To Rouse Leviathan, page 8
“So that’s a trollhound,” Celeste said.
“Cute, isn’t it?” Max observed.
“Its entire snout is filled with air passages lined with olfactory organs. It can track a person over solid rock,” Morgan said.
“The only good thing about trollhounds is that they’re almost extinct. I think we should reduce the population by one more,” Max said.
“Who’s the man in green?” Lor asked.
“They call themselves Hunters,” Max replied with a sneer. “He probably sleeps with the hound.”
Max whistled. When the Ha’ashtari looked back at him, he pointed at the trollhound and closed his fist. As one, the brown-skinned warriors raised their bows and fired. Sha’lor’s arrow shattered on the trollhound’s armored chest, but Ha’sim’s shaft took the Hunter in the throat. The frightened reptile squealed and charged back up the valley, dragging its dying keeper behind it. Two more Ha’ashtari arrows rebounded from the trollhound’s backside before it disappeared into the fog. The first two Rangers fell without a sound, arrows sticking from their bodies. The second pair turned to flee but made only a few strides before the archers cut them down. The Ha’ashtari ran forward and retrieved the arrows from their victims. They returned to their posts and stood waiting for their next targets. The fog had lifted somewhat but still hung low enough to hide the rest of the pursuers. Morgan knew it would not be long before more Mhoul soldiers arrived.
“I’ll be on the roof,” Max said, as he grabbed several bundles of metal arrows and ran up the stairs.
“Celeste, you stay here and help cover the Ha’ashtari. I’m going downstairs. Lor and Rees, come with me,” Morgan said. Celeste unslung her bow and waited by the eyeholes while Morgan and the two Carnites descended to the first floor. Diomedes and Tak still struggled to free the portcullis mechanism, which seemed to be rusted in place. “Get that thing working. The Mhoul soldiers are here,” Morgan said, glancing through the door.
“We’re trying, it’s stuck,” Tak said as he wrenched on the wheel.
“Accumulated deposits of oxidation have encrusted the apparatus. It appears to be irrefrangible,” Diomedes explained.
“I know it’s rusty. Get it working!” Morgan ordered. He looked out the door again, then strode to the wheel and gave it a powerful kick. Large chunks of rust came loose as Tak backed away to avoid injury.
“Don’t be overly festinate! I possess a possible application that will resolve the situation,” Diomedes cried. The scholar fumbled through his robe and brought out a vial of oily substance, which he smeared on the reluctant metal.
“What is that?” Tak asked.
“Topical lubricant. For the dessicated epidermis of my glabrous pate,” Diomedes answered.
“What?” Tak asked.
Morgan watched impatiently. “Skin lotion. For his head.”
“Oh,” Tak said, trying not to laugh.
“Lor, stand ready to close and bar the door,” Morgan said.
The Carnite jumped to obey and waited by the door. Nervously, he peered outside. Beyond the towers, a second group of Rangers appeared. There were six men this time. At the sight of their fallen comrades, they turned and retreated into the fog. To conserve their precious arrows, the Ha’ashtari let them go.
CHAPTER THREE
Ape Keep
In the forest below Ape Keep, a Harrier named Kreeg approached an ornate tent erected in the center of a large encampment. On either side of the entrance stood huge, muscular men with indigo skin and green scale armor. The guards held halberds and scimitars hung at their waists. Called Ssingard, they were recruited from the strongest of the Ogon, an island race enslaved by the goblins. Silent in their reptilian helms, the Ssingard regarded Kreeg without expression and let him pass. The Harrier removed his heavy gloves and pushed through the brocaded curtains at the doorway. Inside, he kicked off his boots and grimaced slightly as mud dropped on the elaborate rug. He set the boots to one side of the entry and unbuckled his sword-belt. Kreeg laid his weapons gently on the silken covering of a table near the door, trying not to let the metal make any sound. He moved quietly to a delicate gong placed near the inner doorway. Kreeg hesitated a moment and gazed at the cloth barrier between him and the next room. An oil lamp on the table threw flickering shadows across the heavy drapery. The Harrier took a deep breath and resolutely tapped the brass disc. Before the chiming signal faded completely, the curtain parted as a white-robed Attendant appeared before him. Kreeg suppressed a shudder at the man’s vacant eyes and the black jewel imbedded in his forehead. He could also see the fine tracery of surgical scars on the Attendant’s forehead and temples. Kreeg spoke softly. “I would see Ssardon.” The Attendant tilted his head slightly, the lamplight reflecting from his shaven skull. Then he glided backwards, leaving the Harrier alone.
Kreeg stood tensely before the curtained doorway, thinking of the intricate protocols demanded by the goblins: no weapons in their presence, no sudden movements, loud noises, or shoes. He could already smell the ever-present incense and feel the humid warmth leaking from the next room. The cold-blooded goblins found even the heat of Aijalon’s forest cool for their tastes and kept their tents stifling. A muscle played along Kreeg’s jaw as he remembered the circumstances of his recent promotion to a Commander in the Mhoul army. His predecessor had made some subtle error, crossed some invisible line, and paid the ultimate price for his indiscretion. After his last visit to this tent, the former Commander had died slowly and painfully from some strange poison. No one outside this tent knew how the drug had been administered. Perhaps an Assassin, or one of the Attendants, had been the executioner. Even before the man’s body was cold, Kreeg had received the scroll announcing his new rank, a somewhat dubious honor that brought him closer to the inscrutable goblins. Great rewards lay in their service, but also a delicate, shifting line between favor and fatal error.
For one hundred fifty-seven years, from childhood training in Purgatory to his adult campaigns, Kreeg had served the Triad’s clever and ruthless generals. Even so, he still did not fully understand the subtleties of the arcane philosophy that motivated the Ssin—the Ascension of Self. He knew that each goblin believed itself to be host to an avatar, a godlike being that inhabited its body when first hatched in the Ophion Fen. According to the Ascension religion, the purpose of life was to raise the avatar to the highest possible plane of power and honor. If a goblin failed in this purpose or otherwise suffered dishonor, it would often commit ritual suicide and release the avatar to seek a more suitable host. The goblins considered other races inferior, unworthy to host an avatar, and mercilessly disposed of any obstacle to their Ascension.
Kreeg sighed, fighting a premonition that his term in office would be brief. After all, he had no good news to report. He wished for a simple guard post with some obscure garrison. An immaculate hand slid through the curtain before him and gestured. Kreeg squared his shoulders and stepped through the opening. The inner chamber was dimly lit and clouds of incense further obscured his vision while the heavy scents burned his nose. He resisted the impulse to look around, took three steps forward, and prostrated himself on the braided rug. Kreeg waited motionless with the patterns on the rug a finger’s breadth from his eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, a sibilant whisper came from the shadows. “Rise and speak, Commander,” the voice said.
An old wound pinching in his side, Kreeg rose slowly. He stood in a rectangular chamber lit by oil lamps, the far end shrouded in a dim haze. The Attendant that had greeted him stood beside the entry with his hands hidden in loose sleeves. Kreeg turned his attention to the darkness before him where he knew the goblin waited. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out a bloated form half-buried in pillows that reclined on a raised dais. An incense brazier on either side of the dais emitted greenish-yellow vapors that wafted into the gloom. The Commander saw two other figures in the far corners of the chamber. The oppressive heat and humidity raised a sheen of sweat on the Harrier’s skin.
The goblin Ssardon studied the man before him. Kreeg bore the lean weathered look of all Harriers, but he refused to wear the garish colors displayed by his strutting brethren. Instead he preferred a simple uniform of black and brown with no cape and a plain helmet. The goblin could not decide if this odd trait was a strength or a weakness. It indicated an uncharacteristic humility and practicality, but the other Harriers often resented the break with tradition. Ssardon decided to let Kreeg’s accomplishments provide the answer. It was beneath him to ponder a servant’s choice of attire. “Speak. I grow no younger,” the goblin said, raising its voice slightly.
“Pardon, Master Ssardon. I meant no disrespect,” Kreeg said.
The goblin raised a taloned hand. “Your report, Commander.”
“The westerners began their ascent of the mountain, but turned aside. I’m guessing they somehow detected the ambush. The fog hid their retreat, and they lost the trollhound briefly at a junction in the trail. They made it to a ruined keep before the hound found them again. We are now preparing to engage them,” Kreeg said.
Ssardon leaned forward slightly and sucked on the stem of an elaborate smoking device that stood beside the dais. Kreeg had heard that drugs in the smoke enhanced the goblin’s mental abilities. When Ssardon exhaled, the plume mixed with the cloud of incense. “Unfortunate. How many soldiers will it cost to dislodge them?” the goblin asked.
Kreeg shifted his weight, trying to relieve a cramp in his calf. He saw no point in shading the hard facts. “The cost will be high. The Ha’ashtari are fierce warriors, who give or ask no quarter, and the soldiers from Carnac are well-trained. Morgan Caeda and Maximilian were Raav mercenaries. Thraen women fight beside their men, and the Centaurs’ scholar may provide them with some trickery. The keep is old but well-designed and serviceable.”
The goblin drew heavily on the pipe and then spoke. “Morgan and Maximilian were not just Raavs but Commanders of the Seventh and Eighth Legions. I was at Droghelda when Tchoga fell and the Raavs destroyed the Nest. Yes, I am well aware of their abilities.” The goblin smiled, a chilling sight, with the pointed teeth white against the emerald skin. “As are you, Commander. Tell me again what happened to the contingents Molid ordered into the Waste to retrieve the Princess of Skara Thrae and the Raavs.”
Kreeg’s expression hardened. “As you know, all of the troops sent for the Princess were killed in the Nageff. We have yet to receive a report from those dispatched to the pass.”
“Obviously they failed, because the Raavs are here,” Ssardon observed.
“As I said, the cost will be high,” Kreeg repeated.
The goblin puffed on the pipe and a flame flared up to cast a brief glow. Kreeg caught a glimpse of a heavy, jowled face, framed by large pointed ears, and cat-like eyes nearly buried in rolls of fat. “Direct and bold. How refreshing,” Ssardon whispered.
A flash of light on a metal plate covering the goblin’s left temple was answered by a flare from the darkness behind the dais. An Attendant stepped into view, the glow dying in the jewel on his forehead. As the man misted Ssardon’s face with a spray bottle, the water beaded on the fine scales of the jade skin. Kreeg knew that the Attendants were mere extensions of the goblins’ minds with no will of their own.
“Have the bodies been retrieved?” Ssardon continued.
“Those who fell in the Nageff have been recovered for rebirth,” Kreeg assured the goblin.
“And the others?” the goblin asked. “Those from the pass?”
“I sent a squad to determine their status,” Kreeg said, his jaw tightening.
“Good,” Ssardon said. “We cannot afford to waste raw materials.”
The goblin inhaled another lungful of narcotic vapors. “You will capture the Princess and the two Raavs without serious harm. The Dirgelord Molid has need of them, but the others are nothing. You may avail yourself of the gargoyle flock, but use them wisely. Keep in mind their limited intelligence. Go now, and keep me informed,” Ssardon ordered. Kreeg bowed and backed from the room, as the Attendant by the exit swept aside the curtain.
“Commander, one more thing,” Ssardon said. Kreeg stopped and despite the heat, he felt a sudden chill. “Your predecessor displeased me. Attempting to curry favor he did not deserve, he became a stumbling block on the path to Ascension. Remain a simple warrior, honest and unassuming. Do not aspire beyond your station,” the goblin advised. The Commander took another stride but halted as the goblin spoke again. “I almost forgot,” Ssardon said, and then paused. Kreeg waited silently, his fists clenched. “It seems you have a rival in your command. I will be observing how you deal with him,” the goblin said enigmatically.
Kreeg completed his exit as the curtain dropped into place. He quickly gathered his weapons, stepped into his boots, and shoved through the outer tent-flap. He looked gratefully at the sky as his sweat cooled in the morning air. Buckling on his sword-belt, Kreeg strode down the hill to the main camp. The cold eyes of the Ssingard tracked the Commander’s departure.
Inside the tent, Ssardon now sat alone. Before they were dismissed, one of the Attendants had brought in a crystal skull and placed it on the dais beside the goblin. Laying aside the pipe, Ssardon leaned toward the device. One thick hand moved over the glassy pate and black nails clicked on the beveled surface. At the goblin’s touch, the skull began to thrum. Then blades of emerald light lanced from the eyeholes. The beams merged into a curtain of light that soon held the visage of a Mhoul. “Pardon the intrusion, Harag. I need to borrow one of your weapons,” Ssardon said.
The Mhoul’s image shifted as it moved closer. A rith wobbled on its shoulder, the eyestalk arching toward the goblin. “Have you taken the westerners?”
“Your infallible trollhound lost them, and they are now lodged in some ancient fort. I desire your assistance in dislodging them,” Ssardon said.
“They should have been captured before reaching Aijalon. Were you not ordered to intercept them?” Harag asked.
“Yes, but as I predicted, that plan failed. All of those sent to meet the Princess were killed and we have no reports from the party sent after the Raavs. Morgan and Maximilian are here, so I assume those troops are dead as well. Molid risked a war with the Ha’ashtari without a solid strategic reason,” Ssardon said.
“Are you questioning the Dirgelord’s commands?” Harag rasped.
“Merely suggesting that military planning is not Molid’s strength,” Ssardon replied. “Which is why the Triad Alliance reserved such matters for the Ssin.”
“Then you should have accompanied the soldiers into the Waste. I hold you responsible for their loss,” Harag said.
Ssardon reached for the pipe and took a lungful. “You know the Ssin prefer the warmer climes. We find the highlands distasteful.”
“I am well aware of your limitations,” Harag said.
“As I am of yours,” Ssardon said.
“Where is Morgan now?” Harag demanded.
“The trollhound tracked the Raavs to Dragonback, where I had prepared an ambush, but they evaded the trap,” Ssardon said.
“How did you know they would go to Dragonback?” Harag asked.
“There is a Gate on the summit of Dragonback. Why else would the Monachus send their man to this area?” Ssardon said.
“With the keystone lost, the Gate has not functioned for centuries. Why would Khulankor bother with it now?” the Mhoul asked.
“The Raavs were inside an Empire cache. Perhaps they have the keystone and are seeking to repair the Gate,” the goblin said.
“You have battalions of Immortals and Harriers, a Three of trolls, and a swarm of gargoyles. All to capture a small band of westerners. What else could you possibly need?” Harag asked.
“A small band that includes two former Raav Commanders, the same pair who brought down Tchoga. As you may recall, they recently killed Molid’s troll bodyguard, sank the Mhoul flagship, and nearly captured the Dirgelord. Now they are in league with Ha’ashtari and the Carnites,” Ssardon said.
“You know many things you should not,” the Mhoul said. “Where did you learn about the Empire cache and Molid’s misfortunes?”
“Please, Harag. Do not attempt to interrogate me. It is a waste of our precious time,” the goblin retorted. “Now, about my request.”
“What do you want?” Harag asked.
“A portable sound-cannon,” Ssardon said. “As soon as possible.”
“We have few working units left. You know how fragile they are. I will not allow one to be dragged through the forest because of your incompetence,” Harag said.
The goblin’s eyes glittered. “Very well, Harag. I will keep you informed of our progress.”
“Do that. And bring in the westerners without further delay. Molid grows impatient. The Dirgelord will be waiting at Ragoulgard,” the Mhoul said.
The skull darkened, but the goblin continued to stare at its shiny surface. “Arrogant fool,” Ssardon muttered, drawing on the pipe. “You will regret this.” An Attendant, summoned by the device implanted in the goblin’s skull, stepped from behind a curtain. “I have another message for Commander Kreeg,” Ssardon hissed.
**
In the valley of the ancient keep, a keening sound came from the drifting fogbank. “What’s that?” Lor asked.
Morgan peered into the fog and frowned. “Command pipes. That’s how the officers control large groups of Immortals on the battlefield.” Morgan regarded the three Carnites. “What do you know of Mhoul military tactics?”
Rees shrugged. “Not much. No one has attacked Carnac in a thousand years.”
“The goblins have organized their troops into squads, brigades, battalions, regiments, and phalanxes. Six soldiers form a squad, a brigade is ten squads, and a battalion is four brigades. A regiment is one thousand troops, and a phalanx is six thousand,” Morgan explained. “The Immortals will come first and then they’ll send in the Harriers to finish the job.”
