahead of them, including two slender, armored beings, holding the poles on which the violet lights rested. Their faces were shadowed beneath their hoods. Ogres bearing various weapons milled about, some with the skulls of their human, goblin or gnomish victims dangling from their belts.
The three newcomers approached and halted a few feet away, the leading figure pulling back his hood to reveal a dark haired, bearded man – a thin, white scar cutting across his brow. “I am Taverian. We have come, as requested. What is this mission we were summoned for, and how can we be sure you can pay?”
A man came forward from the crowd, attired in pale, finely tailored robes. His dark hair was peppered with grey, and his darker travel cloak was fixed across his shoulders by a golden chain. His face was clean shaven, and he moved with a confidence which spoke to his affluent birth. In his hand, he held a scroll, tied with a red ribbon. “Your reputation precedes you, first-blade of the assassin’s guild.” The man held out the scroll. “I am called Julian. The terms are all written in the contract.”
Taverian took the scroll and untied the ribbon. He had already concluded the old man hardly posed any threat. Likewise, the ogres, despite their size and fearsome appearance, would be slow. If any disagreement broke out over the terms of the contract, or payment, he and his fellow assassins could make quick work of all of them. He was, however, curious about the two figures holding the poles from which the violet lanterns were hung. But there were only two of them. Acolytes of Julian, perhaps?
The two lantern bearers were only a point of curiosity, however, not a direct challenge. It was the other figures he had detected in the surrounding darkness that Taverian was more concerned by. He had counted at least five of them, standing just outside of the lantern’s light – motionless. Darker shadows against the surrounding blackness, stiff, erect and unmoving. A lesser assassin might have overlooked them, but Taverian knew to always keep his wits about. Matters of money made people do foolish things, even when bargaining with a trained assassin.
Taverian glanced quickly through the terms of the contract. “It’s a considerable sum to pay for the death of one man,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow. “You hardly needed the services of three assassins for a task such as this.” He was looking down at the contract, but more importantly – he was listening. The figures in the darkness were motionless – truly motionless. An ordinary soldier would shift his weight from time to time, to relieve his cramped muscles or return circulation to his limbs. But these figures remained statue-like, just waiting. Could they be just statues? It made no sense. Why go to the trouble of hiding a string of statues in the darkness when only the most highly skilled of assassins could possibly have picked them out? Whomever he was dealing with, they had resources enough at their beck and call. Why did they even require the assassin’s guild to do their dirty work?
Taverian looked up from the paper. “I’ve eliminated royalty for smaller sums than this. Settled scores between dukes and princes.” He eyed Julian thoughtfully. “What’s so special about this man that you’re willing to pay such a sum?”
“He has been a thorn in our side for many years. We need him eliminated. That is enough. We can supply you with all the armor and weapons you should need to dispose of him. And the terms of payment are, I believe, most generous.”
His accent confirmed Taverian’s suspicions – the way he rolled his r’s. Julian hailed from somewhere among the City States of Trevio. No doubt from a wealthy family, or perhaps one of those religious fanatics he had heard about. “We usually bring our own weapons, and any armor would only get in the way.”
“Not, I believe, in this case,” Julian said with a smile. “We are offering you a special armor. Added insurance you will complete your mission. You see, the man you hunt is not merely a man – we believe him to be a mage as well as a swordsman.”
“A mage?” Taverian raised a brow. “I have never killed a mage before. Can’t say as I’ve had a need. Parlor tricks hardly amuse me.” Yes, the figures at the edge of the lantern light were motionless, but there was something more which troubled Taverian’s senses: the silence. The night air was still, virtually windless, and the surrounding landscape was deathly quiet. Yes, that was what he had been missing. Aside from the occasional motion of the ogres in their clumsy battle dress and gaudy accoutrement, the shore was completely silent. No insects. No frogs. No animals scurrying through the underbrush. Nothing else moving. Who was this patron he was dealing with? What had he just walked into?
“I can assure you,” Julian replied with an ironic smile, “this man is not known for any parlor tricks. His preferred method of attack is with a bolt of lightning. Without our protective armor, adjusted and enchanted to match your individual frames, there would be a smoldering hole where your rib cage had been. With our armor, however, lightning will have no effect on you, and you will not bleed, even if wounded.”
Taverian had made deals with many a shady customer. Killed or made bargains with the scum of the earth. Something deep in Taverian’s soul was warning him not to trust this man from Trevio. But the money, even as Taverian counted wealth, this was not a sum to be passed up lightly. But it was the challenge which intrigued Taverian the most. A mage? Like in the old fairy tales? If this mage was all Julian had said he would be, killing him would be an accomplishment not easily matched. Bragging rights only he could claim. Besides, he was first blade of the Assassins’ Guild of Bateria. No single man could ever expect to threaten a master killer with his skills. Taverian shrugged. “As you wish. It will make little difference in the end. You want his death to be quick, or slow?”
“Your methods are your own,” Julian replied. “Kill the man and bring his sword to us as proof. The sword with the silver dragon on its handle.”
* * *
Garth crouched, examining the swath of scorch marks on the ground. The burn pattern was perhaps two feet wide, and a dozen feet long. “This was where it happened?” he asked.
“Yes, this was where the dragon killed and devoured the cow.” The young man was still visibly uncomfortable talking about it, his hands absently wringing the handle of his hoe. “My father’s body was found over there, near the edge of the barn.”
Behind the young lad, his mother stood at the house, her eyes still stained with grief. Garth ran his hand across the scorched grass and sand. “It killed only one cow?”
“We had only one cow.”
“And it ate all of it?”
“Pretty much. Most of it was gone when I came to clear the remains in the morning. Only the backbone and part of the rib cage were left.”
Garth stood and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, young man.”
“Where exactly did you say you were from?” the mother called from the house, finally finding her voice.
Garth strode past the charred remains of the barn, shutting the gate behind him. “I was sent to make an official investigation,” Garth replied. The silver lightning bolt patterned onto his dark tunic glittered in the sunlight as he reached across his waist for a coin purse. He handed the pouch to the mother. “I know it can’t bring back your husband, but you can at least start to rebuild. Again, I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you,” the mother replied, wiping her eyes again. “We’ve never had an official from the city of Enbor visit this far north before. Not here in the foothills of the Feideid Mountains. The Duke is kind to be mindful of his subjects.”
“Yes, he is,” Garth replied with a sad smile.
“We hear his son, the crown prince, is a brave man,” the son added. “They say he vanquished an entire pack of werewolves, single-handed. Do you think he’ll hunt down the dragon?”
Garth raised a single brow. “I’m sure he will live up to his previous, illustrious conduct. Do you know in which direction the dragon might have left?”
“West,” replied the boy. “We saw it take flight before dawn. We were hiding over there, where the brush is thickest – just in case it decided to burn the house.”
Garth considered, glancing west, in the direction where the mountain chain continued into the distance. “West, you say? Not south, towards the capital? And you said it was white?”
“Oh yes, it stood out clearly in the moonlight.”
“And it left before dawn,” Garth repeated. He clapped the boy on the shoulder once more. “Thank you, lad. My condolences to you and your family.” Hefting his pack, Garth continued on his way, heading westward, through the forest.
After he had disappeared down the rough, dirt trail, the farmer’s wife opened the pouch of coins he had handed her – and almost immediately stumbled backwards. “Gold,” she said. “He left us gold coins. Not silver.”
“Enough to buy a whole farmyard of animals,” the boy added.
* * *
“What have you learned from your readings?” Elise crossed the floor of her private study, taking her seat in a chair near the desk. She was wearing a white dress, its silver accents glittering in the lamplight, a silver belt wrapped around her waist.
“Much and little,” Eirlon replied, taking a seat opposite the princess on a stool. He glanced across the private collection of the princess’ library. Shelves of rare and unique books covered the one wall, while a desk and a mural of the Lwydion Mountains was on the opposing side. “There were many parts of Xythox’s journal which were beyond recovery, even at the time Gnotrix discovered them. There’s a lot we don’t know.”
“Do the notes explain how the portal rings are activated? How to open a gateway to wherever the other side is?”
“Not precisely, my lady. The original journal from Xythox was incomplete when Gnotrix found it. From what I can gather, Gnotrix intentionally accelerated their decay once he had copied down everything he wanted to preserve.”
“Why would he have done that?”
“To prevent certain things from falling into the wrong hands. He did not record, for example, the precise incantations used by Xythox to produce some of his experiments or monstrosities.” Eirlon felt a chill passing down his spine, remembering some of the more gruesome experiments described. It had been painful to read through them. “Gnotrix only recorded the results, and where and when they were disposed of. The precise incantation or combination of things needed to open the portal were also not recorded, assuming Xythox ever wrote them down. From Xythox’s original notes, however, Gnotrix did confirm that while the portal could be made to open a gateway anywhere it happened to be – the gate was opened more easily in some locations than in others.”
“What kind of locations?”
“Apparently, Mara Hall contained one such location, buried beneath the remains of the castle ruins.”
“Mara Hall?”
“Precisely. The location where Xythox first discovered the portal key. It also appears whomever he was communicating with on the other side of the portal could also open a gate of their own without the portal key, but only with supreme difficulty and only for short periods of time. Whomever they were, they needed possession of the portal key to keep the gateway open for any length of time – which was why Xythox’s possession of the key was so invaluable to him. For his part, Gnotrix himself never succeeded in opening a portal, using the relic. As near as I can tell, he never dared to try, for fear of what might be on the other side. Speaking of which, I trust the portal key is being kept safe?”
Elise exhaled in exasperation. “Each member of the Fae Council has had their ‘expert’ sages pawing over it.”
Eirlon leaned forward, his mind still fresh with the horrific images describing Xythox’s experiments. “Do they even know what it is? Aren’t you concerned they might open the portal by mistake?”
“Those mages? If I want someone to warm my tea, I’ll be sure to call them.”
“And yourself? Have you tried to activate the portal?”
Elise suppressed a shudder, remembering the ghostly voice she had herself heard, a voice she had described to no one. She shook her head. “Not until we know more about it: who or what is on the other side. Have you gained any more clues into their identity?”
“No, my lady. The only thing I have learned for certain is Xythox’s patrons were extremely displeased with him over the failure of their initial invasion of the East Feyfell. They knew they had lost the element of surprise. The war which followed, as you know, dragged on for more than a decade. There were apparently other attempts to finish the war more quickly.”
“Other attempts?”
“Yes. About two years after the war had begun, Xythox made a secret journey north, to Mara Hall, to open a larger portal to the other side. He received his staff of metamorphosis in return for the favor. He never wrote down exactly what he saw, but the experience of opening the gate, and peering across to the other side, had apparently left him shaken. He returned to his keep in the south and, according to his journal entries, fortified his own defenses in the event something went wrong. By his own estimation, the portal he had opened should have remained there for days, even after he withdrew with the portal key in hand. Whatever beasts or abominations his patrons had sent would have been free to spill out.”
“What happened to this second army?”
“Like the earlier invasion, it never reached the fae lands. Xythox ascribed the failure to the unstable nature of his patron’s magic.”
