The Golden Goblin

A Spellmonger Novel

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © 2025

Dedicated to the memory of Seth Wayland Masse and Anita Tyndell Massey. 

Neither one of them was a stranger to a hell ride.  Or of darkness.

A Note About Maps

Most fantasy books come complete with a map to assist the reader with details and orient them in the world.  In general, I approve of this custom and endorse it.  In this case, I have foregone the map because its inclusion would spoil certain parts of the story for the reader.  But if you simply need to know where you are during the story, you may consult the map on the Spellmonger Wiki concerning northern Alshar, the area known commonly as the Penumbra:

https://spellmonger.fandom.com/wiki/Penumbra?file=Penumbra.png

Also, if you have questions for the author, you may always email me at tmancour@gmail.com. 

Contents

Prologue

The Promise

The Prediction

The Beast

The Informant

The Merchant

The Chieftain

The Lonesome Stone

The Hall Of The Goblin King

The Broken Knight

The Road To Darkness

The Religious Debate

The Magistrate

The Question

The Prophecy

The Outpost

The Warlock

The Luncheon At The Edge Of The World

The Maw In The Mountain

The Fortuity of Darkness

The Glacier

The Magnificence of Lemons

The Slide Into Secrets

The Sorceress’ Secret

The Gorod Alon

The Clown

The Old Man Of The Mountains

The Rite of Transformation

The Reckoning

The Dance in the Darkness

The Worst of Plans

The Darkened Grove

The Breeding Pits

The Birthing Maggot

The Flight From Darkness

Epilogue

Prologue

“Lilastien is missing,” Minalan informed them, quietly and somberly, as he took a seat in the padded bench in front of the fireplace.  There was something different about him, his former apprentices noted, as they took seats opposite.  The Spellmonger looked unusually tan for being in the middle of the Castali winter, and his close-cropped hair and tightly trimmed beard was at odds with the generally scruffy appearance he usually affected.  Especially at Yule.  But the seriousness of his tone and the look in his eyes told the boys that this was not the time for idle questions. 

“Missing?  How?” Rondal asked, at once. 

“We don’t really know,” Minalan admitted with a sigh.  “That is, she was in her workshops at Henga one day, and the next she was gone.  With no trace of where she went.  Or with whom,” he added, ominously, as set down his cup on the table and conjured his pipe. 

“She has been acting erratically since we returned from Anghysbel last year, Master,” Tyndal reminded.  “More erratically, that is.  She’s never been the most stable of our Alka Alon friends.”

“She has, however, been the most loyal,” Rondal pointed out.  “What do you think may have happened to her?”  He shot a glance at his comrade – questioning Lilastien’s sanity was dangerously close to questioning Minalan’s.  He, too, had been acting erratically since that fateful expedition. 

“I really don’t know,” Minalan confessed.  “Her granddaughter Ithalia has tried to find her.  I’ve made a few attempts myself.  She’s not at the Tower of Refuge, Henga Hospital, or any of her usual haunts.  None of the Alka Alon seem to know what happened to her.  But the very fact that she is eluding detection by magic tells me either she doesn’t want to be found . . . or someone is ensuring she cannot be found.  Either answer is disturbing in its implications.”

That much was true.  Lilastien – the Sorceress of Sartha Wood, she was styled by her human friends – had become vital amongst the Spellmonger’s allies for her knowledge, wisdom, and willingness to challenge the Alka Alon Council.  The long-lived race of non-humans often took a patronizing view when it came to their human allies, but Lilastien’s unabashed support of humanity had been a useful counter in the complicated politics between the two species.  To have her absent from those councils put humanity in a weakened position, regardless of the reason.

“You suspect foul play, Master?” Tyndal asked, thoughtfully.

“It is hard not to, considering the enemies she’s accumulated over the course of a thousand years,” Minalan chuckled.  “Lilastien has managed to piss off virtually everyone she’s worked with, at one point or another.  She was imprisoned in internal exile for three centuries because she rebelled against the Council,” he reminded them.  “The Enshadowed renegades hate her, and the Nemovorti see her as a threat.  Any one of them could have taken action against her.”

“Surely the Alka Alon Council wouldn’t—” Rondal began, frowning.

“Don’t let our allies’ friendly nature and gentle words fool you,” Minalan interrupted.  “The Alka Alon Council can be quite bloodthirsty, when they feel they have the need.  When persuasion fails, they are not above using darker means to enforce their policies.  Officially and unofficially.  So I do not rule out the possibility that one of them may have tried to even an old score, or take preventative measures before the Emissary of the High Kings arrives.”

“Do you believe that may have been the cause of this disappearance, Master?” Tyndal asked.

“I don’t see how it couldn’t be,” Rondal agreed.  “This is the first time in centuries that the High Kings have sent someone to oversee the Council.  They’re feeling quite nervous about it.”

“More than nervous, they’re terrified,” Minalan agreed, as he smoked with undisguised pleasure in the act.  “The last time such an emissary was dispatched they lost their king and their ability to act independently.  Indeed, I’ve been told that the Emissary may have recommended Lilastien’s exile in the first place.  He will not be pleased to know the Council has released her.  Much less released her to my care.  I am, after all, merely human,” he chuckled.

“But regardless of which enemies she might have, or if she fled of her own accord, the fact remains that she is vital to my plans, and to the future of the kingdom.  So I need you two to go find her,” he commanded, quietly.

“Us, Master?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “The war is over.  I thought we were retired from that sort of thing, since we got married.  Semi-retired,” he amended.

“You were granted leave,” Minalan conceded.  “And the war is over – for the moment. 

“But your service does not end with an armistice.  Nor mine.  We are still charged with the security and liberty of the kingdom.  As magi, we are the only ones in a position to pay attention to such things, and when we see a problem it is our responsibility as wizards to contend with it before it becomes a much bigger problem.  So as much as it pains me to tear you both away from your adorable brides, it has been six months since you were wed.  The kingdom has need of you once again.  I have need of you.”

The boys were quiet for a few moments, as they contemplated Minalan’s words.  They had both been his apprentices and had served him and his efforts in the struggle against the dark forces in the west that threatened all humanity.  He had taught them the intricacies of Imperial Magic, the classic system that most wizards in the kingdom employed, and seen them through to their final examinations.  Minalan had taught them how to fight as warmagi, how to live as knights magi, and how to comport themselves amongst the mighty, be they dukes, kings, Alka Alon immortals, great wizards, or evil sorcerers.  He had, in part, taught them to be men.  They owed him their loyalty and their service for that. 

“Of course we will do what we can, Master,” Rondal finally agreed, after exchanging glances with Tyndal.  “We value Lilastien, too.  But our wives will not be pleased about it.”

“Neither was mine, when I went back to war,” he nodded, understandingly.  “It is not something I ask lightly.  You two are nearly the only ones who have the knowledge and ability to even undertake this kind of mission.  You both know her, you know magic, you know the Alka Alon, as much as anyone can, and you’ve been able to work independently of authority and direction quite well,” he praised them unexpectedly.  “I really have no better choices.  Gatina and Tandine will just have to understand that.”

“Forgive me, Master, but my wife tends to understand such things with a sword in her hand,” Rondal admitted. 

“She understands the nature of a mission,” Minalan countered.  “This is a matter of duty.  I need you boys,” he emphasized.  “While there are others who are quite capable, in their ways, you two are the only ones with the kind of skills and experience that I can imagine will actually be successful in finding her.  Even if she doesn’t want to be found.  There are better wizards.  There are better warriors.  But none of them, in my estimation, is likely to find her, and then either rescue her or convince her to return to us.  Besides,” he continued, thoughtfully, “the few clues we have indicate she may have headed west, into the Mindens.”

That revelation took the boys by surprise.  They themselves were born in the foothills of the great mountain range that defined the western frontier of humanity’s lands.  Boval Vale had been a sleepy mountain village with a self-important lord – until it had become the object of the great goblin invasion that had wracked the countryside for nearly a decade.  Now it was called The Black Vale, the center of the enemy’s power, and the surrounding lands were well behind enemy lines.

“The Mindens?” Tyndal asked, surprised.  “What could she possibly want in the Mindens?”

“That’s what I want you to find out,” Minalan directed, pointing at him with his pipestem.  “I set Gareth to investigate Lilastien’s facilities at Henga, the last place she was seen.  He will meet you there to go over his theories, and issue you your funds and equipment for the journey.”

“Why not send him with us?” Rondal asked.  “He’s toughened up a bit, in Anghysbel, and he will be wedded by then.  He could come in handy.”  Gareth was one of the brightest young wizards either of them had met, and a good friend besides.  But he was no warrior.

“I have other plans for Gareth,” Minalan assured them.  “He’s helping me explore the ruins of an old Colonial military outpost in Falas,” he explained.

“Gatina told me about that,” chuckled Rondal.  “It’s been sitting there under that old abbey for centuries, and no one had any idea.  She went to school there,” he reminded his master.

“I know – her father was instrumental in discovering the place.  But Gareth’s familiarity with tekka and the industrial theories of our ancestors is vital to my efforts in recovering some of our lost knowledge. 

“Besides, you two have been married six months, now.  He’s getting married in a week.  If he survives the Kasari marriage rites,” he grinned.  “So it’s just you two, and that’s how I want to keep it.  Quiet,” he emphasized.  “Our uneasy truce with Korbal, and Sheruel’s unexpected return make the political situation fragile enough as it is.  The last thing we need to do right now is provoke either of them with an expedition-in-force so near their lands.”

“Well, yes, we don’t want to irritate the evil dark lords,” Rondal said, sarcastically.  “But if one of them is behind her disappearance?  Either one of them would see her as quite the prize, after all she’s done for us.”

“If the trail leads to Olum Seheri or the Black Vale, then you can call for reinforcements,” Minalan conceded.  “But this is a mission of investigation and reconnaissance, not an excuse to re-start the war.  Please bear that in mind when you’re thinking about doing something stupid.”

“Master, you wound us,” Tyndal said, feigning offense.  “We rarely bother to think about anything before we do something stupid!”

“It just slows us down,” Rondal agreed.  “But we will try to avoid any politically disastrous missteps, if that’s a comfort to you.  When do you want us to go?”

“Gareth will meet you at Henga in three days’ time,” Minalan informed them.  “He’s stopping there on his way to Kasar and the rites.  So you have a few days to prepare for the journey.”

“And explain to our wives why we have to leave them so soon after marrying them,” Rondal sighed. 

“They’ll understand,” Minalan assured them.

“That doesn’t mean they will like it,” Tyndal pointed out, shaking his head.  “Gatina might appreciate how important something like this is, but Tandine knows very little about the politics of the kingdom the way Kitten does.  She is apt to take the news poorly.”

“Give her a job,” Minalan suggested.  “An important one, something she can complete in your absence.  I do that sort of thing with Alya all the time.  It keeps them from spending too much time worrying, and gives them an excuse to curse your name in good conscience, while you’re gone. 

“There’s some wisdom in that,” Tyndal agreed, thoughtfully. 

“That’s what I do,” Minalan said, smugly.  “But if you fellows could see to this affair – quietly, discreetly – in my absence, it would help me focus my attention on my own mission.”

“The ruins?” Rondal asked, skeptically.  “Or do you mean Farise?”

Minalan gave him a stern look.  “The two are not incompatible, as I have discovered.  But do please stay all mention of Farise from your lips, for the foreseeable future.  As far as anyone is concerned, the Spellmonger is entirely focused on the ruins in Falas and utterly preoccupied with discovering the secrets of the Ancients.”

“Understood, Master,” Tyndal nodded, firmly.  “I take it things are moving along, then.” 

It was no secret that Minalan had designs on the chaotic subtropical city-state at the end of a nearly impassable peninsula; there was a contest between him and Prince Tavard for who could retake the rebellious province and expel the pirates who used it as a base for raiding the commerce of the kingdom.  But his former apprentices knew how reluctant their master was to return to the fabled land for any reason.  He’d been part of the invasion force and army of occupation that had finally conquered the place, and he remained resentful about his conscription.

“They’re . . . moving,” he conceded, reluctantly.  “But it takes time to unravel a chaotic place like that.  There are many forces at play, and I haven’t even discovered them all yet.  I need to move slowly, right now, if I am to have any success.  I have a small undercover presence there, now, and I am cultivating sources of information, but it is still very early in the process.  Any disturbance in the political landscape could ruin what progress I’ve made.  Hence the story that I’m chasing old ruins in Alshar and not paying attention to Farise in the slightest.”

“I suppose it beats raising an army or building a fleet,” Rondal agreed.  “Good luck, Master.  Let us know if we can be of help.”

“You can help me best by finding Lilastien,” Minalan answered.  “It disconcerts me that she is missing, and at a very inopportune time.  Things are on the cusp of change, boys.  Again.  Only this time it promises to be even more spectacular than when the kingdom was formed,” he predicted, ominously.  “Thankfully, I know I can trust you to rise to the challenge.  That is, indeed, a comfort.”

“That is what we do,” Tyndal said, giving his old master a token bow.  “When we’re not knocking things over or saying something stupid.”

“We are honored to be of service to you, once again,” Rondal agreed.

Minalan looked at them both thoughtfully for a few moments.  “I hope you remember that, on your journey.  Something tells me it’s going to be a dark one.”

Chapter One

The Promise

I never thought departing from home on a mission or adventure would be so difficult; perhaps because I’ve never really thought of anyplace in particular as my home, as much as a place I was staying.  But having a wife has taught me the meaning of the word in ways I never suspected.  Home is what you miss when you are away, and what you leave to desperately protect.  It is not a matter of duty, it is a matter of self-preservation.  I find some humility in that realization.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

Tyndal elected to return his bride home after the celebration in Sevendor by means of the Ways, as he had installed a Waystone in Calliard Castle.  He was decadently proud that he could travel from Sevendor directly to the comfort of his own bed without braving the icy chill of winter.  It was one of the many things that made him proud to be a wizard.

His bride of six months was still growing used to the convenience of magic in her daily life.  Tandine was even more suspicious of the art than the typical Wilderlord.  The  domain where she grew up existed in one of the few places on Callidore where magic did not work.  There, a journey across hundreds of miles was measured in months, not moments.  The magelights that appeared automatically overhead as they emerged from the Ways were likewise a novelty, as was the pocket of warm air around the spellpost that kept most of the cold away. 

“That was a lovely Yule,” she sighed, as Tyndal took her heavy woolen cloak from her shoulders and handed it to the guard on duty.  “Sevendor is the grandest castle in the kingdom, I’d wager.”

“The Spellmonger has a way of being extravagant,” Tyndal agreed with a chuckle.  “You should have seen the place when we first arrived there.  It was a poor, depopulated, miserable place.”

“Like Anferny?” she asked sharply, an eyebrow raised.  The subject of her homeland was a touchy one, Tyndal knew.  Tandine was very self-conscious about how different and even backwards her people were, compared to the sophistication of the rest of the kingdom.  Tyndal had learned that quickly in their marriage.

“Anferny was a quaint, prosperous resort, compared to the squalid conditions in Sevendor,” Tyndal assured her.  “Administered by the duchy, a drunken and corrupt tenant lord, preyed on by local warlords, neglected for a century . . . it was a mess when we got there.  But it gave us something to work with.  Ron and I spent most of that first year just trying to keep a watchtower from falling down.  When I see it now, it amazes me how much it’s grown in just ten years.  I’ve tried to duplicate that success here in Callierd.”

“I think I prefer Callierd,” Tandine admitted, as she let her husband escort her through the Great Hall.  The fire was still blazing on the great stone hearth, surrounded by the castle staff and retainers who had lingered late into the evening to celebrate the solstice. 

“I think I do, too,” Tyndal grinned as he took a moment to regard the scene before making their presence known.

He was proud of what he saw.  Callierd Castle had been a ruin, when he came here a few years ago.  Now it was restored, expanded, and refined with magic to make it sturdy, defensible and comfortable.  He’d brought in Karshak masons and Malkas craftsman, employing a liberal amount of arcane construction techniques when he’d re-built the towers, halls, and domestic range of the old Wilderlord fortress.  While there were still years of work to be done on the place, the core of the castle was the home to nearly two hundred, now.  He reflected on that as they greeted their vassals in the Great Hall before retiring.

It was the people Tyndal was most proud of, however.  Among them were seasoned warmagi and knights magi, the heart of the cavalry force he was building, along with a score of Wilderlord sergeants and men-at-arms who acted as his garrison.  There were several dedicated magi who had taken up residence at Callierd in Tyndal’s service, acting as administrators and field wizards to sustain his fledgling realm.  There were more than a handful of Kasari rangers and retainers who brought their own unique customs to Callierd. 

And then there were Tandine’s people, the Anfernites who had arrived in Callierd as penniless refugees.  Their homeland was being ruined by a volcanic eruption that would have slain them all, had Minalan not discovered that their lives were in danger and warned them.  It had taken a titanic effort to evacuate the tiny little domain in the far north, and many of the Anfernites were bitter about following their lords into exile into a strange land, but their first Yule here seemed to thaw their reserve a bit, he was pleased to see. 

While they still clung to the familiarity of their fellows from the north, Tyndal could see cups being passed between the Callierd wizards and the knights from Anferny in the spirit of the season.  Old Lord Kanlan, propped up on his couch by the fire, even looked jovial instead of worried for a change.  Tandine’s crippled father had been reluctant to take residence with his liege lord and son-in-law, for fear of outstaying his welcome, but Tyndal insisted.  The old Wilderlord deserved a quiet repose, after everything he’d been through.  It was good to see him at ease.

Tyndal glanced at his new bride and smiled, and was pleased to see it returned in splendid fashion.  They were both happy with the development.  Integrating Tandine’s people with his own was not proving easy – there were differences in custom and tradition to be overcome.  But he was used to that sort of thing, after Sevendor.  Minalan had to force the natives to work with the refugees from Boval Vale he resettled there, and then invited scores of wizards to immigrate.  Contending with Callierd’s growing pains seemed easy, in comparison.

“Father looks as if he’s enjoying himself,” Tandine noted, quietly. 

“He deserves it,” Tyndal assured her.  “He brought his people out of danger and across a desert and got them settled here safely.  That was a task equal to fighting any war.  If anyone deserves the comforts of Yule, he does.”

“I worried the entire journey that we’d end up beggars by the roadside,” Tandine confessed, as she put her arm around him.  “I feared the strain of seeing his people dispossessed would break my father.  Yet you welcomed him here as a valued vassal and an old friend,” she said, gratefully.

“I was just trying to impress his beautiful daughter,” Tyndal admitted.  “Still, he’s a valuable asset to the domain.  He’s better at settling disputes than a lawbrother, and he manages to get more done from his chair than most Wilderlords do from horseback.” 

Tandine’s father was crippled from an old injury, a wound that still pained him years after it had healed.  When Tyndal had first met the Lord of Anferny, his every waking moment was agony.  Lilastien’s medical intervention in the Cave of the Ancients had reduced that pain to a tithe of what it was, and permitted him far more mobility – yet he still could not ride a horse, or lead men into battle.  Those were hallmarks of status to Wilderlords.

But there was more to leadership than charging gallantly into battle, Tyndal knew from his own experience.  The measure of a lord’s success was not in how many battles he was victorious in, nor how regal he looked at tournaments and banquets.  It was his ability to encourage and regulate his people to keep the domain running efficiently, smoothly, and prosperously.  In Lord Kanlan’s case, he was able to use a few quiet words or a private lecture to direct someone properly.  And he did it without resorting to insults, profanity, or threats.

“He looks at home, and at ease,” Tandine noted, as someone noted the Viscount and Viscountess of Callierd had arrived home, and a ragged cheer broke out around the fireplace. 

“I recognize the blissful expression a man gets when he’s drinking someone else’s wine,” Tyndal chuckled wryly.  “Shall we have a cup and toast our loyal staff?”

“Just one cup,” Tandine agreed.  “I’m already half-drunk from Sevendor . . . and I don’t feel like sleeping, tonight, Husband.”  She affixed him with a glance that lingered purposefully, and conveyed her meaning without another word.

Tyndal decided to postpone the discussion of his mission with his wife until later.  No need to broach a hard subject when she was feeling amorous.  That just seemed poor strategy.  This was, after all, their first Yule together as husband and wife.  He intended to make it memorable.

Yet by morning light he found himself just as reluctant to discuss the matter.  He waited until the maid had brought them breakfast and the fire was well-stoked to reveal his new mission.  Tandine was less likely to get angry once she’d broken her fast, he’d noted.

“My love, you may have noticed that Ron and I disappeared with Minalan last night,” he began, innocently enough. 

“I figured you’d want to share a cup of cheer with your old master,” she nodded, as she sipped her tea. 

“That was the excuse,” Tyndal agreed.  “But as usual Minalan had a different purpose.  He has asked that Rondal and I undertake a mission on his behalf.”

Tandine stopped, her cup mid-way to her lip, and her entire demeanor changed.  “What?  A mission?  What mission?” she demanded. 

Tyndal sighed.  “Lady Lilastien has gone missing,” he explained.  “She disappeared from her workshops in Henga, and no one can seem to find her.  Minalan is worried something dire might have happened to her.  So he asked Ron and I to find her and bring her back.”

“Why you and Rondal?” Tandine demanded.  “Has he no other agents for this task?”

“Because we’re the best ones to do it,” Tyndal admitted, hesitantly.  “You of all people should appreciate how important Lilastien is,” he reminded her.  “She has accomplished wonders, just in medicine.  But she’s also a powerful Alka Alon Sorceress.  She is an invaluable advisor to Minalan in his dealings with the Alka Alon.  And she knows more about the Colonial period of history than anyone alive,” he pointed out.

Tandine looked troubled.  “I take no issue with her importance, my husband,” she finally said.  “Indeed, I find the lady a font of wisdom and guidance, and understand her value to your former master’s efforts . . . whatever they might be.  What concerns me is that you and Rondal have been selected for this mission.”

“There is no one better suited,” Tyndal assured her, his throat dry.  “Of that my master was clear.”

“Former master,” Tandine emphasized.

“And present liege lord,” Tyndal reminded her.  “He is the Count of the Magelaw.  We are his vassals.”

“To send to war or to garrison his keep, yes,” Tandine argued.  “Hosting him and his household?  Of course.  But to send my husband on some bit of errantry?” she asked, skeptically.

“The Magelaw is not like the Wilderlaw,” Tyndal explained, quietly.  “There, the old feudal order is more or less intact, and the duties of a vassal are clearly defined.  Here, the magelords approach governance differently.  My service to the Count involves more than mere military service.  The nature of my position requires magical service, as well.  I take no pleasure in informing you of this, my lady, but it is my duty.”

“That doesn’t make me like it more,” Tandine said, sourly.  “When do you depart?”

“In a few days,” he sighed, resigned to her mood.  “The sooner started, the sooner done.”

“And where will this journey take you?” she probed.

“I have no idea,” Tyndal admitted.  “We will find out more details when we meet with Gareth, but right now it could find us anyplace.  That’s one reason Minalan is sending us.  Rondal and I have proven ourselves adaptable in the field, and he trusts us to handle this matter effectively, but with discretion.  It is a delicate matter.”

Tandine took a bite of her biscuit, and thought a long time while she chewed.  Tyndal loved watching her chew, for some reason.  Her jawline flexed magnificently, and her natural beauty shone most radiantly when she was least trying to appear attractive.  “So you will be leaving me alone,” she finally said, her voice low. 

“I will be leaving you to rule in my absence,” Tyndal corrected.  “Would that I could take you along, my lady, but that would leave no one behind I trust to defend my lands and my keep.”

“You have plenty of competent men under your command,” she dismissed.

“None of them are my wife,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “When I married you, Callierd became your responsibility, just as your people became mine.  I trust no one to keep it safe and prosperous more than you.  There is still much that needs to be done to get the Anfernites into their new homes and vocations,” he reminded her.  “There are supplies and tools to be ordered, appointments to be made, livestock to be purchased . . .”

“My husband makes it sound so glamorous,” Tandine said, making a face. 

“Get your brother to help,” he encouraged.  “He’s respected by your people and mine.  And it will give him something to do besides pining for Ithalia and writing her bad poetry.”

“His poetry isn’t that bad,” Tandine said with a frown.

“I am unqualified to judge,” Tyndal admitted.  “But if you put him in charge of establishing those three new villages, they might have a chance of breaking ground on their fields this spring in time to get a crop in.  And he’s an excellent judge of horseflesh – use him to secure the stock we’ll need.  Oh, and the abbess of Ishi’s temple requested a meeting to consider improvements to the school – send him there,” he suggested.  “Perhaps a pretty young priestess will distract him from pursuing Ithalia so relentlessly.”

“You think he sets his mark too high?” Tandine asked, amused.  Her brother had fixated on the Alka Alon Emissary during the storied Anghysbel expedition, besotted by her beauty and adventurous spirit.  Despite much counsel towards caution, young Kanset remained enthralled by the woman.  “Is a maiden of the Fair Folk too lofty a goal for a mere Wilderland knight?”

“It’s not a criticism of his quality,” Tyndal objected, “it’s the wisdom of the matter.  The Alka Alon live for centuries – millennia,” he pointed out.  “From their perspective entertaining a liaison with a human is akin to picking up a stray dog you know is going to die in a few years, not establishing a meaningful lifelong relationship.”

“Yet plenty of Tera Alon do,” she reminded him.  Indeed, Vanador and Sevendor were the homes of thousands of Alka Alon who had adopted the larger, human-based forms in their dealings.  While that certainly made commerce and relations between the two races easier for a number of reasons, it also lent itself to encouraging more intimate encounters between the two. 

Sometimes that led to a marriage, like between Sire Ryff and Lady Fallawen.  But usually such liaisons were far more casual in nature, and oft led to regrets on the part of the humans who had been tempted by the Fair Folk’s beautiful forms.

“A fair point,” Tyndal conceded with a sigh.  “That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.  Don’t mistake me, I appreciate a man with ambitions.  But any time you get too close to the Alka Alon, you end up risking a lot,” he warned.

“I don’t think he will be dissuaded,” Tandine predicted.

“I don’t either, but I’m hoping he’ll be distracted,” Tyndal agreed.  “Perhaps if he meets a nice human girl Ishi will get involved and let him avoid a greater heartbreak later.  I like Ithalia, too, but she’s a bit distracted by her missing grandmother.  And that will be the excuse she gives him for her avoiding him.”

“My brother is a patient man,” Tandine countered.  “He does not lightly give up the chase.  Or his heart.  He might take comfort in another woman’s arms out of loneliness, but he will not let a pretty face distract him from his prey.  Nor will discussing my brother’s love life distract me from the fact that my new husband is about to leave me in a strange castle for . . . how long will you be gone?”

“Until Lilastien is found,” Tyndal supplied.  “It could take weeks.  Or months.”

“Months,” she repeated, sadly.  “That is ill news, to a new bride.  You are going off to battle and I cannot go to watch your back.”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to battle,” Tyndal defended.  “This is an investigation, not an invasion.  Minalan made that very clear.  Besides, we may never find her.  Sometimes the Alka Alon can get preoccupied by something and spend a decade just wandering around in contemplation.  Or as long as a century.  If Lilastien wants to stay missing, she has a whole world beyond our kingdom to hide within.”

“But what if she was taken by our foes?” Tandine asked, forebodingly.  She had been enthralled by tales of the great war against the gurvani and their dark masters.  Her natural inclination as a Wilderlord was to take up her sword and fight against the goblin folk and other creatures who threatened the peace and stability of the Wilderlands.  While the war was essentially concluded by the time she came to Callierd, she was still highly suspicious of the defeated enemies lurking in the Mindens to the west.

“Then we will discover that and report it to our master,” Tyndal assured her in a reasonable tone.  “Rondal and I are not so bold as to think we can contend with Sheruel or Korbal on our own.  That would be more insanity than bravery.  We will retreat and report before we consider doing anything like that,” he promised. 

Tandine studied him, a skeptical twist to her lip as she did so.  “If my husband will pardon the candor of his new wife, the stories I’ve heard of your exploits in the past do not suggest you are usually so reserved in your actions.” 

That was a little more polite than snorting “Bullshit!” at him, Tyndal recognized.  Tandine was far more diplomatic with his feelings than he was used to.  Of course, she did not yet know him that well.

“I promise, if we get into trouble we will summon assistance,” he pledged.  “We can communicate by means of our witchstones, and with our Waystones we can conjure whomever we may have need of.  Or escape entirely, at need,” he reminded her.  “Besides, in the past glory in the field was something that I sought because I had little to return to.  Now I do,” he said, firmly, affixing her with a stare.  “There is no power on Callidore that could prevent me from returning home to you.”

“And there is no force that would keep me from seeking you out if you are lost,” Tandine agreed, gravely.  “Not mountains.  Not oceans.  Not the Void, itself.”

“You love me that much?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“I would feel compelled to find you and say ‘I told you so!’ that much,” Tandine corrected, cooly.  “Master Minalan suggested you would settle down and tend to domestic affairs, after we were wed.  I knew the lie the moment he told it,” she accused.  “You are both cut from the same bolt of cloth: reckless.  Impetuous.  Overly-confident.  Bold beyond reason and utterly assured your magic will solve your problems for you, if you try hard enough.”

“It’s worked pretty well so far,” Tyndal mumbled, with a shrug.

“You didn’t have me in your life before now,” Tandine reminded him.  “You had no one prepared to tell you to stand down, to be reasonable, to consider the consequences of your ill-conceived actions.  You had no one to remind you of the benefits of living to a ripe and prosperous dotage.  And you had no one to distract your imagination when you encountered some comely servant girl,” she added, warningly. 

Tyndal blushed.  He had hardly glanced at another woman since he’d met Tandine.  But his years of casual dalliance before he’d gone to Anghysbel had handicapped his reputation for virtue.  Tandine was devoted to him, he knew, but she was also intensely jealous of the idea that his head would be turned by some young maiden.

“Unless Lilastien is hiding out in some brothel, you have little to fear, my wife,” he chuckled, self-consciously.  “Few dungeons or lairs of the Tree Folk come equipped with humani maidens starved for attention and good company.  I can speak from great experience,” he insisted.  “And no maiden could compare with my stunning bride . . . who fights almost as well with a longsword as I do.”

“Better,” Tandine said, automatically.  “Your footwork is sloppy.  And I do trust you, my husband.  I trust your lusty nature, your sense of adventure, and your willingness to rationalize like a woman in the face of temptation,” she pouted.  “I know that a man’s fidelity is oft challenged when far from home and facing danger.”

“Then also trust my sense of honor, my lady,” he sighed.  “Trust my love for you.  And trust that Rondal is not going to let me get away with the slightest bit of fun when we’re on a mission,” he reminded her.  “He’s just awful,” he complained.  “He broods, he worries, he’s always looking for danger threatening us and indulging in the worst sorts of speculation about the outcome.  His morose bride has done little to improve his attitude,” he scowled.

“Lady Gatina is a fine woman, incredibly sensible, and utterly devoted to her lord husband!” Tandine challenged. 

“She’s also devoted to Darkness,” Tyndal pointed out.  “She’s a professional thief.  She’s a spy.  She thinks being chased by Censors or crossing swords with bloodthirsty gangsters is a good evening out.  It has . . . affected his outlook,” he defended.

“Then you will both have time to discuss how you are adjusting to your wives,” Tandine riposted.  “While we sit at home, tending the hearth, not knowing if you are alive or dead.”

“You will have plenty to keep you occupied,” Tyndal interjected.  “I need you to make this castle into our home while I am away.  I have made it into a handsome fortress, but only a wife can make it into a home.”

“You’re trying to distract me from worrying about you with the promise of decorating?  Or merely flattering my femininity?” she asked, aghast.

“It seems to work with other women,” Tyndal grumbled.  “I have open accounts at merchants across Vanador and Sevendor, as well as the Wizard’s Mercantile.  I invite you to make use of them as you see fit.  Turn Callierd Castle into the envy of the Magelaw,” he suggested.  “Be as opulent as you like.  Indulge yourself in your whimsy,” he encouraged.  “When I return, I expect to see the majesty of your femininity marking every corner of this place.  Make the bedchamber luxurious, the Great Hall into our palace, our guest quarters as comfortable as possible, our nursery the envy of every great woman in the kingdom—”

“Nursery?” Tandine gasped, her eyes widening at the mention of the word.  Indeed, Tyndal and Tandine had rarely discussed the possibility of children during their short marriage and even shorter courtship.  It was assumed, naturally, that they would be along in time, as Trygg determined in her divine wisdom.  But the specifics of that timing had not been discussed.  “You mean that . . .” she trailed off, as the implications were becoming clear.

“I mean that it is a lot easier to bring a child into the world when you are prepared for its arrival,” Tyndal nodded, gently.  “When I return, I think that is a matter we should well turn our attention to.”

He knew he was walking into a dangerous realm when he said it.  He was still getting to know Tandine, after all, but she had a reverence for Trygg All Mother and her divine charge that a nun would envy.  Tyndal had no doubt whatsoever that she desired children.  Teasing her with that prospect seemed unfair.

But then he did not want his new bride vexed with him as he began a potentially dangerous mission.  If promising her a child on his return would make her happy, he was more than willing to do so. 

“Why wait?” Tandine asked, suddenly standing.  “You will be gone for weeks.  Months,” she repeated, as she began to slip out of her housedress and let it crumble to the floor.  “Indeed, you may never return.  Or I might catch the eye of a handsome stableboy.  Best we not tempt Trygg to play games with our progeny,” she counselled, as she released her hair from the combs that pinned it.

“I . . . cannot fault my wife’s wisdom,” Tyndal said, swallowing hard.  She really was exceedingly beautiful, her blonde hair and her fair features vying with her piercing eyes for his attention.  “That is, if you are agreeable to the idea of a child.”

“I swore to bear your heirs,” she reminded him, as she took his hand and pulled him out of his chair.  “I supposed I would have plenty of time to do so.  But Minalan has frustrated my attempt to enjoy my husband before I look like a pregnant sow.  So I will indulge him,” she said, her face a mask and her eyes dashing dangerously.  “Indeed, I will fill this world with your brats merely to spite him,” she said, pulling his linen shirt over his head.  She added a kiss almost as an afterthought. 

“I admire my lady’s dutiful spirit,” Tyndal agreed in a daze.  “But Tandine – in all candor – do you truly wish to be a mother?” he asked, hesitantly.

“I might not get another chance,” she reasoned, a mixture of desire and irritation on her face as she removed her shift and stood before him naked.  “Now strip off,” she commanded.  “I want to appreciate you while you still have all your limbs intact.”

Her irritation masked her anxiety, Tyndal realized.  And her sadness.  He found he could not fault her for feeling both, and suddenly he had misgivings about accepting Minalan’s mission.

But the die was already cast, he knew.  Lilastien did need to be found, and there wasn’t anyone better at that sort of thing than he and Rondal.  Usually.

He just wished, for once, that fate had found a more faithful fool to undertake the challenge.  The thought of leaving Tandine at all was painful, and the idea of leaving her for months was appalling.  She was his perfect compliment, in his mind, and breathtakingly beautiful to him as well.  He vowed to himself to resolve this adventure quickly, and hurry back home to his woman as fast as magic could bring him.  And then he resolved to never leave her again.

Their coupling was intense and passionate, and Tyndal was gratified he’d had the foresight to cast privacy enchantments on their bedchamber.  Their combined anxiety about their parting fueled their passions, and Tyndal began losing himself in the animalistic rite.  He could not get enough of her, the smell of her hair, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin against his. 

When they were sated, he dozed in blissful repose for awhile.  The day after Yule saw him with few duties or claims upon his time, and he had established the custom of leaving he and Tandine at peace until he invited the rest of the world to speak with them.

He woke awhile later, finding his bride, still naked, staring out the glazed window his chamber boasted, watching the snow-covered hillsides in the distance.  Only a few inches had managed to accumulate on the landscape so far, but the winds that whipped past the windowpanes promised more. 

Tyndal studied his bride for a moment before alerting her.  She looked very vulnerable to him, precious and winsome, but sullen in her manner.  She was not happy with him, despite his attempt.  He could almost feel her contemplating the future in her mind as she watched the flurries speed by.

“It’s pretty,” he encouraged, as he placed her robe over her shoulders.  “But it’s cold.”

“It suits my mood,” she confessed, accepting a kiss from him.  “I do not want you to go.”

“I don’t really want to go,” he agreed.

“But you must,” she affirmed.  “But I don’t want you to.”

“But I must.  I need you to be strong for me while I do.”

“I will,” she promised.  “My people are good at that.  We make strong women, to look after our strong men.  I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to be that strong for a while.  Now I have to rise to that challenge in the darkest part of the year.”

“It’s just a few months,” he reminded her, with another kiss.  “In a few months it will be spring, again.  The sun will be back on a more reasonable schedule.”

“It’s been a hard winter already,” Tandine said, her eyes beginning to weep, “and it has just started.” 

Chapter Two

The Prediction

Of the many wise things my wife has taught me, keeping a heist journal is among the most useful, I’ve found.  Though I am not a thief by nature, my unlikely profession has made keeping a record of my missions entirely useful for reference, reflection, and accountability.  Even Tyn has managed to learn this, which is quite shocking.  He used to not understand that you could read without actually saying the words aloud.  He has come a long way.  He still moves his lips when he reads, though, which I find highly annoying.

From the personal journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

“Last night was lovely!” Gatina sighed, as she stretched in the morning light.  “But this place is a dump,” she continued, looking around the small chamber Rondal had claimed as his bedroom at the Rat Trap. 

“We could have stayed at the castle,” Rondal pointed out.  “They had plenty of room.”

“I know, but there are so many people there,” his wife complained.  “I didn’t want to embarrass you with all those noises you make,” she teased.  “I don’t mind spending the longest night of the year with you in a safe house, but I think next Yule we should aspire for better accommodations,” she suggested. “This place is mediocre even as a safe house.”

“It wasn’t built with luxury in mind,” Rondal protested, with a smile.  “Tyndal and I were just trying to move out of the old castle.  It keeps the rain off,” he pointed out, as he sat up in bed.  “Besides, the lads like to use it.  Ruderal, and now Laresk.  I suppose it’s a kind of legacy for the Spellmonger’s apprentices.”

“I see Dara has the good sense to avoid the place, poor thing,” Gatina said, wrinkling her nose as she snatched a comb off the table and began running it through her pure white hair.  “Did you see how battered she looked, last night?”

“That’s what she gets for chasing undead through the woods,” Rondal shrugged.  “Besides, Dara rarely visited because Gareth is a part-owner.  He and Nattia still stay here on the rare occasions they come to town.  You really think we should sell this place?” he asked, suddenly concerned.  “I have a lot of good memories of it.  With you,” he reminded her. 

“You are such a gloriously sentimental boy!” Gatina sighed.  “It’s just an idea.  We could put a proper mansion here, right in the middle of Sevendor.  Right next to the Chapterhouse.  Something with a spire, of course.  But someplace comfortable to stay when we’re here, without the inconvenience of bothering friends or staying at an inn.  It just seems a waste to have such a lovely view and have to see it from . . . this,” she said, gesturing around.

Rondal could appreciate her point.  The Rat Trap had been hastily constructed with a lot of primitive enchantment and not a small amount of day labor.  They hadn’t hired a proper builder, and most of the ramshackle house was made out of whatever materials they were able to scrounge without a clear plan – or even concept – of what the final result was like.  Where structural issues had been a problem, they’d simply enhanced the construction with magic.  Nor was aesthetics a consideration.  Nor comfort.  Thankfully, that sort of decision was not up to him. 

“I’ll talk to Tyndal about it,” he agreed, reluctantly.  Then he remembered the previous night’s conversation with Minalan.  “We’ll apparently have plenty of time to discuss it, too.  Master Min handed us a mission, last night.”

“A mission?” Gatina asked, intrigued.  “What, this time?”

“Lilastien is missing, and we need to find her,” he sighed.  He wasn’t anticipating the work that would involve.  “She just vanished from Henga, and no one knows where she is.  Not even Ithalia.  Minalan is worried, so he brought us in to find her.”

“Do you suspect Korbal?” Gatina asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Always.  But he’s not the most likely culprit.  Lilastien is very important to us, but the Nemovorti don’t care much about another Versaroti sorceress, more or less.  I think they’d go after one of the Alka Alon Council before they would try to kidnap her.  The Enshadowed are another story,” he continued, as he pulled on his tunic from the night before.  “Many of them would see the utility of kidnapping her.  It would be a subtle but powerful attack on us.  But I also think they’d be more likely to go after Azar, or Terleman, or even Minalan.  Perhaps the Emissaries.  But Lilastien?  That’s not particularly likely.

“In fact, it’s more likely she left on her own, and is just hiding out someplace,” Rondal continued, as he searched the floor for his hastily discarded hose.  “She’s been in a sorry state since she and Minalan returned from Anghysbel.  Voices,” he reminded her.  “She looked like five hells at the last Council meeting.  She might just have wandered off.  Either way, Tyndal and I need to go find her.”

“That’s terribly inconvenient,” Gatina sighed.  “I was hoping for an extended holiday at a beach, somewhere in Remere, perhaps.  It’s too cold here and the weather in Falas is awful, this time of year.  Rain,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“A beach sounds lovely,” Rondal agreed.  “But this is a pressing matter, I’m afraid.  I don’t know how long it will take.  But I will keep you appraised of our progress, and the first opportunity we have we will steal away to a beach.”

“Maybe . . . Farise,” she suggested, shyly, giving Rondal a knowing look.  “That’s where Minalan has been, you know.”

“Farise?” Rondal asked in surprise.  “I thought he was at Palomar, exploring the ancient ruins under the abbey.”

“That’s what’s convinced me he’s actually in Farise,” Gatina revealed.  “For one thing, he’s far too tanned to have been underground for any length of time, and Falas is cloudy and rainy in the winter.  Farise isn’t.  Nor has he been frequenting any of the taverns in Ejecta,” she related.  “I still have contacts there – Cat and I went to school at Palomar.

“And that’s the other thing,” she continued, as she combed her hair.  “He’s recruited Cat, for some reason.  Not just Cat, but my cousin Jordi.  The mariner,” she reminded him.

“I like Jordi,” Rondal nodded absently, as he began to wash his face in the basin. 

“The only reason Minalan would need both of them is Farise,” Gatina concluded.  “Which begs the question of why he didn’t invite you and Tyndal to help.  Or me,” she added, sounding offended.

“There might be something to that,” Rondal admitted, as he dried his face with a towel that was in dire need of laundering.  “But if he needed us to help, he would have asked us.  Indeed, he did ask us – just with Lilastien.  But he could actually be working on Farise,” he nodded. 

“He’s sneaky like that,” Gatina praised, putting down the comb.  “And now I’m very curious,” she added.

“If Minalan wanted you to know about it, he would have told you about it,” Rondal suggested.  “Or me, for that matter.  Secrets are secret for a reason.”

“Of course.  Still, if he is actually going to conquer Farise, I hear they have miles and miles of the most pristine beaches.  Since my new husband is leaving me to fend for myself, I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to venture down there, take a look around, and see what the Spellmonger is up to.”

“I would advise against it,” Rondal said, diplomatically.  “If Cat is already there, you might interfere with his work.  I don’t have to leave for a bit, so we could go back to Oirghort for a few days,” he proposed. 

Gatina made a face.  “That sounds so boring.  Perhaps I’ll just go steal something,” she proposed.

Rondal groaned.  That had been a frequent refrain from his first few blissful months of marriage.  It was as if Gatina was constantly trying to prove herself to him, usually by suggesting some impressive bit of larceny that only she could accomplish.  It was not an idle threat, of course, but she usually only proposed it when she was bored and wanting his attention.

“I would suggest you stand by and prepare yourself for . . . whatever is going to happen,” he said, instead of rising to the bait.  “If Minalan is in Farise, and if Tyndal and I find ourselves in Sheruel’s dungeons or Korbal’s privy or any place else dark and dangerous, we might well require your assistance.  That will be hard to do if you’re planning a heist.  For something you don’t want and don’t need.”

“You just want me to . . . to stay home?” she asked, her mouth agape in shock. 

“You can read,” he offered.  “Or practice swordplay.  Work on a new alias, or check in with the Duchess and see if there’s any spying that needs to be done.  Buy some new dresses, perhaps, or visit with your parents.”

“I am not the kind of wife who stays meekly at home while her husband goes off and gallantly gets himself killed on an adventure,” she reminded him.  “Indeed, why don’t I go with you?”

Rondal’s heart sank.  The thought of Gatina tagging along with them was not unappealing, but it came with a long list of compromises he’d have to make just because of her presence.  He gave her a long look, her purple eyes staring back sharply, until he finally sighed.

“Look, Kitten, I appreciate you might be bored,” he agreed.  “But if you and Cat were planning on going to Merwyn and stealing the Staff of the Archmage from the duke, I doubt you’d include Tyndal and I in the heist unless you needed something heavy lifted.  That’s your field, and I respect it.  Tromping through the wilderness and getting into fights with unhappy strangers is ours.  Master Min picked the two of us for this mission for a reason.  And he didn’t pick three of us for a reason.  I have to respect his judgement,” he insisted.

His wife looked defiant, but finally wavered and looked away with a groan of frustration.  “I know!  I understand, I suppose.  But I don’t have to like it.  You’re going away on an adventure and leaving me here in the dead of winter.  I just don’t want to be bored.”

It was Rondal’s turn to look at her aghast.  “Bored?  You’re in the hub of the kingdom, now, with portals to all of the regional capitals not more than a few miles away.  You could go anywhere and do anything.  You’re rich, you’re sophisticated, and you have exquisite taste.  Why not take the time to do a little shopping?  See some sights?” he persuaded.

“By myself?” she countered, offended.  “That sort of thing sounds lovely, but not if I don’t have anyone to share it with.  And if I go wandering around by myself that way, I’m likely to steal something just because I know that no one is watching me.”

“Why not head to Vanador, and thence to Callierd, and go see Tandine?” Rondal suggested as he pulled on his doublet.  “You two can commiserate about what scoundrels you married, and then tour the taverns of the town.  I know you like a good tavern,” he pointed out, as his head popped through the neck of the doublet.

“I do,” Gatina conceded.  “That’s not a bad idea.  I do like Tandine,” she admitted, as she pulled her gown back over her shift.  “She’s very impressive . . . for a Narasi Wilderlord.”

“I was actually surprised you got along so well,” Rondal agreed.  “You’re about as different from each other as two women could be.”

“That’s what makes her interesting, I suppose.  She’s very naïve, in a way.  But she’s also very forthright, which I appreciate.  She’s . . . a bit unsophisticated in her appreciation of my family’s business—” she complained. 

“Yes, well, most people object to theft as a matter of moral principal,” Rondal pointed out with a chuckle.  “Especially Wilderlords.  You have to be used to that by now.”

“I am.  And I don’t disagree.  But House Furtius is an exception,” she insisted, proudly.  “Besides, I don’t judge her folk because their ancestors slaughtered a bunch of peasants and conscript soldiers from horseback and toppled .  She should extend me the same courtesy.”

“I think she does,” Rondal suggested.  “She still treats you warmly.  We had a great time on our honeymoon.  You two seemed like sisters, sometimes.  It got Tyndal worried.”

“Good!” Gatina chuckled.  She had an odd relationship with Tyndal, laced with mutual mistrust and a good-natured rivalry.  “The truth is that Tandine is a dear woman, and she’s perfect for Tyndal.  It’s good that she’s unsophisticated.  Wholesome.  An educated woman wouldn’t fall for his brutish ways and folksy Wilderlands charm.”

It was Rondal’s turn to chuckle.  “You did,” he said, self-consciously, as he laced up his doublet. 

“I was impressed by your demeanor and your magical abilities,” Gatina countered.  “And you were cute.  The accent was kind of attractive.  There were extenuating circumstances.”

Rondal looked at her thoughtfully.  “You know, one service I think you could do us all in our absence is to teach Tandine some of what she needs to know about . . . about marrying a magelord,” he suggested.  “Not just about magic, but about the politics and such.  She really has no one else here who can do that, and I think she’s going to need to know a lot if she’s going to contend with being Tyndal’s wife.”

“You really want me to tutor the provincial girl in court manners?” Gatina asked skeptically as she set her hat on her head and adjusted it to a jaunty angle.

“It would be more than that,” Rondal argued.  “She needs to get to know all of the strange fellows that are going to be influencing her life from now on.  The politicl players who could potentially affect her life.  Pentandra and Arborn, and Nattia and Gareth, and Rael the Enchantress, and such.  People she needs to know.  But if you could talk to her about the various court politics, too, I suppose that would be a boon.”

“It’s always wise to understand court politics,” Gatina conceded.  “Perhaps I’ll do that.  Hardly the most challenging of projects, but until something nice comes along to steal I suppose it will do.  Are you ready for breakfast, then?” she asked, with a smile.  “I’m absolutely starving.”

“Let’s start at the bakery, and we’ll work our way down the High Street,” Rondal decided.  “We can spend a good full day here in Sevendor before we head to Vanador.  Then we can spend a good full day there until it’s time for me to leave.”

“Have you told Pentandra, yet?” she asked.

Rondal winced. As the Deputy Court Wizard of Alshar, Pentandra was his superior.  “No, but I will.  She’ll understand.  Thankfully she’s been subjected to Minalan’s wild whims more than anyone else.  And she’ll understand at once when she learns we’re going to search for Lilastien.”

The two of them continued chatting casually as they departed the Rat Trap.  Rondal took a look over his shoulder and gave it a long glance, as if he was seeing it for the very first time – or perhaps the last.  It was, indeed, as ugly a building as Sevendor boasted, and while it enjoyed a number of magical enchantments that made it livable, it was far from luxurious.  Perhaps it was time for a change.

The market was only moderately crowded the day after Yule.  There were still plenty of travelers and visitors, pilgrims and merchants who had come to the City of Magic for the holiday, but it was a far cry from how crowded things were at the Magical Fair in the fall, or the Briga’s Day celebration.  They only had to stand in line for a few chilly moments before they were each served a massive sugar bun, well-seasoned with spices and clustered with nuts, still warm from the ovens.  Rondal paid a nearby vendor for mulled wine to wash it down as they found a bench facing the market square.

They indulged in one of their favorite pastimes: watching the folk in the market as they passed by.  Gatina was fiendishly good about accurately assessing the social status, errand, and probable mood based on the tiniest detail, to the point that it seemed as if she were somehow Talented for the feat, the way Sir Festaran was with estimations.  But it was the product of years of training in observation, not magic, that informed her opinion. 

They’d played the game in odd moments for years, to their mutual enjoyment.  Speaking mind-to-mind was an advantage – some of their speculations were not flattering, if they’d been overheard.  But they were always humorous.  It was one of the ways they’d been able to find to become comfortable with each other over their years of courting. 

“She’s a prostitute,” Gatina stated, flatly, when one particularly pretty girl walked by.

“A whore?  Really?” Rondal asked, amused. 

“Oh, I’ve seen hundreds of them in Falas.  She’s not from here – the Riverlands, I mean – and she has a local stable of regulars, some of whom dote on her,” Gatina pronounced, thoughtfully.  “She’s only twenty-one or twenty-two.  But she’s been doing it for years.”

“She’s actually from Vorone,” Rondal assured her.  “I caught her accent while we were standing in line.”

“That makes sense,” Gatina nodded.  “There are plenty of whores in Vorone.  Here, she can shine.  And she’s prospering,” she noted, critically.  “Not much competition, and she’s clearly doing well for herself with those shoes.  No pimp,” Gatina decided.  “She’s an independent operator.  And she enjoys her work.  She’s devout – Temple of Ishi, no doubt – and she’s feeling secure in her position.”

“I never thought I’d see the day when Sevendor boasted whores.  Full-time whores, that is,” Rondal said, shaking his head.

“Why not?  There’s a large cadre of mostly male wizards working in the bouleuterions, not to mention the usual cadre of merchants and burghers.  Plenty of lonely men with more coin in their purse than sense in their heads.  That’s going to attract a few professional whores.”

“I just never thought I’d see it,” Rondal admitted.  “When we first came to this place, well, the Rat Trap would have been the most glorious building here.  It was a mess.  I’m impressed we’ve come so far, so fast.  We even have whores, now,” he reflected, as the woman slowly sauntered by.

“You also have a wife, now,” Gatina reminded him.  “You can look, but—”

“Kitten, why would I pay a premium for cold peas porridge when I have hot pheasant pie at home?” Rondal interrupted.  “Really, I am more discriminating than that.”

“Be certain your appetite remains so refined when you are off with Sir Haystack,” Gatina said, her light tone belying the concern in her voice.  “I know how you young and lusty knights magi can be when you’re off on errantry.”

“Do you?  Meet a few of them over the years?  Or was it all pirates?” Rondal teased.

Gatina had the grace to blush.  “It was only a few pirates.  And they were very well-behaved.”

“I have no doubt,” Rondal nodded.  “So, do you really think Minalan is going for Farise?” he asked, casually.

“I’m absolutely certain of it.  More importantly, Ismina is certain of it,” Gatina assured.

“Ismina?  The Spellmonger’s spooky daughter?” Rondal asked, skeptically.  Ismina had been caught in a magical accident that had left the whites of her eyes and her teeth a light blue, which disturbed some people.

“She’s wiser than you give her credit for.  And I appreciate the challenge of having a striking appearance,” Gatina said, gesturing to her hair and face.  “She figured it out months ago, and is near bursting not to tell anyone she did.”

“You spoke with Ismina?  When?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Last night at the feast.  She and the other children from the castle were all in their usual group, and as usual she was over to the side, watching everything while she waited for presents to be given.  I chanced a few words.  She nearly said as much that her father was in Farise.  You just have to know how to interpret it.  She’d make a first class spy,” she praised.

“He always said he hated the idea of going back to Farise,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “I thought he’d rather die.  That’s where he lost faith in our feudal leaders.”

“I lost faith in mine when I was nine,” Gatina dismissed.  “But he’s there.  I’m certain of it. And he’s doing something, something so subtle I haven’t heard about it in the Garden Society.  That is concerning.”

“Remember, Minalan is sneaky,” Rondal reminded her.  “But he’s also loyal.  He’s probably doing something he doesn’t want to blow back on the Kingdom or Alshar if it fails.  He protects his friends.”

“He’s ambitious beyond reason, if you ask me,” Gatina said, after a few thoughtful moments of silence.  “Not that I consider that a fault.  He’s accomplished some remarkable things, and he’s very generous with praise, for a feudal lord.  But . . . he’s still Narasi,” she pointed out.

“Hey!  I’m a Narasi!” Rondal objected.

“Exactly.  Both of you are hopelessly naïve when it comes to the nature of politics, and while I think it’s adorable, it’s also . . . short-sighted.  I fear it may prove his undoing.”

“Minalan has been exceeding expectations for more than a decade, now,” Rondal countered.  “I trust him.  The bloody gods are on his side,” he pointed out.

“That doesn’t make him right, it just makes him well-positioned,” Gatina reasoned.  “One thing the Garden Society has mentioned recently is that Merwyn is raising a mighty armada.  To challenge Farise,” she informed him, lightly.  “If that comes to pass, Minalan might find himself at odds with one of the great maritime powers of the world.”

“I’m not worried in the slightest,” Rondal dismissed.  “We’re talking about the Spellmonger, here.  Besides, if he was really worried about that sort of thing he’d call Tyndal and I back into military service.”

“Hasn’t he?” Gatina challenged.  “That’s what I mean.  I cannot pretend to know all he apparently knows, but I find I have ample reason to question his judgement.  Sending you two off into Darkness while he faces a major threat . . . that does not seem reasonable.  Unless he purposefully wants to keep you two from Farise,” she considered.  “That might be the case.”

“Your mind is as twisted as a ball of yarn, sometimes,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  His tone wasn’t condemning, but praising.  “Minalan uses the men he has in the places where he finds their talents are best used.  It’s one of his talents,” Rondal argued.  “If I were he, and I was charged with taking over Farise, I would choose . . . Mavone.  Lorcus.  Iyugi.  Your brother,” he emphasized.  “He doesn’t need Azar or Terleman for this, if he wants to avoid a war.”

“You think he wants to avoid a war?  He seems to excel at warfare,” Gatina pointed out, surprised.

“He does,” Rondal agreed.  “That’s why he wants to avoid one.  Particularly in Farise.  He has a history, there.”

“Interesting,” Gatina considered.  “You are very loyal to him.  You’re leaving your wife and going off into Darkness with your surrogate brother for him.”

“Minalan has earned that loyalty,” Rondal said, defensively.  “He fought a war he didn’t enlist in.  He won it,” Rondal said, proudly.  “He changed the way wizards are viewed by the law and the gentry.  He built an alliance with the Alka Alon.  He’s negotiating with the bloody Vundel.  Minalan has earned our loyalty.”

“I understand, my love,” Gatina assured him.  “He’s a great man.  But he uses people.”

“We are no strangers to that,” Rondal agreed, philosophically.  “Your own parents used you as a pawn in a civil war.”

“Which I won,” Gatina reminded her.  “With a little help,” she added.  “My issue is not with his leadership, my love, it is with your blind willingness to follow him.  I knew my parents were using me . . . mostly . . . but I understood why.  We had a tyrant to overthrow.  But Minalan’s aims?  They are a mystery.”

“He wants to save the world,” Rondal explained, after a moment’s thought.  “He wants to make it better.  He wants to alleviate suffering and improve the estate of all men.”

“Noble goals,” Gatina observed.  “I cannot fault them.  But at what cost, my husband?  That is what a good wife must consider.”

Rondal was quiet for a while . . . longer than was comfortable, for most people.  But Gatina was patient, and he wanted to construct his answer with deliberation, not react out of emotion.  “Minalan has done well by Tyndal and I.  I have high station.  Tyndal has rank and position.  We both have incredibly gorgeous wives.  How has he done us any wrong?”

“That is the question,” Gatina replied.  “At what point are you truly your own men?  Or will you be his willing pawns until one of you is dead?” she challenged.

“One might ask the same about your parents,” Rondal riposted.  “They asked everything of you, and you delivered beyond their wildest expectations.  You were the instrument that fulfilled their fondest wish.”

“They are my family,” Gatina reminded him.

“Now, so am I,” Rondal argued.  “And Minalan, for good or ill, is my family in every important way.  As is Tyndal.  We have shed blood together, stood on the edge of ruin together, and seen both victories and defeats in each other’s company.  It has not always been comfortable, or even survivable, but he has always found a way. We have always found a way.  And we always will,” he said with conviction.

“Until you don’t,” Gatina predicted.  “Don’t mistake me, husband, I take no issue with your loyalty.  I take no issue with your association.  But I am concerned that someday, when you are enjoying the comforts you have so justly earned, surrounded by the many, many white-haired children I will force you to sire, this wizard you look up to as both master and father will steal you from me, one last time, and I will never see you again.  That is my fear.”

To that, Rondal had no answer.  He realized Gatina’s point: that the relationship with the Spellmonger that had rewarded him so richly included, perhaps, a definite conclusion.  One that suddenly seemed inevitable.

“Well, dying on a quest to save the world . . . that’s not so bad,” Rondal suggested, gently.  “All men must die, of course, but there is a certain honor in doing so in the service of the entire world.”

Gatina stared at him long after he grew uncomfortable, her violet eyes probing him thoughtfully.  There was fear, there, he saw, but also a quiet contemplation.  She was a difficult creature to understand, he knew from long experience.  She was entirely unlike any other woman he had ever known.  But eventually she spoke.

“That is why I married you, my love,” she finally said.  “As a professional liar and thief, one learns to value the entirely authentic in life.  A lesser man might have told me what I wanted to hear, that you would never leave me and our children to embark on some terminal quest.  But you will not lie to me,” she observed.  “Not since we were wed.  You will tell me the unvarnished truth, and I value that more than gold and jewels.:  She picked up his hand with hers and kissed the back of it.  “Do you have any idea how rare and special that is in this world?"

“I’m . . . just being honest,” Rondal said, confused.

“I know.  And you always will be.  I can count on that.  And it will save me.  It will save us all, one day.  You might use deception as a strategy, but your heart is completely honest in a cynical world.  That’s why you have me,” she decided.  “You need someone cynical and jaded to protect you.  Darkness will protect you,” she promised, adding another kiss to the back of his hand.  “Now, our fast is broken.  Do you want to drag me back to the Rat Trap, or do you want to pay for a room above a tavern?  Because I am feeling incredibly giving, at the moment, but I really don’t feel like walking much.”

Chapter Three

The Beast

I find myself unexpectedly fascinated as I consider the crafts and wonders of our esteemed ancestors, the Ancients.  Their ingenuity and resourcefulness are sublime, and their command of the physical world, absent magic, impresses me more the more I encounter it.  I also find Rondal’s suspicion of it amusing.

From the personal journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

“She left without warning,” Master Icorod began, as they crowded into Lilastien’s office at Henga Hospital.  The old medical wizard was one of Lilastien’s chief human disciples since she’d begun the hospital.  He looked concerned as he relayed the information.  “She took several important things with her, from what we can tell.  I had a meeting with her two days before, and she gave no indication that she was preparing to leave.  She merely inquired about the progress of the medical students and the status of the new alchemy laboratory.”

“Interesting,” Rondal nodded.  “Yet you say she took away some of her equipment?”

“Some of it is missing,” Ithalia, Lilastien’s granddaughter agreed.  She was young, and very pretty in her human-style body, but her face, too, was fixed in concern.  “Her diagnostic pad, her medical bag, all of her important enchantments, and some personal items.  I searched her quarters,” she confessed, guiltily.  “It seems as if she left in a hurry, but in an orderly fashion.”

“There were some records missing, as well,” Gareth mentioned, as he sat in Lilastien’s chair.  The young mage had spearheaded the investigation into her disappearance, and had done his usual thorough job.  “When I examined her office the first time, there were folios missing from that pile,” he said, nodding toward a line of neatly-organized leather bindings containing thick stacks of parchment.  There was, indeed, a gap near the end where it appeared something had been removed. 

“Of course, I have no idea what was in them – what was left seemed fairly standard medical records: case reports, test results, examination records,” Gareth continued.  “And a few special projects concerning medical magic.  So I assume they were similar, somehow.”

“Did you attempt to scry to find out when and where she left?” Tyndal asked, curiously. 

“I tried, but this place is just too busy, and there are too many active thaumaturgic signatures at play,” Gareth said, frowning.  “I’ve narrowed it down to a ten-hour period.  And I believe someone was here – a patient, a visitor, I don’t know who – before she left.  But I don’t know if she left with them, or after they departed.”

“The last person to see her was the head of nursing, Sister Anditha,” Icorod agreed.  “She was getting her to sign the ward log book.  She noticed a satchel by her desk, and Lilastien seemed harried.  But that is not unusual of late,” he admitted, grimly.  “She has been driven by some uncommon power, since she returned from that accursed place in the north.”

That much was true, Tyndal knew.  He’d been on the expedition to distant Anghysbel, and had witnessed the transformation of both Lilastien and Minalan in the strange land without magic – but filled with wonders. 

He knew only vaguely of what had happened to them both.  They had disappeared in the company of a mysterious, beardless dwarf into one of the most treacherous regions of a land filled with dangers.  When they’d emerged, they’d done so with ancient knowledge, he knew . . . but at a terrible price.  The memories of long-dead people filled their minds, some of whom were not human nor Alka Alon, nor even of this world.  But those memories affected them, contending for control of their consciousness and filling their subconscious with memories of lives they’d never lived. 

Minalan had produced incredible wonders, after Anghysbel, there was no argument: the portals, understanding dimensional magic – as well as a mere human could – and a suite of incredibly powerful, wildly intricate enchantments.  They had helped win the war.  They had also driven Minalan half-mad, to the point where his friends and colleagues had conspired to slay him, when they saw the danger in his magical experiments. 

Lilastien had fared little better, he knew.  While she seemed to have a stronger control over the memories, that came at the expense of her sleep.  She had complained of horrific nightmares that had produced an insomnia that had clearly taken a toll on her.  Tyndal was no expert on the Alka Alon, but he had long enough acquaintance with them to understand the importance of sleep, like music, in their culture.  He did not understand the specifics, but he was aware that the dreams of the Fair Folk were vital to them.  Lilastien eschewing sleep had been driving her as mad as Minalan, ancient voices or no.

“It wasn’t so much an accursed place, as a forgotten one,” he observed, thoughtfully.  “Indeed, in the realm of the jevolar curses have no power.  No magic does.  But that attracts its own sort of trouble.  The Alon used it to dump exiles and hide their most sensitive items from discovery there.  The Kasari sent their magically Talented rangers there, to live free from magic.  The Cave of the Ancients is a legacy of our own ancestors, though their motivations were perhaps purer.  And there are older things there, darker things, long forgotten by accident or design.”

“She was impetuous and scheming long before she went to Anghysbel,” Ithalia reminded him, shaking her head.  “She is called Rebel by the Council for good reason.”

“I think she had some sort of plan,” Gareth proposed, as he picked up a leaf of parchment from the desk.  “I looked through what few notes she left behind, and found a few that were . . . inscrutable.  She apparently preferred to make notes in Old High Perwynese, not Narasi.  Only the most educated scholars would understand most of what she wrote.  And she was quite eccentric in her manner of note-taking.  But I found two passages that suggest some mysterious endeavor.

“The first one is this,” he continued, handing the leaf to Rondal.  “It’s a calculation, a date calculation, in which she appears to be trying to predict the arrival of the Emissary of the Alkan High Kings.  That took me awhile to figure out,” he admitted, as Rondal handed the note to Tyndal. 

The figures inscribed on the parchment in graphite pencil were pensive scribbles, flowing from one letter or number to another with jagged haste, he saw.  The final figure was circled, a date in the Narasi calendar indicating late summer.  But there was a question mark beside it, along with a notation indicating the Emissary’s arrival . . . or so it appeared.

“It’s hard to know precisely what she was thinking, from this,” Tyndal agreed.  “Was she fleeing from the Emissary?  The Council?  Did she have some errand to complete before his arrival?  Is she plotting an assassination?” he proposed.

“Alka Alon do not make a practice of employing assassins,” Ithalia said, stiffly.

“The Enshadowed do,” Tyndal pointed out.  “And your Council hardly has clean hands when it comes to that sort of thing.  My point is that the Emissary’s arrival was clearly of significance to your grandmother.  She was calculating his arrival to determine her own timing of . . . whatever she was concerned with.  Have you consulted her people at the Tower of Refuge?” he asked Ithalia.

“Of course, what remains of them,” the Tera Alon maiden assured him.  “She has not returned there in months.  Most of her medical staff are here, now, where their arts can be of better service.  She said nothing to any of them about this.  I questioned them most carefully.”

“So, she buggered off with no explanation, no warning, and no hint of where she might have gone,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  He couldn’t quite say it was out of character for the sorceress.  She was as bad as Minalan about that sort of thing.

“That is not entirely the case,” Gareth suggested, as he handed Tyndal a second piece of parchment.  “This was discarded in her rubbish.  I got to it before it was removed, when Minalan called me in to investigate.  It was one of the few items that I could not eliminate as mere medical instruction or administrative minutia.  It’s one line: KURTZ STATION – ADRIAN – DANGER.”

“Who in three hells is Kurtz Station Adrian?” Rondal asked, confused.

“I was wondering that, as well,” Gareth nodded.  “I asked my Constructed Intelligence if it knew what it was, and it surprisingly had an answer.  Getafix, please inform us of what Kurtz Station is, and where it is.”  He placed the little black device Tyndal recognized as an invaluable legacy of the Colonial Period, when humanity had first come to settle Callidore. 

The Constructed Intelligences were disembodied consciousnesses that, remarkably, did not depend on magic in the slightest for their knowledge.  They were once the backbone of human society and engineering, back before Perwyn sank beneath the waves.  A large cache of them had been brought back from Anghysbel, stolen from humanity by the Alka Alon.  Gareth had become a near expert in their use, Tyndal knew, having studied them for a year in the realm of the jevolar.

“It’s a place?” Rondal asked, intrigued.

“A very old place, actually,” an older male voice replied, emanating from the little black contraption.  “Kurtz Station was one of hundreds of terraforming bases established in the earliest years of the colony, when the land currently comprising the Five Duchies was yet unfit for human habitation.  Most of those bases were decommissioned after their initial work was completed, but several were maintained late into the terraformation stage to monitor results and contend with any structural issues to the terraformation process.  Kurtz Station was still in use, in some form, to the limit of my records.”

“So where is it?” Tyndal asked, genuinely curious.

“Deep in the northwest Mindens, along the continental divide,” Getafix responded.  “Kurtz Station was a meridian installation on the frontier of the designated human colonial territory.  It was used as a base for deploying ariel and ground drones during the bulk of terraformation, as well as a depot for chemical and biological elements.  It was downgraded to a secondary facility in CY 31, and further downgraded to a simple automated observation post in CY 45, though it was proposed to be converted for use in the Continuity of Species and Civilizations program.  After that there are very few records concerning the station.”

“I would assume it’s a ruin, now,” Rondal predicted.  “That’s literally at the edge of the human world.”

“And the edge of the Alka Alon settlements west of the Mindens,” Ithalia pointed out.  “But they’re hundreds of miles on the other side of the Mindens.  Its largely deserted of Alon.  Just a few primitive gurvani tribes.  That’s why that area became the haunt of the Enshadowed.  It’s a deserted wasteland.”

“And the gurvani legions,” Rondal pronounced, darkly.  “That’s around the area that Sheruel used as a staging ground for the invasion.”

“That’s what concerns me,” Ithalia admitted.  “If Lilastien was heading for this . . . this station, then she was heading into the very core of the darkness that has plagued us.  A place so desolate it escapes the notice of the Alka Alon, east and west.  A place in the center of nowhere . . . but on the edge of everywhere.”

“So what is Adrian?” Rondal asked.

“Who, more likely than what,” Gareth answered.  “I have no idea.  Getafix says it was a popular name during the colonial era, but it could refer to any of over seven hundred people in the records . . . or any of thousands from Terran history.  So it remains a mystery.

“Well, that’s helpful,” Tyndal said, sourly.

“There’s more,” Gareth continued.  “It may be significant, it may not be.  The hospital visitor logs list a few very noteworthy guests in the weeks before she disappeared.  Visitors who might know something.  Onranion came about ten days before she left, and Gurkarl was here for three days a week before she vanished.  They might have been social visits.  Then again, they might know something.”

“Where are they?” Tyndal asked, curious.

“Onranion is still in Sevendor, but I have summoned him here,” Gareth reported.  “Gurkarl . . . I don’t know.  He’s been spending a lot of time in the Goblin Kingdom of late.  But I don’t have a good way to get into contact with him.”

“That was the last place he was seen, from what I can tell,” Ithalia agreed.  “I sought him there looking for my grandmother, but he was away when I came.”

“Well, it’s a place to start,” Rondal sighed.  “And the Goblin Kingdom would be on the way towards this ancient station.  Or all of this could be a complete waste of time.”

“Onranion should be here this afternoon,” Gareth agreed.  “See what he can tell you.  I would ask that you keep me informed, but I will be without my witchstone for the next few weeks while I undergo the Kasari Marriage Rites,” he said, with a mixture of pride and anxiety. 

“That’s right!  Congratulations!” Tyndal said, sincerely.  “And good luck . . . from what I understand, they’re very rigorous.”

“You’ll do fine,” Rondal assured him, confidently.  “Don’t let the rumors scare you.  The worst that can happen is you end up with a fat little Kasari wife who can’t manage to sew, instead of Nattia.  That sort of thing has happened before.”

“I know,” Gareth sighed.  “But I’m certain things will work out.  Nattia’s brother has been coaching me for a year.  It means that I won’t be available for consultation, however,” he pointed out.  “But I have asked Heeth the Arcanist to provide support and communications, while I’m gone.  Rael has agreed to act as your supplier for the journey.  And . . . I think I have something you’ll find useful on your journey,” he said, cryptically, as he rose.  “Master Icorod, Lady Ithalia, thank you for your time.  You two . . . let’s take a walk outside.”

***

There was nine inches of snow on the ground when they left the hospital – or at least its administrative hall.  The hospital now encompassed dozens of buildings in neat rows that lined both sides of the main street of the complex.  Lilastien had done her best to design the kind of medical facilities their ancestors once enjoyed on ancient Perwyn, Tyndal knew.  She knew more about human medicine than anyone else alive, he was convinced.

Lilastien had originally been a specialist in non-Alon species, having studied both the Vundel and the Met Sakinsa before humanity had descended from the heavens and introduced themselves to Callidore.  The Alka Alon had selected her to be included among several specialists that had been assigned to study humanity and human civilization on their behalf.  She had undergone human-style education on Perwyn, from elementary learning to advanced studies in medicine, and had been a practicing physicker – medical doctor, he corrected himself – for years on the island.

But there had been some problems about the time Perwyn sank, Tyndal knew.  Lilastien had quarreled with the Council that had sent her, or some scandal had arisen, or some other mysterious event had occurred that had seen her removed from her post and eventually placed in house arrest or internal exile at the Tower of Refuge.  There she had practiced her craft and pursued her studies with a handful of aides, disciples, retainers and servants, forbidden to travel without the Council’s permission.

That was until Minalan had discovered her, learned of her usefulness, and persuaded – forcefully – the Council to give her parole to aid in the war effort against Sheruel and Korbal.  They weren’t happy about it, Tyndal knew, but Minalan insisted, granting her the Wilderlands village of Henga to build a hospital and research laboratory. 

She’d done amazing work tending the various species that inhabited the regions around Vanador, inviting physickers, surgeons, barbers, and medical magi to come study with her.  With a few of the ancient tools and references she’d recovered from humanity’s past, she had dedicated herself to teaching a new generation of healers.

Which was what made her disappearance so strange, to Tyndal’s mind.  Lilastien was dedicated to medicine and research the way Minalan was dedicated to thaumaturgy and enchantment.  She was not the sort of person to abandon her work lightly, without notice to the people she had painstakingly trained.  That made him suspicious.

“I forget how snowy this place gets, sometimes,” Rondal said as his boots crunched through the snow.  “I almost miss it.”

“There’s twice this much up in Callierd, right now,” Tyndal mused.  “I use magic to keep the pathways clear, though, so it’s not too much of a problem.  Until it melts.”

“That won’t be for months, yet,” Gareth agreed, as he led them toward the stables of the complex.  “And I am mindful of the season you’ve drawn for this quest.  Traveling in the winter in the Wilderlands is never easy, even with magic.  And traveling in the Mindens, should you end up there, is going to be seven hells worth of mischief. 

“However,” he continued, drawing a wand from beneath his cloak, “I wanted to give you every possible advantage.  I spoke with Minalan and he agreed.”

“Agreed to what?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Firstly, to provide you with adequate supply wands,” he said, handing slender wand to Tyndal.  “Rael can provide you with anything special through the mate.  I’ve already stocked them with food, camping supplies, water, and other fare.”  He took out another wand and turned toward an empty spot in front of the stables.  “But I got Minalan’s permission to loan you . . . this!” he said, dramatically, and activated the wand.  A hoxter activated, and a massive object materialized before their eyes.

“The Beast!” Tyndal said, appreciatively.

The vehicle that appeared looked vaguely like a wagon, as it boasted six wheels.  But there the resemblance ended. 

It was entirely enclosed, and entirely made of metal, an artifact of his ancestors from the Colonial Period.  They had constructed a multitude of such vehicles, he’d learned, and of many different shapes and sizes.  Some flew, some plied the seas, and some crawled over land, like this one.  It had been one of two discovered at the Cave of the Ancients and had borne both Minalan and Gareth back to Vanador from Anghysbel.

It was like a house on wheels, Tyndal recalled, with room within for several people.  It required no team to pull it, as it moved under its own power – not with magic, but some engine of tekka from the Ancients’ craft.

“This is the one I came back from Anferny in,” Gareth grinned.  “It was strong enough to pull the other one back, too.  Believe it or not we found a third one at the ruins we discovered – along with three flying craft.  But I suggested to Minalan that you two take this one, after I prepared it.  It was designed for exploring rough country.  Once hundreds of these roamed all over the Five Duchies,” he said, patting the side of the machine affectionately.

“It still works?” Rondal asked, skeptically.

“Oh, she works like a dream,” Tyndal assured him.  “A little bumpy, but it actually moves.”

“I did my best to recondition this one,” Gareth reported, as he opened the side hatch to the Beast.  “I tucked it into a hoxter and brought it to the workshop in the ruins.  I was able to get the power charged to almost seventy percent.  That should give you about seven hundred hours of active work out of her.”

“Let’s hope we don’t need that long,” Rondal suggested, looking around the snug little capsule with interest.  “What does all of this stuff do?” he asked, waving at the panels and switches and buttons around the vehicle.

“All sorts of stuff,” Gareth shrugged.  “It has a full sensor suite – kind of a tekka way of scrying – communication gear that will be of no use at all, analysis and survey equipment, all sorts of stuff.  There’s a full manual available with tutorials on it all – our ancestors were very thorough,” he informed them, proudly. 

“Weapons?” Tyndal asked, curiously.  He had gotten to use some of the arms that they’d found in the Cave of Ancients, and he was justly impressed by them.  They were comparable to some of the fiercer warmagic spells.

“Of course,” Gareth grinned.  “In that locker, there.  Two plasma rifles, fully charged, two sidearms with appropriate ammunition, and some goodies we dug up from the ruins – it was an old military outpost.  And,” he said, his grin growing wider, “I managed to find one – and only one – light support munition auxiliary module that I could mount on this thing.  And that was a challenge,” he assured.

“Light . . . support . . . munition?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Technically, it’s a short-range missile with a three kilogram explosive charge,” he explained.  “It has a range of about two miles.  It took some creative engineering to attach it to the roof – this was a civilian-rated vehicle – but it might be helpful.  If it works.  The chemicals are centuries old.”

“So, its like an artillery piece,” Rondal suggested.

“Yes, only far more accurate.  If it works,” Gareth repeated.  “But that’s all the armament I could manage.  Hopefully you won’t need it.”

That produced a meaningful glance between Tyndal and Rondal.  They always seemed to need that sort of thing, he knew.

“Well, we do have our warmagic.  How is this thing going to crawl through the Mindens?” Rondal asked. 

“More easily than a horse would,” Gareth assured.  “The wheels can traverse just about any terrain, and climb a grade of up to thirty degrees,” he said, as he sat in one of the seats in the . . . cockpit, Tyndal recalled.  “There’s a three-hundred foot winch if you get stuck.”

“These controls look . . . complicated,” Rondal said, glancing down at the strange array in front of the seat.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Gareth said, confidently.  “Normally it’s controlled by a Constructed Intelligence, which makes it easier to drive, but the manual controls are easy enough to master.  I broke out a new CI-2 and initiated it for you, too.  And knowing you two I gave it a female voice.  And tried to make it as idiot-proof for you as possible.  Beast, prepare for two new command designations,” he said, addressing the machine.

“Ready for new personnel identifications,” a smooth female voice said in perfect Narasi.

“Tyndal, state your full name and title,” Gareth instructed, over his shoulder.

Tyndal took a deep breath.  “Viscount Tyndal of Callierd,” he said, wondering if he needed to list his other titles.

“Command Code Accepted,” the machine reported.

“Baron Rondal of Oirghort,” Rondal said dutifully.

“Command Code Accepted,” the machine reported.  “This unit is ready to serve.”

“I like the sound of that!” Tyndal grinned. 

“This thing isn’t as smart as Getafix or Forseti,” Gareth informed them, “but it knows how to run the vehicle.  I augmented it with as much useful information as I could, back at Starlight.”

“Starlight?” Tyndal asked, tilting his head.

“That’s the code name for the ruins in Falas,” Gareth explained.  “The panels there and there can tell you anything about the Beast, teach you anything from the archives, and show you information either from the sensor array or the archives.  I’ve had it programmed to translate everything into Narasi, of course, with references for any Old High Perwynese words that don’t translate well.  Uh . . . do you fellows want to personalize it, a bit?  You can do that.”

“Personalize it?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“Give it a name,” Gareth suggested.  “It’s not smart, but it can make basic conversation, and sometimes having a specific name for it can be helpful.  Like you’d name a dog or a sword.”

“How about . . . Belsi?” Rondal asked, with a small grin of his own.

“Belsi!” Tyndal nodded.  “Perfect.  Belsi the Beast!” he pronounced.

“Beast, add address alias ‘Belsi’ to self references,” Gareth instructed. 

“New address accepted,” the machine reported.  “I am now Belsi.”

“She’ll still answer to Beast, of course – that was standard on all of these units, back during the Colonial period.  But working with Getafix has convinced me that personalizing the things a bit can help with communication.  Even a CI-2 has some basic personality matrices, to keep them from getting too boring.  Sometimes our ancestors could be out in one of these things for months, with only it to talk to.”

“It’s amazing,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “It’s hard to believe that there used to be hundreds of these on Callidore.”

“Thousands,” Gareth assured him.  “They were all-purpose exploration and survey vehicles, back during the terraformation.  They were used for anything from fire suppression to medical evacuation to flora dispersion to command and control of autonomous systems.  There’s a privy in the back, and a kitchen, and two cots,” he pointed out, calling up a diagram of the vehicle on the screen in front of him.  “And you can put it on automatic drive and let the Beast – Belsi – do the driving if you’re too tired or wounded to pilot yourself.”

“Until we come to the impassable Mindens,” Rondal pointed out, sourly.

“They’re not impassable, they’re just tricky,” Gareth insisted, calling up another image on the screen – a map.  “In fact, our ancestors did their best to make certain that they could reach most of their outposts by ground, as well as air.  The Beast has records of several such routes.  Some of them were later used by the goblin hordes during the invasion,” he added.

“How convenient,” Tavard frowned, staring at the map.  It was similar to a magemap, he saw, though this one was rendered in two-dimensions, not three.  “So where is this forgotten station?”

“Beast, display coordinate map for Kurtz Station,” Gareth directed.  The image immediately changed until a small green dot was shown in the midst of a thick mountainous plateau.  “There you go: Kurtz Station.  Only three-hundred miles or so from here.  Across some of the most rugged terrain in the Five Duchies.  That’s why I got you the Beast.”

“Thank you,” Tyndal said, slapping the scrawny wizard on the shoulder enthusiastically.  “This will be enormously helpful, Gareth, I just know it!”

“Well, Onranion won’t be here for another few hours, so I figured I’d teach you how to use the basic controls,” Gareth offered.  “So, which one of you wants to learn to drive, first?”

Chapter Four

The Informant

I’ve always been strangely fascinated by the Tera Alon.  For some of them, the transformation into a human-like body is a temporary inconvenience, an affectation they choose as casually as a maiden considers her wardrobe.  Others seem strangely attached to their larger bodies.  Perhaps it is a mere novelty for them, which I suspect is often the case, but for others they seem far more comfortable as Tera Alon than they were as Alka Alon.  I oft wonder how I might change, should I undertake such a transformation.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

“That was fun,” Rondal admitted as they emerged from the Ways into the center of Vanador’s circular square.  He waved toward the warmagi guarding the magical entrance – there were seven that he could see, between the great semicircular arch of the Portal and the Waypoint, each armed with mageblade and battle staff.  Minalan took security around Waypoints very seriously, after the debacle at last year’s Magic Fair.  “Well, the plasma rifle was fun.  The Beast . . . it’s a little scary,” he admitted.

“You’ll get used to it in no time,” Tyndal assured him.  “It’s easier than riding a horse.  And a damn sight more comfortable.  I thought you did pretty well.  They should be able to repair that fence without much trouble.”

“It jumped out in front of me,” Rondal mumbled.  He was a little embarrassed about that – after Gareth had coached Tyndal through a series of unremarkable maneuvers in the huge machine, within three minutes of taking control Rondal had managed to plow it into the wooden fence surrounding one of the herb gardens that surrounded the hospital.  “I got the hang of it, I think, before we were done.  I’m just glad that thing can pilot itself most of the time.”

“I think it will come in handy,” Tyndal agreed.  “Gareth said it should even be able to contend with snow drifts and ice.”  The two of them headed east, deeper under the Overhang and into the Thaumaturge’s Quarter.  “That is, if our search doesn’t take us to sunny Farise,” he added, glancing at the snow-covered fields in the distance. 

“We don’t have that kind of luck,” Rondal chuckled.  “Recall we went to Enultramar expecting a lovely seaside holiday, and ended up in the swamps of Caramas, fighting undead.”

The Thaumaturge’s Quarter was quietly bustling this time of day, as merchants and shopkeepers conducted their errands.  There was precious little snow on the ground, this deep in the Overhang; spells that slightly heated the cobblestones ensured that any that did blow in melted almost immediately.  The great rocky expanse that jutted out overhead sheltered the quarter from the blustery winter winds that tormented the rest of the town, making the place a popular destination.

Of course, all of it was white, now, Rondal noted.  Minalan had successfully replicated the snowstone spell last year, transforming every silica-bearing material in a mile and a half radius of his home into the magical mineral.  The Overhang was now a bright white, under the soot from the town, and the cobbles and daubed buildings were all transformed into various shades of white and gray.  Snowstone dramatically lowered the etheric density in its proximity, reducing the natural resistance to both the flow and the execution of thaumaturgic energies.  As a result magic was far easier to do here, a boon for the number of wizards who had relocated to the city, Rondal noted. 

There had been other effects from the spell, he knew.  The spell had not quite been identical to the Sevendor working, and for some reason the wave of transformative energy had affected the enchantments and the paracletes used in high-end spells.  He did not know what would ultimately result from the spell, but he suspected it would be dramatic.  Just about anything Minalan did ended up being dramatic.

The tavern they sought was the Staff & Scroll, a popular place for the well-to-do wizard to enjoy luncheon and a breathtaking number of wines and spirits.  Thanks to the portals and the supply wands, the City of Wizards had access to the finest such beverages available in the markets of the greatest cities in the kingdom.  The prices at the tavern were high, but inconsequential to the wealthy enchanters and scholars of magic who worked in the quarter.  A man who can make fifty ounces of silver casting a single spell didn’t mind spending a tithe of it on a truly remarkable vintage afterwards.

Onranion was waiting for them, one of a handful of Tera Alon frequenting the tavern.  He looked older than his fellows, though just as outrageously handsome, and he’d bothered to dress for either the climate or the occasion.  Rondal appreciated that.  Onranion had a habit of walking around nude in his Tera Alon guise, unless someone encouraged him to put some pants on. 

The old reprobate was enjoying an ornate brass cup of wine, a bemused smile on his face when he sighted the boys at the entrance.  He rose and welcomed them eagerly before they sat and placed their order with the barman. 

“I always enjoy this place when I come to Vanador,” Onranion assured them, once they had wine in front of them.  “The selection is just amazing, for a humani establishment.  And the food is quite nice.”

“Banamor owns it,” Rondal reminded him.  “He invests in businesses like this just so he can have a fancy place to eat and entertain when he’s in town.  So, tell us about your meeting with Lilastien,” he directed.  Rondal knew how easily Onranion could be distracted from the subject, when you let him.  He’d lived over a thousand years, and had a very liberal perspective on the idea of urgency – though Rondal suspected he used that as an excuse for laziness, most of the time.

“Lilastien,” Onranion said, his expression immediately changing to a troubled look.  “Poor Lilastien.  Yes, I came to see her a few weeks ago, I think.  She looked terrible,” he said, shaking his head.  “As if she hadn’t slept in days.  Weeks,” he amended. 

“You Tera Alon are a hardy folk,” Tyndal observed.  “From what I can tell you can endure such deprivations far longer than a mortal man.”

“To an extant,” Onranion admitted.  “It was a conceit of ours to make ourselves just like humans, with these bodies – Lilastien developed that spell, ironically.  Only we made ourselves just slightly better than humans, while still being distinctive.  The hair,” he said, fingering the coppery mane that could hardly be mistaken for human hair, “the greenish skin, the pointy ears . . . and, of course, the fine physical features.  We can endure more hardship than a human, greater range of temperatures, and have a much higher level of rajira.  But sleep is another matter.”

“How so?” Rondal asked, curiously.

“In our Tera Alon bodies we can go without sleep for days, it is true.  But our psychology remains Alka Alon in nature, and an important part of that is our dreams,” he explained.  “An Alkan participates in the Otherworld while we are dreaming far more intently than a human does, from what I can tell.  And we are far more aware of it.  Consider it part of our social lives.  When we sleep, our bodies not only refresh and rejuvenate themselves but our minds wallow in our subconscious and meta-conscious.  It’s akin to a relaxing bath,” he suggested.  “For our minds.  Or at least it’s supposed to be.

“But when we are deprived of sleep, it starts to have an effect on us.  It affects our mood and our decision making and can produce anxiety, depression, melancholy . . . Lilastien knows this better than anyone.  Yet she was purposefully avoiding sleep as much as possible.”

“It’s the ancient memories,” Tyndal suggested.  “They plagued her more in her sleep, she said.”

“That was part of it,” Onranion conceded.  “I confess, I can’t imagine having memories in my head that I didn’t experience.  I have enough appalling ones of my own.  But it disturbed me seeing her in such a state.  It’s dangerous.  I think that may have contributed to . . . whatever happened to her.”

“What did you come to talk to her about?” Rondal asked.

“Your master, actually,” Onranion revealed, sipping his wine.  “I’ve been growing concerned about just how much irionite he has been making, and I wanted to hear her opinion.”

“How, concerned?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“Well, usually it takes almost a century to produce a real quality stone,” he pointed out.  As an expert on the magical green amber, he would know best, Rondal knew.  “That limits the amount of them a sorcerer can produce.  You have to have a workshop and the proper tools and equipment and maintain it constantly for years and years before you have a useful stone.  But Minalan is using time-dilation spells that speed up that process tremendously.  So he’s been making irionite constantly for six months.”

“Why is that a problem?” Tyndal asked.  “It isn’t as if he’s misusing it.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Onranion assured.  “I don’t suspect him of anything nefarious.  It’s just that the Alka Alon Council would be incredibly upset if they realized just how much he’s produced in such a short amount of time.  Then again, they seem concerned with just about anything your master does these days,” he shrugged.  “I wanted to see what Lilastien thought of the matter.”

“What did she think of it?” Rondal asked, as a trencher of food was placed in front of him, the aroma reminding him that he was famished. 

“She didn’t seem to think it mattered,” the sorcerer reported.  “She thought it was inconsequential, compared to the other matters at hand.”

“The Emissary from the High Kings,” Tyndal supplied.

“Yes, among other issues,” he sighed.  “She spoke of some of the other projects she was working on, contending that they were far more important than mere irionite.  Transgenic enchantments, mostly – she’s been playing around with that device Minalan built for her.  The ‘Soul Forge’, or some similarly dramatic name.”

“What exactly does it do?” Tyndal inquired.  “I mean, what does it really do?  I know it’s a powerful artifact, but I have no inkling of its purpose or function.”

“From what I can tell it simplifies the process of transgenic magic significantly,” Onranion answered.  “It allows an incredible amount of detail to be discerned in a particular genetic pattern, and allows it to be changed with absolute precision.  She’s been fooling around with the Kilnusk and the Malkas, the Tal Alon, even some of the gurvani.  And humans, of course.  She, ah, did she tell you what she did for Carmella?” he asked with a grin.

“No,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “What did she do with Carmella?  Give her a new personality?”

“She’s all right,” Rondal countered.  In truth, the head of the Hesian Order was one of the finest magical engineers in the world, but she was a very difficult person to have a normal conversation with.  Carmella just saw the world differently than other human beings.  “So what did she do for her?”

“She transformed her into a Malkas Alon,” Onranion confided.  “So that she can marry Rumel.  They’ve been secret lovers for a few years, now, but now Carmella can transform into a stunningly gorgeous Malkas maiden.  Ordinarily that would take a few years to figure out, but with this device she got from Minalan it only took a few weeks.”

“Interesting,” Rondal nodded.  “Do you think that had anything to do with her disappearance?” 

“I don’t find it likely,” Onranion said, shaking his head.  “Not unless some jilted Malkas maiden who had an eye for Rumel took offense and wanted revenge.  From what I understand Carmella and Rumel are quite happy with the result.  Indeed, they’re planning on building an entire city for the Malkas, now, out in the woods.  But it is quite scandalous, from the Alon perspective.”

“So what do you think might have convinced Lilastien to leave?” Tyndal prompted, glancing in Rondal’s direction.  He, too, knew the perils of letting the old sorcerer prattle on. 

“Honestly?  I think it was some project she was working on in secret,” he guessed.  “Something she hasn’t told anyone else about.  She’s always doing that sort of thing – that’s one of the reasons she originally got in trouble with the Council.  Secret experiments using proscribed schools of magic, that sort of thing.  Oh, not necromancy or other morally questionable magic – at least I don’t think so – but things that the Council wouldn’t approve of.”

“Like the giant hawks and the giant dogs,” Rondal suggested.

“Yes, that sort of thing,” Onranion agreed.  “Only those are comparatively simple, compared to some of her other interests.  She very well could have some secret experiment hidden away somewhere that she’s worried the Emissary will learn about.  She was clearly anxious about that,” he recalled.

“Did she mention anyone else?” Tyndal asked.  “Anyone who might know where she has gone?”

“She said she’d been discussing things with Gurkarl of late, but that mostly concerned gurvani politics – not something I’m particularly interested in.  And she mentioned she’d had a long, intense conversation with Ameras she’d had recently.”

“Ameras?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “The Scion of the Aronin?”

“Well, his daughter,” Onranion conceded.  “Her position in regards to her father’s legacy is still a matter of open debate amongst the Council.  But Lilastien certainly considered her a valuable resource.  Zagor arranged for them to speak in Sevendor, apparently, and Lilastien grilled her about matters of history and lore.”

“What kind of history and lore?” Tyndal prompted.

“Oh, I have no idea – it could have been anything.  But it could be significant.  The Aronin was privy to all sorts of secrets and ancient knowledge.  Much of that he would have passed along to his daughter as a safeguard – usually the position of an Aronin is hereditary.  So it could have been about anything.”

“That . . . is not particularly helpful,” Tyndal sighed.  “At least in trying to figure out where Lilastien went.”

“Asking Ameras is going to be difficult, too,” Onranion reported.  “By all accounts she has gone into seclusion, to meditate and repair herself after her time at the jevolar.  That could take months.”

“You don’t think she’d speak to us?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“She won’t be able to,” Onranion explained.  “When I say ‘meditation’, I’m speaking of a kind of long sleep, not a mere exercise in concentration.  A sort of mystical coma where she can submerge herself into the collective consciousness for a few weeks and ruminate on her experiences.  It’s not uncommon for an Alkan to do that, after a bit of trauma.  But it is a very private matter, and it is usually done in seclusion where you won’t be bothered.”

“Perhaps that’s what Lilastien did,” suggested Tyndal.

“No, no, that was the sort of thing she was trying to avoid entirely,” Onranion dismissed.  “I even suggested it to her, when I saw her, and she was adamantly against it.  She wasn’t seeking repose.  She seemed to be seeking . . . retribution?  Revenge?  She took issue with the Council and the rule of the Emissary, that was the focus of her mood.  Not her own mental health.”

“Perhaps Gurkarl can point us in the right direction, then,” sighed Tyndal, after a few moments quiet thought.  “If we can manage to find him.”

“Oh, he’s at the court of the Goblin King – Ashakarl,” Onranion supplied.  “At least, that’s where he was headed the last time I spoke to him.  He planned on wintering there, and continuing to persuade Ashakarl to improve his alliance with the Magelaw.  And probably enjoy the king’s hospitality.  His court is full of nubile gurvani maidens,” the Tera Alon reprobate suggested, slyly.

The thought of a gurvani maiden trying to be sexually appealing appalled Rondal.  He’d spent most of his adult life trying to kill gurvani, or at least avoid being killed by gurvani.  To a human eye they were ugly, beastly even, covered with wiry black hair, strangely proportioned, with a face that looked like a cross between a chipmunk and a bat.  The big black eyes alone would be enough to put a shiver in his spine.  To think about looking at a face like that and finding love . . . he suppressed a shudder.

“Well, if there is free ale and horny maidens around, that’s likely where we’ll find Gurkarl, then,” Tyndal chuckled.  “I suppose we need to go to the Goblin King’s palace.”  Rondal could tell that the prospect shook Tyndal, despite his brave manner.  He shared Rondal’s opinion of the nocturnal gurvani, he knew.  While individuals like Gurkarl were pretty decent folk, the gurvani in general were ill-disposed to humans even in good times, due to their long history. 

“That is where I would start,” Onranion agreed.  “She may have said something to him that will give you some idea of where she is.  She has a habit of confiding in . . . well, mortals,” he said, trying not to be insulting.  “Often things she really shouldn’t be.  That gets her into trouble, too.”

“That seems to be her natural habitat,” Tyndal quipped.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Onranion confided, after a moment’s pause.  “You fellows and the other mortals don’t really understand Lilastien, or her position in regards to Alka Alon social and legal authority.  To be honest most of the Avalanti kindred have a skeptical view of authority, compared to the other kindreds. 

“But Lilastien . . . she’s as obsessed and fanatical as the Enshadowed, in her way.  She’s called Rebel for good reason.  And she has a way of being both impetuous and scheming at the same time.  If she thinks she has to take action in response to the arrival of the Emissary, it is entirely possible that she sees this as the perfect opportunity.”

“Perfect opportunity . . . to do what?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Onranion sighed.  “I have no idea.  Nor do you.  Nor does anyone else.  Not Ithalia, not Minalan, no one but Lilastien knows. 

“But when she does it . . . she will do it hard,” he predicted, gravely. 

***

“Well, that wasn’t ominous at all,” Rondal remarked, sarcastically, after Onranion left.  “How can he know virtually nothing, yet make me feel like he’s prophesying the end of the world?”

“He has a special talent for that sort of thing,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “For someone for whom Narasi is not their first language, he’s quite persuasive.  Just ask the human maids of Sevendor.”  Onranion had a well-deserved reputation for seducing young human females, impressing them with his ancient tales and his exotic appearance.  Tyndal was aware of several bastards the man had been responsible for.

“The question is, where do we go to from here?” Rondal asked.  “We could try to track down Ameras, and ask her, but she could be as elusive as Lilastien . . . and in this magical coma, as well.”

“That leaves Gurkarl,” Tyndal suggested, spearing another morsel of beef on his knife and popping it into his mouth.  “Who is apparently wintering at the palace of the Goblin King.  A place we’ve never been to.”

“We have a treaty,” Rondal reminded him.  “We occasionally get delegations from Ashakarl here.  I don’t see any reason we couldn’t expect the same hospitality there.  It’s diplomacy.”

“We’re well-known enough to avoid any serious incidents,” Tyndal reasoned, as he chewed.  “Ashakarl wouldn’t want any trouble with Minalan, I’d imagine.”  In truth, the alliance between the Spellmonger and the goblin exiles was a matter of convenience more than anything else.  When King Ashakarl, once the puppet of Sheruel’s dark priesthood, objected to the Enshadowed and the Nemovorti taking over the great war machine Sheruel had built, he had fled with his court and his loyalists to the northern flinty hills the tribal gurvani saw as sacred land. 

Ashakarl had attracted disaffected elements to his banner, deserters, tribal warriors and shamans, and even human renegades, Tyndal knew.  Ironically, he had adopted many of the institutions and customs of the human population he had displaced and enslaved.  From the ruins of a captured human castle he had successfully resisted the disorganized forces of Korbal for a few years, consolidating his power and trying to establish some form of legitimate control over the northwest Wilderlands. 

Minalan had taken advantage of his weak position and proposed the alliance, from what Tyndal recalled.  Using Gurkarl and other intermediaries, the two governments had reached an uneasy peace, promising not to attack each other’s territory.  That allowed both sides to concentrate their resources on more immediate dangers.  Human slaves had been released to Vanador, the raids into the Gurvani kingdom had ceased, and eventually Minalan had even incorporated the entire region into the Magelaw by declaring Ashakarl his vassal.  In theory.

In practice, Tyndal knew there were still thousands of gurvani under Ashakarl’s control who hated humans with a blinding passion.  The war had been long and brutal and there had been plenty of suffering on both sides, but the gurvani still resented humanity for their bloody expansion more than a century before.  The very land where he and Rondal had been born had been at the center of the tribal gurvani culture, once.  Then humans had ruthlessly uprooted and slaughtered the goblins and chased them into the Mindens.  Tyndal understood full well just how that could affect a person’s perspective on an enemy.

“I don’t see that we have any other choice,” Rondal finally sighed, after a moment’s thought.  “And that’s in the direction towards that ancient station Lilastien mentioned in her notes.  So if we can’t find out anything from Gurkarl, we’ll be half-way there, at least.”

“Agreed,” Tyndal nodded.  “So which do you think it is: did Lilastien leave to pursue some old secret?  Or was she coerced or frightened away by the approach of the Emissary?”

“It could be either, neither, or both,” Rondal considered.  “We just don’t have enough information.  My gut tells me that she left voluntarily, and is decidedly up to something.  I just don’t have the evidence to support it.”

“I think she was afraid of something,” Tyndal speculated.  “Or someone.  That’s the only way I can see her leaving Henga.  It could also be a matter of a guilty conscience,” he proposed. 

“Guilty of what?” Rondal countered.  “She’s been under house arrest for three centuries.  The Tower of Refuge was a magical prison.  She was subject to regular inspections by the Council.  Ithalia barely got in, on occasion.  What could she have done?”

“A good question,” Tyndal admitted.  “But you know the old girl as well as I do.  You have to admit it’s quite possible she had some scheme going on for far longer than three centuries.  Or some means of manipulating events beyond the confines of her prison.  She managed to get Minalan there on his honeymoon, remember.”

“She had Ithalia’s help with that,” Rondal pointed out.  “But I take your point.  She’s subtle and crafty.”

“She’s sneaky,” Tyndal added.  “And she’s highly opinionated, particularly where it concerns the Council.”

“But I can’t imagine she would fly blindly into the wilderness because she was scared of them,” Rondal considered.  “She held them in contempt, not in fear.  What power does this Emissary hold that the Council does not?”

“Decisiveness, perhaps?” Tyndal suggested.  “One of the well-known failings of the Alka Alon Council is that they can’t agree on what color the sky is, and when they finally do they don’t do anything about it.  And then they do it wrong.  This Emissary sounds as if he might actually be able to make a decision and then implement it.  In Lilastien’s case, that might be fatal.  The High Kings have ordered executions before.”

“For what?  What has Lilastien done?” Rondal demanded.

“She’s inconvenient,” Tyndal replied, thoughtfully.  “That’s all the excuse they need.  And she knows it.  That’s why I think she left Henga.  She fears political persecution.”

“Couldn’t she appeal to . . . well, Minalan?  He arranged her parole with the Council.  He’s ultimately responsible for her activities.  And from what I can tell, all she’s done is provide medical care for us poor benighted humani.”

“She also helped Minalan break into the Alka Alon’s secret vault, learned all of their carefully-hidden secrets, she knows the ways of the Vundel and the Met Sakinsa, and she is a passionate defender of the lesser Alon species.  That’s not even taking her supposed crimes from the Colonial Period into account.  From the Council’s perspective, she’s a gigantic pain in the arse.  From the perspective of the High Kings she’s a minor irritant that could pose a serious danger to their position.  I don’t think it would take much for them to order her execution.  And I doubt Minalan could do much about it.”

“I wonder what he would do, in such a case,” Rondal nodded, his eyes bearing a far-away look.  “How do you go to war against a power on the other side of the world?”

“Minalan would find a way,” Tyndal decided.  “He’s even sneakier than Lilastien.”

“He’d get the other great races involved, particularly the Vundel,” Rondal agreed.  “He’d use the power of the Snowflake in some creative, ingenious way that upsets the relationship the Alon have with the Vundel.”

“And that could imperil their permission to live on Callidore,” Tyndal continued.  “The question is, does the Emissary know that?  Or do the High Kings think we’re just another ephemeral species they can safely ignore and overlook?  Was the Council willing to tell the High Kings the truth about the situation, or did they quietly neglect to mention that they have a powerful human wizard essentially influencing their policies?”

“Whatever they said, it’s clear that the High Kings suspect something is happening here,” Rondal suggested.  “That’s why they’re sending their observer.  It’s like sending a trusted yeoman to see why an estate isn’t performing the way it should be.”

“More like a magistrate,” Tyndal corrected.  “From what I understand, the Emissary isn’t merely the agent of the High Kings, he’s uniquely empowered to evaluate the situation and take action in their name and on their behalf.  And the last time that happened, he ordered the deaths of two kings and demoted the entire region to a princedom.  Just to avoid some embarrassment. 

“So, I think I understand why Lilastien might have left.   She knows that she’s going to be targeted for elimination, one way or another.  Either by the Council, before the Emissary arrives, or afterwards, when the Emissary has a chance to learn what’s going on.  It’s not a situation she can win.”

“She fled into darkness,” Rondal nodded.  “One of the oldest and most powerful Alka Alon sorceresses in history wants to disappear and not be found.  And now it’s our job to find her,” he finished, discouraged.

“We can at least try,” Tyndal agreed with a shrug.  “Maybe if we do find her we can convince her to take refuge with Minalan and see if he can protect her.”

“But I can’t help but think that she’s already considered that path and rejected it,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “I think she’s up to something . . . bigger.”

Chapter Five

The Merchant

I’ve always had a healthy respect for merchants, and as a youth I sometimes imagined myself as a canny businessman.  Association with Banamor, Planus, and Rael, among others, has suggested that my pretensions were laughable – it takes more than knowing ‘buy low, sell high’ to make a successful merchant.  Their insights into the world are uncanny, stringing together tiny beads of information on strings I would never suspect are there, until the culmination of their work results in profit.  It is a kind of magic all its own, the understanding of the marketplace.  I do not think I will ever truly master it.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

Tyndal and Rondal decided to spend the night at Spellmonger’s Hall, while they were in Vanador.  Their legacy as former apprentices allowed them the privilege, and the prospect of one final night of comfort – if not luxury – was compelling.  The skeleton staff who remained at the hall while Minalan’s family was wintering in Sevendor were surprised but pleased by the visit, and welcomed them warmly.

The next morning Tyndal arose at dawn, broke his fast and went shopping.  While he trusted Gareth to have secured adequate supplies for the journey in the supply wand’s hoxter, Tyndal had enough experience with such adventures to prepare his own equipment.  Once he’d washed and dressed, he headed out into the cold and made his way to the Wizard’s Mercantile.

Vanador was a major hub for the semi-clandestine enterprise.  Begun by Minalan, Banamor and Planus, the network of merchants and wizards spanned the entire kingdom, quietly smuggling goods across multiple jurisdictions with hoxter pockets and other means without paying the exorbitant taxes usually involved in trade.  The kingdom’s tax officials had yet to come after the company, partially because it would have been impossible to track and partially because of Minalan’s high position in the government.  The fact that the rich nobles across the kingdom could secure just about any luxury from the Mercantile had also played a role. 

Tyndal did not mind the avoidance of regulation.  He was a partner in the enterprise, and it had made him wealthy.

The result was an amazing marketplace of items at relatively inexpensive prices.  The Mercantile shop was in front of a vast warehouse filled with cloth, wine, spirits, oils, and other high-quality merchandise.  The bustling storefront was already receiving new shipments originating through the portals that now connected the great cities of the kingdom when he arrived, and he had to wait for a wagon to be unloaded before he could even enter the great doors of the Mercantile.

The proprietor of this particular station was an old friend – Rael the Enchantress, the daughter of Master Andalnam, one of Sevendor’s greatest enchanters.  While not as adept at the art as her famous father, Rael’s talents for buying and selling made her an ideal merchant for a business like the Mercantile.  She had grown the outpost into a stunning commercial success, trading mage-milled lumber and furs from the locals for exotic fare from across the kingdom’s finest markets. 

Rael greeted Tyndal like the old friend he was when she saw him.  Tyndal had always liked the woman.  She had a rebellious streak he admired, as well as an encyclopedic knowledge of her stock.  She smiled as she handed a scroll she’d just signed to one of her clerks and gave Tyndal her undivided attention.

“So, what brings the Viscount of Callierd to my shop this early in the morning?” she asked, curiously.  “Looking for baubles to please your new bride?” she asked, saucily.  Tyndal had always enjoyed a casual, unserious flirtation with Rael, going back to their time on the Long March when she had first explored the Wilderlands seeking fresh stock.

“Not particularly,” Tyndal answered, as she escorted him into her office.  “But if you have anything special, it might soothe her a bit.  Rondal and I are about to depart on a mission.”

“A mission?” the merchant wizard asked, surprised.  “I thought you two had retired from errantry, now that you’re married.”

“Duty beckons,” he answered, reluctantly, as he took a seat in the battered chair opposite Rael.  “Minalan asked us to discreetly search for Lilastien.  She’s missing,” he informed her.

“I know.  I heard,” Rael nodded, gravely.  That was the other reason why Tyndal had sought out Rael – she had a far-flung network of informants that fed her intelligence about all sorts of things that could – and did – affect the marketplace.  She was as subtle a wizard as he’d ever met, and had Banamor’s knack for sensing opportunity where others would blindly pass it by.  “Do you have any leads?”

“A scant few,” Tyndal admitted.  “We’re going to head for the Goblin Kingdom to talk with Gurkarl.  After that . . . we don’t know.  We shall have to see where the road takes us.”

“If you’re going to the Goblin Kingdom, there aren’t many roads at all,” she reminded him.  “That is rough territory, up there.  Nothing but rocky hilltops and woodlands.  The soil is poor for farming, and the neighbors are unruly.”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about,” Tyndal agreed.  “You’ve been there?”

“Thrice,” she confirmed.  “Trade delegations and buying trips.  I have a couple of trading agents at some of the markets and outposts.  The scrugs have developed a taste for human produced goods, especially ale and wine, and they have good emeralds and furs to trade, most times.  It’s a good trade,” she admitted.

Tyndal could sense she wasn’t entirely certain of that.  “You don’t sound enthusiastic about the place.”

“It’s a good trade,” she repeated.  “It’s . . . well, it’s not a particularly pleasant place.  They’ve taken over a couple of old Wilderlord castles, and they have one town worth mentioning, but apart from that it’s occupied villages and scattered settlements of various tribes who do a little herding, a little farming, and a little hunting to survive.”

“Sounds like Boval Vale,” Tyndal chuckled.  “Or at least the way it used to be before the invasion.”

“It’s depressing,” she nodded.  “The king is a nice enough fellow, I suppose, but his economy is a wreck.  The scrugs are just figuring out how to use coin as a standard of exchange, instead of barter.  It’s proving to be a rough transition.  They don’t understand the economics of markets quite yet.  I try not to take advantage of that – too much,” she added with a grin, “but I think it will be years before they master it as well as we have.  Until then, I can sell them grain and ale and leather and a hundred other goods they need in exchange for some of the biggest gemstones I’ve ever seen.  And some first class furs and skins.”

“And you have no problem with their antipathy towards us?” he asked, surprised.

Rael shrugged.  “That’s the great thing about being a merchant – you don’t have to like the people you trade with.  Once they stopped holding human slaves – and eating them, every now and then – the scrugs aren’t much different from us.  They still don’t like us, much, but they do like our civilization, and the bounties it provides.  Compared with the miserable existence they enjoy in those hills being able to import food and craft goods gives them some level of prosperity.  They’re starting to breed sheep,” she informed him.  “The shaggy ones that cling to the hills.  In a year or so I’ll start buying wool from them, I predict.”

“Interesting,” Tyndal nodded, imagining the fierce gurvani warriors he’d met in battle settling down as simple shepherds.  “For a species that doesn’t wear much clothing, that must seem strange.”

“They’re wearing more, now, especially at court,” Rael revealed.  “There’s a kind of fashion to it.  They might despise us in theory, but they are just as vain and status conscious as we are.  There are plenty of human servants at the palace, and the – call them nobility, the courtiers at Ashakarl’s court tend to copy the humani fashions.  I’ve seen goblins wearing velvet doublets and surcoats.  And shoes,” she added.  “I never thought I’d see a goblin visit a cobbler, but the only one in Kral Krebhet has a backlog for making shoes for gurvani, now.”

“Kral Krebhet?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“It’s what they renamed the old castle and town,” she supplied.  “It means ‘royal hill’ or ‘mountain palace’ or something like that.  The capital of their kingdom, and their central marketplace.  It’s out in the middle of nowhere, which keeps Korbal and Sheruel from messing with it.  About a third of the town is human.”

“Slaves?  I thought Minalan—” Tyndal objected.

“No, no, not slaves,” Rael explained.  “Free humans who didn’t want to leave, or came to trade.  Most of the market is made up of human vendors selling grain or iron or other goods to the scrugs.  A man can buy a keg of iron nails here in Vanador, trade it in Kral Krebhet for a sack full of raw emeralds, and retire to a country estate on the proceeds.  Our nails are better than what the scrugs produce, and they don’t see a bag of pretty rocks as any more valuable than a cask of rusty nails,” she grinned. 

“But there’s no danger,” Tyndal suggested.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Rael said, thoughtfully.  “You just have to watch yourself.  There are plenty of old warriors strutting around, ready to start a fight with a human.  They don’t have a lot of respect for us as a people. 

“But if you wear the yellow sash people will understand you are visitors, and give you more leeway.  And Ashakarl is harsh on those who start trouble in his town.  Regardless of species.  He’s actually more fair-minded about such things than most Wilderlords.  The warriors respect him, though, and that helps keep the peace.  The shamans, on the other hand . . .” she trailed off.

“Ashakarl still allows shamans in his court?” Tyndal asked in surprise.

“Tribal shamans, not the urgulnosti priests who served Sheruel,” Rael explained.  “There are still a few of those around, but they’re generally kept out of the circles of power, such as they are.  But Ashakarl uses the tribal shamans as officials and functionaries, mostly to appease the more primitive minded scrugs in the countryside.  In addition to a lot of human renegades who have found their way to his court.  That has produced a lot of tension between the two parties, but Ashakarl is pretty good at keeping the two sides balanced against each other.”

“So it’s not unlike any other court, in any other land,” he suggested.  “I’m struggling to keep my own men from resenting the new Wilderlords from Anferny, myself.”

“Ashakarl has it worse,” Rael confided.  “He’s still being assailed by the gurvani legions controlled by the Enshadowed, and now that Minalan freed Sheruel and he’s returned to the Dark Vale, there’s an increasing danger from that quarter, as well.  About the only neighbors he doesn’t have to worry with are us and the Kasari, ironically.”

The Kasari were a human tribe whose homelands were just north of the river from the Goblin Kingdom – some of the finest rangers and scouts in the world, Tyndal knew from personal experience.  They weren’t warlike, but all of them were expert shots with the great Wilderlands bows they used to hunt with.  Gurvani incursions across the river were almost always met with a rain of sniper fire from the bush from the watchful Kasari.

“What about . . . beyond the Goblin Kingdom?” Tyndal asked.  “To the west, I mean.”

It was Rael’s turn to look at him in surprise.  “There is nothing beyond the Goblin Kingdom,” she assured.  “Just the Mindens.  Oh, there are still some tribal gurvani up in the higher reaches, a trade outpost, and perhaps a few small human settlements that didn’t get wiped out in the invasion, but beyond that there is nothing.  Just hundreds of miles of impassable mountains.”

“Nearly impassable,” Tyndal corrected.  “I recall a few brave fellows from my youth who ventured into the Mindens.  Sometimes they came back.”

“With what?” Rael asked, with interest.  “The other side of the Mindens is apparently just like this side, only wetter and with far more natavia species than importasta.  From what I understand there are hundreds more miles of wilderness before you come to the Alka Alon settlements there.  Between us and them there is just rugged, rocky darkness.”

“I never asked, actually,” Tyndal admitted.  “But from what I understand there might be ruins up there.  Human ruins, from the Colonial Period,” he explained.  Rael was an educated woman, as most wizards were, and knew that humanity had come to Callidore from another world, not formed out of mud and magic by the gods the way most peasants understood their origins.

“There might be,” Rael conceded.  “But I’ve never heard of them.  Why the interest?  Do you think Lilastien might be there?” she asked, curiously.

“She could be anywhere,” Tyndal pointed out.  “I’m just trying to get the lay of the land.”

“Well, if you come across any, be sure to loot them for tekka,” she requested.  “The market for that has been booming since Minalan made it fashionable.  Anything from the Colonial Period fetches a nice price in Remaralon and Wilderhall these days.  Functioning items are premium, of course, but any old piece of Colonial junk is valuable.  I can’t keep it in stock,” she admitted.

“I’ll remember that,” Tyndal nodded.  “What about your regular goods?”

“I’ve got full warehouses, both magical and mundane,” Rael informed him proudly.  “It’s been a good year, and the portals have allowed me to expand my buying trips.  I have just about everything – except ice stones,” she admitted, with a frown.  “For some reason Minalan bought out my entire stock.”

“Minalan?  Bought ice stones?  Why?” Tyndal asked, mystified.  Making ice was trivial for a wizard, one of the very first spells an apprentice learned.  With irionite to power the spell, most High Magi could make ice without a thought.  The magical mineral that could produce the same effect was redundant, to his mind.

“The ways of the Spellmonger are mysterious and murky,” snorted Rael.  “You should know that better than anyone.  I have no idea,” she confessed.  “I don’t generally ask my customers why they need something, I just sell it to them.  It keeps things from getting complicated.  But apart from that I have . . . well, what do you need?”

“Some iron rations, to start,” Tyndal decided.  “We might be in the field for a while, and while my hoxters are filled with good provisions I wouldn’t mind having some in reserve.”

“Good thinking,” Rael nodded.  “You can never take too much food on a journey . . . and quality taverns and inns are a rarity, in the Wilderlands.  Thankfully I just got a stock of premium Wenshari Iron Rations in a few days ago.  The really good ones.  At a good price, too – the end of the war caused a surplus.  How many do you need?”

Tyndal spent a good hour on a buying spree, as Rael sold him wine, ale, magical implements, and other supplies he could store in one of the many hoxters he carried.  He looked over her limited collection of tekka, but declined to buy any – it was all junk, he realized, mere cast-off bits of ancient machinery without use.  One particular piece was extravagantly priced.  He recognized it as a broken display screen, a control panel torn off of some old piece of equipment.  Some previous owner had placed it in a gaudy gilt frame.  They had taken old trash and made it a literal treasure.  He found that amusing.

He indulged himself, including a Magic Mirror in his purchase with instructions to carry one half of the enchantment to his wife.  Rael promised to teach Tandine how to use it.

“Usually a man goes off on errantry to get away from his wife,” she chuckled, when they finished their transaction. 

“It will keep her from missing me too much,” he explained.  “This way she can at least know if I’m alive or if she has to look for a new husband.”

“She wouldn’t have to look far – she’s beautiful,” Rael praised, as she lit her pipe.  “And she should take some solace in that you aren’t going off to war, for a change.  It sounds like an extended camping trip.  Far less dangerous than war.”

“That’s my hope,” Tyndal agreed.  “I would be lying if I said there wasn’t some reluctance to go see Gurkarl, though.  That’s disturbingly close to home,” he revealed, as she walked him to the door. 

“That’s right.  Boval Vale,” she recalled, thoughtfully.  “Where all of this mess started.”

“It started long before then,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “Centuries.  Millenia, even.  Boval Vale was just where I came into the story.  I try to keep that in mind.  Once you start learning history, your perspective changes.  That keeps me humble.”

“Nothing keeps you humble,” Rael insisted, with a laugh.  “But I wouldn’t have taken you for much of a scholar.”

“I like to read,” he confessed.  “But I don’t like being known as the kind of man who likes to read.  It makes people underestimate me.  They look at me and all they see is the wealthy, handsome, noble warrior mage, not the learned genius I’ve secretly become,” he teased.

“Secret knowledge is always an advantage,” she agreed.  “Keep your eyes peeled for it, on your journey.  And come tell me about it when you’re back.”

Tyndal was heading back towards Spellmonger’s Hall when he felt the stirrings of a spell fall into his mind.

Where are you? Rondal’s mental voice demanded.

Doing a little shopping before we leave, Tyndal replied.  I wanted to pick up a few things before we left civilization.  Why the rush?

I’m not rushing, I just didn’t know what you were up to, or which tavern might have captured your attention.  I’ve been doing some preparation of my own.  I found the closest natural Waypoint to the Goblin King’s capital—

It’s called Kral Krebhet, Tyndal interrupted.  Ashakarl’s town is called Kral Krebhet.

Is it? Rondal asked in surprise.  Well, you live around here, I suppose you would have heard of it.  The last I heard it was known as Enon’s Keep.  He was a freeholding Wilderlord, before the war.

It’s under new management, and the name has changed, Tyndal noted.  How far away from the Waypoint is it?

Seven miles, Rondal reported.  There’s apparently a goblin village nearby.  But we should probably take horses, he suggested.

I concur.  I don’t want to conjure up Belsi the Beast before we have to.  Minalan wanted us to be discreet, he reminded Rondal.

My thought, exactly, he agreed.  As it is everyone from Korbal to Grendine will know that we showed up there.  There are spies everywhere.  Even in . . . Kral Krebhet.

I know.  We’re two of them, Tyndal argued.  But that does beg the question of explaining why we’re there.  I don’t think just showing up and wanting to see our former prisoner for old time’s sake is going to be convincing.

You’re a local lord who wants to foster trade with the Goblin King, Rondal proposed.  I’m just along for the adventure of it.  That won’t fool any of the serious spies at the palace, but it should be convincing enough to avoid overt suspicion.

I’ll say I’m looking for more breeding stock, Tyndal suggested.  That’s not untrue – I’ve always got room in my stables for good mares and quality studs.  It’s a matter of pride.  Of course most of the horses west of Cheerford were slain and eaten during the invasion, but it never hurts to look.

Or you could propose selling off some of your lesser stock, Rondal advised.  From what I understand the humans in Ashakarl’s employ still ride horses.  And some of his more fearless warriors.  As a rule the gurvani were wary of horses, having been the victim of horse cavalry for centuries.  They were generally too slight of stature to ride all but the smallest of horses, nor did they have much sense of horsemanship. 

An interesting idea, Tyndal admitted.  I do have some rounceys I could part with.  Where are you now? 

I just left the Thaumaturge’s Guild, Rondal reported.  I had some research to do. 

Meet me at the Scrying Glass, then, Tyndal proposed.  We can have a decent luncheon and one last civilized drink before we leave.

The Scrying Glass was a wineshop even more elegant than the Staff & Scroll, though Banamor had an interest in both places.  While the latter establishment catered to the working wizard, the Scrying Glass’s clientele was more refined and affluent, High Magi, scholars, masters of enchantment, magelords and highly placed government officials – and the prices reflected that.  In the evenings it was a popular place to bring guests to the city, while during the day it bustled with business meetings and technical discussions about thaumaturgy. 

Tyndal liked the place.  It wasn’t as well-styled as the Alembic, back in Sevendor, and lacked the rustic charm of his own beloved tavern in Nandine, The Randy Rouncey, but whenever he was in Vanador he liked to make an appearance there.  It was a place to be seen, a signifier of status amongst his fellow magi as much as a place of casual business.  In a world where his appearance was of interest to various intelligence organizations, he knew that the sight of he and Rondal quietly having lunch would convince most observers that they had business in Vanador.

He didn’t used to consider that sort of thing, he reflected as he waited at a table for Rondal.  Long service as the Spellmonger’s apprentice and intimate knowledge of the war effort had demonstrated to him just how much the different espionage organizations involved were interested in him and what he was doing – even those he was a part of.  He tried to keep his awareness of that interest from affecting what he did, too much, but once he knew about it he could not help but consider what he did would eventually end up in some spymaster’s report.

He wasn’t as comfortable with that sort of thing as Rondal was.  In his role as Deputy Court Wizard he was close to the centers of power for the Duchy, and he had married into a family of magical thieves for whom spying was an art form.  But Tyndal did not enjoy the secrecy and duplicity involved in the trade, though he had learned plenty through his dealings with spies.  There was a certain sense of paranoia that was healthy, he knew, and misdirection was a necessity when you were actually acting as an agent.

This mission wasn’t technically sanctioned by any of them, though.  The Family – the Kingdom’s official intelligence network – had no idea about Lilastien, and likely would not care.  The Garden Society would certainly know what they were doing – Rondal’s wife was one of their best agents, and the news of their mission would soon be in Duchess Rardine’s ear, if it hadn’t been already.  He was hopeful that their inquiry into Lilastien’s disappearance would not be noticed by the Alka Alon Council, but they had surely taken notice of Ithalia’s queries.  And whatever was left of Korbal’s spy network would note their presence in Vanador with interest, he knew, and despite the current truce between the two sides he was most wary of a threat from that front.

But accepting a private mission from Minalan also meant that they were working without the support of a robust organization of spies like the Family or the Garden Society.  They would be dependent only on their personal contacts – which were considerable.  But with Minalan off on an expedition, they lacked an appeal to authority which might otherwise be of use.

Tyndal tried to dismiss the lingering anxiety he felt about the matter.  As missions went, this one wasn’t too arduous, after all.  They weren’t going to fight dragons or infiltrate an evil dark lord’s lair.  They were just going to have an ale with the Goblin King and quietly speak with an old friend.

Rondal appeared just as the steward appeared with a bottle of wine and two elegant snowglass cups.  They were enchanted to keep the wine at a perfect temperature, he knew, a luxury few other establishments in the world could afford.  Here in Vanador, such things were common.

“So what were you off doing while I was out shopping?” Tyndal asked, as his friend took his seat. 

“Seeking some information about the journey ahead,” he supplied.  “I spoke to our Kasari friends about the region, and took a look at the recent maps.  Which aren’t particularly recent,” he admitted, as he sipped his wine.  “But the ones in the Beast don’t have any of the modern settlements marked, either before the invasion or after.  The entire Wilderlands is just labeled ‘Northwestern Wilderness Natural Preserve’.”

“That’s unhelpful,” Tyndal chuckled.  “And misleading.  At the time they were trying to overwrite Nature, not preserve it.  This entire region was a wasteland, when they got here.”

“Well, that’s what they planned for it,” Rondal explained.  “There were a couple of future settlements proposed, but the nearest listed permanent base on the old map was down in Gilmora.  The recent maps show a string of settlements along the valleys at the base of the hills, as well as a few freeholds and timber camps.  No more than a few thousand people there, even before the invasion.”

“It was crappy land,” Tyndal agreed, as the steward brought them venison pies and pork sausages – two local specialties – as well as a bowl of well-seasoned boiled potatoes.  “That hasn’t changed.  We were probably better off letting the scrugs keep it.”

“It would have avoided a lot of trouble,” Rondal agreed, as he loosed his belt knife and dug into his pie.  “Like the entire Goblin Wars.  The first ones, I mean.”

“It also would have meant that you and I were never born in Boval Vale, so there’s that,” Tyndal considered, as he speared a sausage and dipped it into the mustard pot.  “If our ancestors hadn’t fought and settled the valley, we wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m sure we’d be elsewhere,” Rondal predicted.  “That was something else I wanted to do: check in with Mavone’s people about what we could expect.  I got the latest intelligence briefing on the place before we went.  By all accounts, Kral Krebhet is very tense, right now,” he reported.

“How so?” Tyndal asked, curiously.

“The court is divided into factions – parties,” Rondal explained.  “Not surprising, of course.  One party wants a more conciliatory relationship with Sheruel, now that he is free and returned to the Dark Vale.  Some of the old shamans are pushing for that.  But the warrior class doesn’t want any more stupid wars for Sheruel’s glory . . . or Korbal’s, for that matter.  Ironically they favor closer ties to the Magelaw and the other human groups in the region to help protect them from that.

“And then there’s a third party who is seeking more neutrality, and resents any alliances.  Mavone’s people think that party is being supported by some Enshadowed who might have broken from Korbal’s court.  But that’s unreliable intelligence,” he advised.

“Politics,” Tyndal dismissed.  “I prefer a war.  It’s more straight-forward.”

“And more dangerous,” Rondal countered.  “Politics and statecraft are more complex than war, but you usually walk away afterwards.  War gets messy,” he said, shaking his head. “Politics requires art, and subtlety.”

“Says the only man I know who has conquered a ducal capital,” snorted Tyndal.  Rondal blushed at that. 

“That was a special circumstance,” he argued, quietly.  “I was forced into doing that.  And in that case it was a matter of using war as an expression of politics, not as a last resort when it failed.”

Tyndal chuckled as he shook his head.  “I go away camping for the summer and I come home to find out you took over Wilderhall with a couple of mercenary companies and sheer guile.  And then ransomed it back to Prince Tavard.”

“I had to do something,” Rondal insisted.  “Terleman was barreling through Gilmora like hot piss on a snowbank, Tavard was trying to raise the chivalry in rebellion against the magi, Pentandra couldn’t do anything about either of them, Minalan was nowhere to be found, so I . . . I had to improvise,” he said, indignantly. 

“You captured the capital and the Princess of Castalshar,” Tyndal corrected him.  “That’s an impressive bit of politics, Striker,” he said admirably, using Rondal’s war name.

“Well, I do feel guilty about it,” Rondal sighed.

Tyndal looked up at him in surprise.  “Guilty?  Why?  If I’d pulled off something like that, I’d have to get a wheelbarrow to carry around my balls for years to come!”

“Because I think that’s where the Princess got pregnant,” Rondal admitted, quietly.  “While Prince Tavard was in the field fighting against Terleman in Gilmora.  I did the math.  The dates work out right.”

Tyndal’s eyes bulged.  “Armandria’s new son is a bastard?” he asked in disbelief.

“I think so,” Rondal agreed, reluctantly.  “By all accounts the lad has bright red hair.  Like so many of the Kasari do.  At least, that’s what Rardine thinks happened.  When the Princess was in captivity, she took some solace in the arms of one of my rangers.  That sort of thing happens, during a siege,” he reflected, philosophically.

Tyndal smirked, amused by the scandal of it all.  He had a grudging admiration for Prince Tavard as a knight, but knew the future monarch was not considered particularly bright nor good at the kind of statecraft his father was.  Minalan had done his best to instruct him on wisdom to prepare him to assume the throne someday, but Tyndal doubted the prince’s capacity to master any of it. 

But to learn the pompous prince was a cuckold amused him.  The marriage between Tavard and his Remeran bride had come about as a matter of state, a means to bind together the new kingdom with yet-another noble alliance between the great houses of the three duchies under Rard’s rule.  There had been little affection between the two, he knew, despite Armandria’s beauty and Tavard’s status as heir.  Their first son had died in the horrific dragon attack on Castabriel, he recalled, something that he realized could have profoundly affected the royal relationship . . . and driven the Remeran princess into the arms of a husky Kasari.

“So we may have a bastard on the throne one day,” Tyndal nodded.  “A literal one, this time.  We’ll be in good company,” he chuckled.  Neither of the boys knew who their fathers were, though each had speculated over the years.  Their mothers had been quiet about the matter.  But marriage had not figured in either case.

“I just wonder if Tavard knows,” Rondal considered.  “And if he does, what he plans on doing about it.  If anything.”

“I didn’t used to take such things seriously,” Tyndal said, as he finished his pie.  The steward took note and removed the remains of the crust from him, before bringing him a plate of bread and cheese, unasked.  A fresh green apple, no doubt from the orchards of Enultramar and procured through the portal, graced the plate.  “But then Tandine and I have been . . . well, she wants a baby,” he admitted, a little guiltily.  “I don’t know what I’d do if we had one and I found out it wasn’t mine.”

“I don’t think you have much to worry about,” Rondal soothed.  “Tandine doesn’t seem like the kind of woman to wander while you’re gone.”

“Oh, I don’t think she is, not at all,” Tyndal assured him.  “But it gives me new perspective on bastardy.  And makes me want to get this mission over with as soon as I can.”

“On that we can agree,” Rondal said with a satisfied belch.  “Let’s finish our lunch and head for the stable.  The sooner we get started, the sooner we can find Lilastien and get home to our wives.”

Chapter Six

The Chieftain

The first time I ever met a gurvani – one of the Mountain Folk, as they were known in happier times – I was no older than seven, and the strange creature both frightened and amused me.  I was amazed that such an ugly person could speak Narasi as well as I could, as he traded with the merchants of the market.  It never occurred to me that they could be dangerous . . . until a hundred thousand of them appeared on my doorstep, seven years later, and drove me from my home.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

Rondal felt a great deal of trepidation as they emerged from the Alka Alon Ways.  Despite the treaty between the Magelaw and Ashakarl, it felt far too much like going behind enemy lines. 

He went first, leading his rented rouncey mare through the spell.  It was his horse’s first magical journey, he suspected, and the beast came through skittish, as most horses did the first time they went through the Ways.  Tyndal’s steed seemed far more used to the practice, and within moments of emerging the gelding was nibbling on a few stray bits of grass that protruded from the snow as if nothing objectional had occurred.

Rondal looked around while he tried to calm his horse.  The clearing that bore the Waypoint was halfway up a hill, a rise of a few hundred feet – one of the smaller ones that he could see.  It was a stony place, where fields of boulders poked through the earth and snow like gigantic blemishes, dark against the white of the snow. 

The evergreens here were smaller than those in the east, more shrubs than trees along the ridges.  The sky overhead was overcast with dark gray clouds that whispered of more precipitation.  Though it was mid-afternoon, the sun was already low in the western sky, and the landscape reflected it accordingly.

“What a bleak place,” he remarked, as he petted the mane of the mare and looked around. 

“What are you talking about?” Tyndal said, sarcastically.  “They grow some of the Wilderlands’ best rocks here.”

“And not much else, I’d imagine,” Rondal murmured.  “Of course, this is the wilderness.  Perhaps it gets better as we get toward the road.”

“I forgot how much I enjoy your optimistic nature,” his friend chuckled, shaking his head.  “There’s supposed to be a village on the way.  Let’s see if it changes your opinion.”

The path was steep enough to encourage them both to lead their horses, and Rondal began seeing signs of habitation as they descended.  A stone smokehouse, fallen into ruin.  A meadow pasture, covered by snow, the fence broken and in disrepair.  The hafts of rakes and wooden spades cast aside, poking forlornly through the snow.  He was tempted to consider the place abandoned when they cleared a stand of scrub trees and saw the village.

It seemed like a normal human settlement, at first, a half-dozen small timbered houses with as many simple cottages clustered around a well.  There were plumes of smoke emerging from some of them.  But the faces that appeared in windows and doors were black and furry, and the eyes that stared sleepily at them were dark black and half-lidded.  Gurvani.

“Well, this is novel,” Tyndal murmured, as they continued into the village.  A few goblins emerged from their huts, thick woolen cloaks or sheepskins piled over their shoulders.  They did not appear hostile, as much as curious, Rondal noted.

“But they don’t look particularly concerned,” Tyndal continued. 

“This is the closest Waypoint to Kral Krebhet,” Rondal reasoned, as he looked around.  He was wary, being surrounded by so many gurvani without a sword in his hand.  He made certain to keep his hands in sight.  “I’m sure they have seen their share of traffic.  Alka Alon, Tera Alon, the occasional High Mage . . .”

“Well, they aren’t shooting at us,” Tyndal observed, nodding towards a gurvan lingering near a bow and quiver hanging from a peg outside the door of one of the cottages.  “That’s an encouraging sign.”

The village had at least fifty gurvani in it, by Rondal’s rough count, without a single human among them.  The homes were in various states of disrepair, some with collapsing roofs or crumbling daub, exposing the wattle underneath.  It lacked the basic organization of a human village, he noted, with tools and debris scattered around haphazardly in a way even the laziest peasant would not abide.  Firewood had been gathered, but was piled in heaps next to the huts, not stacked neatly.  Garbage was everywhere, clearly visible under the snow next to doors. 

There were two goats penned up in a rudimentary fashion, and dogs roamed the hamlet freely.  They were no more or less belligerent than any other dogs, Rondal decided.  He still felt odd about it – dogs were supposed to be man’s best friend, not goblin’s.  He couldn’t help but feel a bit betrayed about how loyal the mutts were to the gurvani.

“It’s like they’re just encamped here, not actually living here,” Rondal murmured.  

“I’ve seen better run bandit camps,” Tyndal agreed, grimly. 

Rondal cleared his throat as they came to the well – uncovered, and likely frozen over.  “Tahgah ral kattuk Narasi?” he asked, speaking slowly and enunciating the strange words.

Tyndal looked at him in surprise.  “You speak gurvani?”

“Just a few words,” Rondal admitted.  “There are some old accounts of the Wilderlands settlement, back in Falas.  I was trying to study the Goblin Wars, and I picked up a few words.”

An older gurvan, his bat-like face showing gray around his eyes, mouth and temple, limped toward them, a heavy cloak over his shoulder and a hood on his head against the wind.  He studied the two men with slightly wider eyes than his fellows.

“I speak Narasi,” he croaked, as he approached.  “You come through the Ways?” he asked, his accent turning the words in strange ways. 

“We did,” Tyndal assured him.  “We are magelords from Vanador, seeking to speak with King Ashakarl.  I am Viscount Tyndal, this is my friend Baron Rondal.  We come in peace.”

The gurvan snorted, as if it was a silly statement, for some reason.  “I am Oplak.  I am chief, here.”

“Then good day to you, Master Oplak,” Rondal said, addressing the gurvan respectfully.  “Could we trouble you for direction to the main road to Kral Krebhet?”

The gurvan shrugged.  “Keep following the trail.  When you come to the road, take a right.  Keep going until you see the town.”  He looked at them appraisingly.  “I can sell you treaty sashes,” he proposed. “Two for a silver.”

“That seems a steep price, for a couple of ribbons,” Tyndal said, frowning.

“Without them, you take your chances after leaving here,” the gurvan informed them.  “You fight in the war?” he asked, his eyes narrowing under his cowl.”

“We had that honor, yes,” Rondal admitted.  “Since the beginning of the invasion, in fact.”

“Then you might be all right without sashes,” Oplak admitted.  “Not much taste for fighting anymore.  Not in the cold.  But bandits are bandits,” he shrugged, as if it was a rule of nature. 

“So they are,” Rondal agreed.  “We would rather avoid any unnecessary conflict.  My friend seeks to inquire about some horse trading, nothing more,” he assured.  He pulled a silver penny out of his purse and held it out to the gurvan, who extended his claw and accepted it into his palm.  It was gone under his cloak in a moment, and a moment after that it re-emerged bearing two pale yellow sashes of linen that were dirty and stained.  Rondal accepted them with a bit of ceremony and passed one to Tyndal.

“You seek . . . horses?” the old gurvan asked, his big black eyes flicking between the men and their mounts.  His dark lips curled as he pronounced the word.  “Good eating, horses.  Better than man-flesh.  But goat is better than both,” he opined. 

Rondal was no expert on gurvani physiology, save where the best targets for his blade might lie, but it was clear from the rheumy eyes and the poor condition of the gurvan’s hair that hunger was a problem, here.

“I’m partial to goat, myself,” Rondal said, ignoring the obvious attempt by the gurvan to disturb them, as he pulled the yellow sash over his head.  “But it really depends on how you prepare it.”

“Roast it over fire,” the gurvan agreed.  “Baste it in fat.  Salt.  Herbs,” the Oplak said a dreamy tone coming into his voice as he recalled the flavor of roasted goat.  “That’s good eating!”

“I take it your folk have had a rough time of it this winter, Master Oplak?” Tyndal asked, glancing around as more and more gurvani began to emerge from their homes.

“We’ve been eating potatoes,” the old gurvan spat, his lip curling as he said the word.  “A little maize.  Worse than last winter.  Things haven’t been the same since the humani left,” he said, wistfully. 

“You mean the human slaves?” Tyndal asked, pointedly.  Oplak shrugged again, as if the status of the humans wasn’t the issue.

“They knew how to . . . to farm,” he revealed.  “When they were here, we had bread.  Beer.  Goat.  Now . . . we have maize.  And potatoes.  And no more goats.  Or humani.”  It was clear Oplak considered the former slaves to be one more foodstuff, not merely free labor.

Tyndal glanced at Rondal for a moment, his expression a mixture of sympathy and disgust.  “Well, that is unfortunate,” Tyndal admitted.  “This is a hard land to make a living on even in the best of years.  Would this help?” he asked, fingering one of his rings.  A moment later an overfilled sack appeared at his feet.

The gurvani gasped, and stepped back from the sudden appearance.  Oplak, to his credit, did not seem surprised, but he sniffed at the sack suspiciously.

“Ajaka.  Beans,” he translated. While impressed at its manifestation, he did not seem particularly enthused about the fare.  “Beans are . . . beans,” he sighed.  “You have our gratitude.”

“All in the interest of good relations,” Tyndal agreed.  “Please, take it with our compliments.  May it help you and your folk get through this winter.”

Olpak considered the sack, and then the two wizards, before heaving a great sigh.  “I will lead you to the road,” he suggested.  “So you don’t lose your way.”

Rondal suspected that the old chieftain would, indeed, protect them from the gurvani bandits that were inevitably lurking in the scrub along the way far more than the dirty yellow sashes would. 

“We would be most grateful, Master Oplak,” he said, bowing courteously.  “Bloog odar,” he added, in gurvani.

Oplak grunted and turned, nodding towards his people before leading them past the well.  The moment they passed it he could hear the rest of the village descend on the sack of dried beans and begin to argue over it in their guttural tongue.

“You speak Narasi very well,” Rondal praised, trying to overlook the tumult behind them.

“Your gurvani is . . . adequate,” Oplak complimented in return.  “I learned as overseer of the humani workers.”

“Slaves,” Tyndal corrected.  Oplak shrugged, as if the distinction was meaningless. 

“It is not a hard language, but has many new words,” the chieftain continued, conversationally.  “Plow.  Horse.  Bread.  Cheese,” he said, the disgust in his voice obvious.  The gurvani, like most Alon, were morbidly fascinated by cheese, Rondal had often noted.  To the goblins, the idea of stealing the milk of an animal and then fermenting it was abhorrent.  Milk was for infants, and only from the mother, amongst most Alon cultures.

“We’re gratified by your interest, Master Oplak,” Rondal assured him, diplomatically.  “I’m curious about something: if your people face hunger this winter, have you no lords you can appeal to for alms?  Your king, perhaps?”

That earned Rondal a derisive snort from the gurvan, and a long side-eyed look – a particular disturbing expression coming from a goblin.

“King?” he asked, sarcastically.  “He keeps the peace amongst the tribes.  He keeps us from being impressed into the armies of the Great God.  He makes sure there is barley for beer.  He does not give us food.  We must make the food.”

“In human societies, the lord of a people is responsible for their welfare, not just their security,” Rondal explained to him.  “There is little use in protecting a people who are starving.”

“King cannot pull food out of his arse,” Oplak grunted.  “He cannot conjure it, like wizards do.  He feeds himself and his court.  We must struggle on our own,” he pronounced, bitterly.  “But it is better than serving in the army.”

That evoked a chuckle from Tyndal.  “Master Oplak, I cannot argue with that.  Our friend Gurkarl found his service to Sheruel less than satisfactory.”

The mention of Gurkarl’s name brought the gurvan to a halt.  He stared at Tyndal, as if he was suspicious.  “You know Gurkarl?  The Prorok?” he asked, skeptically.

“We had the honor of being his jailers, for a time,” Rondal admitted.  “And we hosted him when he negotiated the treaty with our master.  We’ve had a few adventures together.  He’s a friend of ours,” he assured him.  “Quite a nice fellow, too.  Very well read.”

“The Prorok has been here many times,” Oplak revealed, in a respectful tone.  “He has preached to us.  Promises better times.  He gives us some hope.”

“Hope for what?” Tyndal asked, as they continued walking.

“Better times,” Oplak sighed.  “He speaks of learning some humani ways.  He speaks of returning to the old ways – before the Great God came.  He is as wise as a shaman,” he said, reverently.  “He says the Great God lies to us.  He says the Alka Alon lie to us.”

“Well, I can’t fault him for that,” Rondal agreed.  “And your people agree?”

“Some,” Oplak admitted.  “Some believe in the Great God’s promise.  But our bellies were full of vengeance long ago.  Still, we starve.  Only fewer of us, now,” he added, quietly.  “My people do not know what to believe.  Are humani the enemy?  When they show us so many better ways?  Are they friends, when they hunt us like animals?  What to think?” he asked, his voice filled with frustration. 

“It’s a complicated situation,” Tyndal nodded, sympathetically.  “We feel much the same, in many ways.  “Tell me, how did you get along with the humani, when they were here?  And you weren’t eating them?”

“Well,” Oplak admitted.  “They worked in the day.  We worked in the night.  They taught us herding.  They tried to teach us to grow wheat.  Everyone had food.  Mostly,” he added.  “Then the king took them away from us, and we went back to hunting.  It’s easier than growing wheat.”

“But produces far less food,” Rondal pointed out.  “A goat will feed you for three days.  A successful crop will feed you for a whole winter.”

“It’s too hard,” complained the chieftain, as they came to the main road.  “Too much work, too much to pay attention to.  Horses?  Plows?  Millers?  It’s easier to herd.  Hunt.  Plant potatoes,” he said, his lip curling automatically.  “Kral Krebhet is in that direction.  I wish you a good journey,” he said, giving the two men one last thoughtful look.  “And if you see the Prorok, tell him Oplak is still waiting,” he said, as he turned back toward the path to the village.

“Waiting for what?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Better times,” the gurvan said, over his shoulder, without stopping.

“Well, that was . . . depressing,” Tyndal remarked, as they mounted their horses.

“No more than coming to a village of starving human peasants,” Rondal considered. 

“Except that they probably have eaten a village of starving human peasants,” Tyndal countered.  “Did you see that place?  Can you imagine living here under . . . their rule?” he asked, clearly disturbed by the encounter.

“So why did you give them a sack of beans?  And why are you carrying around a sack of beans?” Rondal asked, as they started down the road, side by side.

“Rael suggested it,” Tyndal admitted.  “She warned me what we might find, and what kind of trade goods might be helpful.  She was right.  Apparently, starvation is a serious problem for Ashakarl’s enclave.”

“The gurvani don’t have a lot of body fat, like we do,” Rondal reasoned.  “And they prefer a lot more protein in their diet.   Winters are harder for them, despite their furry coats.”

“They do tend to stand out in the snow,” Tyndal agreed.  “Back in the Winter War that made them a lot easier to fight.”

“My point is that they just don’t have the capacity to maintain the kind of organization needed to grow grain,” Rondal explained.  “You need to do everything just right to get a crop sown, grown, and harvested.  That means animal husbandry, use of a plow and a hoe, and a lot of patience.  And then you have to harvest properly, store the grain properly . . . and that’s before you mill it properly.  And then bake it.  Which requires fuel.  But it also gives you the security that you’ll make it to spring.  All of it requires organization . . . and these poor bastards don’t seem to have much of that.”

“They’re a warrior culture,” Tyndal argued.  “Warriors hunt, when they aren’t fighting.  They don’t grow grain.”

“Without Huin’s blessing, we all starve in the winter,” Rondal pointed out.

“Without Duin’s vigilance, we all get slain by our hungry neighbors in the winter,” Tyndal countered.  “But I take your point.  It seems these tribal gurvani have some difficult cultural decisions to make.  It makes me wonder just what kind of nonsense Gurkarl has been preaching to them.”

“Whatever it is, it’s having an effect,” Rondal observed.  “Did you see how respectful he was of Gurkarl?  And his message?  That’s the first time I’ve ever met a gurvani who wasn’t in awe of Sheruel.”

“It’s interesting,” Tyndal admitted, with a sigh.  “I think Korbal’s betrayal woke a lot of them up to Sheruel’s lies.  But when you’ve been desperate for long enough, you’re like to believe anything that gives you some hope.  Of vengeance, or just better times.”

“Vengeance is easier to manage,” Rondal considered.  “Especially when you can eat your enemies.  Promising better times seems a lot harder.”

“The promising isn’t hard,” Tyndal pointed out.  “It’s the delivery that’s problematic.  Yet old Oplak seemed genuinely intrigued by what Gurkarl is preaching.  And decidedly against marching off to war again.  Perhaps peace and prosperity do have a market, in the Goblin Kingdom.”

“But how will they make it happen?” Rondal challenged.  “If they don’t grow wheat, then they’re going to starve in the winter.  You saw how many gurvani were in that village – how soon until the hunting around here is exhausted?  If it isn’t already?   Without their human slaves, they seemed destined for famine and death, regardless of what they believe.”

“It’s not our problem to solve,” Tyndal insisted.  “I feel bad for the poor bastards . . . but I feel a lot worse for the humans who built that village in the first place and lost it to them.  Those gurvani are living off the corpse of human civilization, here.  There’s only so much meat on those bones,” he warned.

“It does make me wonder just what will come of the Goblin Kingdom, even if it isn’t wiped out by Sheruel,” Rondal speculated.  “Ashakarl has managed peace and independence, but it doesn’t seem very sustainable.  If he can’t feed his people, how can he lead them?  Eventually it’s all just going to collapse.”

“There’s not much of it left to collapse,” Tyndal observed, grimly, as they passed a ruined, burned-out cottage near the road.  “But let’s suspend our judgement until we see Ashakarl’s capital.”

The miles passed quickly, once they were on the road, but the landscape only seemed to become more and more dreary.  They passed several tiny settlements of gurvani along the way, clusters of one or two old farmsteads that were inhabited by dozens more gurvani than they could comfortably hold.  Some had been obviously burned and then crudely repaired.  Sometimes they passed individual gurvani trudging down the road miserable in the cold.  The more affluent among them had human-made cloaks.  The poorer ones went naked, save for a necklace or a belt.  None of them looked particularly happy to be awake during the day, and out in the cold.

None of them gave them any trouble, though, Rondal noticed.  Even those who bore weapons – usually a spear, or a bow, or one of those iron-headed cudgels the goblins favored – gave the two wizards no more than a casual glance.  Rondal found their indifference unnerving, after spending almost half of his life being fearful of the gurvani.  But he was grateful they weren’t forced to fight their way to Kral Krebhet. 

They were just shy of a mile from the town when they happened across the first human they’d seen: a scrawny old peasant bundled up in furs and a cloak leading a two-wheeled cart full of firewood pulled by a donkey.  Tyndal insisted on stopping the man.

“Ho, there!” he called.  “Are we on the road to Kral Krebhet, Goodman?”

The peasant snorted, then spat.  “Where else in three hells would you be going?” he asked, with a sneer.  “You fellows from the Magelaw?”

“We are,” Rondal agreed.  “We’re just curious why you aren’t there, where you can be free.”

“I’m no freer there than I am here,” the man said, proudly.  “The scrugs know how to work iron, but they struggle with copper and tin.  I’m a tinsmith,” he revealed.  “The only one in Kral Krebhet.”

“And you find that gainful employment?” Tyndal asked in surprise. 

“No worse than it was when I served a human lord,” the man agreed.  “Better, in some ways.  I can charge what I like for my services, as there are no other tinsmiths around.  The scrugs don’t force me to pay tribute.  Or rent.  They like a good kettle as much as any man. I make a good living,” he said, almost guiltily.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll end up in the kettle, yourself?” Rondal asked, genuinely curious about what would compel a man to stay in a place where he was constantly under threat of being consumed by his neighbors.  The tinsmith shrugged.

“Not in town.  The scrugs there are civilized.  It would be impolite to eat a man they do business with.  And who would mend their pots if they ate me?  Nay, it’s no worry,” he dismissed.  “There’s food enough in the market, most weeks.  As long as you have a few pennies in your purse, there’s no threat of that.”

“But you could make a lot more in Vanador,” Rondal proposed.  “A good smith there does very well.”

“And I’d have plenty of competition,” the man agreed, sourly.  “But the only tinsmith in Kral Krebhet does quite well for himself.  I’ve made some coin.  Bought me a pretty wife.  No taxes, no tribute, no godsdamned priests with their hand out all the time, a man can do business in peace, here,” he argued.  “I’m respected, here.  In the Magelaw I’d just be another artisan.  Here, with the scrugs, I’m the king of tinsmiths!” he said, proudly. 

Rondal looked at the man skeptically.  He tried not to be judgmental, but considering all he had gone through in the struggle against the gurvani, the free admission that the man was – at best – a collaborator with the gurvani made his blood boil.

“Well, every man wants to be a king,” Rondal said, in a low voice.  “I cannot fault you for your ambitions, Goodman.  I just wondered what would possess a man to stay here, when freedom beckons.”

“Take that, for your ‘freedom’!” he said, snapping his fingers derisively.  “Does it matter whether a man’s lord is human or scrug?”

“You’d eschew the protection of Luin’s law, Duin’s sword, and Huin’s bread?” Tyndal asked, amused.  “All for a little respect and a little silver?”

“It’s a hard world, isn’t it?” the man sneered.  “A man has to do what he thinks best for his future.  The scrugs, they need me,” he insisted.  “They need the lot of us humani, those what stayed.  They aren’t smart enough to run things on their own, you see, whatever pretensions they have,” he confided.  “We could have fled with the rest of them, when the treaty was announced, but we were smart enough to know where we were needed most.”

“Then Fortune favor you, Goodman,” Tyndal said, before Rondal could mount a reply that suited his temper.  “May you see a bountiful return on your investment.”

They waited until they were far beyond the tinsmith’s earshot before they spoke.

“I don’t think I liked him,” Tyndal began.

“He was just doing what was in his best interest,” Rondal reminded him, sarcastically.  “What would you wager that he hid during the invasion, and then stood calmly by while his neighbors were rounded up and put in chains?”

“He seems the type,” Tyndal agreed.  “Kral Krebhet can keep him.  Are all the humans here going to be like that, I wonder?” he asked, as they rounded a curve that brought the town into view.  They paused a moment to survey it, before they continued.

The keep was perched on a hill more than three hundred feet above the road, a strong wooden palisade mounted with three large wooden towers, and a gatehouse of stone.  The keep itself was large, though not as grand as even Boval Castle had been.  It boasted one square stone tower four stories tall, with a crenelated roof; the rest was a stout construction of timber, interlocking chambers and towers that overlooked the walls menacingly.  The roofs of residential halls could be seen over the curtain wall, high-peaked, thatched, and glazed in snow and icicles.

The town below was largely confined to one long High Street along the highway.  There was no wall around it, but there was a large gatehouse with a portcullis that screened the town from easy entry.  The ramshackle halls and storefronts that lined the High Street had a shabby appearance, over the gate, most no higher than two stories.  The only exception was a temple whose broken spire rose another story before breaking off in a ruin that had never been repaired. 

There were smaller lanes that intersected the main road and led off in various directions.  Rows of post-and-beam halls and cottages were crammed along them.  But then the lanes entered the stony countryside.  There could not have been more than a hundred buildings in the entire town, in Rondal’s estimation. 

But between the buildings and stretching across what must have once been the village commons was a vast sea of tents, primitive huts, and makeshift shelter of all sort.  Even though it was the middle of the day, a time when most gurvani preferred to sleep, there were hundreds of goblins wandering listlessly around the town, or employed in work gangs. 

Some wore human-style clothing, while others sufficed with a mere cloak, sheepskin, or even a threadbare blanket.  Every time the winter winds blew, they slitted their eyes and pulled their clothes around them as they stumbled across the dirty snow on their errands.  Most had bare feet, Rondal noted, though a few wore shoes and even stockings.

There were plenty of humans in evidence, too, most bent at labor or trudging toward their destinations on business.  Except for their faces and their height, they looked much like the gurvani majority.  Including their miserable expressions.

It was an entirely surreal sight, to Rondal’s mind.  Tyndal must have felt similarly.  He sat back on his gelding and heaved a deep sigh.

“Welcome to Goblin Town,” he announced, quietly.

Chapter Seven

The Lonesome Stone

It has oft occurred to me that solving other people’s problems is frequently easier in scope and complexity than solving your own.  To an outsider, the answers are often simple and easy to see.  But when we are too invested in the problem, we cling to that which, through ignorance or laziness, we are unwilling to solve.  Seeing the sad state of the Goblin Kingdom reminded me of that.  It’s easy enough for me to say ‘with a little bit of effort and hard work, all would be well’, and look down upon them for their lack.  But, in truth, I would resent anyone who came to Callierd and said the same to me. 

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

Traffic near the city gate was as busy as it was at any municipal center of its size, Tyndal noted.  There were guards in the gatehouse, big, bulky hobgoblins wearing simple iron helms and carrying spears and clubs.  They looked as bored as any sentry, anywhere, who is not being directly observed by a superior, Tyndal thought.  Perhaps more so, for in the light of day their half-slitted eyes made them appear even less interested in attending to their duties. 

A pair of goblins lurked in the upper story, bows in hand as they surveyed the passers-by below.  A black-and-red banner bearing a gurvani club and a sword flanking a jagged rune flew over the gatehouse.  It looked like a bloody slash across a dirty towel.  The gurvani saw color differently with those big eyes, he knew.

The sentries perked up as the two approached the gate.  They were the only travelers mounted on horses, Tyndal saw, and they drew special attention.

“Truce!” Tyndal said, gesturing toward his yellow sash. 

“Humani,” the hobgoblin Ancient in charge of the post pronounced, as he stood in front of the horses with a halberd in his hands.  He wore no trousers, but his leather coat of iron plates hung to his knees, and he wore a well-crafted round helm that had seen plenty of action.  A tabard dyed a dark burgundy hung from his shoulders, bearing another gurvani rune in yellow.  His Narasi was far better than Oplank’s to Tyndal’s ear. 

He was much larger, too.  Hobgoblins were eunuchs, castrated in adolescence by Sheruel’s shamans to produce a larger, stronger soldier with more endurance.  That also made them less aggressive and more obedient than your average gurvani warrior.  Tyndal had noted that oftentimes they ended up as petty officers.  Some of them were quite intelligent, he knew.  “What is your business in Kral Krebhet?” the hobgoblin asked, brusquely.

“We seek our old friend Gurkarl,” Tyndal answered.  “We wish an introduction to the King to discuss the sale of horses.”

“Horses?  Are you a cook?” laughed the hobgoblin roughly.  “We ride hounds, here.”

“You have plenty of humani who use them,” Rondal pointed out.  “It’s good to find new breeding stock.”

“That’s not something I’d know much about,” snorted the hobgoblin. 

“This region once produced some of the finest horses in the Wilderlands,” Tyndal informed him.  “We’re hoping a few lines managed to avoid the soup pot.  We heard that farmers here were using trained destriers to plow fields.  I have silver to purchase such steeds,” he said, producing a purse from a hoxter and jingling the coin.

The Ancient shrugged.  “They like silver, up at the palace.  You may pass.  Though there is a fee . . .” he added, grinning ghoulishly.

“Of course there is,” Tyndal agreed, pulling a coin from the pouch and flipping it to the Ancient.  It was a silver Tower coin, a heavy one-ounce coin of the Magelaw, nearly perfectly pure.  It would never tarnish and it would never wear away, the way inferior coinage did.  The Ancient recognized it immediately.

“You’re from Vanador?” he asked, surprised.

“I am the Viscount of Callierd,” Tyndal announced, proudly.  “My friend is the Baron of Oirghort, in the south.  But we are often in Vanador,” he agreed. 

“We’re Magelords,” Rondal added.  That caught the Ancient’s attention more than the coin.

“Wizards!” he said, his eyes opening a bit wider.  “That is news.  Perhaps you can . . .” he began, and then thought better of it.  Instead, he straightened, and brought his halberd up to a semblance of a guard position.  “The gurvan you need to meet with is the General.  Remind him Bargarark of the Gate sent you.”

“The General?” Rondal asked, confused. 

“We’re not looking to be recruited,” Tyndal assured him.  “We just want—”

“Mention my name, and the General will know your meaning.  He is an old comrade of mine,” the hobgoblin confessed.  “He may have news that might interest you.  I shall say no more,” he said, snapping his jaws shut.  “The best inn in Kral Krebhet is the Lonesome Stone.  They serve humani.  That is, they cater to your race, they don’t actually serve human flesh.  They have a stable.  You can afford it, too.  Just past the temple.  Pass!” he directed, courteously.

“That was . . . strange,” Tyndal remarked, as they rode through.  Both gurvani and human pedestrians gave them a wide berth, he saw.  “What use could a gurvani General have with us?”

“I can think of several, and none of them are pleasant,” Rondal agreed.  “Still, I’ll remember the gentlescrug’s name.  He seems to know what’s going on.”

“A city’s gate guard sees a lot,” Tyndal agreed.  “I know my gate captain at Nandine by sight, and have an ale with him every week or so.  It keeps me informed.”

The interior of Kral Krebhet was even more drab than was suggested; the central street’s main gutter was clogged with frozen muck, and the tracks on either side of it had been churned into a muddy nightmare.  It was uncobbled, and despite the fullness of the gutter more refuse had been piled atop, awaiting a thaw to send it – eventually – down to some unfortunate river.  The buildings that lined both sides were soot-stained and poorly tended.  None had been whitewashed for years, Tyndal could see, and the thatch and oak plank rooves were aging and in need of repair.

Hundreds of eyes followed them as they rode down the street.  Tyndal felt very self-conscious, but did his best to put on a brave face, reminding himself that these were no longer his enemies.  His palm itched for the hilt of his sword, though, and it took great restraint to keep from conjuring it. 

But the eyes did not falter.  They were hungry eyes, tired eyes, whether they were human or gurvani.  They were filled with desperation and despair, frustration and misery, Tyndal observed.  They evoked pity as much as they evoked caution.  These were people who had a very little bit to cling to in life, and they were clutching at it with everything they could, while aching for more.  The only good thing about Kral Krebhet, he decided, was that it was slightly better than anyplace else in Gurkarl’s desolate realm.

The inn they’d been directed to was easy to spot.  Clearly, it had been in service since before the invasion, and had all the hallmarks of an ordinary Wilderlands traveler’s inn, from the shrine to Herus abutting one wall to the Luck Tree out front.  There was a decrepit looking sign hanging from a beam over the doorway, a simple rendering of a rock.  Tyndal stared at it as they brought the horses to a halt in the courtyard. 

“Nothing tells a man he’s in for a comforting stay like . . . a rock,” he remarked.

“I’m sure there’s an interesting story behind it,” Rondal suggested.  “I would just think that a place that is renown for its horses would have a more equestrian sounding name.”

“Oh, I just made that up to impress the guard,” Tyndal suggested, as he dismounted.  “I’ve never heard anything special about the horses of this region.  But I doubted he knew that.  But the rock intrigues me, somehow.  The Lonesome Stone?  What kind of name is that?”

“It’s in there,” a young boy of about eleven told them, as he appeared from the stables.  He was scrawny to the point of malnutrition, and his dark hair was so long it hung in his eyes.  He pointed toward the abandoned temple.  “That’s where the stone is.”

“In the temple?  What’s it doing there?” Rondal asked, confused.

“It were a goblin stone, and the monks built a temple around it,” the boy informed them, authoritatively.  “But the monks went away in the invasion, and now the scrugs use the place.  They say it used to draw folk from miles to come see it,” he bragged.

“A goblin stone,” Tyndal nodded, understanding at once.  He’d almost forgotten about those.  They were monoliths erected all over the western reaches of the Wilderlands from some time back in antiquity.  The Wilderlands peasants looked at them as totems of the Mountain Folk, as they had been called then, some shrines to natural gods or their ancestors.  Occasionally they would sport some inscription in the gurvani’s strange written language.  They had been sprinkled all around Boval Vale, and he’d played around them frequently when he was a child.

But the “goblin stones” were actually thaumaturgically active – akin to the spellposts of Sevendor and Vanador – vessels for enchantment that were more or less permanent.  In the case of the goblin stones the purpose was at least in part psychomantic, Tyndal knew from experience.  The far-flung network of stones had been used by Sheruel and his shamans to encourage his troops into a killing rage, and the humans of the Wilderlands to flee in despair.  And they might have other uses, he knew.  Insidious things.

But it explained, in part, why Ashakarl had put his capital here.

“Is there vacancy at the inn?” Rondal inquired, handing the reigns to the boy along with a copper penny. 

“Aye, plenty of rooms,” the boy assured them.  “What fine horses!  Do they need to be fed?”

“Please,” Rondal agreed.  “Give them hay and water, too.  How is the ale, here?”

“We have proper ale, not just the swill the scrugs drink,” he assured them as he led the horses away.  “Best ale in twenty miles!”

“I have no doubt,” Tyndal murmured, as he took a moment to take a piss on the Luck Tree. 

A fixture of Wilderlands taverns and inns, the customary old tree in the courtyard was a grotesque root ball that had been unearthed and then buried upside down.  But instead of the usual festive decorations that often graced a Luck Tree this time of year – evergreen boughs, ribbons, effigy dolls woven of corn husks, left over from harvest – the sad specimen he pissed against looked forlorn and melancholy.  There were faces carved in it, crude renditions of expressions of pain and agony.  A few skulls had been hacked into its trunk, he saw, along with plenty of graffiti in both Narasi and gurvani. 

“This place has seen some history,” he observed, quietly, as he finished.

“I’m surprised it survived,” Rondal agreed.  “It bore the brunt of the invasion, after all.  I think the people fled as fast as they could, and the scrugs took the town more or less intact.”

Tyndal nodded in agreement as they opened the door and went inside. He was curious to see an inn or tavern in scrug country.

It was both warmer and much darker within the inn.  It was far shabbier than the establishments he frequented, when he had need of an inn.  Threadbare tapestries – painted, not embroidered, he noted – with faded scenes of Wilderlords hunting and priests praying adorned the walls, covered in dust.  The trophies that had accumulated in the rafters of the great room seemed pathetic, compared to his beloved Randy Rouncey, which sported hunting horns, boar spears, storied weapons too battered to be of use and banners of local lords who patronized the establishment.  

Instead there were broken treasures of the Wilderfolk gathered and displayed as a kind of museum of the culture that had once dwelt here.  A broken wooden horse toy hung from one rafter, a tattered quilt of unusual design and questionable artistic value dangled from another, while a host of broken baskets and cracked pottery balanced on planks between the beams. 

There was a half-hearted shrine near the great fireplace, on which a pot of some stew simmered, where a few burned-out tapers had been lit in front of the crude effigies of the gods.  What little light came in was from a window, high up in the roof, a gable that faced the south.  It had to fight its way through a haze of dusty, sooty cobwebs, though.  Whatever its other amenities, fussy housekeeping was not a priority at the Lonesome Stone.

“It’s as charming as advertised,” Rondal observed, as their eyes became accustomed to the light.  “Usually, the sign over-sells the luxury of a place, but I think this one lives up to its name.”

“Do you lords need lodging?” a creaky voice with a heavy Wilderlands brogue asked.  A tall, skinny man emerged from the shadows. 

“A room, if you please, and a few pints,” Tyndal ordered, as they found two stools near the fire.  “We’d like a little something to eat, too, before we head up to the castle.”

“Oh?  You have business at the palace, do you?” the innkeeper asked, as he sauntered over to his bar and selected two pewter cups – clearly some of his finest tableware.

“We just want a moment with King Ashakarl,” Rondal explained.  “It’s more of a social call than anything.  Maybe we’ll discuss a little business,” he revealed, casually, as the innkeeper poured their glasses full from an earthenware jug.

“Better wait until after supper, then,” the innkeeper suggested.  “It’s still daylight.  His Majesty won’t be awake until after dusk.”

“I wondered how the gurvani would contend with ruling a diurnal species,” Rondal said, taking a sip of ale. 

“Oh, they have human servants to see to the daylight,” the innkeeper assured, as he replaced the jug on the bar.  “When one lot goes to bed, the other is rising.  Most business gets done at night, when the scrugs are lively, though.  Pickles?” he offered, hesitantly.  “It’s included with your fare,” he added.

“Then yes, pickles,” Tyndal agreed.  He was curious what the local cuisine was like.  “Do you get a lot of visitors to the palace lodging here, then?”

“The human ones, aye,” the man nodded as he poured out a portion of pickles into a pinewood bowl and placed them on the wall bar between them.  Tyndal sipped his ale.  It wasn’t bad, he decided.  But he’d sack his own barman if he’d served it at the Rouncey.  “This is the fanciest place in Kral Krebhet, apart from the palace,” the innkeeper explained. “Scrugs stay at their own places, down the road.  Oh, they come in for a drink or a snack, sometimes, if they like human fare, but mostly they stay on their side of the street and we stay on ours.”

“Well, you cannot beat an inn like this for its authenticity,” Tyndal agreed.  The pickles were dark and sweet, dyed an obnoxious green color but well-spiced.  The vinegar was starting to turn, though, he thought.  “What news from the palace, then?” he asked, conversationally.  Innkeepers were notorious gossips, just like gate guards, in his experience.

“Oh, the usual politics,” the man said, distastefully.  “Skirmishes on the frontier, threats from the Penumbra, and that lot of shamans that came here a few weeks back.  Urgulnosti,” he said, pronouncing the word with a sneer.  “Haven’t seen that lot since I came here.”

“Why did you come here?” Rondal asked, a little more directly.  The innkeeper looked at him in surprise. 

“I had to!” he insisted.  “I had a nice place down at the old capital, in Presan, but when those dark elves came in and starting killing us out of hand and stirring up trouble, I had to make a choice, didn’t I?  I came with His Majesty.  He protected his loyal humani,” he said, proudly.  “Besides, I have the fanciest inn in Kral Krebhet.  It’s a good trade, here.  The scrugs know they can trust me,” he said, as he lifted a basket up into the rafters.

As he did so, his sleeve fell down his arm, exposing a distinctive brand.  Tyndal recognized it at once, and his breath caught.  It was the brand used on the Soulless, those human captives who’d proven their loyalty to their new gurvani masters by slaying five of their fellow humans in cold blood.  According to the temples, five murders consumed your soul, or so it was said. 

He immediately opened the mind-to-mind spell to Rondal.

Do you realize that our gracious host is a murderer? he asked.

I saw it too, Rondal replied, grimly.  But he does run the fanciest inn in town, he reminded him.

I wonder who runs the second-fanciest inn in town? Tyndal mused.

“But them urgulnosti have been raising a fuss,” the innkeeper continued.  “They’re sent by Sheruel.  The Great Ghost is back in the Black Vale, it’s said,” he related, in an anxious tone of voice.  “Not many here are pleased to hear that.”

“You don’t like Sheruel?” Tyndal teased.  “From what I understand, he’s a charming fellow.”

“Don’t know about that,” the man said, uneasily.  “But he does have a desire to bring Ashakarl back under his command.  He sent his ambassadors to seek terms.”

“I don’t recall Sheruel having much of a reputation for negotiation,” Tyndal observed, trying another pickle.  They grew on you, he decided. 

“He doesn’t,” the man agreed, his voice a near whisper.  “That’s what concerns us.”

“Us?” Rondal prompted.

“The humani who live here,” he explained, worriedly.  “If Sheruel takes over, his folk aren’t going to be kind to us.  Not the way Ashakarl is.  He’s fair,” he emphasized.  “He don’t favor scrug over man, in most ways.  Both got our places, he says.  He pays for good and loyal service, and that’s what we give him.”

“So if Sheruel takes power . . . it’s the soup pot,” Tyndal predicted.

“Or worse,” the man nodded, gravely.  “There are worse things than the soup pot.  The scrugs are good at that – pain,” he said, shaking his head.  “They know all about pain.  It’s more than a decent man can think about,” he said with a shudder.  “But His Majesty doesn’t have truck with that.  We all got our places,” he repeated, firmly.  “Gods love him, but Ashakarl keeps his word with us!”

“An admirable feature in a ruler,” Tyndal agreed.  “Has Korbal made similar overtures to Ashakarl?” he asked, curiously.

“Nay, nay, the scrugs kicked the dark elves clean out of Kral Krebhet,” he assured.  “His Majesty has no truck with their sort, either.  They act lordly, but they’re evil.  They’ll kill a man for spite or fun and think nothing of it.  Like killing a dog.  The scrugs are rough customers, but you can respect them.  The dark elves?” he said, shaking his head.  “They treat us all like week-old shit.  No need for them, here!

“Now, you fellows want a nap before supper?” he suggested.  “It’s stew, a bit of mutton and a bit of pork, nothing special.  But we have good bread,” he insisted.  “Best bread in Kral Krebhet.  My wives make it.  Served with real butter.”

“A nap might be a good idea,” Rondal agreed.  “If Ashakarl isn’t going to awaken until dusk, we might be up late.”

“I could nap,” Tyndal agreed, finishing his ale.

“Would you like something to warm your beds, too?” the man prompted.  “I have a full staff.  I got a fifteen and a sixteen year old, not too ugly but the older one is missing some teeth.  And for an additional fee I have an eleven year old.  Just got her,” he said, proudly.  “Barely been touched yet.  She squirms a bit, but she’ll show you a good time.”

Tyndal stared at Rondal when he realized what the man was proposing.  He stifled an urge to burn him down on the spot, recalling that Minalan wanted this matter handled discreetly. 

We are guests, here, Rondal reminded him, mind-to-mind.  It was clear he was as appalled as Tyndal.

“No, thank you,” Tyndal replied, lightly.  “We are newly wed,” he explained.

“Oh?  Well, Trygg’s blessings upon you!” the man said with a grin.  “That don’t mean you have to be lonely as the Stone, as they say.  Seeing as it is off-season, and you are gentlemen, I can get you all three for half price, if you want.  Or I have a stableboy, if you’re feeling . . . exotic,” he proposed with a leer.

“We are fine,” Rondal said, a little more firmly.  “Just the room and supper.  One doesn’t want to appear before the king smelling of a whore,” he suggested.

“Aye, aye, a good point,” the innkeeper sighed.  “Scrugs got the damnedest sense of smell.  Wouldn’t be respectful.  No worries, I can have them ready for when you return, if you change your mind.  They’ll be a bit sleepy, but they’ll perk up at the sight of you,” he suggested.

“We . . . we will keep that in mind,” Tyndal said, gently.  His mind was spinning.  He was really having a difficult time controlling himself.

“Suit yourselves, then . . .” the man said, as he retreated to the back room of the inn.

“That was a very disturbing offer,” Rondal murmured into his ale.

“I very nearly ended him,” Tyndal replied in the same low voice.

“You are a credit to your marriage vows,” Rondal praised.  “Some men would be tempted.”

“It’s not a temptation.  I can see a teenager working an inn,” Tyndal sighed.  “I have no problems with whores.  I once knew a comely innkeeper’s daughter who would occasionally offer a guest a bit of comfort for a bit of compensation,” he admitted.  “But it was an honest transaction.  I never thought anything of it.  Lovely girl.  She did her work with pride.  But this . . .  eleven?” he asked in disbelief.

“This is a desperate place,” Rondal reminded him.  “Filled with desperate people.  This entire kingdom is nothing more than an armed refugee camp with a flag – for both human and gurvani.  The scrugs can’t or wont go back to Sheruel.  Or Korbal.  And it looks like the humans can’t or won’t go back to our civilization.”

“Do you realize what they would do to our host, back in Vanador?” Tyndal asked.

“I do,” Rondal nodded.  “He’s wise to stay here.  Where he is respected,” he enunciated, distastefully.  “He’s just providing a valuable service.  Like the local tinsmith.  Face it, Tyn, this place will never be like a normal town.  Its filled with the dregs of two societies, perched on the arse end of the Wilderlands in the most piss poor land you could ask for.  It can’t trust its allies any more than its enemies.  Politically, its only reason for existence is desperation,” he argued.

“You can smell it,” Tyndal realized.  The mixture of dust, soot, snow, and the foulness that accumulated in the gutter outside all mixed in his nostrils with the aroma of souring sweet pickles and mediocre ale.  But there was a distinctive smell behind it, he noticed.  A cloying stench he identified as pure desperation.  The smell of nervous sweat, urine, vomit and . . . whatever the gurvani did when they were nervous – the scrugs weren’t particularly wholesome smelling on the best of days.  “There’s a pall of it over this place,” he pronounced.

“Perhaps it’s the Stone,” Rondal suggested.  “Maybe it’s still broadcasting little seeds of insecurity.”

“That’s a thought,” Tyndal agreed.  “We’ll take a look on our way to the palace.  If Sheruel is back in power, he could be using them to instill feelings of insecurity and anxiousness.  That’s solid psychomantic work.”

“Of course we have no idea about how to counter it, apart from some wards,” Rondal observed.  “And I doubt the royal shamans would approve of that sort of thing.”

“Nor would it be discreet,” Tyndal agreed.  “But it would be fascinating intelligence to know.”

“Let’s just go see it now,” Rondal proposed, rising from his stool.  “While it’s still light out.  It will be less creepy that way,” he suggested, pulling his cloak around him. 

“If the alternative is another ale . . . well, yes,” Tyndal sighed, and followed suit. 

They walked next door to the ruins of the old temple.  While dedicated to Huin, the Tiller, in the optimistic hope that the Holy Sower would bring prosperous harvests of the community, the temple nave had the usual shrines to the other prominent deities. 

Or it least it once had.  The idols had been defaced and degraded over the course of the occupation.  Graffiti and filth had been applied to the sacred statues with appalling care.  Several lacked heads or hands or both, and all trace of ornamentation had long been pilfered. 

Silently they made their way up the stone stairs passed the blasphemies so casually on display.  They used magesight to peer ahead into the gloom of the sanctuary.  That was where the famous Stone was situated.

It looked similar to the goblin stones he remembered from his childhood, Tyndal knew.  Dark, smooth, cut from a single block and painstakingly hauled across the Wilderlands sometime in antiquity.  He and Minalan had examined one, once, during his early apprenticeship – about the time he had to flee his homeland.  He recalled very little about it.  In truth, he’d not had the education or experience to examine it properly.

But that was years ago, and he had mastered more magics than most wizards since then.  And he had powerful tools at his disposal. 

He quietly manifested his thaumaturgical baculus, Grapple, a magical rod of great usefulness when it came to the mysteries of the arcane.  It was equipped with a paraclete of great sophistication, a spirit from ancient oceans which enjoyed an insatiably curious nature.  When applied to such mysteries, it was adept at revealing the hidden depths of the arcane matters it encountered.  Particularly since the second Snowstone spell, Tyndal realized, as the staff pulsated in his hand.  It seemed almost sentient, these days.

“It’s decidedly active,” Tyndal pronounced, as Rondal manifested his own baculus, Bulwark, and joined the examination.  “Very low octave power.  That’s useful for psychomantics.”

“It’s connected,” Rondal observed, as his artifact interpreted the energies around the stone.  “Earth energy, but not in a gradient, like the output.  It’s more a matter of attunement.  A reflection, almost, or a resonance.  But the spells are gurvani, or some other Alon magic.  I don’t understand the architecture.”

“It’s enough to know it’s active,” Tyndal said, as he circled around the dark, hulking stone.  Through the baculus he could see the arcane structure throb with the regularity of a heartbeat, vibrating in a morbid pattern that spread its influence.  The spell was decidedly psychomantic. 

He’d dabbled in Blue Magic for years – the art of magically affecting emotions, moods, thoughts and feelings.  It was a fascinating field on its technical merits – but, like necromancy, it could easily be abused.  He’d done so himself, in little ways over the years.  Sometimes he even felt guilty about it.

But his baculus reported that the psychomantic output from the spell was not a mere manipulation of a lonely girl’s affections; it attacked some very dark portions of the psyche, he realized to his horror.  Not acutely, he saw, but a constant nagging doubt about just about everything.  A feeling of gloom and ennui that called into question a sane man’s deepest sense of rightness.  It was a slow, slick psychological poison on the soul, he realized, a subtle sewer of sadness and despair. 

“It really is a Lonesome Stone,” Tyndal said, swallowing as his throat dried.  “I thought it just referred to it being here, all by itself, but it’s not.  Its subtle, but it makes you . . . it makes you desperate.  Makes you feel desperate.  It magnifies whatever it is you’re thinking about in the worst possible way.”

“So who is controlling it?” Rondal asked, thoughtfully, as he banished his baculus.

“I would assume . . . Sheruel, or his priests,” Tyndal guessed.  “Or it could be the Enshadowed.  But someone is.  You don’t lug a five ton slab of rock across the wilderness just to make more people sad.”

“It does more than that, presumably,” Rondal said, as he circled the malevolent rock.  “If it can make you despair, then it can also make you optimistic and happy, one would suppose.  But I find the thaumaturgic distribution structure fascinating.”

“Was it a weapon of some sort?  A defense?” Tyndal speculated.  “We don’t even really know if it was the gurvani who made these.  It might have been the Alka Alon.  Or the Karshak.  For any number of reasons.  They had a fair bit of war themselves, once upon a time.”

“This was also where the gurvani rebels fled to, after their revolt,” Rondal informed him.  “There were other Alon who came with them, the records say.  They may have actually been aided by the Alka Alon.  The Enshadowed,” he corrected.  “Sheruel may just be using an artifact they left behind.”

“It would be an ideal way to control a population,” Tyndal suggested.  “A spell like that could keep your people docile and happy about working themselves to death on your behalf.”

“What population?” Rondal pointed out.  “This has been a sparsely peopled region no matter if it was us or the scrugs who lived here.  It’s . . . it’s just a mystery.”

“So what do we do about it?” Tyndal asked, finally banishing his baculus into its hoxter.

“What can we do about it?  It’s enchanted.  Probably resistant to turning it into gravel.  And it would deprive the locals of a tourist attraction.  The best we can do is call it to Gurkarl’s attention, and see if the shamans know anything about it.”

“It’s probably controlled out of the Black Vale, you know,” Tyndal proposed, uneasily.  “That’s where the molopor is.  And the sacred cave.  Home,” he emphasized, darkly.

“That’s what I suspect, too,” Rondal agreed, grimly.  “Well, we’re not about to storm the Black Vale while Sheruel is there just to disable the sad rocks.  They’ll just have to contend with them the best they can.  But it helps explains the décor,” he said, looking around the ruined temple.  “I’m not terribly pious, as a rule, but this . . .”

“I know,” Tyndal sighed, as they headed back toward the inn.  He gave one last look back to the Lonesome Stone.  “It’s depressing.  And offensive.  And . . . desperate.”

Chapter Eight

The Hall Of The Goblin King

Meeting one’s former enemies without killing them is always an interesting occassion.  It is one thing to face a foe across a battlefield, where the social interactions are confined to killing each other.  It is a far more intriguing thing to meet them across a hall or a table, with a drink in your hand, and contend with their myriad of interests and opinions.  Sometimes I think I prefer the former, though it pains me to say it.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

Darkness fell over Kral Krebhet suddenly, as the sun retreated behind the Minden range in the west.  The transition from twilight to night was swift, and reminded Rondal of his childhood in Boval Vale.  There it could go from daylight to shadow to darkness in moments, thanks to how close the mountains were.

But unlike most Wilderlands towns he was used to, the activity in Kral Krebhet did not slow and then cease as the sun went down; on the contrary, it exploded.  Gurvani were nocturnal, after all, and while a tithe of the goblin population stayed awake during the day, the vast majority spent the daylight hours asleep.  Once darkness fell, the nightlife of the place began.

It was fascinating to see, from an outsider’s perspective, he reflected as he and Tyndal mounted the long pathway that led up to the castle.  Instead of closing the marketplace boomed with gurvani vendors replacing their human counterparts in some stalls, and others setting up their temporary booths along the edges of the square for the evening.  Smoke filled the air as campfires and cookfires were started to break the fast of the multitude who emerged from their tents and tenements and crowded the streets.  The murmurs in the background changed from the Narasi brogue of the Wilderlands to the much harsher tones of the gurvani language.

“Is that a scrug tavern?” Tyndal asked, with a yawn, as they rounded a switchback.  An enterprising gurvan had rolled a keg of ale up the slope and had started selling wooden mugs of the drink to passersby.  The gurvan was clearly a veteran – he had lost an eye, and his dark face was hideously scarred from some old action.  Nonetheless the gurvan looked cheerful as he greeted the customers that clustered around his barrel.  Rondal wondered where and how he sustained the injury.  Was one of his own comrades responsible?  Was he?

“I suppose they have their own ways,” Rondal shrugged.  “Don’t forget, the scrugs didn’t have more than tribal villages before all this started.  They aren’t used to the ways of civilization, yet.  They sell beer like alewives.  They’ll figure out taverns eventually,” he predicted.

There was a steady stream of traffic, mostly gurvani, heading up the hill along with them.  To his surprise he and Tyndal did not attract much attention – everyone seemed focused on their own business at the palace, not a couple of humani sightseers.  Rondal was a little surprised.  He had imagined that he would be the object of antipathy the moment he was surrounded by gurvani.  Instead they barely looked at him.  Some even grinned in his direction.

The crowd moved quickly, not slowing appreciably until they entered the gates of the castle.  It was not too different from other Wilderlands castles, he saw, save that the smart-looking soldiers who warded the entrance were covered in black hair.  Most were beefy-looking hobgoblins in matching burgundy tabards, proudly wielding halberds as they guarded the entrance.  There were a few braziers lit for heat and the little bit of light they provided, but beyond that there were no lamps to speak of. 

When the two finally made it to the head of the line they were addressed by a squirrely-looking gurvan whose gray-tinged fur told his age.  He was dressed in a human-style tunic and pants, and his feet bore leather shoes.  He held a sheaf of parchment in his claw, along with a charcoal pencil.

“Your names, my lords?” he asked in perfect Narasi.

“Viscount Tyndal of Callierd, Baron Rondal of Oirghort,” Rondal said, politely.  “We seek an audience with the King.  And a few words with our old friend Gurkarl,” he added.  “We heard he was a guest, here.”

“Oh yes, oh yes,” the gurvan assured them as he scrawled their names on the parchment – in Narasi, Rondal saw.  “Master Gurkarl is a frequent guest of His Majesty.  And you are from . . . Callierd?  Oirghort?” he asked, looking up from the parchment in confusion.

“Just put down ‘the Magelaw’,” Tyndal suggested.  “That would be easier.  And relatively accurate.”

“Thank you,” the official said, as he made a notation.  “His Majesty will have a few hours this evening for audiences, but I caution you that his time is precious, and he may not have enough to see all petitioners.  May I ask the nature of your business?”

“Horse trading,” Rondal answered.  “We want to investigate increasing the trade in horses between our realms.”

“Oh, I do enjoy a bit of horseflesh,” the gurvan said, smacking his lips.  “So tender . . . I shall put you toward the head of the line,” he said, conspiratorially.  “Most of these fellows are just begging for grain or beer or have some grievance with their neighbors.  But His Majesty and his loyal ministers are always interested in increasing trade.”

“Thank you,” Rondal said, amazed at just how efficient the gurvan was. 

“You can wait in the Great Hall, until called.  I’ll make certain they do your summons in Narasi.  Have a good evening, gentlemen!”

“That was easier than I thought,” Tyndal admitted in a low voice as they followed the trail of gurvani into the main keep.  “I was already to offer him a bribe.  That’s what I would do at normal castle.”

“If your bribe came with a saddle and some sauce, he might have taken you up on it,” Rondal chuckled. “But I take your point.  This looks like a fairly well-run place,” he said, looking around at the castle courtyard.

He was a bit of an expert on military fortifications, having had lived in castles of various sorts over his career.  Beyond the architecture and the general condition of the buildings there was a lot a professional military man could tell about a fortification by looking at the little things: how much greenery had been permitted to grow around the castle, how attentive the guards looked, where the sentries were posted and how many were provided for the difficult areas.  The gurvani of Kral Krebhet seemed to be doing as well as any Wilderlord or Riverlord castle he’d ever seen. 

The Great Hall contained a few lamps placed on the supporting pillars, providing at least a little light for the humans in the room.  The place was filling up rapidly with gurvani, from the more civilized sort dressed in doublets and hose to the half-naked tribesmen from the hinterlands.  Many sported a mixture of styles.  But everyone was respectful, he noticed, giving the halberd-bearing guards a wide berth and clustering together in knots across the expansive hall.

Humans, Rondal noted, tended to cluster at the back, near the great fireplace.  There were enough bodies in the room to keep the temperature comfortable, but Rondal and Tyndal sought the heat of the fire anyway for the light it provided.  There was a table set with refreshments nearby, biscuits and human-style ale.  Three other trestles bore the sour, bitter beer the goblins preferred, as well as little balls of fried meat.  Rondal avoided the meat.  He still didn’t trust the gurvani not to feed him human flesh when he was unaware.

“So, this is lovely,” Tyndal noted, looking around the Great Hall in wonder.  “I’ve seen human castles that weren’t this well-kept.”

“Well, it is a royal palace,” Rondal noted.  “You expect a higher level of sophistication for the Goblin King.  I wonder if he hunts and hawks?”

“His Majesty is partial to darts, actually,” came a voice from behind them – a human voice.  They turned to see who addressed them, finding a tall man with a long face and Imperial style beard and mustache.  His hair was long, shoulder length, like a Wilderlord, however.  He was dressed in a long coat that Rondal guessed was Wenshari in origin.  They preferred coats to cloaks.  Instead of a yellow sash, he wore a bright red one with a gurvani glyph on his shoulder in white.

“That’s good to know,” Tyndal said, smoothly, as he offered the man a gentle bow.  “And you are, my lord?”

“I am known as Lord Predavam, in this court,” the man said.  “My real name is Sire Ralune.  I’m an adept, such as yourselves.  You might have heard of me, though.  In some quarters I am known by the amusing nickname of Raglan the Buckler.”

“You’re . . . Buckler?” Rondal asked, his eyes growing wide.  The name was famous: one of several renegade warmagi who had accepted irionite shards in exchange for loyal service to Sheruel. 

“So it is said.  And you gentlemen are Viscount Tyndal and Baron Rondal, late of the Magelaw.  Your reputation precedes you,” he said, graciously.  “I was informed that two adepts had arrived, craving an audience with Ashakarl.  I thought I would introduce myself.”

“A pleasure,” Rondal said, suddenly wary.  “Do you enjoy an official post here at Kral Krebhet?”

“I do.  I am a special marshal in charge of counterintelligence, at the moment.  Well, the actual title doesn’t say anything about that, but that’s what I do.  I take it you two gentlemen are spies, then?” he asked, politely.

“Generally, yes, but this is more of a personal matter,” Rondal answered, knowing that denying their role would fool neither of them.  “We seek Gurkarl, actually, more than an audience with Ashakarl.  Ostensibly we wish to discuss trading horses—”

“Horses?” Predavam asked, with curious interest.  “You have horses for sale?”

“I run several stables of good destriers,” Tyndal answered, proudly.  “Perhaps you’ve come across some of my steeds on the battlefield.  I am captain of the Callierd Knights.”

“I’ve heard of them, but sadly I never crossed lances with your men.  A few skirmishes with the Megelini, and several victorious sorties against the Gilmoran chivalry, but alas, this modern method of warfare discourages a straight-forward joust.  I confess I miss the sport,” he said.  “It has been damnably hard to get quality steeds here, though.  The gurvani do not properly appreciate just how valuable heavy cavalry can be in a fight.  Well, they do,” he admitted with a frown.  “But only as its victims.  They just aren’t built for such games.  They depend on their Hound light cavalry – good troops, but limited in their impact.”

“We’ve been on the other side of a Fell Hound charge,” Tyndal assured him.  “I do not dispute their value.”

“Well, now that we have a treaty, I hope we can come to appreciate the variations on warfare we’ve experienced.  But I must disappoint you on one front: your friend Gurkarl is no longer here.  He left weeks ago,” he reported.

“He has?  For where?” Rondal asked, surprised. 

“We were told he was wintering here,” Tyndal admitted.

“He was – until he wasn’t,” Predavam explained.  “Indeed, I was quite surprised when he left.  He is a very intelligent fellow, and I appreciated his support in council.”

“Gurkarl supported you in council?” Tyndal asked in surprise. 

“Despite our varied backgrounds we share some enemies in common.  In particular, the delegation of urgulnosti priests that have infected the palace of late,” he said with an arrogant sneer.  “They preach a return to Sheruel’s dominion – not a course I feel is in the best interest of the kingdom.”

“I won’t argue,” Rondal agreed.  “But what are your objections?  If you don’t mind,” he added.  “Professional interest.”

“Frankly, I think that Ashakarl would waste a great opportunity if he returned to Sheruel’s leadership.  He’d be no more than a puppet, fueling Sheruel’s war with his troops and treasure, and reigning as a mere figurehead.  Not to mention it would invite the ire of Korbal and the Enshadowed – I believe you are familiar with the gentleman,” he said, wryly.

“We’ve had a brief acquaintance,” Tyndal snorted. 

“So I have heard.  Despite his poor estate of late, Korbal still commands significant resources.  He has many allies.  As of yet, he has chosen not to use them against us, for fear that we will join Sheruel.  The moment we do, he could attack.”

“Forgive my curiosity, Lord Predavam, but I cannot help but wonder why you would care.  The general opinion of you and your fellow renegades –forgive the word – is that you took up arms for a heartless fiend against your own people because you are just . . . evil.  Wiser minds seek other conclusions, but your attitude baffles me,” Rondal confessed.  He was genuinely curious.

“It is a complicated story, and too long and too private for this moment,” Predavam admitted.  “But I have compelling reasons: greed, ambition, glory, the desire for higher position.  If none better, I find it more challenging to find the most interesting place to ply my art.  On your side, warmagi are common.  Here, I am accounted of special note.  I enjoyed crossing swords with my fellow countrymen, to be honest.  And there are other rewards for service to His Majesty.

“But I challenge your view of my morality,” Predavam continued.  “I understand it, but I assure you I have committed no atrocities.  Indeed, I have hung my own men for rape, plunder, or cruelty.  The prisoners I’ve taken have been ransomed, not executed nor enslaved.  And I support a monarch who, in his way, could be favorably compared in his honor to your King Rard,” he added.

Rondal knew too much about the Royal Court to dispute that.  Rard had been responsible for assassinating his brother and sister-in-law and effectively taking their children hostage to get his crown.

“I cannot fault King Ashakarl,” Tyndal agreed.  “I’ve spoken to Gurkarl of him often, and he speaks highly of his education and his wit.  It led to Count Minalan agreeing to an alliance.”

“He is quite a remarkable gurvan,” Predevam agreed.  “Far wiser than I gave him credit for.  He seeks to elevate his people, not merely be content to rule them.  He sees what we humans have contrived with our crafts and he sees a better life for his folk.  They are, after all, much like us in so many ways, and he wishes to build similar institutions to raise them above their current, common condition.  Can any lord boast a better aspiration?”

“I think not,” Rondal agreed.  “So His Majesty plays darts?  That’s not usually a gurvani pastime – or is it?”

“They play a variation of the game, but Ashakarl prefers the more refined rules humans play by.  And he’s quite good.  He says it helps him think.” The warmage took a moment and studied the boys carefully.  “You two seem like fine gentlemen.  You seem sincere in your thoughts about the realm.  If you’ve a mind to, I would ask that you tarry after your audience so I can speak with you.  I have a friend I would like to introduce you to.  He may have some information you might be interested in.”

“We would be honored,” Tyndal said, before Rondal could caution him.  “But it is troubling that Gurkarl has left.”

“It is,” Predevam nodded.  “I was counting on him to help maintain the council’s unwillingness to be swayed by the urgulnosti. His arguments were well-suited to the gurvani temperament, whereas mine were based on reason and strategy.”

“Why does Ashakarl not just ban them?” Tyndal asked.

“Unfortunately, they still have considerable influence on gurvani society.  They preached their genocidal faith for years and indoctrinated tens of thousands into their cult.  Only after our defeat in the wars did many among the gurvani reconsider, and reject both Sheruel’s doctrines and the manipulations of the Enshadowed.  But those skull-faced bastards have a way of spooking them into cowering obedience.  That is no way for a warrior to live,” he said, disdainfully.  “But sending them away would upset the politics of the court,” he admitted.  “Even Gurkarl knew that.  Perhaps that is why he left so abruptly.  Even though I disagreed with his religion, I appreciated his cogent arguments.”

“Pardon, my lords,” a new voice spoke, behind Predevam – a gurvani voice.  The renegade warmage stiffened at the sound of his voice and turned to face him.

“Lord Priviken,” he said in a low voice, and perhaps through clenched teeth. 

“Lord Predevam,” the gurvan replied, courteously, and gave a small bow. 

He was dressed in a dark purple doublet of good manufacture, with bright silver buttons on his sleeves.  He wore a matching cap with a black feather sticking jauntily from the band, and his long black fingers were filled with rings.  A thick gold chain bearing a pendant hung from around his neck.  He wore slops and stockings, and his legs were clad in dark black hose.  He wore a silver chain as a belt which bore an ornate curved dagger with a beautiful silver hilt suspended from it.  His feet were shod in bright lavender shoes with a pointed and curled toe. Rondal was impressed.  The outfit could have been tailored in any shop in Falas.  “My lords, I present Lord Priviken, His Majesty’s majordomo.”

“A pleasure!  I believe we’ve met, before,” he reminded them.  “I am so happy to see you here at the palace, though I confess a terrible curiosity about your presence.”

“And he wants to see if he can squeeze a bribe out of you if he can,” Lord Predevam suggested, dryly.

“My lord, I assure you that I have only His Majesty’s interests at heart,” the gurvan said, sincerely and sarcastically at the same time.  “If I do not charge the riff-raff their fee, then they cannot demonstrate the sincerity of their cause.  I do not waste His Majesty’s time with just any grievance – he would do nothing else!”

“You are a paragon of civic efficiency, Priviken,” Predevam sneered, his lip curling in disgust.  “You must pardon him, gentlemen.  He sees petty corruption as a hobby.”

“More of a passionate pursuit,” Priviken countered, deflecting the insult.  “But you fail to appreciate its elegance.  It can be used as a tool of statecraft, a weapon of bureaucracy, or an instrument of reward and punishment.  Petty corruption is an art,” he assured them.  “As is the knowledge of when to apply it, and with whom.  In this case I’ll forgo the bribes.  Indeed, His Majesty is very eager to meet with you gentlemen.”

“He is?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“Your deeds have been in his ears for many years – from my own lips,” he admitted.  “You are almost as famous amongst our people as you are amongst your own – though you might not enjoy their adulations.  But Ashakarl has heard your names, and learned of your deeds, and he wishes to speak with his one-time foes and erstwhile allies.  He has asked me to expedite your audience.  A private audience,” he emphasized.

Predevam seemed impressed.  “A private audience?  What will the dark priests say?” he asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“I do believe that scandalizing the urgulnosti is entirely his purpose,” Priviken agreed.  “That is, if you have decided that they are not bent on assassination?” he inquired of the warmage.

“No, they are simple spies, on a holiday,” Predevam admitted.  “They have an errand, but it is not directed toward the realm.”

“Nor are we suicidal,” Tyndal added.  “You have at least a thousand infantry here.  Besides, it would be a violation of the custom of hospitality to cause harm in the hall of a host who has granted you his grace.”

“Nor would it serve the interests of the Magelaw, or Alshar,” Rondal reminded him.  “Believe me, we want to keep Ashakarl alive and healthy – and in power – for many years to come.”

“Your blessings are welcome, self-serving though they are,” Priviken smiled, toothily.  “I did not think you two would arrive here unexpectedly on such an obvious errand.  I credit the magi with some subtlety, I think.  Very well.  Follow me, and I shall take you to His Majesty private apartments.  He will attend you shortly.”

“Farewell, gentlemen!” Predevam called, as they followed the gurvan.  “I hope we meet again!”

“You two seem to have an odd relationship, my lord,” Rondal suggested, once they had left the crowded hall.  Priviken seemed important enough that no sentry challenged him, he noticed.

“Oh, we fence with words, but Predevam and I are allies more than enemies, at court, despite his sour disposition.  He does what he does, I do what I do, and together we sail the ship of state.  That is the right metaphor, is it not?  My people know little of ships.”

“You have it exactly,” Rondal confirmed.  “We have heard Gurkarl is no longer in residence here.  Do you know where he’s gone?”

“That . . . is a subject for another time,” the majordomo murmured.  “Indeed, he is not the only one who is no longer at court.  Things have become strange, since the Great Ghost was released from captivity. No doubt His Majesty will want to discuss such things with you.  You are, after all, high in the counsels of the Spellmonger, are you not?”

“We’re close,” Tyndal agreed.  “Though he is absent from his lands at the moment.”

“But any message for him from His Majesty can be trusted to reach his ears alone,” promised Rondal. 

“That is incredibly good news to hear,” the majordomo agreed, as they climbed a narrow stairway.  “I’ve always admired the man, even when he was working against me.  it is a relief to see peace, after such a long struggle.”

“And it’s good to know who the spies are,” Rondal agreed, evenly.  “You are Ashakarl’s head of intelligence, I would imagine?  That would explain your relationship to Predevam,” he surmised.

“Close enough,” Privaken said, halting at the top of the landing.  “You are quite astute, Lord Rondal.  That is good.  Perhaps you can offer some insight into the strange happenings we’ve been witness to.  His Majesty is quite perturbed, and not just by the urgulnosti – horrid fanatics,” he condemned.  “There is mischief afoot, I fear, and players hidden from view, lying in wait in the darkness.”

“I thought you gurvani were at home in the darkness?” Tyndal prodded.

“We are at home in the night,” corrected the majordomo.  “There is light, even at night.  The moons, the stars, they all provide a little light, enough to see by.  Night but shows us a different world than the sun does.  It’s a pity you humani cannot enjoy that.

“But darkness . . . that obscures all.  It is the absence of light.  The horrible helplessness of shadow.  The unbearable pall of ignorance.  And to the gurvani mind, darkness is where the true dangers lurk.”

“Are all spies in this kingdom so dire?” Tyndal chuckled.

“When the news is as strange as it is, only an idiot would be cheerful, I’m afraid,” Priviken answered. 

“Perhaps that is partly because the old stone you have in the temple not five hundred yards away is pouring Sheruel’s doubts into your soul,” Rondal revealed.  “We called them—”

“Goblin stones?” Privaken asked, drolly.  “We are well aware of it, Lord Rondal.  And its origins.  And its effects.  But we are powerless to do anything about it.  Our greatest shamans have tried to shield the palace with their spells, but it is a power older and deeper than their wisdom.  Not even the urgulnosti priests understand it fully.  At lest the ones I’ve interrogated.  So we must endure it, I’m afraid.”

“But it is affecting your entire town!” Tyndal objected, as he continued following the goblin. 

“It is affecting our entire realm,” corrected Privaken.  “But it is not nearly as bad for us as it is your folk, the poor bastards.  Just one problem amongst a host, however, and not even one of the most pressing.  We endured Sheruel’s lash and the lances of the Wilderlords,” he pointed out, philosophically.  “We can well endure a bit of melancholy.”

He escorted them to a room with an oversized, ornate door – clearly fashioned after the gurvani had taken over the castle.  It was blood red, and dark gurvani runes were cut into it.  It was pretty, in a barbaric sort of way, Rondal decided.  The primitive strokes of the letters looked like stylized claw marks to his eyes.  He even recognized a few.  But it was decidedly not his taste in art.

Priviken opened the door, revealing a pair of hobgoblins in uniform, standing at attention.  The majordomo ignored them as he sauntered into the room and over toward a cabinet, where he found a bottle of wine and three cups. 

“Ashakarl is not fond of wine, but I developed a taste for it in Alshar – Enultramar, actually,” he reminded them.  “I’ve grown to enjoy it quite a bit.”

“You seem a gurvan of rare sophistication,” Rondal said, accepting the cup.  “Shall I just assume it is not poisoned?”

Priviken snorted.  “We have been enemies a long time, Lord Rondal.  Credit me with at least a modicum of professional courtesy.  If I wished to kill you and your friend, I would employ far more cunning means to do so.  But killing you would do the realm no service, in the moment.  Besides, I find you charming, in a backwards sort of way.  To the health of the king!” he proposed, as he toasted with the wine.  Rondal and Tyndal did likewise.

“His health!” Rondal agreed, raising his own glass before tasting it.   He hoped he did not appear as suspicious as he was, despite his host’s assurances.

“It’s . . . not bad,” Tyndal decided, after a sip. 

“You are kind to say so.  It’s swill from the Great Vale, but I secured a case in a game of dice, and it’s the only wine available, I’m afraid. Still, a cup of wine amongst gentlemen while discussing business is always appropriate.  And before the king arrives, I do have some business to speak to you about.  We can speak freely, here.”

“What service can we do you, Lord Priviken?” Tyndal asked, his tone just shy of mockery.

“It concerns your friend Gurkarl, and why he left the palace,” Priviken explained.  “I told you there were strange things happening.  The urgulnosti returning was bad enough, but then our pickets and patrols in the west began having odd encounters,” he revealed.  “Those are tribal lands – only a few acknowledge Ashakarl as their sovereign.  Most cling to the words of their shamans and chieftains.  Even amongst the gurvani they are considered backwards and primitive,” he said, distastefully.

“That seems a little unfair,” Tyndal objected.  “Did your people not come from those lands?”

“Some of us,” Priviken admitted.  “I admit, I have a grudging respect for their traditionalism.  But they are savages,” he pronounced, after another sip of wine.  “They even resort to cannibalism, outside of their tribes.  And the deeper into the Mindens you go, the worse they get.  There, even the urgolnosti had a difficult time recruiting for their armies.  Many deserted during the invasion and returned to their craggy vales, considering their duty done with the recapture of these sacred hills.  They are the sorts of fellows one doesn’t feel safe sleeping around,” he explained. 

“That’s where we had the first sign of trouble.  Two tribes got into a spat – it happens all too frequently – and turned their clubs on each other.  Such a thing was frowned upon, when the Great Ghost ruled the hordes, but tribal cultures delight in such feuds.  The two gathered in a rocky vale and prepared to slaughter one-another – a dreadful business.  One of His Majesty’s loyal patrols tried to intervene and keep the peace, as our dear monarch has required.

“That’s when it appeared,” Priviken said, his guttural voice hoarse.  “That’s when the trouble started.”

“When what appeared?” Rondal prompted, as the gurvan’s eyes narrowed, and he became lost in thought and speculation.

“The Ancient in charge called it Gal Gurvan Zlaten,” the majordomo related.  “A figure out of legend.  You wouldn’t have the context to understand, of course, but for my people it was very significant.”

“Gal . . . Gurvan . . . Zlaten?” Rondal asked, trying to puzzle out the meaning from his very limited knowledge of gurvani.

“Gal Gurvan Zlaten,” repeated Priviken.  “The Golden Goblin, you would call it.  But hark!: he said, his eyes widening as the other door opened.  “The king has arrived!  Pray bide with your questions on the matter until he withdraws!”

Chapter Nine

The Broken Knight

Of all the tragedies of the war, one of the most poignant and most personal was seeing the downfall of men I respected in the face of the horror of war.  All were required to make difficult, often life-changing decisions in the crisis.  Many saved themselves thereby.  Many others . . . fell.

From the personal journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

The double doors that dominated the room opened with a squeak that belied their ornate presentation.  A hobgoblin bodyguard entered, nodded to his fellows, and took a post next to the door as a smaller gurvan arrived.  Priviken quickly bowed, and Tyndal and Rondal followed suit, as the Goblin King made his appearance.

Tyndal had seen Ashakarl before, from afar, at King Rard’s coronation, but he hadn’t met the gurvan before.  He appeared to be young, younger than Priviken, at least, with well-groomed fur and no trace of gray around his eyes and mouth.  He wore a dark yellow tunic with a broad leather belt from which a large, broad-bladed dagger was hung.  His floppy hat was a dark blue and was quite handsome, Tyndal thought.  It was canted jauntily to the side.

The eyes under the hat were what caught Tyndal’s attention, however.  They were filled with intelligence, and, while Tyndal was no expert on gurvani expressions, they communicated a great curiosity he was not used to seeing on goblin faces.  Indeed, they seemed to sweep over him and Rondal with a great deal of interest as they rose from their bow.

“Your Majesty,” Rondal said, respectfully.  “Thank you for taking a moment to meet with us.”

“You are Rondal and . . . Tyndal, correct?” Ashakarl asked, in perfect Narasi.  There was hardly a trace of accent. 

“I am Viscount Tyndal of Callierd,” Tyndal affirmed.  “My companion, Baron Rondal.”

“I’ve heard so much about you gentlemen,” the king nodded, enthusiastically.  “Your exploits during the war were legendary.  Is it true you slew the dragon over Vorone?”

“Well, it was in Vorone, destroying the duke’s palace, and we certainly assisted, but it was the effort of all of our warmagi,” Rondal explained, with some reluctance.  “Count Minalan and Viscount Azar were as much responsible as we were.”

Tyndal suppressed a wince – it had been he who had come up with the stratagem against the dragon, using molten lead to choke the great beast to death.  But he was more than willing to concede the glory of the act to the group.  Still, he fancied the name Dragonslayer – there were few nicknames that were more impressive. 

The king nodded, clearly interested in the tale.  “That was a great feat,” he said, simply.  “It convinced many that our course in the war was set for defeat.  If a handful of humani magi could eliminate a dragon, how could we prevail?”

“One could argue that the establishment of your current realm constitutes a greater victory, Your Majesty,” Tyndal offered.  “I must admit, the adoption of human civilization by the gurvani is remarkable.”

“Civilization,” the king sighed, shaking his head at the word.  “It is merely the art of living in cities.  But I take your point.  We have learned much from our humani neighbors.  There is much yet to learn,” he said, philosophically.  He looked at Priviken, who was standing stiffly in the king’s presence, and barked a few words in gurvani to him.  The majordomo bowed and answered in the same language, then hurried away.

“Convincing the tribes to adopt strange new ways has proven difficult,” he continued, as Priviken withdrew.  “Despite the advantages of the humani manner of organization and enterprise, they prefer to cling to old customs more suited for living in caves and huts than towns.  Instead of embracing the crafts and societies that could provide them prosperity, they eschew farming for hunting or foraging.  Or raiding each other,” he said, a disgusted note in his voice.  “It is easier to convince them to adopt humani fashion than learn how to farm.  It has been a struggle,” he admitted.

“We have heard that you have entertained a delegation from Sheruel,” Rondal mentioned, cautiously.  “You must understand how that seems alarming to the Magelaw.  Perhaps their influence is retarding the advancement of your people.”

Ashakarl sighed.  “I have little choice in the matter.  Too many of my folk remember the glories of the early days of the invasion, where every battle seemed to be a victory, and the plunder was piled so high as to mystify them.  Sheruel promised them glory, and – for a time – he fulfilled that pledge.  I can not turn them away without alienating many in my court.  Politics,” he said, condemningly.

“What message do they bring from the Black Vale?” Tyndal asked, realizing he was asking a head of state to potentially reveal state secrets.  But Ashakarl did not hesitate to respond.

“What you would expect,” the king admitted, as he took a seat in an ornate chair he seemed accustomed to.  It was built for a gurvan’s stature, and decorated with the wild looking carvings the gurvani saw as artful.  “In humani terms, he wishes me to swear fealty to him and submit all of my folk to his will, and to the whims of his priesthood.  And he warns me against aligning with Korbal and the Enshadowed, after their betrayal.  Every meeting with the urgulnosti fanatics seems to invite more and more dire consequences if I don’t relent.”

“Yet you resist,” Tyndal observed. 

The king shrugged, as he gestured to two other chairs of human size and shape.  “I must,” he admitted.  “When we fled from the Penumbra to this outpost, we took something of great value with us: independence,” he pronounced.  “For the first time in my lifetime, we were not slaves to either the Great God or the Necromancer.  We had escaped the rule of the Enshadowed who have manipulated my people for millennia.  You know, the original gurvani rebellion was started as a stratagem of theirs?” he asked, his eyes opening slightly.  “And of course the creation of Sheruel out of the corpse of my ancestor.  When we came to Kral Krebhet it was without anyone guiding us,” he said, proudly.  “For the first time in a thousand years, we were independent.”

“Forgive me for asking, Your Majesty, but how long can you sustain this independence with two such fearsome powers on your frontiers?”

“By aligning with the third,” Ashakarl answered, coolly.  “Our treaty with Count Minalan gives us at least a veil of protection.  Neither Korbal’s Enshadowed ambassadors nor Sheruel’s dark priests wish to invite the ire of the humani magi who have defeated them so frequently.  Neither of them are as strong as they once were.  Nor will they be, without us.  Of course, the terms of the treaty have not been tested.  Most feel that if we are pressed, the Magelaw will not rise to our defense.”

“I dispute that, respectfully, Your Majesty,” Tyndal objected.  “Minalan and Gurkarl negotiated in good faith.  Under the terms of the treaty, you are legally vassals of the Count, and entitled to his protection.  Just like any other vassal.”

Ashakarl looked at him skeptically.  “You really think that the Spellmonger will call his banners and send his knights to defend a bunch of filthy, bloody scrugs?”

“If he thinks it will serve his purpose, Count Minalan would smear himself with bright blue mud and pretty wildflowers and dance naked in front of the Royal Court of Castalshar with a yellow ribbon tied around his prick,” Tyndal suggested, thoughtfully.  “Our former master will do what he feels must be done.  On that you can depend.”

Ashakarl chuckled at the mental image.  “But would that mean coming to our aid, if he felt it was not in his interest, I wonder?  As do many in my court.  We appreciate the truce, do not mistake me – we could not stand against your forces,” he admitted, uncomfortably.  “Nor could we see my people improve their lot when they are constantly at war.  But the Magelaw’s intervention in our affairs is only theoretical.  A threat that may well prove empty.  And the mistrust my people have for yours has a long history.  Surely, you can see how that produces a certain insecurity for my kingdom?”

“Of course,” Rondal agreed.  “All we can do is offer our goodwill, and assure you that we stand with you – and have no desire to control you, beyond encouraging your resistance to our foes.  We have a watchful peace with Korbal, at the moment, but that could fail at any time.  Sheruel has not given up his genocidal attitudes towards humanity.  He may be weak, at the moment, but his strength grows and his antipathy toward us has not waned.”

“True,” sighed the king.  “My revered ancestor is going to be a problem – and a more immediate one than a few Enshadowed advisors.  Rumor has it that he has found new weapons, new allies already.  I confess I fear his retribution more.  He cannot be reasoned with.  And he has convinced many of my people of his divine nature, since he retook the sacred caves from the blasphemers.  No offense,” he added, suddenly.

“No, no, from your perspective we were blasphemers,” Rondal admitted.  “From ours, we merely grew up in a place our ancestors conquered.  Tyndal and I were born in the Black Vale – Boval Vale, we called it.”

“The ‘valley of cows’,” Ashakarl chuckled.  “An animal we fear and do not understand.  You turned sacred land into a pasture for beasts.”

“In our defense, it made very good pasture.  Bovali cheese was renown throughout Alshar,” Tyndal pointed out, eliciting a laugh from the monarch.

“Regardless, there are many who cleave to Sheruel’s message.  Or other cults,” he added.  “The urgulnosti are not the only voices who speak of our destiny.  Your friend Gurkarl was a strong advocate for finding a new way – our own way – that adapted humani and Alka Alon customs and traditions to our lives.  He spoke of a time when neither humani or gurvani would war with each other, nor bow to those who ignored our interests – and did not respect our lives.”

“Well, as he was the first gurvan to witness the sacred cave and the molopor therein, I would imagine he feels a certain sense of destiny,” Tyndal said, casually. 

The suggestion had a most unanticipated result.  Ashakarl’s eyes snapped wide open, as wide as he’d ever seen a gurvan’s, and he grasped the arms of the chair with his claws in a death grip.

“What did you say?” demanded Ashakarl, in a gasp.

Tyndal looked to Rondal, who seemed as confused as he was.  “Did you not know?  Did Gurkarl never speak of it?  He entered the chamber days before Sheruel did.”

“The urgulnosti priests make a point of saying otherwise,” Ashakarl murmured, his eyes darting back and forth between them.  “Are you certain of this?  It is a matter of prophecy for us,” he explained, “a very important matter.”

“Your Majesty, I was there myself,” Tyndal insisted.  “You have my word, on my honor as a knight.  Has Gurkarl never mentioned it?”

“Never!” the king whispered. 

“You can imagine that if he had made such a claim, how skeptical everyone would be,” Rondal suggested.  “Not to mention the abuse he would suffer from Sheruel’s cult.”

“This . . . this is . . . who else knows about this?” Ashakarl demanded.  He was clearly disturbed by the news – profoundly, in Tyndal’s estimation. 

“Minalan, Pentandra. Sire Cei, a few others . . . “ Tyndal began to recount.  “It was not considered terribly important to us at the time.  You say there was a prophecy at play?” he asked, with interest.  Prophecy had been forbidden and viciously repressed under the Censorate, he knew with certainty.  But he also knew that the Alon races did not have the same prohibitions about it.  Prophecy was considered dangerous, with good reason. 

“It comes from the old times,” Ashakarl related, after a few moments’ thought.  “From the times of Gurvos, and the rebellion against the Alka Alon.  There were many shamans who went to the Otherworld and learned what might befall our people.  They sought hope in a time of darkness.  What they revealed . . . it was not hopeful.  Perhaps not until now.  But the prophecies were held as oral tradition for years before they were committed to writing.  Pretending to understand them properly is a fool’s errand.”

“We’ve had our own issues with prophecy,” Rondal agreed properly.  “I think that—”

He was interrupted by the opening of the door they’d entered from, and the entrance of a most unexpected visitor.  Tyndal gasped as well, when the light caught his features.

He was a stoutly built human of late middle age, dressed in Wilderlord armor but with the burgundy tabard of the Goblin King belted over it.  His appearance was doubly striking, as half of his face bore the hideous scars of a burn, long healed but somehow more grotesque for their apparent health.  The unburnt side of his face was more familiar to Tyndal.  He was on his feet in an instant when he recognized him, startling the hobgoblin guards.

“Sire Koucey!” he gasped.

The old knight regarded them with close discernment before giving the king a respectful bow.

“I thought you might want to see our visitors, Lord Keshgural,” Ashakarl said, gesturing to the two with his claw.  “I believe you know them.”  Priviken slipped in behind Koucey, and slid to the side to observe unobtrusively. 

“It has been an age since I last saw them,” the renegade knight said, a mixture of fondness and bitterness in his creaking voice.  “But they were both born in my domain.  They’ve grown into men, now,” he observed, solemnly, as he regarded them. 

Tyndal felt petrified, for some reason, as if he was being measured for worthiness.  Sire Koucey had been his lord since he was born, before Minalan had deposed him and he had lost his domain.  He had grown up with Koucey being held as the epitome of honor and nobility by the folk of Boval Vale.  He had gone to war, defended the valley, and regulated their affairs for decades.

The scrutiny was difficult to bear.  Tyndal finally swallowed and straightened.  He was a mage knight, after all.  Hells, he was a viscount.  He had nothing to fear from this renegade knight.

“You look . . . well, my lord,” he managed, not knowing what else to say.  That made the old man laugh, unexpectedly.

“I look like sausage meat before it has been stuffed!” he countered.  “But you are kind to say so, Lord Tyndal.  I’ve heard quite a bit about your careers, since you quit Boval Vale.  Well done.  I am proud of the both of you,” he assured them.

The praise was unexpected, and took Tyndal by surprise.  Rondal, too, looked shocked.  Tyndal knew how he felt – Sire Koucey had betrayed them, though his actions had been coerced by the Dead God.  He had taken up arms against humanity no less than Buckler had, though it had been against his will.  Worse, he had nearly condemned his own people to enslavement and sacrifice.  Yet Tyndal knew that Sire Koucey was as much a victim in the war as anyone. That didn’t make his scrutiny any easier to bear.

“So you are in service to King Ashakarl, now?” Rondal asked, before Tyndal could say something untoward.

“For a few more days, only,” he said, his crooked smile waning.  “Soon I will depart . . . back to the Black Vale.”

Tyndal’s surprise was compounded.  “What?” he demanded, confused. 

“You would betray the king you serve?” Rondal asked, sharply. 

“I serve my king best by removing myself from his court,” Sire Koucey insisted.  “The urgulnosti’s message was clear: all those loyal to the Great Ghost must return to his service.  My loyalty to Sheruel was . . . compelled.  But it is absolute.  The Great Ghost controls me in ways not even his priests must suffer.  It is my punishment for the crimes of my ancestors.  I cannot escape that.  Should he bend his mind to me, I will be in his absolute thrall.

“But if I return voluntarily, I may escape close scrutiny,” he continued, his voice pregnant with emotion.  “If I appear loyal, it is possible he will accept my submission without interrogating me in ways I cannot defend.  So I will surrender myself to his . . . mercies,” he said, whispering the word.  “He may slay me out of hand.  That would put what I know beyond his knowledge,” he explained, quietly. 

“But you will be serving the enemy,” Rondal objected.

“And in doing so, I will be serving my people,” Sire Koucey said, sadly.  “Both His Majesty, to whom I have sworn fealty, and humanity in general.  There is no other way.”

Tyndal was disturbed by how casually Sire Koucey accepted his fate.  He conjured new respect for the man, returning to a foul lord to do evil service in the hopes of avoiding greater mayhem.  Koucey had been feeding information to Minalan’s spies for years, he knew for a fact.  He had sensitive knowledge that could imperil Minalan’s efforts on the frontiers of the Magelaw.  Yet to resist returning, he knew, would invite Sheruel’s especial attention.  Tyndal understood the man’s willingness to sacrifice . . . and what he risked in that regard. 

“You could seek asylum with the Magelaw,” Rondal proposed.  “You know Minalan would protect you, if you asked.”

“To what end?  I would simply become a spy or an agent behind enemy lines, eventually,” Koucey sighed, bitterly.  “I would find myself where Sheruel would devoutly want an agent placed.  Better I return to him in service and avoid betraying my people further than take the coward’s path and seek to avoid my fate.”

“Is this your will, Your Majesty?” Tyndal asked, suddenly turning to the Goblin King.

“We have discussed it in detail,” Ashakarl revealed, somberly.  “It was not an easy decision – Lord Keshgural has been instrumental in ensuring the security of the realm,” he admitted.  “I regret losing him, particularly to Sheruel.  But he is correct,” the king sighed.  “Sheruel values loyalty, and responding promptly to his summons will keep him from actively pursuing him.  I have given my permission to all who wish to rejoin Sheruel to leave.”

The news was disturbing.  Tyndal knew Minalan feared the dark lord using the Goblin Kingdom for shock troops, after the losses of the Winter and Spring wars.  But he also appreciated the position Ashakarl was in: to keep gurvani whose loyalties might be elsewhere was irresponsible.  Better ten loyal soldiers than twenty whose allegiance could not be relied upon. 

“How many?” Rondal asked.

“Nearly a thousand,” Ashakarl admitted, reluctantly.  “Fewer than I expected.  Far more than I’d hoped.  Many shamans will be going as well.  More may join them, but most of my people have had their fill of Sheruel’s madness.”

“Pardon us if we do not wish you good fortune in your new position,” Tyndal finally managed.  That provoked a barking laugh from Sire Koucey.

“In truth, I do not know what the Great Ghost will gain with my assistance,” he agreed.  “I am but one man – an old man.  A broken man.  But from what the urgulnosti priests have been preaching, it is clear that the Great God prepares again for war.  Please relay that to Mavone,” he instructed them.  “It is only my speculation, but I feel he will strike at the Enshadowed first, to take his revenge.  Then he will turn back on humanity.  You must prepare.”

“We will tell him,” Rondal agreed, somberly.

“And when you see Sir Cei – Sire Cei,” he amended, “please tell him that what I have done, and that it is in pursuit of my honor.  What little is left of it,” he said, sadly.  “I know I go to my doom.  I will not be cowardly about it.”  It was clear to Tyndal that Koucey had serious misgivings about his decision, and he pitied the man for his fate.

“Do you have any message for the Spellmonger?” Tyndal asked.  A tangle of emotions washed across the old knight’s scarred face before he answered.

“I bid him good luck, and encourage him to apply all of his wisdom and subtlety to what is coming,” he finally said.  “I bear him no personal grudge.  But I warn him that Sheruel will not relent, and will come to bring his whole power against him if he has need.  That could be . . . catastrophic.”  He let the word hang in the air for a while before he looked at Tyndal anew.

“You’re here to sell horses?” the knight asked, suddenly.

“I have the finest stables in the Magelaw,” Tyndal said, proudly.  He recalled how fond of horses and devoted to horsemanship Sire Koucey was. 

“Your Majesty, your horse cavalry forces lack for decent mounts,” Koucey said, not taking his eyes off Tyndal.  “You will need good cavalry for the fight to come.  It is my counsel that you purchase as many as you can from these gentlemen.  He will give you a fair price – on his honor as a knight,” he instructed, raising his chin. 

Tyndal nodded numbly.  “I give you my word,” he assured.

“I would expect no less.  Farewell, Gentlemen.  Good luck in your endeavors . . . whatever they might be.  Your Majesty, I will see you tomorrow at dusk to turn over my final duties to my subordinates.”

“You have given excellent service, Lord Keshgural.  I regret losing you, though I understand your reasoning.  You are dismissed,” the king said.  Koucey gave the king a deep and stately bow, as Priviken opened the door respectfully for him, and closed it behind him after he left.

“I thought you both might appreciate a meeting, on the eve of his departure,” the king explained, quietly, as they took their seats again.  “I do not mind admitting that he was instrumental in my decision to leave the Penumbra and establish my seat here.  He was a constant voice of reason during that journey, and his advice in ordering my court was valuable.”

“He was not a bad lord,” Rondal admitted.  “Boval Vale was well-run and prosperous.  We have seen far worse examples of lordship since we left.”

“He defended us admirably, against great odds,” agreed Tyndal.  “That was his duty.  And I will be glad to sell you horses, steeds of worth, Your Majesty.  Assuming that the Count approves.  And I would like the chance to see your breeding stocks come spring.”

“Thank you,” Ashakarl said.  “The truth is we may need them soon.  There are rumors of unrest and rebellion on my western marches, and we will need both hounds and horses to screen our towns at need.  That is the poorest part of my realm,” he said, shaking his head.  “It leads into the passes and high vales of the Mindens, where my people clung to the rocks for centuries.  Living in caves.  Fighting each other over scraps.  Every tribe professing a different superstition – some are even cannibalistic,” he said in disgust.  “If they rise against us, I will need every sword and club to put them down.”

“That wouldn’t be where Gurkarl fled to, would it?” Rondal asked, suddenly.

“Gurkarl?” the king replied, startled.  “I do not know . . . but he was very interested in that part of the realm, and made many journeys there.  He preached his vision to all of my people, in opposition to Sheruel’s dark ambitions.  But he lauded the tribal traditions as much as he promoted humani customs that would benefit us.  A fascinating fellow, Gurkarl.”

“Your Majesty, while I valued Gurkarl’s voice in council, and as a diplomat, I always found his preaching . . . atavistic,” Priviken offered.  “Not that the gurvan was insincere, but his approach to the problems of the moment were . . . quaint.”

“You just disliked him because he wouldn’t be bribed – or pay bribes,” Ashakarl snorted.  “But it does disturb me that he left so quickly, and without taking his leave.”

“He is just a mystic, my king, filled with grand visions and unrealistic dreams.  He was useful for countering the urgulnosti fanatics, but he lacked an understanding of power,” Priviken suggested.  “Power requires compromise.  And cynicism.  And, yes, a bit of honest corruption here and there in order to get things done.  Gurkarl possessed little of those.  He was an idealistic preacher, nothing more.”

“I thought so too,” Ashakarl said, his eyes flicking to Tyndal and Rondal.  “But I find my counsels poorer for his absence.  There may be something to his message,” he admitted.  “But recent . . . revelations intrigue me.  He may have some higher destiny or purpose we do not yet understand.”

“Might I suggest that the manner in which he took his leave may indicate more than the sweet words he spoke, Your Majesty?” Privaken challenged.  “It speaks of a gurvan with a guilty conscience.  Or a conscience with a guilty gurvan.  Wisdom suggests that it should be seen in a skeptical light.”

“He’s disappeared without warning before,” Ashakarl dismissed.  “No doubt he has some errand to attend to.  But there is no evidence of crime or betrayal.  I miss him, is all.  My court feels as if it is disintegrating around me,” he said, sullenly.  “My best counselors are taken from me, one by one.”

“You still have my stalwart service, Your Majesty,” Priviken assured, obsequiously.

“For that you have my eternal gratitude,” Ashakarl said with undisguised sarcasm.  “The truth is, Gentlemen, I find myself balanced precariously against the greater forces of the world, and any move I make threatens to tumble me into oblivion.  My people are starving and poor, my ministers are of dubious worth, and chaos laps at my heels.  What is a king to do?” he asked, spreading his hands in despair.

“You wish advice, Your Majesty?” Tyndal asked, taking the question seriously.

“If you have some to spare, I would hear it,” Ashakarl said, indulgently.  “Not that I don’t get plenty already.”

“Do what is right, and the rest will follow,” he suggested.  “Trust your own judgement more than your ministers’ advice.  And know you have no greater judge than history,” he offered.

“And find some way to feed your people,” Rondal added.  “An empty belly breeds rebellion.”

“Of that I am certain,” Ashakarl agreed with  sigh.  “I have heard nothing but complaints from the hinterlands all evening, and will continue hearing them until dawn.  I do what I can . . . but there are limits.  As it is we will lose thousands to the cold and hunger, this winter.  And I can do very little to prevent that,” he said, miserably. 

“Your wisdom will prevail, Your Majesty,” Priviken soothed.

“My wisdom be damned,” Ashakarl dismissed as he rose.  The boys followed suit.  “Ruin dogs my steps.  And winter cares not a whit for my vision,” he added, bitterly.

Chapter Ten

The General

I hesitate to say that I’ve become accustomed to espionage, as the idea assaults my sense of honor, however useful.  But my association with my new in-laws has demonstrated the importance and effectiveness of knowing things other people don’t, and going to extraordinary means to procure information. Indeed, I seem to have a knack for finding myself in unlikely places, overhearing things I was never meant to know.  Sometimes I wonder if that is by Fortune’s whim, or if there is some fateful force involved.  Either way, I’m better at the craft than I ever wanted to be.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

“His Majesty was very impressed with you,” Priviken assured them, as he led them away.  “I do hope you gained something from the conversation.”

“We have learned some valuable intelligence,” Rondal agreed, reluctantly.  “But I admit, it was a shock seeing old Koucey like that.  He looked . . . used up.”

“Lord Keshgural has been entirely devoted to the defense of the realm,” Priviken praised.  “His efforts will be missed.  Even without the threat of the Magelaw or Bransei on our frontiers, the security of the kingdom is in doubt.  I fear it will shatter at the first blow,” he admitted, worriedly. 

“You doubt Ashakarl’s determination?” Rondal asked in surprise.  He had been skeptical of the of the Goblin King until he met him.  He had known that the gurvan had been educated in human society, but he was very impressed with him as a lord concerned for his people. 

“It is not his determination that is at issue,” the majordomo said, shaking his head.  “It is his capacities.  Should Sheruel march upon us, we can put up a solid defense . . . for a time.  If Korbal strikes at us, it will be with stealth and guile, now that he has been deprived of his armies.  Both of those we can anticipate.

“But what concerns me the most, at the moment, is this . . . cult that has appeared in the Mindens,” he admitted, as he led them to another door.  “Indeed, I see it as the most pressing issue for our realm.  It arose suddenly, and I suspect the hand of outside forces is responsible for stirring it up.  It is the worst sort of superstitious nonsense – rumors, tall tales, legends revived from antiquity, all churned into a cesspit of revolt.  An invasion we might stand.  A rebellion?  That could ruin us.”

“You have my sympathies, but—” Tyndal began.

“I speak of these things because I am going to beg a boon of you gentlemen,” Priviken interrupted.  “As a minister of His Majesty, I am charged with contending with these challenges.  The problem in the west is a sticky one, and if I send a gurvan to investigate it properly, I risk alienating half the court.  I’ve already dispatched the Court Wizard, but he has not returned nor sent word.  That satisfied the king at the time, but he grows impatient with the situation.  He feels it is deteriorating.”

“A . . . boon?” Rondal asked, confused.

“The courtier who is assigned to this matter wishes to speak to you,” Priviken revealed.  “Quietly.  He feels you may have some insights on the problem at hand.  And he has intelligence I think you will value.”

Rondal was suspicious.  While their reception at the palace was far friendlier than he’d anticipated, he could not help but feel that there was more going on here than met the eye.  He knew Gatina would have figured out what it was, already, but he was still in the dark – literally.  Priviken had led them down a narrow staircase that led to the bowels of the Goblin King’s hall, with very little light of any sort.  The odor was dank and moist, the hollow smell of underground rooms combined with the unmistakable smell of gurvani.  They came to another door and the goblin led them down a second flight of stairs.  Toward where the dungeons were inevitably kept, he noted, with a certain sense of dread.

But as they emerged from the stairwell into a great arched bay, there were no cells in evidence.  A single taper illuminated a small chamber in which stocks of firewood, crates of rope, and rolls of leather were stored.  Provisions for a siege, Rondal guessed, just as any Wilderlord castle would procure against need.

There were two gurvani waiting there, as well.  One was naked save a bundle of necklaces, decidedly primitive in design, hanging around his neck.  He was an older fellow, his shoulders hunched and his back bent, leaning on a crooked staff, the hair around his eyes and mouth a bright silver that made his bat-like face even more startling.

The other gurvan was so large Rondal suspected he was a eunuch, at first, or one of the morogorku – the Great Goblins of nearly man-sized stature that were the product of Enshadowed sorcery.  But he was merely large, a normal gurvan of extraordinary size. 

He was dressed in well-made armor, a long leather coat studded with well-forged iron plates.  The soldier sported a human-style arming sword, no doubt looted from some battlefield.  He was middle-aged, if Rondal was any judge, and he looked gloomy even for a gurvan.

Priviken spoke to both of them in gurvani before he stepped back and introduced the two of them in Narasi, and then addressed the boys directly.

“This is Ama-Nachin, a ragonasti shaman of some repute in the court.  And this is General Uporit, His Majesty’s warlord,” Priviken announced, politely.  “They would have words with you, if you will grant them that boon.”

“What service can we do you gentle . . . gurvan?” Rondal asked, unsure of what the proper term would be. 

The General spoke first.  He looked solemnly at the two of them, as if he were examining livestock at market, before he spoke. 

“I’ve heard of you,” he said, in halting Narasi.  “Both of you.  Good warriors.  I fought against you at the Poros,” he informed them. 

“Now Uporit is in charge of Ashakarl’s entire military,” Priviken explained.  “In particular, he guards our frontiers and ensures the castles are garrisoned.  Our Minister of War, you might say.”

“I have legions posted in the north, in the south, the southeast and the west,” the General informed them, as if the words were being pulled out of him.  “Half a month ago my western outposts began having trouble.  Renegades or rebels, we thought.  Feuds between tribes or sects,” he explained.

“Sects?” Tyndal asked in surprise.  “I thought you all followed the Dead God.  The Old God,” he amended.  “The Great Ghost.”

“There are as many tribal gods as there are tribes,” the shaman said, his voice creaking like a rusty hinge.  “Many ways to interpret the legends and prophesies.  Some are very different from each other.  Sometimes they preach.  Gather disciples,” the old shaman creaked.

“You would call them cults or religious societies,” Priviken explained.  “They often focus around a charismatic leader, or a radical philosophy, the obsession with a particular myth or an interpretation of prophesy.  They develop rites and rituals and promise all sorts of unlikely things.  They can be very troublesome to civil society,” he added, condemningly. 

“Sometimes they fight,” the old shaman continued, grimly.  “The Old God’s urgolnosti priests were once like them.  That’s how his message spread, in my youth.”

“One such cult is growing active,” the General reported, gruffly.  “It is preaching, and holding rites.  It is growing.  My outposts report hearing of the unrest.  Raiders and bandits my forces can stop.  They cannot stop an idea.”

“The preachers come to them at night, apparently, just before dawn, and speak of the transformation from night to day.  In an allegorical context, I believe,” Priviken suggested.  Rondal recalled that he and his two brothers had been educated by human monks.  The goblin had the vocabulary of a Lawbrother, he decided.  “They use it as a metaphor for the transformation of gurvani society,” he added, darkly.  “That would be a challenge to all we have built, here.”

“Or a compliment,” suggested Rondal.  “Political forces have used such religious movements before.  Most peasant revolts have a few hot-headed priests around to give the mob some divine justification for violence.  And plenty of lords have patronized militant sects who can be called upon as auxiliaries in a conflict.”

“Humani are so cynical,” snorted the shaman.  “You treat religion like a goat to be sold at market. These rites and teachings are held in secret,” Ama-Nachin continued.  “They lure the curious to remote places.  They preach at them.  They offer rites.  They sing powerful songs.  They sway the people with their passion and appeal to their sorrows.”

“The troubling thing about this particular cult is not what it preaches, but who is preaching it,” Priviken explained.  “Our informants began hearing something very mysterious, tales of a golden goblin who appeared in the ritual.”

“A golden goblin?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“You mentioned that before,” Rondal remembered. 

“The common name in our language is zlatlen gurvan,” the majordomo continued.  “Or more formally, Gal Gurvan Zlaten.  At first, I thought it was merely an albino – they’re rare, among the gurvani, but they do happen, and are often invested with all sorts of superstitious meaning.  Some have become mystics or leaders of cults in their own right.”

“It was no albino,” Ama-Nachin said with grim certainty.  “It was golden.  Like the sun.  And he preached a message akin to the sermons I have heard from Gurkarl.”

Tyndal and Rondal exchanged glances.  That was interesting.

“How so?” prompted Rondal, curiously.

“The doctrine of transformation,” Privaken supplied.  “Particularly the metaphor of twilight, and living in two worlds at the same time.  Gurkarl frequently used it in counsel when he advised the king, or argued against the tyranny of the urgulnosti.  He said we belonged neither to Sheruel nor to the Alka Alon, be they Enshadowed or no.  It was considered quite . . . revolutionary,” he admitted.  “He drove old Kagathag mad with his arguments.”

“It kept the tribal shamans quiet, and the urgulnosti had no counter save for their insistence in the Old God’s supremacy.  Both spoke of prophecy,” the General said, significantly.

“What prophecy?” Rondal asked.  “I apologize, but we do not know that much about gurvani culture.  Especially religion.”

“There were a series of prophets around the time of Gurvos’ rebellion, and among them were several that concerned the fate of our people.  One, in particular, mentions a golden haired gurvani,” Priviken explained.  “I always considered it superstitious nonsense, myself – a golden gurvani?” he scoffed.  “I took it for allegory, as the prophecy concerned a kind of messianic figure.  If you chose to interpret it that way,” he added.

“It is a metaphor for perfecting the inner spirit,” countered Ama-Nachin.  “Nothing more.”  While he spoke with certainty, Rondal detected some doubt in his voice. 

“The prophecies of the golden gurvan are dangerous,” the General insisted.  “It is mere myth.  But in the prophecy, he overthrows the social order and destroys gurvani society.  Everything we have fought for, everything we built is cast aside in the myth.”

“So is it prophecy?  Or myth?” Tyndal asked.  “It sounds as if you gentlemen have yet to come to agreement on that point.”

“If it is mere myth, then perhaps it can be fought with the traditional means of suppression,” Priviken agreed.  “But if it is prophecy . . . well, then according to the ancient accounts we are on the cusp of the destruction of the gurvani as a people.  More than likely it is just an opportunistic charlatan, using a bit of magic and a compelling sermon to gather followers.  But the thing is, we do not know.”

“Anyone we send is suspect,” agreed the General.  “If I send a gurvan to investigate, he may fall subject to the preacher and fall into the cult.  It has happened before.  I sent our useless Court Wizard to investigate and he hasn’t returned.  I figured a humani mage would be more objective.  The fool probably ended up in someone’s pot,” he said, with a wicked chuckle.  “To send in forces to search and arrest the cult is dangerous, too.  It would take all I have, and I could spend a century searching.”

“My concern is not the possibility of revolt,” Ama-Nachin said, raising his claw.  “I fear this is a stratagem of the Enshadowed to ensnare our people once again in their schemes.  It is said that an Alka Alon female was seen near to one of their rites.  An Alka Alon in a white coat.”

Rondal gave Tyndal an even more significant look. 

“That . . . could be,” Rondal agreed, stonefaced.  “And you are right, it is troubling.  But what do you want us to do about it?”

“Your friend Gurkarl left right after word of the golden gurvan was heard,” Priviken revealed.  “He left suddenly, in the middle of the day.  He left no word with his disciples or his assistants.  But they told us he may have gone seeking the golden goblin.  If you seek your friend, that is where he may have been headed.”

“We must know the nature of this cult,” General Uporit insisted.  “Especially if it is some scheme of the Enshadowed.  I trust them not,” he insisted.  “The Alka Alon have always betrayed the gurvani.  They would not hesitate to use our prophecies against us.  Long have they conspired to use us as stooges in their plots against each other.”

“Well, I do appreciate the confidence you show in us,” Tyndal began.

“If we happen across any golden goblins, we’ll be certain to interrogate them,” Rondal agreed.  “It does sound strange.  And I have no doubt that the Alka Alon are involved somehow.  I don’t know how much our opinion might be worth, but we’re willing to look into it.”

“We would consider it a boon,” Priviken assured.  “A favor by the Magelaw to our humble kingdom.  As your vassals, I think you might consider it your duty.”

“His duty,” Rondal said, automatically.  “I live in the south.  I am not Minalan’s vassal.”

“I will happily undertake this bit of errantry,” Tyndal agreed, graciously.  “For I do recognize the importance of our alliance to my lands.  I would far prefer to owe the Goblin King an ally than a foe.  And I consider Gurkarl a friend.  We . . . we once entertained the ugliest maid in Castal, one winter evening.  One does not overlook such vivid memories.”  That produced some unusual expressions on the faces of the gurvani.

“Our service is to the Spellmonger,” Rondal said, blushing at the mention of that particular night by his friend, “but I count this an important intelligence matter.  Any threat in the Mindens is one we take seriously.  We cannot afford to have the Enshadowed advance one of their plots, when we are so close to peace.  Our duty is constant vigilance,” he assured.

“We are gratified by that,” General Uporit nodded.  “In truth, I was skeptical of this alliance with the humani, after . . . but, well, it seems to be in our best interest,” he admitted, grudgingly.

“The fact that you are wizards will be particularly helpful,” Prviken agreed, obsequiously.  “I strongly suspect that there is some deceptive magic at play.  Some ignorant sport from the hinterlands, exploiting his talents for purely opportunistic purposes.  You gentlemen have a reputation for being adept wizards.  I beg you to use your powers to see the truth of what is happening in the Mindens.”

“As luck would have it, it seems our path lies in that direction,” Tyndal agreed.  “We have but one request: when we come to the part of the road where we must abandon our horses, that you will see them back to this city safely, and keep them until we return.  They are but two rented rounceys, but I would fault myself if any ill befell them.”

“You humani and your fetish for ruminants!” General Uporit snorted.  “I will be happy to take charge of them.  Give them to one of my soldiers, invoke my name, and they will see it done.”

“Then your legions are better run than our military,” Tyndal assured him.  “In obedience, at least.  Indeed, that fellow Bargarark at the gate was keen that we speak with you.  He seemed quite dutiful about his position.  Better than most Ancients in our armies.”

“That is our intent,” Uporit said, flatly.  “I may admire the crafts of your people, but that does not mean I feel we cannot exceed them.  Ashakarl’s armies might be primitive – now – but I have learned much, and my soldiers improve every month,” he said, proudly.

“You will need such warriors, if you come to blows with Sheruel,” Rondal advised.  “In all candor, I believe that is inevitable, now that he is free.  I gave my advice to the king, but my counsel to you, General, is to redouble your efforts.  Your kingdom is about to be in the midst of a tempest.  Strengthen your forces to the limits of your capacities.  Unite gurvani strength with human ingenuity and defend your frontiers adamantly.  We lie in peace, for a moment, but I foresee the day when once again all the Wilderlands is at war.”

“Fell words from a fell warrior,” the shaman grunted.  “Yet I do not dispute them.  Sheruel’s embassy is indignant that Ashakarl does not easily return to his rule.  Their speeches in court hint darkly at the punishments for resisting the Old God’s call.  We may yet buy some time by Lord Keshgural’s capitulation, as a token of our willingness to listen, but there will come a day when the urgulnosti deliver an ultimatum that we cannot ignore.”

“It all sounds terribly depressing, if you want to know the truth,” Priviken said, wearily.  “Threats from the Old God, Enshadowed lurking in the shadows, strange cults and golden gurvani, and rumors of strangeness lurking in every corner.  This was supposed to be a cushy position, not a nightly struggle for survival.”

“Politics,” offered Rondal, in explanation.  “When the great powers of the world conspire, we mere functionaries learn of how expendable we are in the service to their whim.”

“The alternative is ignomy,” suggested the General, to Rondal’s surprise.  “We who endure the danger do so because we cannot bear the thought of idiots blundering through vital matters with no regard for the consequences of what they do.  We feel compelled to act, less the fools placed above us drive us to ruin.”

“You seem to impugn your monarch,” Rondal observed, quietly.

“I respect King Ashakarl,” the General grudgingly admitted.  “He was prepared as a puppet, and in the moment that mattered he chose to stand on his own.  I found that honorable enough to commit myself when the alternative was little better than servitude.  He, at least, has my people’s welfare at heart.  When no one else seems to.”

“You have been miserably used,” Tyndal agreed, sympathetically.  “I’ve seen how your folk are treated by the Enshadowed and the Nemovorti.  I applaud your rebellion to their tyranny.”

“But what tyranny lies with humanity?” Priviken asked, plaintively.  “I respect your Count Minalan for his grace and willingness to consider an old enemy a new ally . . . but what will that bargain portend for the future of our folk?” he challenged.  “Is he yet a new master to serve, slavishly?  Or will he respect our differences and allow us to follow our own path?”

“In my experience, it depends on what he is drinking,” Tyndal offered, unhelpfully.

“My lords, I assure you that Minalan has no ulterior motive in his alliance than peace in his lands and prosperity for his people,” Rondal insisted.  “As Ashakarl is, from our perspective, his vassal, he is entitled to order his realm as he wishes as long as he adheres to the tenants of the treaty.  And doesn’t enslave or consume humans under your auspices, as a matter of mutual respect.”

“We shall see,” General Uporit grunted, skeptically.  I have met fine humans who were noble and honorable warriors.  I have met many more who saw my people as vermin.”

“Well, not eating them might have improved their opinion,” Tyndal suggested.  .

“Your people are ignorant and cruel,” the shaman condemned.  “You hunted ours like beasts.”

“Yet you seem to harbor ambitions of copying our society,” Tyndal rebutted.  “One must wonder at your aspirations.”

“We can admire you, and despise you,” Priviken warned.  “Your people manage to make it through winter without losing one cub in three.  Your crafts protect you from Nature while my folk cower in caves.  That is worthy of emulating.  But humanity’s cruel nature is to be pitied, not aped.  You viciously betrayed us under pretensions of a truce.  Such dishonorable conduct is reprehensible, be you gurvan or man.  And, in doing so, you invited revenge.  For that, we do not apologize,” he said, indignantly.

“Our true opponent are the Alka Alon who have misused us so cruelly,” the shaman agreed, more diplomatically.  “Whether the Council or the Enshadowed, we have always been a disposable afterthought.  A resource to be used in need and then discarded.  If we carry contempt for humanity, it is born of envy that you have resisted the Alka Alon without benefit of much magic or longevity.”

“Well, we’re stubborn that way,” Tyndal agreed.  “We despise being controlled.  Even by our own people.”

“We strive to improve ourselves and our society,” Rondal offered, giving his friend a frustrated glance.  “That is an ambition I think we share with the gurvani.”

“That alone gives me hope,” the General revealed.  “Human beings are bastards.  But glorious bastards, willing to defend their interests when my people would willingly bow to the greater powers, out of fear of retribution and disdain.  Your people are proud, and do not bend, even when the Alka Alon insist.”

“You really do hate them, don’t you?” Rondal asked, in consideration of the General’s passionate response. 

“They have earned our hate,” Uporit insisted.  “You have only the vaguest idea of the crimes they have inflicted on my folk.  I once thought Sheruel’s wrath was the answer we sought.  Now I see it as one more stratagem by the Alka Alon in their wars.  They used our vengeance callously, and half a million of my people perished as a result!” he said, angrily.

“You can see why we have such a . . . complicated relationship with humanity, Gentlemen,” Priviken said, smoothly.  “We are more similar than we are different.  Particularly as it pertains to how we have been treated by the Alka Alon,” he said, forebodingly.  “They scheme yet to set our peoples against each other, knowing that they will persist whilst our peoples languish for their amusement.  They are the true enemy, be they the Council or the Enshadowed.  They see us as no more than pawns in their games.  They see nothing to flattering us for a few decades to get what they want, then cynically abandon us in our hour of need.”

“That is why we look toward the humani,” admitted the shaman, reluctantly.  “We see how resistance to the Alka Alon can prevail, even across the centuries.  And we see the perils of arrogance, as you see yourselves the center of the universe.  You are a most . . . instructive people,” he praised, weakly.

“That may be the most damning admission I’ve ever heard from a non-humani,” Tyndal admitted, as he absorbed the gurvan shaman’s words.  “Honestly, the idea that humanity has any sort of cunning in how we relate to the Alka Alon is absurd.  They watched our civilization fall and we didn’t protest one bit.  Once my people ruled the skies, and now we can barely rule ourselves.  If you are seeking a proper answer to the tyranny of the Alka Alon, I’m uncertain that we are the ones to provide it.”

“What my friend means to say is that we have been victims to the immortals almost as much as you,” Rondal said, diplomatically.  “That in no way diminishes the depredations that you have suffered at their hands – and at ours.  But we are gratified that you draw some inspiration for our struggle.”

“Undertake this mission as a boon to us, then,” suggested the General.  “As much as it makes me sick to say, we have need of a neutral set of eyes.  If this cult does, indeed, have a golden gurvan in its company, we need to know.  Is it authentic?  Or just another ambitious fraud?”

“We will do our best,” pledged Rondal, before Tyndal could speak.  “I cannot promise results, but I can promise candor.  If this prophet is a fake, it is best you know.  Especially with what is at stake.  We do not want war,” he insisted.  “For us or for you.  That would serve the interests of neither people.”

That seemed to draw the meeting to a close, and Priviken led them back out of the cellar and down a long corridor after the two gurvani courtiers bid them farewell. 

“I really don’t think they liked us much,” Tyndal mused, while they followed the majordomo through the passageway. 

“They really don’t have any reason to,” Rondal replied.  “But I am sympathetic.  We’ve had our own issues with cults.  That new one in the Westlands, devoted to Collieta, has been spawning peasants revolts like pimples.”

“I heard about that,” Tyndal agreed. “Something about fire?  I didn’t know Colleita was a fire goddess.”

“She’s not,” Rondal answered.  “That’s what makes it dangerous.  They’re led by a young girl.  We think she’s just a magical sport who got religion.  But I watched her burn a man alive with magic.  Whether she’s an actual avatar or just a pretender, she’s convinced a bunch of monks and peasants to follow her, up in the hills.”

“A little religion is a good thing,” Priviken agreed.  “It keeps our society together.  But when it becomes the focus of all attention, the results are disastrous.  That’s when things started to go wrong for us: when the urgulnosti began preaching the return of the Old God.  If our chieftains had been wise, they would have put down the cult.”

“So what is your interest in all of this, Priviken?” Tyndal asked.  “Beyond power and money?  You seem like an educated fellow.  Why would you throw your lot in with Ashakarl, when you could find a good position with Sheruel or Korbal?”

“His Majesty’s aspirations are noble,” the goblin answered, as they came to a door.  He paused and turned to regard the two for a moment, his eyes wide in the darkness.  “He seeks to pull my people out of ignorance and see them elevated to the circles of power in the world for a change.  The realm he has established here is strong . . . but brittle,” he reflected.  “I aim to make it less so.  To ward it from fanaticism, superstition, and mystification.  I am, in my own way, working toward the same goal as Ashakarl.  Without me in my position, the other elements of his court would drive us to ruin without a thought.”

Rondal was amused by the goblin’s sense of self-importance, but he also appreciated his perspective.  It was similar to his old master’s, he noted.  Minalan had often used his powers, both magical and secular, to influence the decisions of King Rard and Queen Grendine, from how they dealt with the threats from Merwyn to keeping them from repeating the exhaustive invasion of distant Farise.  Minalan considered himself a voice of reason in a court of fools.  Clearly Priviken saw himself in a similar light.

“I have to admit, you seem to have mastered court politics as well as any courtier I’ve met,” Tyndal praised.  “And you do an admirable job translating between the two races in a way that helps smooth relations.”

“It is kind of you to notice,” Priviken said, sincerely.  “My brothers and I have sought to see our people free and prosperous our entire lives . . . only to see us slaves to one faction or another.  For the first time we have the opportunity to escape those chains and avoid those whips, thanks to what we have learned from you.  We have endured scorn and indifference from the Alka Alon, and resented how they treated you hairless animals as near equals.  They let you prey upon us and did nothing, despite their pretensions of wise leadership.  They do not care about us.  It is my hope that we can teach them differently.”

There was impressive resolve in Priviken’s voice, and more emotion than Rondal would have expected about such an abstract subject.  He felt he had the truth of the matter, now: that behind Priviken’s casual corruption and sneering condescension the gurvan actually did care about his folk, and wished to see them progress.  Even if it meant indulging in the customs and strange ways of the enemy.  He could respect that, and was surprised to find such an altruistic perspective in the dark and murky dungeons of the Goblin King. 

“This door leads to the postern gate – the guard will let you pass,” Priviken assured.  “He is much used to visitors secretly leaving the palace that way.  This way you can avoid attention and return to your mission – your true mission,” he added, slyly.  “For I can see it is not merely your friend Gurkarl that you seek.”

“He is at the top of our list,” Rondal insisted.  “But we do have other matters to attend to.  Thank you for your assistance.”

“And thank you for yours,” Priviken said, opening the door.  “Perhaps a couple of wizards can get to the bottom of this golden goblin.  I fear if you don’t, this cult could send all we have built to ruin.”

Chapter Eleven

The Road To Darkness

I have seen the pain of war in many dark guises, in all manner of the horrific presentations of Duin’s craft.  The hatred, the anger, the bloodlust, the senseless deaths of thousands in a moment.  But the woe and despair that arise from its aftermath are perhaps worse than the violence of battle.  There is no glory, there, no victory.  Societies are shattered, as the victims and the victors struggle together to bring some tepid order to their lives once again.  It tempts me to put away my blade and wands and contemplate the quiet life of a farmer.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

The two did not depart Kral Krebhet until almost noon the next day.  The town’s busy nightlife made it somewhat hard to sleep, as the gurvani kept drinking in the streets all night, and the noise and ruckus did not abate until near dawn.  Little stands selling cheap, strong, bitter beer popped up all over the streets, selling their wares until their kegs were empty and their customers near insensible. 

Tyndal had seen plenty of drunken celebrations.  But there was nothing to celebrate, here in Kral Krebhet.  The gurvani drank because they had little better to do, and nothing brighter to look forward to.  They discovered from their host that the palace subsidized the beer stands heavily, providing alcohol to the public as cheaply as possible to keep them pacified.  Indeed, the brewery was one of the largest employers in Kral Krebhet, and barley its chief import.

“It’s a hell of a way to run a town,” Tyndal complained, as they finally settled their bill with the innkeeper – who offered them one last chance at his girls – before mounting their horses and heading west.  “Humans up all day, goblins up all night . . . I don’t know how anyone ever gets any sleep here.  Or gets any work done.”

“That’s probably adding to the stress,” Rondal agreed, as he urged his rouncey forward.  She was being defiant this morning, Tyndal noted, but eager to leave the noisy town full of horseflesh enthusiasts.  “I wish the king the best in his efforts, but this is one of the most depressing towns I’ve ever seen.”

It was hard to argue with that.  The stragglers from the night’s revels were still staggering back to their tents and huts in the light of day, their eyes slitted and their heads downcast.  Some paused to vomit up the excess beer into the street or gutter before they made it to their beds.  It did little to add to the charm of Kral Krebhet. 

The worst part had been the children.  The gurvani cubs had been hidden away for the day, but at night they emerged along with their parents and haunted every alleyway and lane, clustering in little gangs who looked on helplessly as their parents became insensible on cheap beer. 

Female gurvani indulged heavily in prostitution, and it wasn’t uncommon to see scrugs coupling in the open without the slightest regard to propriety.  The guards that served as a kind of city watch did nothing about it, either.  Only when fights broke out did they move to intervene with cudgels, while the children watched, wide-eyed. Tyndal never thought he’d feel sympathy for scrugs like that, but seeing the little black eyes as they watched the pointless display invited melancholy.

It was not a pretty sight.  Indeed, it made Tyndal ill.  He’d been in war zones that had been better policed than this.

“In truth, I’m looking forward to a little wholesome wilderness,” Tyndal admitted, as they passed by two gurvani males fighting over a female.  “If this is the best the gurvani can muster on their own, I don’t like their chances.”

“Strong but brittle,” Rondal reminded him of Priviken’s words.  “Give them some time, and a little encouragement, and they might survive.  Look how well the Malkas and the Tal Alon are doing,” he pointed out.

“True,” he admitted.  “The gurvani seem to be making more of an effort to learn our ways, at least.  In a haphazard sort of way,” he said, as he watched a gurvan with a threadbare human surcoat emerge from a cottage and dump a chamber pot into the gutter. 

“It would help if more of them could read,” Rondal speculated.  “Their written language is primitive, but effective.  It was only developed a few centuries ago when they came into contact with some monks of Herus.  From what I understand, less than one gurvan in a thousand knows how.”

“Yes, this lot do appear the literary type,” Tyndal said, sarcastically, as they passed by a huddle of scrugs passed out from their drunken indulgences and piled between two buildings, out of the wind.  “But now that we’re out of earshot of the inevitable spies, what do you think of our destination?  The Alka Alon woman in the white coat, for instance.”

“Clearly it was Lilastien, and I’m gratified you didn’t mention that,” Rondal praised.  “It’s one thing if they think we’re looking for Gurkarl.  But Minalan didn’t want it known that Lilastien is missing.”

“They think she’s one of the Enshadowed,” Tyndal agreed.  “That suits me fine.  Unless . . . Ron, do you think she might be one?  Secretly, I mean?” he asked.

“Never,” Rondal assured him.  “Perhaps we don’t know her well, but I can’t imagine her betraying her own people with that sort of ideology, no matter how poorly she thinks of the Council.  The Enshadowed I’ve met have been self-interested, not selfless.  You really think she’s an Enshadowed spy in deep cover?” he asked, skeptically.

“Not really, I’m just trying to explain why she left so suddenly and so mysteriously,” Tyndal clarified.  “Perhaps that will explain why Gurkarl left his quarters just as mysteriously, and just as suddenly.”

“Well, we know they spoke a few weeks before,” Rondal reminded him.  “Unexpectedly.  And that she was concerned about the arrival of the Emissary of the High Kings.  Then he came back here,” Rondal recounted, “and then she disappeared.  Then he disappeared when he heard about this golden goblin.  What do you make of that?” his friend asked him, suddenly.

“A mutation?” Tyndal proposed.  “Or some sort of magic?  The Alon are subject to both more often than humans are.”

“They are quite a pliable people, genetically speaking, according to Lilastien,” Rondal agreed. 

“From what I understand, the gurvani didn’t always look like this,  The Alka Alon bred them from an entirely different sub-species.  Shortened their lifespans to make them more disposable and simplified their biology to make them more efficient,” Tyndal reported.  He had learned as much from speaking with Lilastien, during their expedition to Anghysbel.  “It’s possible some latent gene from their past arose again.  Like humans who are born with tails.  It’s rare, but it’s possible.”

“How do you know so much about genetics?” Rondal asked, frowning.

“I breed horses,” Tyndal snorted.  “And I’ve read The Book of Mendel.  It’s really not that complicated, once you know the rules of genetics.  Pea plants or thoroughbreds, the rules are the same.”

“I’m surprised.  And impressed,” Rondal admitted.  “I figured you would be spending all of your time in the north chasing skirts and jousting.”

“Anghysbel changed a lot,” Tyndal admitted with a sigh.  “I met Tandine, for one thing.  And I got to spend some time in the Cave of the Ancients, studying what our ancestors knew.  Which is quite a lot.  It’s like learning magic all over again, but in a lot of ways its more complex.  They were quite good at genetics, even without magic.  That’s how they made all of this,” he said, gesturing expansively to the evergreens that loomed over the road and town.  They were coming to the western gate, now, and the cottages, huts, and tents had thinned dramatically.  Most of the settlement was east of the town center.

They paused while they checked in with the trio of hobgoblins at the gate, giving their names and informing the Ancient on duty their intended direction.

“Up there,” Tyndal said, bravely, nodding toward the Minden range.  The rocky mountains were already huge on the horizon and they were still miles and miles away.  A snowy mantle painted the tips and frosted the forests that clung to the hem of the peaks in the distance.  It seemed a foreboding sight, a visual challenge to the two.

“Brave,” chuckled the hobgoblin Ancient, darkly.  His Narasi was basic, at best.  Apparently there weren’t many who spoke the human tongue who ventured west.  “Rough tribes, up there,” the Ancient warned him.  “Kill you.  Man or gurvan, they kill you.  Might eat you.”

“So we’ve heard,” Rondal mused.  “How many villages between here and the mountains?”

“Three . . . four,” corrected the gurvan, frowning.  “Hard to say.  There used to be more.  Hard living there.  You should think again.  Better ways to get emeralds,” he assured.

“We are just sightseeing,” Tyndal said, flipping the hobgoblin a silver to loosen his tongue.  “What have you heard about . . . the golden goblin?” he asked. 

“Gurvan zlatlan?” the hobgoblin asked in surprise.  “Rumors.  Gossip.  Don’t mess with politics or religion,” he grunted.  Tyndal couldn’t tell if he was making a personal statement or offering advice.  “Crazy stories,” the Ancient dismissed.  “Stupid tribals!”

“Well, that was informative,” Rondal remarked, as they left the gatehouse and started down the snow-covered road towards the distant peaks.  “I don’t know if that gurvan realizes it, but he’s not doing much for tourism.”

“Perhaps he is,” Tyndal pointed out.  “It’s hard to get pilgrims to return if they don’t survive their first visit.  What are we doing here, Ron?” he asked, without planning to.  “We’re about to head into the toughest terrain I’ve ever seen.  In the middle of winter.  Just look at that sky,” he said, gesturing to the overcast gray clouds with his gauntleted hand.  “It’s promising more snow like an ugly maiden promising a tumble: you know its going to happen, and it will be worse than you expect.”

“We don’t have a choice!” Rondal insisted, with grim determination.  “This is the best lead we’ve gotten so far.  Lilastien.  Gurkarl.  This golden goblin.  There is something at play, here, whether it’s the Enshadowed or Sheruel or someone else.  If we don’t get to the bottom of it, who will?”

“Someone with a greater tolerance to cold, I would hope,” Tyndal swallowed.  “Look, I’m as adventurous as anyone, but I can’t help but feel we are walking into a particularly slow and painful death.”

“The mission is the mission,” Rondal stated, as a matter of fact.  “We’re committed.  Try not to let all of those impassable mountains and impossible weather deter you: somewhere up there is our goal.  Lilastien is there.  Gurkarl is there.  When we find them, we can have a couple of drinks and convince them to come back to civilization.”

“Because they are such reasonable people,” Tyndal said, with bitter sarcasm.  “Lilastien is mad, and Gurkarl apparently thinks he’s the gurvani savior.  The Spellmonger has abandoned Sevendor and the Magelaw to pursue the gods alone know what forgotten mysteries remain in some dusty ruin in Enultramar.  And here we are, about to submit ourselves to deprivation and despair, because no one better is available,” he pronounced, pessimistically.

“So we are the perfect agents, in this,” Rondal said, encouragingly.  “That’s why Minalan chose us.  Look to your valor, Haystack,” he suggested.  “We were chosen not because we would look at our challenge and blanche, but because we would see the impossibility as a trial to be conquered,” he said, with certainty.

“I envy you your optimistic perspective,” Tyndal said, after a few moments of struggle.  How could his friend so lightly dismiss the comforts of home and marriage in the face of such impossible obstacles?  “As for me, I look forward to the conclusion of this mission in quickest order.  The soonest we can discover an answer to this dilemma, the better,” he promised.

“I don’t understand how you have become so recalcitrant about this,” Rondal argued, a moment later.  “You clearly understand what is at stake.  Kingdoms,” he reminded him.  “The fate of millions, perhaps.  On our shoulders.”

“We are but small players on this stage, and our lives are not considered important,” Tyndal dismissed.  “Oh, I understand our value to the effort.  But who will laud us in victory?  Who will console us in defeat?  Besides our wives?”

“This is but a battle in a wider war,” Rondal argued.  “Do not let your valor fail you for the thought of soft comfort back at home.”

“I am no stranger to deprivation,” Tyndal argued.  “I just wish we knew if this was a fool’s errand, or not.  I would not spend my honor on a pointless endeavor.”

Rondal chuckled, wryly.  “When are we promised glory, my friend?  At best we are presented with the possibility.  Really, when can we attest that any mission will bring us lauds, and not death or dishonor?”

“You paint an uninspiring picture, Striker,” Tyndal murmured, uneasily.  “Without the promise of glory, what value in the effort?”

“Glory is measured by more than banquets and lauds,” Rondal laughed, mirthlessly.  “In my service to Alshar I have oft learned of the value of my works only long after their undertaking.  Some, still, languish in obscurity.  Some things I’ve done will never be known – lest all the good I’ve accomplished will be undone.  It is not the glory that beckons.  It’s the appreciation of how our efforts repair the sorry state of the world,” he said, with certainty.

“That seems small recompense, in light of what lies ahead,” Tyndal said, sullenly, as he nodded toward the distant peaks of the Mindens.  The mountains stretched across the west from horizon to horizon, look like some great, impenetrable snow-capped wall.  “In all candor, Ron, how do you feel our chances thrive when such obstacles obstruct us?”

“It matters not,” Rondal dismissed.  “The greater the challenge, the greater the glory.  If we alone know the worth of what we do, that is enough.”

Tyndal stared at his friend a moment.  “Dear gods, I envy you your optimism,” he finally said, thinking of nothing else to say that would not come out as insult.  “As well as your altruism.  But I confess I prefer more straight-forward pursuits.  I mislike skulking in the gloom at the edge of the world, pursuing an obscure mystery for unknown purposes, regardless of how important it might be.”

“Not every battle is a cavalry charge, Haystack,” Rondal said with a cock of his head.  “War is an instrument of policy.  So is clandestine work.  Indeed, more gets done with a dagger in the dark than on a battlefield.  I’ve learned that lesson early in my career as a spy.  My goal is to be effective, not famous.”

Tyndal gave his friend a long, thoughtful look.  “I think government work is ruining you,” he said with a regretful sigh.  “I love our duke as well as anyone, but I prefer to serve him openly and honestly, like a gentleman, not from the shadows.  The same with our former master.  And the king.”

“I wish that would be sufficient, but it is not,” sighed Rondal.  “For the last few years during the Restoration I have seen just how complex governing is.  Most of it is straight-forward: appoint the right ministers, ensure they are honest and sufficient to the task, allocate funds adequately to provide basic services, collect taxes without inspiring rebellion, establish justice and ensure defense – those are the easy matters that every ruler undertakes as the nature of governing.”

“I contend with those myself, in Callierd,” Tyndal agreed. 

“As does every ruler, from King Rard to King Ashakarl.  But then there are the murky areas of power,” Rondal continued.  “A ruler whose eyes are blind to the dangers in the darkness will not rule long.  Spies and agents are the eyes that peer into the twilight on his behalf, to inform his policies.  And sometimes to take action in the darkness to ensure the stability of his realm.  We are those tools,” Rondal reminded him.  “Our swords, our spells, our witchstones all make us formidable, but our eyes and our minds are the real asset at play.  We understand Minalan’s policies and the importance of the mission.  We enjoy position and reputation to grant us access to such fellows as Ashakarl and Priviken.  And we are empowered to take action, at our discretion, within the loose frontiers of our mission,” he listed.

“That’s the portion I feel most uneasy about,” Tyndal admitted.  “Minalan is entrusting us with this task, yet I have little confidence I can manage to not send it into the chamberpot.”

Rondal grinned.  “The good news is that if we do screw this up, we’re out in the middle of the wilderness, at the edge of the world.  No one will ever know we screwed up.  They might not ever find our bodies.  That is the bright side of working in the darkness.”

Tyndal did not find the humor in that, but he gave thought to Rondal’s words.  He, of course, understood the value of intelligence and counterintelligence in war and statecraft – in theory.  But the compromises involved in the practice of espionage challenged his sense of honor.  It seemed too close to doing evil in the service of good, or at least in the name of good.  He was uncomfortable with the fact that it was he, alone, who was responsible for determining just what that was.  It was far easier to just carry out your orders.

A few miles beyond the town gate they started to see a few settlements, the ruins of farms or freeholds that had been re-occupied by gurvani.  Once again, they attracted attention for their mounts and their species, though there were few scrugs in evidence at this time of day.  They resembled the village near the Waypoint, to his eye, except they were even more primitive in nature. 

Burnt-out cottages had been re-roofed not with thatch, but with brambles, while shelters had been constructed haphazardly against the walls of barns or even chickencoops, like cobwebs in the corners of a room.  There seemed to be no reason behind the settlements, save immediate convenience, and there was little sign that the fields that remained had been cultivated.  There was a smokehouse in use, and there were a few goatskins stretched across frames, frozen stiff in the cold, but that was all the evidence of enterprise he could see.

“They’re letting it go wild,” Rondal observed, as they passed the first settlement.  “They haven’t really even tried to restore it.”

“They don’t know how,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “And these aren’t complex farmsteads.  But they don’t seem to understand how they work.  They’re camping here, not holding here.”

“Well, they’re hunters and herders,” Rondal reasoned.  “They might have a bit of garden, but no one ever taught them how to farm.  And now everyone who knew how has left the region.  In a generation, if this holds, this entire region will return to wilderness.”

The second settlement they came across was no better, and far larger.  It had once been a prosperous freehold at an important crossroad.  Now it held hundreds of new huts along the road, but there was little evidence of commerce or craftwork.  A single gurvani smithy was in use, but the old weaver’s shop near the village well was now a barracks for a dozen liveried warriors. 

They stopped to water the horses and stretch their legs, and exchanged greetings with the soldiers.  Their yellow sashes were respected, though they held out for a bribe before they granted access to the well.  That seemed to be how they exercised power in the village. 

They seemed less disciplined than the fellows they’d met in Kral Krebhet, and only a few eunuchs were among them.  They behaved more like a gang of thugs than proper soldiers, Tyndal thought as he exchanged rough jokes in broken Narasi.  He even learned a few gurvani words for private parts – something he never thought he’d know, or need to.

Once they were back on the road, Tyndal began to feel eyes on him.  The road here was not much more than a track, a winding trail just wide enough for a cart in most places.  The forest encroached on it on both sides, he noted.  A good place for an ambush.

He cast the mind-to-mind spell with his witchstone to Rondal.

I think we’re going to be attacked, he suggested.

I was just thinking that, Rondal agreed.  The conditions are perfect.  We’re still close enough to Kral Krebhet to make this the main highway.  I can’t imagine there aren’t highwaymen.  I would almost be disappointed if there weren’t.

Shall we scry? Tyndal asked.  Or just see what happens?

I’ll scry ahead, Rondal assured him.  You just prepare to act.

“Two ahead on the right,” Rondal said aloud, a moment later.  “Three on the right, a little further.  I’m guessing they’ll stop us and surround us.”

“A basic encirclement,” Tyndal nodded.  “You think the fellows in town alerted them?”

“They wouldn’t be very enterprising if they didn’t,” Tyndal agreed.  “Did you see the way they were eyeing our horses?  And they didn’t warn us to be on our guard at all.  That’s why they were being so friendly.  They’ll probably plan to split the take with the bandits.”

“Just how belligerent shall we be in our defense?” Rondal asked, as he pulled off his gloves. 

“They’re just bandits,” Tyndal shrugged.  “And we’re trying to keep a low profile.  No need to do more than necessary, I think.”

“Agreed,” Rondal murmured.  “So no magical lightning or bolts of fire.”

“Not unless it’s warranted,” Tyndal directed, as he prepared to conjure his mageblade.  “Or they really piss you off.”

By the time they rode into the ambush they were well-prepared.  Tyndal was almost looking forward to it – he always preferred clear opposition, when he was in the field.  When the three gurvani scurried out of their hiding places to block the trail, his fingers were twitching to feel his sword in his hand.

The bandits were a motley collection of deserters and cutthroats dressed in cast-off armor or looted gear, he could see.  The one in the center wore a rusty human helmet, an old barrel helm in style a century ago that some of the older Wilderlords still affected, beaten into shape to better fit a gurvan’s head.  He also bore a greatsword that was comically large for his stature, an antique heirloom of some local house – but very intimidating.  Alas, the boots he wore on his feet were even larger in proportion to the sword, giving him a cartoonish presentation.

His mates were less elaborate in their dress, but each held the short bow that the tribal gurvani preferred.  They had arrows nocked and the strings drawn.

“Stop!” the leader shouted in accented Narasi.  He could barely hold the greatsword steady as he stood defiantly in the roadway.  “Give up your coin!” he demanded.

“Behind us,” Rondal murmured, as he turned his head back to peer over his shoulder.  “Spears and clubs,” he said, detailing their armament.

“Gentlemen,” Tyndal said, addressing the leader.  “I was told that there were no tolls on this road.”

“Give up your coin!” the gurvan repeated, more loudly, and advanced a step.  Tyndal fixed the hook of a simple spell on the bowstrings of the archers – always their weakest point – and snapped.  So did the bowstrings.  The arrows fell uselessly to the ground, and both archers staggered in surprise as the tension on their bows was unexpectedly released -- and at their sudden disarmament. 

In a flash, Tyndal conjured his mageblade from its hoxter pocket and it was in hand.  He advanced his horse against the leader, using his blade to threaten the erstwhile bandit.  As the gurvani made a clumsy pass to strike at him with the greatsword, he effortlessly knocked it aside with his own sword.  As soon as his strike was done he sent a bolt of arcane force from the tip of the mageblade, down on the helmet of the scrug.  It stunned him at once.

While the disarmed archers backed away in confusion, Rondal raised a warwand and blasted the two bandits behind them.  They slumped to the ground directly.  Tyndal rode his horse menacingly toward the survivors and they took to their heels.

“That was lamentably easy,” Tyndal complained, when they had resumed their journey.  “It’s hard to believe they managed to mount an invasion.”

“They were bandits, not warriors,” Rondal argued.  “Opportunists and bullies.  Nothing more.  They likely prey on their own kind far more than ours.  Still, we might want to keep our weapons displayed, from this point on.  It might avoid this kind of trouble in the future.”

“Agreed,” Tyndal sighed, and then conjured the scabbard for his blade before fastening it to his saddle.  “We’re not here to fight, after all.  What is the next town we come to?”

“Calling it a town would be charitable, from what I understand.  It used to be known as Corvel’s Crossing – there’s a ford there – but I have no idea what the locals refer to it as, now.  It’s one of the last major settlements before we get to the serious foothills, though.  Or at least it was, according to the old maps.”

“That’s where the General likely has his troops,” Tyndal reasoned.  “That makes it the functional edge of Ashakarl’s realm.”

“Unless he’s secured the loyalty of the tribes beyond it, yes,” Rondal agreed.  “Hopefully we can learn a little more about this golden goblin and Lilastien there.  And Gurkarl,” he added.  “I only hope we can make it there before dark,” he said, squinting at the sun.  The cloud cover was thick and gray, but the light and minimal heat from the sun was still detectable. 

They pressed on at a faster pace, and after an hour they began to see more signs of habitation as they descended one ridge into a vale.  The terrain was becoming more and more rough, with rocky outcroppings peeking through the soil and snow more and more often.  The foliage changed, too, as spruces and holly trees began to be predominant along the road.  Just as the sun began to disappear behind the Mindens, they sighted the distant settlement straddling both sides of a frozen mountain river.

“It almost looks picturesque, from here,” Tyndal remarked as they paused to get their bearings.  There were three rows of streets on either side of the river, each bearing tidy looking cottages or workshops.  There was an old square stone tower on a nearby outcropping of rock, a spur from the ridge above. 

It was the common sort of Wilderlord fortification, as much wood as stone, and it was partially damaged, likely in the initial invasion.  The wooden machicolation around the top was stove in on the western side, and then crudely repaired.  In Tyndal’s professional opinion it wasn’t much more formidable than the Dike Tower, back in Sevendor.  The Pele Towers of the Magelaw were far more defensible.

Yet the ugly black and burgundy banner of Ashakarl’s realm flew over the top of it, proclaiming his lordship..   

“I suppose this is the last outpost of civilization, before we get to the true wilderness,” Rondal observed.  “According to the records, there were five hundred people living here, before the invasion.  It was ruled by one Lord Corvel, Master of the Ford.  It was the only route into the interior of the Mindens.  He had pretensions of mining, there.  He found copper in the lands to the west.”

“I doubt if he’s still in a position to exploit them,” Tyndal chuckled.  Most of the Wilderlords in this region had been taken unawares by the sudden invasion, or had fled in the face of overwhelming numbers.  Many had gathered in defense at a ford south of here and had been routed decisively, early in the war, Tyndal knew.  Whatever survivors there had been had fled south or east.  “But I believe that was one historical reason for the Goblin Wars: the duchy wanted the mineral deposits in the Minden foothills.  Copper especially.  There’s iron aplenty around Vanador, but precious little copper.”

“And gurvani don’t use copper much, so why should they have it?” Rondal argued, sarcastically.  “Easier to drive them deeper into the hills and take it than to try to establish trade for it.”

“We would have thought up some other reason, if it wasn’t for the copper,” Tyndal reasoned.  “It’s in our nature, I’m afraid.  Let’s go see if Corvel’s Crossing has an inn fit for the name . . . else we’ll be camping in the cold tonight.”             

Chapter Twelve

The Religious Debate

For years I had never considered the religion of the gurvani, save in the context of the Dead God’s evil cult.  It was not until I spoke at length with the learned gurvan Gurkarl that I realized that, like humans, the goblins have many approaches and perspectives on religion, the gods, and their place in the world.  Sheruel’s wicked doctrine was an aberration, a perversion of common gurvani religion, not its foundation.  Somehow I found it both better and worse when I recognized that the foes I’d slain in battle were the victims of empty promises and misplaced devotion.

From the private journal of Baron Rondal

Rondal

Corvel’s Crossing was clearly no more, they could see as they approached the gate at twilight.  Whatever Wilderfolk had originally built the settlement were long fled, enslaved, or consumed, to be replaced by thousands of gurvani.  At this time of day they were awakening and preparing what work they had for themselves.

The place was now known as Pregaz, the guards at the gate informed them when they checked in, but it was not half-abandoned, like the previous settlements they’d come to.  Indeed, there was a small portion of humans – about ten percent of the population – that still clung to their trades here. 

In short order, Rondal learned of the enterprises Pregaz boasted.  There were two human blacksmiths as well as two gurvani smiths, two coopers, a wainwright, a wheelwright and several carpenters who had steady work.  Many of the gurvani were apparently employed as timberers, plying their iron axes against the thick woods that surrounded the ford, to supply the sawyers with fresh lumber. 

When Rondal expressed surprise at the industry, the purpose became clear: the Goblin Kingdom needed carts, wains, and other machinery for commerce.  Despite the capital’s size and population, the necessary elements for the creation of new wagons were present in Pregaz, not Kral Krebhet.  The wainwrights shop toiled twenty-six hours a day to produce them, as many as three a week.  Most were oxcarts, pulled by the shaggy cows the gurvani had inherited from their human slaves.  A few were outfitted for horses or donkeys.  There was even a light version that depended on a single llama to pull it.

“That’s quite enterprising,” Tyndal praised, as they left the gatehouse, leading their horses.  “I hadn’t considered how vital wagons are to trade, but I suppose every farmstead needs one.”

“The gurvani aren’t particularly conversant with the wheel,” Rondal agreed.  “Living up in the mountains, wheels probably aren’t practical.  Or easy to craft.”

“They seem to have the hang of it now,” Tyndal mused, as they passed one of the new-made wagons being hauled through the street by six sturdy goblins. 

They discovered more about the industry at the inn – thankfully slightly better than the Lonesome Stone.  It was known as the Hound’s Head, and it, too, was reclaimed from a previous incarnation by an enterprising human innkeeper.  But the trade was more than half gurvani, despite the human-sized accommodations.  There was no division between the races, in this town, Rondal saw, likely because of the fewer number of humans.  The gurvani and the men shared the common area of the inn, though the men tended to congregate on one side. 

Arriving at twilight, the two got to see the interactions between the two, as the human workmen were retiring for the day but their gurvani counterparts were just arriving.  Both enjoyed a quick ale at the tavern, and mixed in a relatively convivial manner.  Tyndal found someone to take charge of the horses while Rondal secured lodging and ordered their supper from the innkeeper.  It was while speaking with the man, who was short and had a belly like a kettle, that he learned the source and destination of so many wagons.

“It’s the king,” the man explained, patiently.  “He’s bought one of every three wains Pregaz makes.  To supply his troops,” he said, proudly.  “I think every wain in the kingdom was built here, now.  And there’s the beer—the old monastery got took over, and they’re making beer there – scrug beer,” he amended.  “Every wain that goes east is filled with it.  They sell a lot of that to the king, too.”

Indeed, Pregaz was clearly the kingdom’s capital of industry – and the human artisans were clearly in charge of it.  Unlike Kral Krebhet, most of the local population of gurvani had jobs for wages, and seemed content with the work.  The humans who filled one half of the inn’s common room looked like any other working men after a hard day, but their black-furred counterparts who worked the night shift seemed to have adapted to the rigors of the craft as well as any human peasants.  The innkeeper’s staff was almost entirely gurvani, he saw, female goblins bringing wooden or leathern mugs to their patrons. 

That didn’t mean there weren’t problems – Rondal avoided a fight between two belligerent goblins before Tyndal returned from the stables.

“What was that all about?” Tyndal asked, as he took a stool next to his friend. 

“Just a common brawl,” Rondal dismissed.  “Likely over a female.  Or work.  Or because one of them is an asshole.  Just like back in civilization.”

“This is civilization,” Tyndal countered.  “They’ve got several going concerns.  Did you know they had a brewery here?”

“In the old abbey,” Rondal nodded, as one of the gurvani girls brought them each a mug of ale – human-style ale, without the bitter herbs the gurvani preferred.  Rondal had been certain to specify.  “They supply Kral Krebhet, which will keep them in business indefinitely.”

“On the king’s coin,” Tyndal agreed, as he raised his mug in a silent toast.  “Apparently he’s getting that coin . . . from us.”

“From us?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Indirectly.  I found out Banamor has an agent in the market.  Buying raw emeralds.  And paying in silver – at a steep discount, by all accounts.  But he pays in silver.”

“Wait, the Wizard’s Mercantile has an agent here?” Rondal asked in disbelief.

“More than one, I’d wager,” Tyndal murmured into his cup.  “There’s a little copper and coal that come in from the mountains.  It gets sold at market.  It never gets carted out of town.  What does that suggest?”

“Hoxter pockets,” Rondal nodded. 

“Exactly,” Tyndal affirmed.  “Banamor is buying good commodities for a pittance here in the wilderness, then selling them abroad at a premium.  I bet these Minden emeralds are being sold in Merwyn and Farise, by now,” he predicted.

“I wouldn’t put it past him.  ‘Buy low, sell high’ is tattooed on his soul,” Rondal remarked with a grin. 

“Which means we’re beneficiaries of the trade.  You know Minalan made all of his apprentices partners . . .”

“I know,” groaned Rondal.  “Thankfully, I haven’t even looked into the matter.  I have enough money, with our take from the Rats, the income from my barony, and my pay from the duchy.  That’s not even counting Gatina’s wealth,” he added.  “She keeps asking what I want for a dowry, so she can steal it for me.”

“What an enterprising bride you have,” Tyndal chuckled.  “Mine just keeps offering to kill people for me.  Straightforward, but not terribly subtle.”

“Still, it could come in handy,” Rondal pointed out.  “You do collect your share of envious enemies.”

“A fair point,” Tyndal nodded.  “I must keep that in mind.”

They enjoyed a simple but expensive dinner of roasted lamb and barley porridge with onion, along with a slice of crumbly cornbread.  Indeed, barley and maize seemed to be the only two grains the gurvani seemed to be able to grow in abundance.  The ale was fair, at best, but it was wet and cool, and it washed down the food adequately.

While they ate they watched the common room empty of gurvani, as they reported to their workshops, and the humans retire to sleep for the night.  Rondal considered the fact that he and the other partners in the Wizard’s Mercantile were inadvertently funding the industrious prosperity of this marginal settlement. He was unsure how he felt about that. 

That became clearer the next morning when he and Tyndal toured the marketplace, after a disappointing breakfast of weak ale and wheat gruel with the tiniest dollop of honeycomb.  The market was small, for a town this size, but busy.  It wasn’t a market day, but the permanent stalls, many manned by humans, were doing a brisk trade in all sorts of common goods: iron tools, salt, rope, bolts of linen and wool, spools of thread, parchment, ink, spools of string, wooden spades, and kitchen implements. 

He halted briefly by one particular stall when he saw a selection of seashell jewelry he recognized as being common along the wharfs and beaches of Enultramar.  They were made by the poorest subjects in southern Alshar, or ethnic enclaves like the Calrom or the Harasasi and sold to children or peasants on holiday as a festive keepsake.  You could get three of the more elaborate ones for a copper penny, he recalled.

Here, they were offered in market for five silver pennies, or the equivalent value in raw emeralds.  The goblin maidens doted on them like they were made of gold.  Rondal was certain from the goods the merchant sold that he was being supplied by the Wizard’s Mercantile.  He could not think of any other way for the goods to arrive here in such good condition, unless they came by hoxter pocket.

It amazed him, in a way.  The Wizard’s Mercantile was an open secret amongst the magi, but it was also technically illegal – and borderline exploitive.  It excelled at importing rare items without the usual high import duties.  Or any duties.  The Mercantile supported a means of transport that avoided virtually all taxes, tolls, tariffs and duties.  It was a direct affront to the complex web of financial controls to international trade.

And so it was insanely profitable.

Rondal knew a bit about the operation, both as a participant and as an observer.  His position as Deputy Court Mage of Alshar – and de facto troubleshooter for Pentandra – had informed him about the institution in unique ways. 

He knew for a certainty just how ruthless the tendrils of the Mercantile had become.  In the wine and oil trade, in particular, the Mercantile had booked thousands of ounces of gold in profit over the years.  Extending that duty-free trade to commodities such as lumber, wool, steel, copper, and luxury goods like precious gems and magical components had produced incredible profits. 

But that came with the knowledge of blatant exploitation, like the emerald trade, he realized.  Tribal goblins up in the Mindens were digging them out of mines for little better reason than they were pretty rocks that had value.  Banamor was buying leftover trinkets in Enultramar from the poor, and then trading them for raw emeralds from the poorest of the gurvani.  And becoming insanely rich in doing so.  Along with Rondal and Tyndal, and the other stockholders of the company.

“I feel ill,” he revealed to Tyndal, when they left the booth.  “Those things are everywhere, along the coast.  They break easily and are usually discarded after a couple of days.  Here, they’re treated like heirlooms.”

“To the scrugs, they might be,” Tyndal proposed.  “They don’t see many seashells up here.  Hells, I didn’t, until we went to Enultramar,” he reminded Rondal.

“That’s not the point,” Rondal said, sourly.  “I can’t help but feel we’re taking advantage of them.  Here and in Enultramar.  What’s Banamor’s profit on that trade?”

“Probably very nice.  He has an eye for that sort of thing.  But the scrugs are willing to pay it, and the poor in Alshar are willing to sell.  Besides,” he said, gesturing to one sleepy-looking gurvani female who sported her new necklace proudly, “look how happy it makes them.  And it’s not all junk,” he pointed out.  “Banamor is selling them things they can use: axes, pitchforks, hoes, shovels, rope . . .”

“Things they could learn how to make,” Rondal reminded him.  “The gurvani are good smiths.  Remember, Gurkarl was a smith.  They know how to forge iron.”

“In piecemeal fashion, yes,” Tyndal agreed.  “But when you see how quickly the forges in Vanador can make an axe, compared to a village smith, it makes more sense to purchase it than to invest all that labor in it.  And these folk need more axes than they can produce for themselves, if they’re going to hold these lands.  So he’s doing them a favor.”

Rondal didn’t know what to say to that.  Tyndal wasn’t wrong.  Most of the gurvani who had fled north to these hills were originally from tribes in the Mindens where they eked out a precarious existence hunting and foraging.  As poor as these lands were, they were far superior to the rocky dales and high meadows to the west – if you had appropriate tools.  And while the gurvani were decent at ironwork, not enough were to fulfill the needs of the increased population.  Perhaps the Mercantile was performing a service, that way.

But it still disturbed him.

“I wonder if we’re selling them barley, too,” Rondal continued, as they passed a wagon filled with beer barrels. 

“Probably,” Tyndal sighed.  “We actually produce quite a bit, near Vanador.  Exporting our surplus just makes sense.  Especially if we’re getting emeralds in return.”

“And wool,” Rondal pointed out, nodding towards two older gurvani females, wrapped in black cloaks, knitting in a stall.  Their long black fingers were adept at knotting the complex patterns of yarn into knitted textiles, and their long wooden knitting needles clacked together with precision.  One of the females was incredibly thin, while the other was impressively rotund, for a gurvan.  They chatted away in their native tongue while they worked, not even glancing up when the boys passed by.

“See?  We’re teaching them new trades,” Tyndal argued.  “They didn’t know how to knit, before.  Those scarves will fetch a decent price back in Vanador.”

“With them receiving a fraction of what they sell for,” Rondal reminded him, gloomily.

“They get something for their labors,” Tyndal pointed out.  “Something they can trade for, and get something they want or need.  That’s how the marketplace works.  Without it, they’d still be hunting goats in the mountains and losing half their pups to the cold or hunger.”

They were passing a small farmstand with a miserable looking human woman huddled over a tiny fire.  Rondal stopped immediately when he saw what she was selling: cheese.  Indeed, it was a most familiar style of cheese, one that his birthplace had a reputation for.  The carefully-shaped white wheels of fermented curds were stacked on a trestle table, some dipped in wax for longevity, others nakedly displayed in their pungent glory.

Rondal stepped to the table immediately, and fumbled for his purse.

“How is business today, Goodwife?” he asked, politely.  The woman scowled.

“Not good enough to make it worth freezing my arse off, out here!” she complained.  “The bloody scrugs won’t touch my wares!”

He heard Tyndal chuckle behind him.  The Alon, in general, thought some humani foodstuffs were exotic to the point of being foul.  While they had quickly adopted fare like honey and potatoes, when it came to sausages and especially dairy products they were highly suspicious, and often expressed revulsion.  The Alon, as a rule, didn’t drink the milk of other species.  The only exception he’d seen for that were some of the more adventurous Tal Alon, or the more worldly Karshak and Malkas Alon.

“Well, I would like to try some,” Rondal said, placing a coin on the table.  The woman grudgingly carved off a sample of a few ounces with a rusty knife and handed it to him with some ceremony.  Rondal broke the white curd in two, and passed one half to Tyndal.  They both looked at it and smelled it before placing it reverently in their mouths.

The flavor immediately took Rondal back to his childhood, when the particular style of cheese Boval Vale was famous for was served at nearly every meal.  Perhaps a true aficionado would have detected some minor difference between the authentic Bovali and this example, but to Rondal’s unsophisticated palate it was a bolt of nostalgic memory from home. 

“Ishi’s tits!” he could hear Tyndal pronounced reverently behind him.  “That’s the real stuff!”

“Near enough,” Rondal agreed, as the subtle aftertaste of the cheese consumed him.  “How much do you have?”

“I’ve got more than twenty pounds of the stuff!” the woman complained.  “The inn buys a bit, and so do the lads over at the wainworks, but the bloody scrugs won’t touch it!”

“I’ll buy every scrap you have,” Rondal assured her, digging out far more from his pouch than was reasonable for the exchange.  “Right now.”  The woman’s eyes bugged when she saw the amount he was offering in real, trustworthy Magelaw silver.

“You can have my bloody daughter, for that price!” she snorted, and began gathering up her wheels for him.  “Why are you fellows so keen on cheese?” she asked, hesitantly.

“It reminds us of home,” Tyndal supplied, simply.  “Just pile it up there – no need to wrap it.  We’ll take it with us.”

She looked skeptical.  “You won’t be able to carry that much,” she reasoned.  “Maybe you can get a porter, but the scrugs hate moving cheese . . . and their hair gets into it,” she said, condemningly.

“No need to worry, we can manage,” Tyndal said, twisting a ring within which there was a hoxter enchantment.  In a moment the cheese vanished, leaving her table clear of everything but the money.

“You’re bloody wizards!” the woman accused, astonished.

“Cheese enthusiasts come from all vocations,” Rondal informed her.  “Tell me, Goodwife, how did you manage to get your herd through the invasion?  Or even survive yourself?”

“We’re too remote for the bloody scrugs to care about,” she dismissed.  “Our hold is up in the north ridge,” she said, vaguely indicating the vague direction.  “We didn’t even know about the invasion until we came to market – and the market was gone.  They didn’t molest my herd, nor our family, by Trygg’s holy grace.  We were spared.”

“That must have been awful for you,” Rondal said, sympathetically.

“We didn’t much care for our neighbors, anyway,” she dismissed, crossly.  “Nor Lord Corvel.  And we bought a few slaves from the scrugs, a couple of years back.  They’ve been a gracious help,” she assured him.

Rondal looked at her in surprise.  “Human slaves?” he asked, shocked.

“Aye, a boy and a girl,” she agreed.  “Paid a decent price, too.  Lazy bastards, but when they do work, they are a help around the hold,” she admitted, grudgingly

“But . . . but King Ashakarl freed the human slaves!” Rondal protested.

“Well, no one told them!” she snickered.  “Like I said, we’re pretty remote, up I the north ridges.”

Rondal felt Tyndal’s hand pulling him away before he could spit out his reply.  He hated the very concept of slavery, and having seen it practiced in Alshar before it was abolished had reinforced his every rationalization about the matter. 

“We got the cheese, Ron, let’s go,” Tyndal urged, quietly.  “We’re not here to start a ruckus, remember?”

“She’s keeping humans – children! – as slaves!” Ron snarled.  “Fellow humans!  Who does—“

“It is not our concern,” Tyndal said, firmly, as he continued to steer his friend through the crowd.  “We’re guests, here.  We can report it back home, but it would be a poor idea to get involved in local affairs.  We focus on the mission,” he reminded Rondal.

As if to reinforce his words, the universe provided a distraction from Rondal’s ire: a drum began beating, and a moment later there were low chants in the gurvani language coming from the far corner of the market.  Both boys froze.  They had often been subject to that kind of music during the war, when the gurvani chanted and played drums before a battle in order to unnerve their opponents.  It had some effect.

“What’s this, then?” Tyndal asked, under his breath, as he stared over the heads of the marketgoers. 

It proved to be some sort of religious celebration, Rondal saw, as the crowd parted.  A line of gurvani, naked except for their primitive jewelry, began to parade through the market behind the drummer.  The drum was a huge, hollowed-out oak log upon which a goatskin had been stretched, and was carved and burned in the artistic manner of the tribal gurvani.  Behind the drummer stood a gurvan who solemnly carried a banner, a piece of muslin that had been painted with the slash-like letters of the gurvani alphabet.  Rondal wasn’t adept enough to read the script, nor to understand it.

The deep growl of the chant lingered as the supplicants passed through the market.  The gurvani looked on with either curiosity or annoyance, some adopting a reverent posture while others scowled.  The humans in the market watched with detached interest as the line of naked goblins processed through.  The gurvani stood straight, and walked in a steady, solemn gait as they chanted.  The expressions on their half-lidded eyes were serene, determined, and as penitent as any monk. 

One of the human vendors came to the front of his stall and stood near to the two of them as they waited for the line to pass.

“What is this?” Rondal asked the man, curiously.

“Oh, some kind of scrug vespers or matins,” he supplied, grudgingly, after glancing at their yellow sashes.  “Those are the Vyarno.  A kind of scrug cult.  They do it every day at noon.  Some kind of ritual.  I just hope – damn it, I was afraid of this!” he said, his voice suddenly cloaked in anxiety.  “The Vyarno aren’t so bad.  But that lot just arrived a week ago, and they’re always starting trouble!” he said, angrily, as he moved back behind his stall’s front for safety.  “It’s the bloody Black Skulls!”

The two of them watched in interest as the long line of solemn gurvani were intercepted by three robed priests, the hair on their bodies limed to a dull, deathly white . . . all save their faces.  They were the Urgulnosti, the dark priesthood who fanatically worshipped the Great Ghost.  They wore long, loose-fitting black linen robes that made their white-stained limbs even more distinctive in contrast. The hair on their faces was darkest black, in the shape of the skull that represented the Old God – the Dead God, as humans knew him.  Sheruel.

“I think we’re about to see an ecclesiastic argument break out,” Tyndal murmured.

Indeed, there was no disguising the belligerence of the black-robed priests.  One bore a staff with an elaborate iron head – and within it came a familiar green glow.  Irionite, Rondal recognized at once.  The hallmark of the urgulnosti cult, a gift and weapon from Sheruel, as well as a sign of his authority. 

The column of Vyarno cultists halted in front of the trio of priests, but did not stop their chanting.  It seemed to grow louder and more determined, in fact.  The drummer stood his ground, the pace of his rhythm unwavering in the face of the three sinister-looking shamans.

The banner bearer moved to one side of the drummer, while a third gurvan, presumably a leader of some sort, moved to the other.  All three continued the chant relentlessly as the two sides stared at each other.  A moment later the staff-bearing shaman began to yell loudly in gurvani, his voice becoming angrier and angrier as he addressed the cultists.

“I really wish I could understand what they’re saying,” Tyndal confessed.

“I think we can guess, by their tone,” Rondal suggested.  He activated his magesight, eager to see if the shaman had hung any spells about him.  He could not see anything that looked offensive, with his magical sight, but that didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t something lurking around.  After years of fighting against it, he still didn’t understand gurvani magic.

“The naked ones don’t seem to be relenting,” Tyndal noted.  “Proud bunch of bastards, aren’t they?”

“The shamans aren’t budging, either,” Rondal observed.  In fact the leader of the urgulnosti began preaching – or just screaming – at the gurvani in the crowd, not just the cultists.  Some of them perked up their pointed ears at what was being said, he could tell, with expressions of fear and worry washing over them.  But most seemed to scoff or shy away from the urgulnosti’s sermon, or even shake their heads in disgust.

Then, the leader of the Vyarno cultists began to speak, more calmly but no less forcefully, and for a few moments the two verbally dueled while the drum and the chanting continued.  The Black Skulls got even more impatient and raised their voices appreciatively, trying to gain some support from the crowd.  But it was clear to Rondal that most of the goblins present, while fearful of the priests, did not support what they were saying. 

He found that gratifying.  He’d faced down urgulnosti shamans in battle since he was fourteen.  The Black Skulls were fanatics, entirely devoted to Sheruel and his dark mission of genocide.  They ruled by fear and intimidation, powerful magic and civil dominance.  They were used to bullying the gurvani into line.

But the Vyarno were unimpressed by their antics.  The cultists were calm and resolute, staring defiantly at the Black Skulls while they continued their chant.  The common gurvani in the market looked on in fascination and worry as the two forces faced off against each other.  Rondal could feel the tension rise as both sides tried to overshout each other. 

Eventually, the urgulnosti leader lost his temper with the stoic Vyarno leader, and pushed him with the head of his staff.  Rondal felt a spell activate . . . and the Vyarno leader was blasted back off his feet.  Before he stopped sliding on the snowy, slushy ground of the marketplace, the other cultists began assaulting the Black Skulls, and the three shamans were fighting for their lives.

Rondal was, for the first time in a long while, a mere bystander in the battle, and it was fascinating to watch in a morbid sort of way.  Even as he prepared spells for defense and readied his weapons, he was surprised that none of the antipathy was directed toward the humani minority in the market.  This was purely a fight between goblin sects. 

Neither party was traditionally armed, but both seemed adept at employing makeshift weapons, and in moments poles, sticks, rocks, and items snatched from vendor tables were being used to pummel each other.  For several tense minutes the shouting, chanting, and grunts of combat were intermixed with screams as gurvani and humans both tried to avoid the fray.

But it wasn’t a close match.  Despite the Black Skulls’ magic, the Vyarno cultists outnumbered them five to one.  One by one, the urgulnosti fell, or were taken in hand.  The drummer, to his credit, never varied his beat.

Finally, there was a whistle, and a squadron of burgundy-clad hobgoblins arrived with cudgels and spears to break up the brawl.  They quickly got the violence under control by imposing their own, plying their clubs indiscriminately against the rioters as the market patrons gave them a wide berth.  In moments the fighting ceased, and all of the combatants were being held in custody by the soldiers.

A shouting match in gurvani ensued, with both sides trying to tell their story while the other interrupted and shouted against them.  The hobgoblin Ancient in charge of security was not impressed with either side, and calmly ordered the prisoners to be brought before the gurvani equivalent of a magistrate.

Rondal had lost sight of Tyndal during the mele, but his tall friend reappeared soon after the last of the rioters were hauled away. 

“That was exciting!” he chuckled, clearly having enjoyed the unexpected display.  “Usually our religious debates don’t get so heated.”

“I kept waiting for them to start attacking us,” Rondal confessed.  “It looked like it could have spilled over to general mayhem.”

“Nay,” the merchant whose stand they were in front of dismissed.  “They won’t do harm at market, no matter how much they might hate us.  They need us too badly – well, the normal scrugs do.  The bloody Black Skulls would just as soon see us all in the soup pot.  But the King has made it a crime to attack a human for no reason.  Besides, their issue is with the Vyarno, not us.”

“What is the nature of their disagreement?” Tyndal asked, as he fiddled with something under his cloak.

“The Skulls want to take over and put us all back under Sheruel, the Vyarno just want to push out all the humans and make this a purely gurvani state,” the man explained.  “They don’t like us, but they don’t hate us.  The Skulls want us dead in the Dead God’s sacrifices.  The Vyarno just want to return to a more primitive existence.  They think it’s more pure.  Stop forging iron and farming and trying to be like us,” he said, indignantly.  “They’re both cracked, if you ask me.”

“We had heard there were cults like that out here, but we had no idea,” Rondal said, shaking his head.

“Oh, these are the tame ones – well, except for the Black Skulls, the bloody bastards.  The ones up in the hills are the really crazy ones,” he assured.  “When they come to market, just about anything can happen.  The Captain doubles the guard on market days against that.  This wasn’t nearly as bad as last time, when the Red Fangs came to town.  Couple of scrugs died,” he informed them.

“This happens frequently?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“Just about every week,” the man assured, sourly.  “But they mostly fight against each other and leave us alone.”

Tyndal and Rondal started to walk back toward the inn, both still startled at the sudden riot.  “All of this over religion,” Tyndal sneered.

“People feel strongly about religion,” Rondal pointed out.  “Strongly enough to fight about it.  I don’t see why the goblins would be any different.”

“Well, there was one unexpected result from the brawl,” Tyndal chuckled.  “You remember that iron rod the urgulnosti leader had?  I took it.”

Rondal looked at his friend in surprise.  “You took it?” he asked in disbelief.  “How?”

“I just picked it up when he got clobbered by that kettle,” he chuckled.  “Poor fellow lost it.  So I slipped it under my cloak.  Now it’s in a hoxter.”

“Why?” Rondal asked in confusion.

“Because I could . . . and one less shaman with a witchstone is always a good thing.  I’m sure its going to cause him all kinds of difficulty to suddenly not have access to his irionite.  Besides, I want to study it and find out what Sheruel is giving his lackeys these days.  And it will teach that shaman a valuable lesson.”

“What?” Rondal demanded.

“You should never turn your back on your valuables at market,” he explained with a grin.  “There are thieves everywhere.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Magistrate

I never truly appreciated the importance of a legal system until I was given command of Callierd, and suddenly had a population of my own to govern.  It quickly became apparent that the simple orders and direction I had grown used to as a military commander were just not adequate for the complexities of civil society.  Simple authority is fine, for what it’s worth, but there were plenty of situations that unfolded in my early days as a lord that were perplexing or even impossible to settle with mere wisdom and magic.  Hiring my first lawbrother as a magistrate to oversee those concerns proved to be instrumental in bringing order to my lands without drawing a sword.  And I had someone else to listen to the complaints and accusations.  It was a pure blessing.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

They spent the rest of the day exploring Pregaz, trying their best to find out information about the golden goblin, Gurkarl, or any mysterious Alka Alon.  It wasn’t easy – even the humans in the settlement were starting to use gurvani to speak to each other, and neither one of them knew enough of the language to converse or even overhear conversations.  It was odd, hearing the harsh tones of the scrug language pronounced by human throats, Tyndal thought. 

But late in the afternoon he ran across a drunk in one of the few human taverns in town who was conversant.  He had no other job, which spoke of his ambitions in a town of such industry, and he made it clear he preferred the inside of a tavern to a workshop.  But he could speak several dialects of gurvani, and after buying him a pint and bribing him liberally with silver, the wretch managed to find a gurvan who swore he’d seen the golden goblin.

The gurvan was a trader of sorts, but lacked any regular route.  He was one of many packtraders who used Pregaz as a base, purchasing trade goods at market and then marching them to semi-nomadic tribes in the wilderness in exchange for emeralds and other minerals..  He knew the high country, and the tribes there.  He had appaently been in one hunting camp recently where one of the preaching prophets had established himself in a nearby cave. 

Details were hard to come by; as the translator kept getting words wrong, or misunderstood the meaning of gurvani idioms, but the goblin packtrader provided a basic account of the meeting.

“He says that there were two tribes there,” the translator reported, his every word a boozy haze.  “The Left Foots and the . . . High Eyes?” he reported, doubtfully.  “Something like that.  Hunters.  They have camps in good hunting spots they go back to every year.  Do some trading, too.  It’s a kind of social thing, the hunters out away from the women-folk so they can actually think and speak for a change.   It’s like a temporary market where he can pick up the odd fur or raw skins.

“Anyway, one of their shamans came by to preach, because they do that in the fall, when everyone is out hunting.  This one was from deeper in the mountains,” he related.  “Not one of the Black Skulls,” he added, hastily.

“What did the shaman say?” Rondal inquired, with interest.  After a short conversation, the translator shrugged.

“Something about rebirth or coming back alive or . . . it’s a hard word to translate,” he said, shaking his head.  “Renew, rejuvenate, something like that.  This fellow isn’t religious, so he didn’t pay much attention.  But then the shaman stood up on a rock in sun and . . . transformed?” the man asked, skeptically.  He conferred with the packtrader for a moment, then shrugged.  “He says the shaman transformed.  His hair changed to pure gold.  He got taller, too,” the drunk added.  “Right there in front of everyone.  He preached some more, told them to go west into the mountains if they wanted to . . . transform, and then he walked into the twilight.”

“That’s it?” Tyndal asked, confused.  “If you want to transform, go west?”

“Like I said, he didn’t pay much to the religious parts.  But the gold fur got his attention,” the drunk assured, after talking with the trader a few moments.  “Everyone else’s, too.  He says a third of the camp left that very night and headed west.”

“I didn’t think there was anything further west of here,” Rondal pointed out.

“Not much human settlement,” admitted the translator.  He was an intelligent fellow, Tyndal decided, just a man cursed with some dark past and blessed with a lack of ambition.  He had clearly embraced gurvani standards of hygiene and style, too.  “Especially not after the invasion.  But there’s still plenty of tribes up there, fellows who didn’t follow Sheruel’s folly.  Some Alka Alon, too, once upon a time.  Might even be a few Tal Alon here and there in the vales,” he proposed.  “And trolls.  But once you get past the first pass, you won’t find many humans.”

“He saw Alka Alon?” Rondal asked, with interest.  The translator passed along the question.

To Tyndal’s surprise, the packtrader nodded.  “He says he did see one,” the drunk related, sounding surprised.  “Odd one, too.  Wore clothes.  A white gown.”

“A white gown!” Tyndal repeated, glancing at Rondal.  “Where?  When?”  The drunk and the packtrader spoke back and forth for a few moments before he answered.

“Two days before he saw the golden goblin.  She passed him on the trail, nearly scared the shit out of him,” the man said, solemnly. 

“She was alone?” Tyndal prompted.

“She had a porter,” the translator answered with a shrug.  “A gurvani.  Older fellow.”

“Gurkarl,” Tyndal speculated.  “It has to be!”

“Which way were they headed?” Rondal demanded.

“West.  So were a lot of other gurvani, which he says is unusual.  They usually move toward the lower hills in the east during the winter,” he explained. 

“And he saw this golden goblin, when?” Rondal asked, trying to calculate a timeline.

“First day of the crescent moon,” the drunk translated.  “The Claw Moon, they call it.”

“That’s only . . . a week ago, approximately?” Tyndal recalled.

“It just turned waxing gibbous,” Rondal affirmed.  “So they’re only a week ahead of us.  We can still catch them,” he suggested.

The drunk looked at them both skeptically.  “Forgive me, my lords, but you plan to go west into the Mindens . . . in winter?” he asked in disbelief.

“We’re wizards,” Tyndal explained.  “We can handle a little snow.”

The translator spoke again to the packtrader, who shook his head emphatically.  “He says you’re going to get yourselves killed, up there,” he said, quietly.  “Those passes accumulate a lot of snowfall, and the creatures from the high reaches come down during the winter to hunt,” he advised.  “Deadly creatures.”

“We’re wizards,” Tyndal repeated.  “We can handle a few belligerent predators.”

The man shrugged, as if he thought they were both mad.  The packtrader babbled on, his voice sounding a little more strident.  “He also says that the tribes up there won’t hesitate to eat you.  They’ll eat anything.  Including each other.  But you’re wizards,” he said, before Tyndal could say it.  “You can handle that sort of thing, can’t you?”

“If not, then we’ll be delicious,” Tyndal dismissed.  “Assuming we decide to go, what would be the best route?”

That inspired a long conversation between the two, and it was clear that the translator had difficulties with some of the words.  To his credit he asked several questions and received the answers before he turned back to them.

“If you are crazy enough to go,” he began with a deep sigh, “then your best bet is to make for an outpost on the third ridge, just south of the trail.  It’s not a settlement, but someone keeps a kind of trading post up there.  It might be abandoned for the season, but it might not be.  After that . . . there’s nothing.  Not until you cross the mountains.”

“That’s as good a destination to head for as any,” Rondal decided. 

Tyndal looked at him skeptically.  “You really think that’s a good plan?” he asked.

“What choice do we have?” Rondal asked, shaking his head.  “This is the best lead we’ve gotten on her, isn’t it?  We know which direction she’s headed.  We probably know who she’s traveling with.  Sure, it’s insanely dangerous and will likely get us both killed, but when has that ever mattered?” he reminded his friend.

“A fair point,” Tyndal agreed, reluctantly.  “I was just hoping you might reconsider and let us go home.  But the mission—”

“Is the mission,” Rondal agreed.  “Exactly.  Pay the man,” he instructed Tyndal.  “And pay the packtrader, too.  Thank him for his help,” he requested the translator.

“So you fellows are really considering going into the Mindens in the middle of winter?” the man asked, doubtfully, as he followed them out of the tavern.  “You know the worst of the snow hasn’t even hit us, yet.  Chances are that if you get into the high passes, you’re going to get trapped.  No one tries that sort of foolishness.”

“We are special kinds of fools,” Rondal assured him.  “We’re looking for a friend of ours.  But thank you for your help.”

“Trygg’s grace be with you fellows,” the drunk blessed them, as he headed back to the tavern.  “You’re going to need it!”

“What next?” Tyndal asked, when they were alone.

“We prepare to depart,” Rondal said, resolutely.  “Tomorrow morning, I think.  You can make arrangements for the horses, I can try to get more intelligence on the passes.  We can get a good night’s sleep, then start over the ford when the sun is out.”

Tyndal looked up at the impressive peaks that loomed so closely.  The scale made it difficult to estimate properly, but he could guess there was at least ten miles of snowy trail to cross before they got to the first pass in the ridges – the one from which the river descended.  The mountains looked forbidding, impenetrable, and promised challenges he could not imagine.  He’d grown up in the shade of those mountains, he reminded himself.  They had always been the frontier between human kind and the unknown, unassailable except for the brave and foolish.

Now he had qualified for both categories. 

“All right,” he sighed, tiredly.  “You figure out where we’re going.  I’ll go speak to the captain of the garrison.”

***

The castle that protected the ford and the town was nothing special, save that it was still standing.  It wasn’t as well-built or maintained as Callierd Castle was, Tyndal saw with a critical eye, but like the palace at Krel Krehbet it was well-manned and guarded.  Indeed, it appeared to be fully manned – or gurvaned, he amended – by hundreds of gurvani warriors dressed in the burgundy colored surcoats that identified an official soldier of King Ashakarl. 

As a purely military installation, there wasn’t the traffic to it that there had been at the capital.  The civic portions of the town were housed in a small group of buildings outside of the gatehouse, which were far busier than the keep. 

But Tyndal saw that no one was allowed to enter the fortress without a parchment pass that was obtained from what a scrawled painted sign in Narasi indicated was the office of the Royal Magistrate for Pregaz.  Another scrawl in the gurvani language likely repeated the same thing, he assumed, in the native language.  A short queue was already forming outside the door, as a single gurvan warrior stood at hand.  With a sigh he joined the end of it.

The queue moved quickly, and within ten minutes he was inside . . . and in another queue.  This one split into two, one dealing with taxes and permits, the other for the magistrate.  The office was just filling up, as the sun fell and the gurvani population began their evening’s business.  Tyndal got into the line for the magistrate, not knowing any better.

In another ten minutes he was face to face with a human male, much to his surprise.  The man was dressed in a lawbrother’s robe, but did not wear the golden scales or carry the gilded staff of a priest of Luin.  Tyndal was surprised how meticulously groomed he was, though, boasting a well-shaven chin, short-cropped hair styled with some sort of grease and exquisitely combed, and fingernails that were impeccably trimmed and clean.  It was very much at odds with the other humans he’d seen in Pregaz, who largely had let their hair and beards grow.  It was as if the magistrate was attempting to impress a human society that didn’t exist in the far western outpost.

The magistrate sat behind a table affixed between two beams, a gurvan assistant bringing him parchment, ink, and quills as needed.  He looked up at Tyndal and gasped.

“Gah humani!” the magistrate said with surprise.  “And a visitor, too!”

“Viscount Tyndal of Callierd,” Tyndal introduced himself with a short bow.  “I assume you’re the magistrate?”

“I am,” the man acknowledged.  He was only a few years older than Tyndal.  “My name is Tarimay.  Appointed magistrate for Pregaz and surrounding environs, under the sovereignty of His Majesty, King Ashakarl,” he announced. 

“I just came from the palace at Kral Krebhet, myself,” Tyndal nodded.  “I had the privilege of a brief audience with His Majesty.  I seek to sell the kingdom horses from my estates in the Magelaw,” he explained.  “When I told His Majesty that I was headed in this direction, he assured me that I could leave two of my steeds in the care of the garrison Captain, and that he would ensure their safe return to the capital.”

“I see, I see,” nodded the young magistrate, intently, as he studied Tyndal.  “That’s wise – anyone else would likely see them butchered and consumed,” he reported, drolly.  “The scrugs really don’t appreciate horses properly.  May I ask your business in Pregaz?” he continued, politely but officiously.

“My companion and I are . . . sightseeing,” he said, knowing the fabrication would be detected the moment he said it.  “His Majesty approved of our journey, though he did not commit it to writing.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Magistrate Tarimay agreed, sourly, as he rolled his eyes.  “The scrugs don’t appreciate writing, either, most days.  Even the elite who are literate naturally expect everyone else to be illiterate, so they don’t bother, and how can you keep records that way?” he scoffed.  “I trust you understand that the Kingdom and His Majesty cannot guarantee your safety, once you leave the city’s bounds.”

“Ishi’s tits, you couldn’t ensure our safety between here and Kral Krebhet!” Tyndal laughed, dismissively.  “My friend and I were accosted by bandits on the road.”

“Only one band?” the magistrate asked in surprise.  “I suppose it is the off-season.  Believe me, my lord, we are plagued with bandits like a dog enjoys fleas.  Half of the prisoners in the gaol are captured bandits, awaiting justice.”

“His Majesty cares about bandits?” Tyndal asked in surprise.

“Of course!  Administration of justice is a proper exercise of his sovereignty.  We are a civilized kingdom,” he assured Tyndal.  “He even posted a list of basic laws he expects his subjects to comply with, last summer.  Of course, only one in a thousand gurvani can read their own wretched language, so that was of limited help.  But his soldiers all know them by memory and are obliged to repeat them, upon request, for the instruction of the masses.  Robbery is decidedly on that list,” he informed him, officiously.  “If you would like to file a complaint and can identify the culprits, I will add it to my report.”

“We defended ourselves without fatality, but they were only a few miles beyond the capital,” Tyndal dismissed. 

“Yes, we get a lot of complaints about that region,” the magistrate said sympathetically, his eyes narrowing.  “We get far less from the portions of the kingdom west of here.  That’s because very few return alive.  We sent an administrator up to regulate the high country last year and I haven’t heard from him since – he was likely someone’s dinner.  If you venture there, you must understand you are on your own.  The military will not even begin patrolling beyond the river until after the spring floods.”

“We will take that under advisement,” Tyndal assured him.

“May I inquire as to the actual nature of your visit?” the man asked, after a moment’s thought.  “No one goes into the Mindens to . . . see the sights.  Majestic though they might be.”

Tyndal sighed, and decided truthfulness would be a novel approach.  “My friend and I are undercover spies for the Magelaw, and serve the Spellmonger, himself.  We are seeking a renegade Alka Alon woman, and are pursuing rumors of a ‘golden goblin’ in the hills.”

Tarimay studied him in silence for several moments, as if he were debating whether or not Tyndal was jesting.  Then he sighed and threw up his hands, pulling a quill and a blank sheet of parchment to him.

“Of course you are.  That’s a bunch of superstitious rubbish, if you ask me.  I shall put ‘sight seeing’ on your general pass, in the unlikely case you are stopped by any official of His Majesty’s government.  It is slightly more believable than the other story,” he said, wryly, as he began to write, both in Narasi and gurvani.  “Your companion’s name?”

“Baron Rondal of Oirghort,” Tyndal said, and then spelled the foreign name out for the man.  “If you’ll indulge my curiosity, I cannot help but wonder how you came to be in Ashakarl’s service?”

The magistrate sighed.  “I was a third-year lexit in Vorone, when I went to Presanz to argue my first case under my master,” he explained.  “We were caught up in the invasion.  My master was . . . consumed by the armies, and I languished in a slave camp for several years.  But I learned gurvani – I was always good with languages – and when His Majesty fled north, I chose to accompany him, rather than attempt to find a position in human lands.”

“And it doesn’t bother you to be working for the same scrugs who ate your former master?” Tyndal asked in surprise.

“If you’d met the man, you’d understand how appreciative I might be,” the magistrate frowned.  “Foul-tempered, dictatorial, arrogant – he tried to argue with the warriors who overran Presanz, claiming immunity from warfare due to his ecclesiastic position.  It . . . did not go well,” he admitted, sadly.

“I can imagine,” Tyndal agreed, shaking his head.  “I was caught up in that part of the invasion myself.”

“Still, as soup he probably enjoyed his finest hour, I often think.  He was quite fat. But there are few who will trust a lawbrother who never completed his examinations and was not admitted to the bar because he was learning the valuable skill of digging for potatoes under the stinging lash of an overseer’s whip instead of practicing reasoned argument before his peers.  My knowledge of gurvani and the law – any law – gave me an advantage here.  It is not a bad position,” he admitted.  “I could do it properly, if I didn’t have to contend with all the bloody scrugs.”

Tyndal tried not to shake his head in disbelief over the tale.  That might have been considered rude.  He filed it away with the stories the other humani had told him about how they had ended up in the Goblin Kingdom, from the nasty tinsmith to the innkeeper of the Lonesome Stone to the drunken translator.  Each man apparently found opportunity here that they lacked back among their fellow humans.

“Here . . . you . . . go, my lord,” Tarimay said, signing his name at the bottom of the parchment and then warming a stick of wax over the taper that lit his work, dripping a blob on the page and affixing his seal.  “You and your friend may now roam wherever you wish in the Mindens with His Majesty’s blessing.”  He blew on the ink until he was certain it was dry, and then rolled it up and handed it to Tyndal.  “Perhaps it will assist in someday identifying your bodies.  That will also serve to allow you in to see the garrison captain.  He’s a surly fellow, but he knows his business,” he informed him, respectfully.  “And that will cost you two silver pennies as a filing fee.”

As Tyndal was leaving the office, he was directed out past the gaol cells in the building.  There were four of them, and they were packed.  While one or two humans were imprisoned, most of the miscreants were miserable-looking gurvani – including two cells containing the Black Skull priests in one, and the primitive cultists in the other.  He paused for a moment to regard them both.  The naked cultists stared back stoically.  The urgulnosti glared at him with undisguised attempt.  He paused long enough to stick his tongue out at them before he left.

“You!  Humani!” one of the cultists croaked at him as he prepared to leave.  “Yellow-fur!” the gurvan said, his long black fingers poking through the bars, pointing at Tyndal’s head.  “Yellow fur!

“Blond,” Tyndal corrected.  “Dirty blond, if you want to be technical.”

“Yellow fur!  Like Gurvan Zlatan!” he managed, in broken Narasi.  That got Tyndal’s attention.  He said the name like a title of deepest respect.

“You’ve heard of the golden goblin?  Gurvan Zlatan?” he asked in surprise.

“Heard him preach!” the gurvan said, struggling to translate his words.  “Walks path of Prorok!  Follow path, rebirth!” he insisted.

“So, you saw this golden goblin?” Tyndal pressed.  “Where?  When?”

“He preaches path of Prorok!  All will be transformed,” the gurvan predicted, his eyes wide in spiritual bliss.  “Path of peace!  Path of right!  Golden fur, like you!”

“Blond,” Tyndal corrected him.  “But where did you see him?” he pleaded, as a turnkey in the burgundy tabard approached.  “When?”

“Golden path is west!” the cultist insisted, as the turnkey smacked at his fingers with a cudgel, forcing him to draw them inside.  “Follow atta Prorok!  All transformed!”  He seemed to be addressing his rivals amongst the Black Skulls more than he was Tyndal.

“Kro-tuk!” the turnkey bellowed, smashing the iron bars a few times with his club to emphasize his orders.  Then he gave Tyndal an apologetic expression and waved him along.  In a moment he was back in the street through another door, the dying light of the day fading over the mountains in the west.

“The path . . . is in the west,” he sighed to himself as he looked at the silhouettes of the mountain peaks against the fading gray sky.  “Just where I don’t want to go.  Lovely,” he said, shaking his head.

Securing an audience with the garrison captain was easier, and without a queue, though he did interrupt the gurvan’s breakfast.  He seemed fluent in Narasi, and conducted himself with the efficiency of a good petty officer.  He glanced at the parchment and listened to Tyndal’s tale before agreeing to take charge of the horses.  Tyndal added a small bribe to ensure they would be returned to the capital safely, and not get diverted to rations.

By the time he left the castle, it was dark, and the cold winds were starting to blow out of the north.  His feet started to get cold almost at once as he walked back to the inn, and the sting on his ears and nose promised what comforts he would enjoy the next few days.  His morale was low, he recognized, and he thought of the warm, soft comfort of his wife.  Tandine might enjoy an adventure like this, he considered, though he was loathe to think about her in a cruel, cold, and chaotic place like this.

As he walked back through the marketplace – now filling with a press of gurvani, as the human merchants retired for the evening and turned their booths over to goblins – Tyndal couldn’t help but be struck by the attitudes of the humans who lived here.  They were not motivated by any great love for the gurvani, nor any legitimate respect for their king, he noted. 

Indeed, every one of them seemed to either be motivated by pure greed or escaping whatever mediocrity they had possessed amongst human society, he realized.  There was a meanness, in Pregaz, he decided, an antipathy toward human civilization that the men here nonetheless traded upon in their dealings with the scrugs. 

Even as the men of Pregaz cooperated with and traded amongst the goblins, their scorn and even hatred of the gurvani was thinly disguised.  And while they did not suffer from the effects of a nearby goblin stone like the capital, that seemed to matter very little. 

Their surly attitude towards their own lives and those of their nocturnal neighbors was evident in every frown, every grimace, every sudden glare.  Their livelihoods might depend on the new gurvani kingdom, but it was clear that they treated the entire thing as a kind of cruel joke.  Most of the folk he saw who were not involved in the wainwright’s shop or its attendant workshops seemed utterly determined to do as little work as possible for as much profit as possible.

That was confirmed with him an hour later, when he’d returned to the inn and started drinking while he awaited Tyndal’s return.  He was seated next to a wiry-looking little man whose rheumy eyes stared out over his ale into nothingness, muttering under his breath while he drank.  A few chance words with Tyndal informed him that the man was a brickmaker, possessed of a royal charter to supply bricks for the town.  But in two years service, he revealed that he had not fired a single brick.

“The bloody scrugs don’t know what to do with them,” he said with a sneer.  “They think it’s stupid to make rocks when they have such a gracious plenty.  There’s even a decent clay pit, a mile up river.  That’s where I have my brickyard.  Only no one wants the bloody bricks.  I fired the first round near a year ago, and sent one to the palace to prove my craft, but they’ve never sent anyone to check on me,” he revealed.  “And no one has placed a single order.  I collect six silver a week for sitting on my arse, drinking ale every night and piling up emeralds,” he boasted, proudly.

“You know you could make thrice that, back in the Magelaw,” Tyndal counselled him.  “There is construction going on constantly, and a dearth of good brickmakers.”

“They wouldn’t pay me six bloody silver a week for sitting on my arse, though, would they?” the man asked, a little offended.  “And I’d break my bloody back – brickwork is hard,” he assured him.  “The scrugs can do it, but they think it’s stupid.  No use for it, here.  Bloody idiots!” he condemned with a smiling sneer.

“And you’d rather collect your stipend and not pursue your trade?” Tyndal asked in disbelief.

“When the scrug king is paying the bill, why not?” the brickmaker asked.  “After what they did to us for all those years?  I’m just getting my due,” he insisted, taking another sip.  “And I’m building up my cache of emeralds.  You can get really big ones, here, you know,” he confided.  “The bloody scrugs have no idea how much they’re worth.  They’re stupid savages, so of course they don’t.  But I’ll have a nice nest egg when I finally leave here.”

“And go where?” Tyndal asked.

“Someplace nice – and warm,” the man assured.  “Perhaps Vorone.  I hear Vorone is nice.”

“It’s better, now that it’s recovered from the dragon attack,” Tyndal conceded.  “But they do value good brickwork, there.”

“Brickwork?  Ifnia take the bloody brickwork!  If I get enough emeralds together, I can buy an estate.  Let other poor bastards work for me, for a change,” he proposed.  “Nay, I’ll work here for another year and then leave, once my charter expires.  By then I should have a small fortune.  It’s what I deserve,” he insisted, confidently.

Tyndal did not reply, as he could in no way see how the brickmaker deserved the coin that bought his beer, much less a fortune he’d cheated from the unfortunate gurvani.  Thankfully, Rondal joined him a moment later, shaking freshly fallen snow off the shoulders of his cloak before he sat down.

“So what did you find out?” Tyndal asked, once he gestured to one of the gurvani barmaids for a cup for his friend.

“That there have been a few half-hearted attempts to extend Ashakarl’s realm into the western ridges, but they have almost entirely failed,” Rondal reported.  “They either disappear completely or one or two come back with wild tales – cannibals, fearsome beasts, rapacious trolls—”

“Rapacious?” Tyndal asked, his eyes widening. 

“Those are the reports,” Rondal sighed ,grimly.  “But this town is the extent of Ashakarl’s actual authority over these lands.  After this, there is just chaos and wilderness.  Darkness.  Savage tribes and fearsome beasts.”

“And rapacious trolls,” Tyndal reminded him, grimly.

“Our friend was right about the trading post – it’s nothing like a village, but there is apparently some sort of shop there that sells iron tools and cheap spirits in exchange for skins, furs, and emeralds.  It gets supplied twice or three times a year by some agent.  Possibly one of Banamor’s or Rael’s.  But sometimes it gets abandoned in the winter, so it might well be empty.”

“That’s fine,” Tyndal said, as the barmaid brought Rondal a mug.  “I find the novelty of Pregaz is waning,” he said, glancing at the lazy brickmaker.  “If this is civilization . . . well, the prospect of savage cannibals and rapacious trolls is actually starting to sound appealing.”

Chapter Fourteen

The Question

As a mage, and more importantly as Minalan the Spellmonger’s apprentice, I have been privy to secret knowledge and occult lore, not just about the actual history of the Ancients who brought humanity to Callidore, but the facts and the speculation about our supposed benefactors, the Alka Alon.  Called The Fair Folk by the peasantry and the nobility alike due to their ethereal presentation and flair for aesthetics, close association and a growing understanding has revealed to me the true horror of their supposedly enlightened stewardship of this land.  For while the Fair Folk are responsible for much beauty and wonder in this world, their hands are as bloody as the foulest warlord, and their schemes shame the grandiose ambitions of the slyest courtier, or the most subtle of wizards.  I confess, it troubles me more the more I learn of them. Those who represented to us all that was light were, in fact, consigning us to darkness with their inspiring songs.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

Rondal’s boots crunched through the new-fallen snow that had coated every surface while they slept.  His hands and feet were already cold, even with some enchantments that kept them from entirely freezing, and the going was tricky.  The river itself was well-frozen, with only a thin trickle of liquid passing through the center of the wide, shallow ford, and once he and Tyndal had crossed over it was as if they were traversing some invisible boundary between civilization – such as it was – and the wilderness.

The west bank of the ford was inhabited almost entirely by gurvani, and most of the buildings were new, and made with cruder construction than what lay on the eastern bank.  Rude little huts and cottages dotted the riverbank and the road for a quarter mile, until they came to one final two-story wooden tower that was the post of four very bored looking goblin sentries in their burgundy livery.  Tyndal showed them the pass that he’d acquired and they waved him through without even a solicitation for a bribe.

They continued walking for two more miles down the faint track that stretched toward the mountain pass that was their immediate destination.  But once they were out of sight of the last guard tower, Tyndal called a stop.

“I don’t know about you, but even my balls are cold, now,” he complained.  It had started to snow lightly, a few innocent flurries.  But the foreboding sky assured much more was coming.  “I think we should summon the Beast.”

Rondal studied the western horizon, which was thickly overcast with dark gray clouds that promised more snow in the near future. 

“I concur,” he decided, his breath making a cloud of vapor in front of him.  “We’ll make much better time in the Beast.”

“My balls won’t freeze solid and roll down my trousers in the Beast,” Tyndal agreed, as Rondal pulled the proper wand from his belt and prepared to conjure the vehicle.  It faded into existence, pulled from its extradimensional space by Rondal’s activation of the spell, until it settled into the snow and ice with an audible crunch.

“Beautiful!” Tyndal breathed, as he walked around the vehicle, inspecting it from all angles.  “Our ancestors were brilliant when it came to this sort of thing,” he said, as he opened the side hatch. 

Rondal followed him, and watched him as he pressed buttons and flipped switches on his way to the cockpit.  Lights came on, and a faint whine started from the front of the vehicle.  Rondal took his seat on the right side, and fumbled for the controls to the heating system.  He knew Belsi had one, but his fingers were too cold to find the appropriate controls on the screen.  He finally got frustrated.

“Belsi!” he commanded.  “Turn on the heating system!”

“What is the desired temperature?” the machine asked in a pleasant female voice.  For some reason it made him think guiltily of Gatina. 

“I don’t know, but make it warm!” Rondal instructed.  “Viscount Tyndal’s testicles depend on it!”

Obligingly a hiss of warm air began to fill the cabin.  Rondal sighed, until Tyndal looked over at him.

“It would work faster if you’d shut the door,” he reminded him.  With a groan Rondal pulled himself out of the comfortable seat and heaved the hatch closed, latching it the way he’d been taught.  By the time he returned to his seat, Tyndal had thrown off his cloak and was running through the control panel, listing each item on the checklist as he went.

“Main power on, auxiliary power on, navigation controls on, traction control functioning, environmental systems, fuel, sensor suite, suspension . . . spectrum is green!” he said, with a deep and satisfied sigh.  “Except for that musty smell, she’s as good as when she . . . well, I don’t know where she came from, but she’s almost that good,” he decided, as he grasped the two horns that controlled the wheels.

“You sound so excited,” Rondal observed, amused. 

“I love this thing,” Tyndal admitted.  “She’s like a horse, but . . . more extravagant.  Let’s take her out,” he said, and pushed the steering horns forward. 

With a lurch Rondal could feel the wheels start to turn, slowly, but suddenly enough to throw him back in his seat.  He nervously grasped the arms and peered through the glass that shielded the cockpit.  The light snow that had started falling was getting thicker.  Indeed, tt was coming down hard, now.  He was glad they had summoned the vehicle.

For the first few miles Tyndal had a moment or two of confusion or indecision as he got used to the controls once again.  They were simple – push forward on the horns for forward, back to stop and fully back to reverse.  Each horn controlled the wheels on one side, so turning was a matter of slightly adjusting them in relation to each other.  It really was simple, Rondal knew, but he couldn’t help but feel intimidated by it.

Tyndal, on the other hand, took to driving the way he had to horsemanship, and with as much enthusiasm.  When the Beast canted forward into a ditch or nearly hit a tree, Tyndal corrected course with shouts of glee at the unexpected movement.  They made good time, too, Rondal had to admit.  Within ten minutes they had gone three miles closer to the looming ridges.  Unfortunately, the snow beat down even harder the closer they got to the first pass.

“Belsi, display map of our current coordinates,” Tyndal ordered the machine.  A moment later the central screen filled with a tiny representation of the vehicle in the center, surrounded by a series of wavy lines Rondal had a hard time understanding.

“What the hell are those?” he asked, alarmingly, as he pointed to a pattern in front of the vehicle’s effigy.  “And why are they getting closer?  Why are we not moving?” he demanded, concerned.

“We are moving, but the map moves with us, so we’re always shown at the center,” Tyndal explained, patiently.  “Those lines are elevations.  Those are the hills and ridges we’re going through.”

“Oh,” Rondal said, realizing what he was seeing, now.  Once he got himself oriented with the map he recognized the hills in the distance on it.  Even the frozen river they were driving next to was displayed in accurate fashion.  “I suppose that is useful, in the mountains.”

“It’s going to be vital, once we get through the pass,” Tyndal predicted.  “This thing was programed with all of the existing geography of the Mindens back during the Colonial period – before, actually, during the terraformation.  Belsi, display the routes the terraformers used to get through the Minden Range,” he ordered.  A series of pink lines filled the map, Rondal saw. 

“Those are the best ways for us to follow to get up into the higher reaches,” Tyndal explained.  “Supposedly they were cleared of minor debris and graded to let the really big machines get through.  That was a long time ago, though.”

“Really big machines?” Rondal asked, confused.  “Bigger than this?”

“Oh, much bigger,” Tyndal agreed, authoritatively.  “The terraformers used some vehicles as large as a small castle.  Not to mention tens of thousands of fliers.  Mostly automated – like an arcane construct,” he explained.  “Mindless machines who did the hard work at our ancestors’ direction.  Soil conditioning, plant and animal life distribution, water monitoring, anything they needed to change to make the place more habitable for us humans.  It took decades,” he said, proudly.

“That sounds like a very long time to wait,” Rondal observed, as he studied the map. 

“The Alka Alon were here for ten thousand years, and they didn’t manage it,” Tyndal pointed out.  “A lot of the process could be done by air, of course, and operated and monitored remotely.  But there were plenty of times when they had to get their metaphorical hands dirty on the ground.  That’s where these routes come in,” he said, tapping the screen lightly.  “They were supposed to connect the far-flung bases and outposts the terraformers used for their work.  If we follow them, we should be able to get pretty deep into the Mindens.  Theoretically, all the way to Kurtz Station.”

“That seemed like a pretty long way from here,” Rondal said doubtfully.

“The terraformers cheated, like wizards,” Tyndal countered.  “They found ways to send their machines through rough terrain we wouldn’t think of.  You can’t argue with their success.”

“So what happened to all of those machines?” Rondal asked, genuinely interested.

“They were moved to other parts of the colony, when they were finished here, supposedly,” Tyndal supplied.  “Don’t forget, we held the lands around the entire Shattered Sea and the Shallow Sea.  And other places, too.  That’s an awful lot of territory to process.  I’m sure they’re all sitting in some underground lair or rusting away at the bottom of the sea.  Or they were scrapped and re-used for other things.  But for several decades they roamed Callidore like animals, working to make it better for us.”

“I wonder how the gurvani felt about that,” Rondal mused.

“We were granted this territory by the Vundel,” Tyndal reminded him.  “It’s ours, legally speaking.  The gurvani had the same choice as all the other Alon: either move, or learn how to contend with us as neighbors.”

“That doesn’t seem particularly fair,” Rondal objected.

“Fair to whom?  The Vundel granted this originally to the Alon, but they didn’t live up to their end of the bargain.  They were supposed to recover these lands, and they ended up half-assing their efforts and then fighting over what little progress they’d made.  By the time we showed up out of the sky, the place was almost as bad as when they started.”

“Well, yes, but the gurvani didn’t have anything to do with any of that,” Rondal argued.  “They just got stuck with the results.”

“We all got stuck with the results, regardless of what our respective ancestors thought about it,” Tyndal retorted.  “History is like that.  It doesn’t care about individuals, or even societies, usually.  Kings and lords make decisions, the rest of us have to deal with the consequences.  Fairness is almost never a factor,” he insisted.

Rondal had trouble arguing with that point.  He’d read enough history to know its truth.  That had been the case since before the first Archmage took power on Perwyn, he knew.  Even amongst the colonists who first came to the newly-made lands there had been terrible acrimony and dissent over all sorts of things.  Some of those disputes had affected history right up through the present day . . . and rarely were the common people consulted about it.  Fairness had almost never been a factor in the decisions their lords made as the colony expanded.

“Still, you can see why the gurvani are angry with us,” he said, shaking his head as they rumbled along.  “They revolted from the Alka Alon, hid away in these hills, and suddenly they don’t even own the hills anymore.  It’s bound to cause some resentment.”

“They didn’t technically own the hills any more than we do,” Tyndal countered.  “They just lived here.  The Alka Alon were the ones who controlled them, until we took over, and then the Alka Alon controlled us, instead.”

“That’s a kind of sinister view of our good allies,” Rondal said, dryly.  They both understood the complicated nature of the Alka Alon’s relationship with humanity.  Officially, the near immortals had been tasked with welcoming the colonists from the sky, assisting them in getting used to their new world as they settled into the colony. 

In reality, history showed just how tepid their real commitment to that effort was.  The Alka Alon had been very reticent about sharing their culture with Man, providing only elementary knowledge of the civilization that dominated Callidore’s lands.  They had hidden much, Rondal knew, including the tales of their crimes against each other . . . and against their client sub-species.  They had manipulated the other Alon races since before they themselves came to the world more than ten thousand years ago.  They used their longevity and their mastery of magic on the new world to keep themselves as elites in their glorious cities or their sublime refuges, while a dozen subspecies toiled away with the actual work of their civilization.

Rondal could accept that – the Alon were different from humanity, and he was reluctant to pass judgement on what they did to each other.  They had their own cultures and had developed their relationships amongst the various Alon subspecies accordingly. 

But when the Alka Alon had turned their attention and their manipulations on humanity, that was when he started to get angry.  It had taken him years to learn about the subtle ways the Alka Alon had influenced humanity’s history on the planet: from giving bad advice to introducing magic into human culture to quietly undermining the amazing engineering that humanity had managed to develop without recourse to magic.  They were riding in one of the cruder examples of that now, he knew.

That was why Lilastien was so important, he reminded himself.  She was one of the few Alka Alon who had learned enough about humanity to advocate on its behalf in council . . . and she had paid a terrible price for it.  She had consistently taken humanity’s side against the unfairness of the immortals’ efforts to reduce humanity to just one more short-lived client species.  They’d nearly succeeded, too – until Minalan had taken charge.

A thought occurred to him.

“You know, if Sheruel hadn’t invaded us when he did, the Alka Alon would have been completely comfortable watching us decivilize even further, just for entertainment,” he suggested, sourly.  “If the gurvani hadn’t forced them to take us seriously again, they would have been quite content to stand back and see our people die.”

“That’s morbid, but probably correct,” Tyndal sighed, after a few quiet moments.  “I don’t really want to credit that big, ugly ball of evil with anything positive, though.”

“Of course,” Rondal conceded.  “But at the same time, you can’t argue that it didn’t help.  Minalan would have ended up a lazy mountain spellmonger with a dozen kids, gleefully selling wart removal spells to peasants, and the Alka Alon would have continued keeping us ignorant.  And oppressing their own people.”

“Well, more like neglecting than oppressing,” Tyndal suggested.  “Usually when the Alka Alon have a problem with what one of their client species does, they just ignore them until the principals die off.  Then they go on their merry way.  If they even notice.”

“That’s my point: Sheruel made them notice,” Rondal insisted.  “I suppose you’d even have to blame – or credit – the Enshadowed sorcerers who provided the help to create him, but the result is the same.  They’re Alka Alon.  If the gurvani invasion didn’t rock us out of our ignorance and threaten the Alka Alon themselves, they just would have ignored us until we had all but killed each other off.”

“They do seem rather suspicious of us, even after all this time,” Tyndal conceded.  “I suppose Sheruel did give them a reason to take us seriously, for once.”

Rondal thought about the matter a while as the Beast crawled its way up the riverbank.  The natural floodplain provided a decent pathway, even though most traces of the actual trail were now covered by snow and ice.  Every half-mile or so the vehicle would slow and lumber up an incline to climb uphill in a remarkable manner.  He relaxed, somewhat, as he got used to the bumpy but otherwise comfortable ride.

“The question is,” he finally decided, “whether or not we should appreciate what Sheruel and the Enshadowed have done for us by awakening humanity to the reality of our situation . . . or if we should ignore the shady past of the Alka Alon’s relations with humanity, and cooperate with their vision for the future.”

Tyndal laughed mirthlessly.  “Not that we have any say in the matter, but if it is a question of allegiance, I reject both,” he declared.  “Our race has a right to live as we choose in the lands allotted to us, without interference from other species.  From what I understand, that was the position the original colonial charter put forth.  I see no reason to deviate from that.”

“You realize that position doesn’t guarantee our prosperity,” Rondal reminded him.  “If you’ve read any histories from the Early Magocracy, you realize just how badly our ancestors mis-managed things.  We sank an entire island with the bulk of our civilization on it.”

“There is a lot of murky evidence that the Alka Alon may have assisted with that,” Tyndal pointed out.  “I don’t disagree that the original idea was ours, but I strongly suspect sabotage of the effort to raise more land from the sea is what resulted in losing Perwyn.  Whether that was from the Enshadowed or the Alka Alon Council, I do not know.  But that is what I suspect.  It was just too damned convenient of us to lose the beating heart of our civilization and be forced to retrench and recover on the half-finished mainland.”

“An interesting theory,” Rondal agreed, thoughtfully. 

“But it’s hard to establish what actually happened,” Tyndal continued.  “There weren’t a lot of accounts of that period that survived.  People were busy trying to save what they could and get it to Merwyn before the island sank to write much down.  And by that time most of the Constructed Intelligences were gone.  They were the ones who kept most of our records at the time.  Murray’s Fall Of The Island Empire is hardly comprehensive,” he condemned.

“You’ve read Murray?” Rondal asked in surprise.  It was considered one of the better and more detailed accounts of the sinking of Perwyn that had survived the catastrophe.  Murray was a late refugee from the sunken island, and published the work in Merwyn twenty years after it sank.  It was, Rondal had to admit, maddeningly incomplete when it came to many of the questions history had about the cataclysmic event, and the bloated size of the work had left it stranded in obscurity for all but a few scholars.  “When did you manage that?  And where did you find it?”

“Master Min has a copy in the Sevendor library,” Tyndal informed him.  “Six volumes worth.  A good copy, too.  Still, it leaves more questions than answers, doesn’t it?  It’s almost like Murray was trying to concoct a mystery for the ages.  But when you read it carefully, you can tell there is plenty he knew but did not share in his work.  Particularly concerning the Alka Alon.”

“They weren’t that involved with us, by that point,” Rondal argued.  “That was after the New Horizon was sent into exile, and the magi were firmly in power.  They withdrew most of their relations with us just before then.”

“Well, that’s awfully convenient, isn’t it?” Tyndal said with a snort.  “Evacuate all of your agents just before a major disaster?”

“Murray says that they considered their mission to introduce us to this world complete, and had accepted the colony as finished.” Rondal countered.

“Murray was an ass,” Tyndal sneered.  “He still considered the Alka Alon our patrons, not our rivals.  He doesn’t even mention the Enshadowed.”

“A lot of our ancestors were in awe of the Alka Alon,” Rondal nodded.  “They could do things we couldn’t, because of magic.  We just didn’t understand it, back then.”

“We still don’t,” Tyndal observed.  “We just use it.  And what we do understand of it came from the Alka Alon.”

“The point is, when our ancestors encountered something they didn’t understand, they were mystified by it, and ascribed it greater value than it had based on their lack of understanding.  So some rejected it outright, while others embraced it as the answer to all of our woes.”

“And the godsdamn island sank all the same,” Tyndal said, wryly, shaking his head.  “And that’s my point: we just don’t know how much and to what extent our relationship with our ‘benevolent neighbors’ were involved in the one act that crippled our civilization.  They were so very helpful in the recovery, too, encouraging us to abandon much of what gave us power in the name of survival.  Like burning down a man’s house and then offering him a blanket and tent afterwards.  You might feel gratitude for the assistance, but . . .”

“I just don’t understand what their purpose in that was,” Rondal mused.  “Were they so jealous of us and our success in terraforming this area that they wanted to ruin us?”

“Oh, they love our trees and our furry little creatures just fine,” Tyndal dismissed.  “Those are exotic and useful and intriguing to them.  It’s us they don’t particularly like.”

“Well, some of them,” Rondal countered.  “Look at the Emissaries.  They love us to the point of fetish, from what I can tell.”

“But they are a fringe minority of the Alka Alon, and they’re being used to persuade us gently in the direction the Council wants,” Tyndal argued.  “The problem is that we lack the scale to understand the Council’s ultimate goal, here.  I think it’s to reduce us to just another subservient race they can exploit until they flee this world.”

Rondal frowned.  “For what purpose?  What do we do that they can exploit?”

Tyndal gave him a quick but thoughtful glance.  “They can use us to keep the other Alon in line.  Like raising armies to put down gurvani rebellions,” he suggested.  “You can’t deny that they have successfully managed to get Minalan to do their dirty work for them, without much risk to themselves.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” Rondal argued.  “They lost an entire city.  Anthatiel was one of the jewels in their crown, and now it’s a ruin.”

“And how did they respond to that crises?  They encouraged Minalan to raise an army and run to their rescue – not the Council.  We’re very useful for certain things,” Tyndal said, his tone cynical.  “The Alka Alon excel at politely and gently persuading other species to do what they want.  And if they don’t get their way, they just wait a century and try again with the next generation.”

“You might be right about that,” Rondal shrugged, “but I think Minalan is throwing a shoe into their millworks.  They didn’t expect him to realize they were manipulating him.  Us,” he corrected.  “And they certainly didn’t expect him to be as effective as he was.”

“Agreed.  And that’s what makes him a danger to them,” Tyndal suggested.  “I think they started to suspect their plans were going awry when he sprung Lilastien from her prison.  You know, she’s one of the very few who knew what happened to Perwyn,” he reminded Rondal.  “She was there.  She saw it all happen.  And she’s been conveniently locked away for centuries, now, until everyone else who might have remembered it was long dead.  I think they only permitted her parole because they didn’t think Minalan would uncover all that he did about the Colonial Period, the New Horizon, and the Forsaken.  And Perwyn.  I still think that’s the best evidence for their crimes against us.”

“Crimes?  Or just politics?” Rondal argued.  “The Alka Alon were acting in their interests, we were acting in ours.  Perhaps they’re just better at politics because their longevity gives them greater wisdom and perspective.  It allows them to be more subtle and patient in their approach.  More persuasive.”

“It might be politics, but I think their actions in relation to the colony have more to do with their internal politics than anything else.  There is evidence that there were Enshadowed agents helping some human elements on Perwyn.  Even Murray tacitly admits that, if you read his words properly.  From the Alka Alon Council’s perspective, they might have been trying to simply counter that influence.  We just happened to be in the way.  But that doesn’t diminish the importance of their attitude about us,” he insisted.  “They knew what they were doing was unethical.”

“I was thinking more about the politics of the Alka Alon and the Vundel,” Rondal said, thoughtfully.  “They promised the Vundel that they would, essentially, take us under their wing and show us the ways of Callidore.  They were already under probation for the damage the Warring States Period did to them.  This was their chance to redeem themselves after that.”

“And then blame the clumsy humans for sinking a whole godsdamn island out of our own incompetence,” Tyndal said, shaking his head in disgust.  “They’ve never had to be accountable for that.  Not to my knowledge.  We lost the ability to hold them accountable, and it doesn’t look like the Vundel have any reason to do so.  They just get more ocean to swim in.  They could care less about the Dry unless it affects them, apparently.”

“Until Minalan came along,” Rondal observed.  “He was the first human – or anyone else – who even tried to hold them accountable.  And when that didn’t work, he caused enough of a stink here to attract the attention of the High Kings.  Who I never heard about, until recently,” he complained.

“You notice how very few studies of Alka Alon society, history, or culture survived the Inundation?” Tyndal asked, with another glance.  “What little that did concerned only the local Alka Alon Council, and was kept extremely basic in nature.  And without our immortal Constructed Intelligences to keep us informed, we quickly lost knowledge of how the Alon govern themselves.  It’s almost as if some mysterious force wanted to obscure and protect that critical knowledge from us poor, stupid, ephemeral humani,” he said with evident disgust.

At that moment the Beast suddenly tilted upward, unexpectedly, forcing Rondal to grasp at the arms of his seat for dear life to keep him from being pitched out of it.  Tyndal gasped, and then frantically moved to correct the path of the vehicle.

“There was a hole where there wasn’t supposed to be,” he grunted, as the level of the Beast slowly returned to normal.  “Probably a pond or puddle or tributary stream that had frozen over.  Our weight broke the ice,” he speculated.

“We seem to be making good time,” Rondal said, forcing his fingers and sphincter to unclench.  The snow outside was coming down forcefully, now, and what little light that made it through the heavy clouds overhead kept the outside in a kind of frosty gloom.  If it wasn’t for the map display, he wouldn’t have known how far or how fast or just exactly where they were going.  It was like a magemap he didn’t have to control.

“We’ve come nineteen miles in just under an hour,” Tyndal reported.  “But I think it’s time to activate the terrain management system.  Belsi, activate the terrain management system,” he ordered the machine.

“Suggested level of sensitivity?” the unearthly female voice requested.

“Uh . . . what are my choices?” Tyndal asked, doubtfully.

“This unit was designed with five levels of terrain management to ensure safe passage though a variety of alien environments and weather conditions.  They are: fragile surface, broken terrain, rocky expanse, mountainous terrain, and littoral terrain.  What is your preference?” it asked, politely.

“Uh . . . let’s go with ‘mountainous terrain’,” Tyndal decided.  “We should be at the first pass in a few minutes, and things are going to get very tricky, after that.”

“Setting terrain management to mountainous terrain,” Belsi reported, dutifully.  “Note that this will slow maximum manual speed, increase power consumption by the pneumatic suspension system, and employ the local proximity sensors to determine the nature of geographic features in the path of this unit.  Shall I activate the obstacle warning system?  That will automatically pause operations in the event of a detected obstruction or danger to the unit.”

“Sure, let’s do that,” Tyndal agreed.  “This is a damn sight better than riding a horse all this way,” he declared.  “And a damn sight warmer.  My balls are finally thawed out,” he reported, unnecessarily. 

“I shall alert the heralds,” Rondal replied, drolly.  “But I do appreciate that my arse isn’t being beaten to a bloody pulp in the saddle,” he admitted. 

“Infantry!” sneered Tyndal, good naturedly.  Rondal had completed the Rites of Duin, the military training in infantry tactics that established him as officer material for any mercenary unit in the Five Duchies.  Tyndal, on the other hand, had become adept at cavalry operations, establishing his Knights of Callierd as a combined force of horse cavalry and mounted warmagi.  Both had achieved some success with their specialties.  Both had a sneering contempt for the other’s. 

“I suppose that’s why you’re driving,” Rondal mused, staring out of the window.  “Are you sure this thing is going to be able to make it through the high mountain passes?” he asked, doubtfully.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Tyndal chuckled.  “Theoretically, this journey should be well within the Beast’s capabilities.  But it’s centuries old, maintenance has been spotty, and most of the systems are deteriorating.  It’s operating without the support it was designed to have, but it was also designed to act independently.  It’s the equivalent of a fifteen-year-old nag being asked to undertake a cavalry charge.  But that doesn’t mean she can’t do it,” he said, patting the console affectionately, like you would a hound.

“Well, if we get into trouble, we can always escape back to civilization using the Ways,” Rondal reasoned, anxiously, as he watched the snow come down thickly through the window.  “We could be dining in Vanador tonight, if we wanted to.”

“I would consider that an admission of failure,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “We’re committed to this quest.  Besides, if I went back, it might be difficult to persuade me to return,” he admitted. 

“The comforts of home beckon as darkness closes in,” agreed Rondal, with a gloomy sigh.  “Let’s press on, then.  Though the storm rages and all the world conspires to kill us.  Though we endure the torments of the savage at the edge of the world.  We will persist.  The mission is the mission,” he said, reluctantly, but with conviction.

Tyndal gave his friend a long, slow look, and then returned his eyes to the route ahead.  “Well, you can at least go make us a pot of tea, then,” he suggested.  “We’re not animals.”

Chapter Fifteen

The Prophecy

Making friends on the road or in the field has always come naturally to me, for some reason.  Perhaps it is my generous and gregarious nature, but I’ve oft discovered boon companions in the unlikeliest of places, under the most unexpected circumstances.  Indeed, one could argue that my entire history is comprised of such unusual meetings. Not the least of whom is my bride.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

For three days Tyndal – and occasionally Rondal – maneuvered the Beast through the series of passes and gaps that provided a passage into the Mindens’ interior.  It was familiar territory to them, in may ways, as the geography was similar to the one they’d grown up with in Boval Vale. 

That also gave them pause: enduring a winter in the Minden foothills was no common feat.  The arctic winds that blew in from the north produced hellish snowfall, some years, and could consign an isolated settlement to starvation, pushing the inhabitants to endure long after their carefully-hoarded supplies ran out.  There were grim tales of cannibalism that had haunted the Wilderlands as a result, with outlandish stories of isolated settlers driven mad with hunger during the winters who had developed a taste for human flesh that rivaled the gurvani.

Tyndal could vaguely recall times in his childhood where his late, unlamented mother had been forced into extremes to provide a few mouthfuls for her children, or secure firewood for the drafty cottage that was their home.  He tried not to think about what she’d been forced to do with the men of the castle to ensure her children had food on the table.  He knew his very own existence could well have arisen from such a transactional liaison.  But he remembered the grim look on her face when the heavy snows came to Boval Vale. Every time the winds blew past the Beast and swirled the falling snow into snarls, it sent a flash of panic and despair through him.

The steady progress and comfortable environs of the Beast gave him great solace, however.  It was like traveling in a moving castle.  As he navigated down narrow gullies or up steep inclines he was constantly impressed at how well adapted to such work the vehicle was.  The sensors detected the difference between a common snowdrift and a dangerous boulder lurking under the snow, and – usually – corrected accordingly.  While it slowed their speed to take such care, that was preferable to getting stranded, to his mind.

Rondal, for his part, took his shifts at the horns dutifully, but not with the eagerness Tyndal displayed.  Nonetheless, he strove to master the equipment and perfect his driving.  When Tyndal was piloting, Rondal spent his time conjuring and preparing meals, or reading through the vast archive the Beast included on board.  Ancient texts from the Colonial Period were translated into Narasi (with plenty of Old High Perwynese words, when required) and Belsi helpfully coached him through parts he did not understand.  Sometimes there were visual records in the archives, and the came to enjoy the voices of long-dead Ancients instructing him on some obscure bit of knowledge lost to history.

While most of his focus was on understanding the tekka he was suddenly dependent upon, he spent plenty of time learning about his race’s early history on Callidore, and about the impressive civilization that had sent his ancestors across the Void to get here from impossibly distant Terra, the human homeworld.  Those sights and sounds mesmerized them both – Perwyn’s great civilization was only a faithful seedling of the mighty civilization that had spawned it.  Tyndal had a hard time imagining a world of billions of human beings, all working together to keep their great civilization working in harmony.  

Rondal also made a point of reaching out to his wife, mind-to-mind, and explaining just where he and Tyndal had found themselves.  Tyndal had two brief and somewhat awkward conversations with Tandine, using the Magic Mirror, but his bride was reluctant to use such devices and spoke with some apprehension.  Still, it was welcome to hear her voice through the enchantment, a breath of warmth in this bleak and cold environment. 

Tyndal also updated Heeth the Arcanist, who had been designated their handler during Gareth’s wedding festivities, and informed him of their situation.  As there was little to report, it was a short conversation.

It had taken three days to reach the outskirts of the third great ridge that shielded the Minden Plateau from it’s more low-lying fellows.  The path had been highly circuitous, winding around great cliffs and up frightening inclines, often during driving snow.  Each night they had stopped for a few hours – while Belsi assured Tyndal that she could continue without rest, he was mindful at what constant use could do to mechanical parts of such age.  Besides, it seemed unwise to force the Beast to its capacities when they were in such a dire location.

So, for three or four hours every night he found some convenient snow-covered meadow or rocky overhang to shelter under, and powered down the main plant for the night.  That gave he and Rondal time to stretch their legs, take a piss without being subject to the constant motion of the vehicle, and actually sleep for a few hours without being jostled.  While the hum and vibration had become so routine to them that the missed it when it was gone, it was a luxury to sleep without movement.

Meals were far better than the fare they’d gotten in Goblin Country.  They were able to use the supply wands to withdraw both ingredients and fully-cooked meals, in addition to the meals each of them had brought in their individual hoxters.  Tyndal noted that Rondal seemed to have an affection for rich food, well-prepared, and had stuffed his ration ring with as many examples as he’d been able to.  They kept drinking to a minimum.  Each had ample supplies of wine, ale, and spirits put away, as most High Magi of any means managed, but they rationed it, out of caution and an appreciation for sobriety in the field.  Besides, the unsteady nature of riding the Beast made getting drunk a poor idea.

Still, as comfortable as the conditions were, both men were eager to reach their destination.  It was like garrison duty, or being on a boat, they decided after mutually admitting their boredom on the second day.  A boat on a particularly long, dark river in dangerous country.

The temperatures outside continued to drop as they ascended the great escarpment, and while the heating system of the craft was adequate in keeping them comfortable, just placing his hand on the window or the door hatch proved just how frigid it was becoming.  It took Tyndal awhile to adjust to the measurement systems that Belsi provided concerning the weather, but he was soon adept at seeing what conditions were approaching, and sought to plan accordingly.

That was why on the third day he advised that they find a shelter early and prepare for what promised to be a heavy snowstorm, nearly a blizzard, that Belsi predicted was coming.

“Inclement weather approaching,” it informed them, early in the day.  “Local conditions suggest a rapid fall of barometric pressure, temperature, and an increase in windspeed.  I suggest that you connect with Calsat Weather to obtain a more detailed and extensive forecast,” it advised.

“Sorry, Love, but Calsat left the nest long ago,” he clucked to the Beast as he shook his head.  “From what I can tell, Ron, we could get up to a foot of snow today, and perhaps half again as much by tomorrow morning.  I don’t think we want to tackle that ascent in the dark,” he suggested.

“I don’t mind an extended stop,” Rondal agreed with a yawn.  “It’s difficult to catch a nap when your body keeps shifting around.  We might chance some proper cooking, too,” he suggested.  “Believe it or not, I’m getting tired of the finest delicacies Sevendor and Falas have to offer.”

“What did you have in mind?” Tyndal asked.  He had a soldier’s approach to food, most times, but he understood what his friend was complaining about.  As a soldier he sought variety in his meals whenever possible.

“I don’t know . . . a ham?  A couple of meat pies?  Roast some beef or mutton over a fire?”

Tyndal stared outside at the driving snow.  “A fire might be a stretch, in this mess.  But let’s see where we can nestle in for the night, and we’ll see.”  The kitchen facilities in the Beast were small, compact, and incredibly impressive for something constructed without the benefit of enchantment.  But thus far they had limited their use to heating water for tea or porridge, electing to eat the fine meals from their hoxters instead. 

“Belsi, evaluate the geophysical features along our present route and calculate the best location for a sheltered stop,” Tyndal ordered.

“I still only understand about half of what you say to her,” Rondal said, shaking his head.

“It’s like a horse, you just have to know the right words,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Just in Old High Perwynese.”

“Two locations located,” the female voice reported.  “The first is two and seven tenths of a mile ahead along our route.  It is probably a safer option than the second, which is three and a quarter miles further along, but in a much more exposed position.”

“Course correct to the first position, please, Belsi,” Tyndal requested.

“Course correction made,” it reported.  “Arrival time in approximately forty-eight minutes. 

“Aren’t you the sweetheart?” Tyndal chuckled.  “Yes, let’s camp out for a bit.  We could use the rest.”

The shelter turned out to be a steep, south-facing rocky outcropping at the base of the incline they would have to attempt on the morrow.  Some ancient landslide had deposited two massive boulders that created a kind of pocket against the cliff-face, providing shelter from the winds and discouraging snow from accumulating within.  The sensors showed there was ample room between the gigantic rocks to park the Beast.

Unfortunately, as they approached they also discovered that it was occupied.

“Proximity alert,” Belsi announced, as the entrance to the natural alcove came into sight.  “Infrared sensors indicate the possibility that the destination zone is inhabited.  Caution advised.”

“Inhabited?” Rondal asked in surprise.

“Well, if it’s a good enough place to shelter the Beast in, you’d have to imagine it would be popular with the local sportsmen,” Tyndal suggested, as he slowed the speed of the vehicle.  “Belsi, display infrared sensor data, forward mount,” he instructed.

A moment later an image of the grotto replaced the map on the central screen.  There were, indeed, the spooky silhouettes of something or someone – several someones, Tyndal decided – within the shelter of the place.  Human-sized or smaller, he guessed, from the scale.  From the window all he could see was darkness between the boulders.

“Let’s see if we can’t get a better look,” he said, inching the Beast closer and lining it up with the entrance.  Then he turned on the dorsal spotlight, a feature he’d only used a few times, and targeted it towards the grotto.  A cone of white light, brighter than most magelights and decidedly harsher, suddenly illuminated the enclosure, setting the falling snow in a dazzling light.  Almost immediately a spear flew out and impacted on the nose of the Beast.  It startled them both.  It also bounced harmlessly off of the hull.  Tyndal chuckled.

“Well, I see they’re still alive,” he said, as he edged the machine closer, until its nose occupied half of the opening.  The bright light from the roof harshly illuminated the interior, which did, indeed, have far less snow on the ground than outside of its shelter.  It also had a small encampment of gurvani huddling against the winds.

“They look mad,” Tyndal observed.

“They look frightened and cold, and why wouldn’t they?” Rondal objected.  “They’re hiding from the storm and every carnivore in the mountains, and suddenly their camp is invaded by this thing,” he pointed out.  “I’d throw a spear at it, too.”

“So how do we convince them to not attack us?” Tyndal asked.  “Not that she can’t take it, but there are a few things on the hull that they could damage.  Gareth would be vexed with us,” he reminded his friend.

“I . . . don’t . . . know . . . “ Rondal said, trailing off in thought.  “I could try to speak with them, I suppose.  I do know a few words of gurvani.”

“But do you know the right few words?” Tyndal asked.  “I didn’t come this far to end up in the soup pot.”

“Possibly not,” Rondal said, frowning.  “But I know who might.  Bide,” he said, and closed his eyes.  Tyndal waited patiently, staring at the gurvani’s slitted eyes reflecting in the light as they huddled against the far wall, warily holding more spears at the ready as the light from the Beast played upon them.  They didn’t look happy, Tyndal decided.  But the conditions outside were so bad, he was certain that the thought of being eaten by some mystical beast might come as some relief to them.  They were huddled under skins and furs, and there was a tiny, discouraged little fire smoldering in the lee of a stone, but the three – no, four – gurvani males he saw did not look cheerful.

“So, do you have a way to speak to them without going outside?  Like a Great Voice spell?”

“Public address system,” Tyndal supplied.  “That’s what we need.  Belsi, activate public address system.  Normal volume,” he instructed.

“Public address activated,” Belsi reported.  “You may begin speaking through the microphone at your leisure.”

Tyndal nodded to Rondal for permission as he grabbed the small unit from the console and brought it to his lips.  He cleared his throat, startling the gurvani in the light.

“Budi nokou,” Rondal said in a calm voice.  “Ti zaplak nikak,” he said, to the startled faces of the goblins.  They looked confused, to Tyndal’s eye, but their spears started to lower.

“Ti zaplak nikak,” Rondal repeated, slowly.  “Sa ninas?  Sa nastink?”

To Tyndal’s surprise, the slitted eyes of the gurvani looked at each other, then turned back and nodded emphatically toward the Beast.

“Ishi’s tits, I think they understand you!” Tyndal said, amazed.

“Komplek oruz hiya vun, te shte nakhran,” Rondal pronounced, slowly.  “Budi nokou,” he repeated.

“What in three hells did you tell them?” Tyndal asked in disbelief as, one by one, the goblins came forth and stabbed their spears head-first in the snow.

“I invited them to dinner,” Rondal revealed.  “It’s going to be a long night.  I thought it might be better to share our rations than fight with them over this spot.  It’s more civilized,” he suggested.

“If I end up in a soup pot, I’m going to be very cross with you,” Tyndal warned, as he turned off the glaring spotlight.  “And if you don’t mind, I’m going to arm myself before we go out there.”

“You’re a Talented High Warmage,” snorted Rondal.  “You’re already more dangerous than all four of them put together.”

Still, Tyndal did not feel comfortable being around that many strange gurvani this far from help.  He went to the rear and broke out one of the sidearms from the arms locker and tucked it behind his belt.  It didn’t look like a normal weapon – a dagger or a sword – and he hoped the goblins wouldn’t notice it. 

Rondal waited until he had wrapped his cloak around his shoulders before he finally opened the hatch and faced the bewildered gurvani.

“Budi nokou!” he shouted.  “Ti zaplak nikak!”

One of the gurvani glanced at the others with slitted eyes and a puzzled expression.  “Ti zaplak nikak?” he asked.

“Ti zaplak nikak!” Rondal agreed, smiling. 

“It’s ‘ti zaplak oti nakas’,” the gurvan said, in halting Narasi.  “’You are not dangerous.”

“You speak Narasi?” Rondal asked in surprise.

“Some,” grunted the goblin.  “Better . . . than your gurvani,” he laughed.

“My friend and I would like to invite the four of you to take shelter with us,” Rondal said, slowly.  “The night approaches, and the storm will only get worse.”

The gurvani looked at him suspicious, and then at the Beast.  “What in hell is that?” he finally demanded, pointing toward the vehicle.

“A moving house, you might call it,” Rondal explained.  “It’s safe.  It’s warm.  There’s food.  If you promise good behavior, we will give you shelter.”

The gurvani conferred with each other for a few moments before the Narsi speaker looked up again.  “We were here first,” he insisted.

“Granted,” Tyndal said, with a short bow.  “We don’t mean to intrude.  We simply seek shelter from the storm.  But we promise a truce if you’d like to join us inside.  Its far less windy than out here,” he pointed out.

“We were here first!” the goblin repeated.

“We have beer,” Rondal added.  That produced an interesting change in attitude.

“We will come,” the goblin agreed, after a few words exchanged with his fellows.

One by one the gurvani approached the Beast cautiously, their eyes widening as they came closer and experienced the strangeness of its craft.  Some tentatively touched the wheels or the aluminum hull, or put their hands in the beams of the running lights before they hesitantly entered the compartment.  Tyndal could appreciate their trepidation – the hatchway must have looked like some strange creature’s mouth.  Once all four had come inside, Rondal sealed the hatch behind them.

Tyndal was already converting the kitchen section into something better suited to a dinner party, lowering a kind of trestle table and converting one of the cots into two chairs.  He had been eager to try out the feature of design, but as he and Rondal had eaten most of their meals in the pilots’ seats they hadn’t had an occasion to do so.  Entertaining four tribal gurvani in the middle of a snowstorm had not been what he’d had in mind.

“Thank you,” the Narasi speaker said, warily.  “It was cold.  And we are hungry.”

“Where did you learn Narasi?” Tyndal asked, as he conjured a small keg of ale he’d secured in Pregaz. 

“In the war,” the goblin admitted, hesitantly.  “I was an overseer, for a while.  Learned some.”

“You speak it remarkably well,” Rondal said, encouragingly.  “So did you desert?” he asked, conversationally.

“I retired,” the gurvan explained, shaking his head sadly.  “I had enough.  When king came north, I came, too.”

“Yet here you are in the mountains,” Tyndal pointed out, as he retrieved four wooden mugs from the kitchen cabinet and began filling them.  “What is your name, if I might ask?”

“Reshitelin,” the goblin pronounced.  “Call me Resh.  I hunt.  Goat, deer, bison.  Nothing happening in Ashakarl’s kingdom.  I go home to family and hunt,” he said, gloomily.  “You . . . are wizards?” he asked, as Rondal conjured some good wheat bread from the supply wand.  It was fresh from the oven, still warm, and the scent filled the cabin at once.  The gurvani enjoyed bread, and made their own crude loaves, but considered the human style far superior despite their disdain for growing wheat.

“Actually, yes,” Tyndal agreed as he passed some of the goblin-style beer to Reshitelin.  “My friend and I – I’m Tyndal, this is Rondal – we both fought in the war, too.  We’re glad that it’s over,” he said, slowly and deliberately.  He knew that, in general, the Alon were better at languages than humans, but he didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings in such close quarters. 

The goblins sniffed at the beer, and then tried it.  Then they drank it gratefully, and offered wide smiles.  Tyndal smiled back, suppressing a shudder.  He might have faced these fellows on the battlefield at some point, he realized. 

“Here’s to peace,” he said, raising a mug and taking a sip of the bitter beer before handing it to one of the other gurvani.

“Peace,” Reshitelin grunted back.  “Good beer.  What are humani wizards doing in mountains?  With good beer?” 

“Wizard things,” Rondal answered, as he conjured a pot of mutton stew from some mid-range tavern in Sendaria he’d liked.  “We’re headed west to the center of the mountains.  We’re looking for a friend.  We thought it would be an adventure.”

“So you’re mad,” the gurvani said, looking back and forth at each of them.  “It is dangerous here.”

“So was the war,” Tyndal assured.  “More than this.  We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

Reshitelin explained things to his companions in gurvani as Tyndal poured out portions of the stew into bowls, and found some spoons in the well-appointed cabin’s galley.  The goblins looked grateful, and ate the food appreciatively as they talked among themselves.

But in the cacophony of the harsh sounding speech a word caught his attention instantly. 

“Excuse me, Reshitelin,” he said, when the gurvani paused in their conversation, “but did I hear one of you use the term . . . Adrian?” he asked.  The goblin looked at him in surprise. 

“You know the Adrian?” he asked.

“What is the Adrian?” Rondal asked, sitting bolt upright.  “We heard it in a . . . riddle,” he explained, lamely.

The goblin looked interested, though he also appeared doubtful.  “Legend,” he answered.  “Myth.  A spirit of mountains.  In west.  Calls gurvani, shamans say.  Teach gurvani secrets.  Grants wishes.  Gives counsel.  Wise.  Myth,” he condemned. 

“I’ve always been fascinated by myth,” Rondal said, thoughtfully.  “Our friend Gurkarl has tried to explain some of the gurvani myths, but—”

“You know Gurkarl?  Prorok?” Resh asked, surprised.

“We actually captured him in battle,” Tyndal admitted.  “We took him prisoner, before he was released.  We became friends along the way.”

“We always treated him well,” Rondal agreed.  “He’s a very intelligent fellow.  Well read,” he stressed.

“Gurkarl preaches,” Resh agreed, respectfully.  “Heard him twice.  Last year.  Wise gurvan.  Says gurvani deserve more.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Tyndal agreed.  “You’ve been treated badly by your leaders.  Your people fought bravely, and for what?  Sheruel’s revenge?  Korbal’s vanity?”

“Gurkarl preaches that,” the goblin agreed, slowly.  “Many listen.  Speaks of new life.  Avoid war.  Says go west.  Like the Adrian,” he grinned, as if he was making a joke.

“He spoke of the Adrian?” Tyndal asked, intrigued.

“Legend.  Myth.  Said Adrian would bring new life.  Just story,” he dismissed.

“Did he mention a . . . a golden goblin?” Rondal asked, hesitantly.

Reshitelin studied Rondal a long moment, his big black eyes widening slightly.  Tyndal could not read his expression, despite his recent familiarity with gurvani.  Then the goblin finished his cup with a sigh, and handed it to Tyndal for a refill.

“Now you speak prophecy,” he said, glumly.  “Very old prophecy.  Dangerous prophecy,” he warned, sharply.  “The Black Skulls, they kill you for speaking of it.”

“This gets more intriguing every moment,” Tyndal said, folding his arms over his chest.  “Can you tell us about this prophecy, Resh?”

“Not shaman,” the gurvan admitted.  “Don’t know prophecy well.  Many different stories.  Black Skulls hate them all.”

“Well, we don’t know any of them,” Rondal said.  “Just a few vague tales about Gurvos and his myths.  We’re very curious.”

“Prophecy, not myth,” Reshitelin insisted.  “Big difference.  Don’t know prophecy well.  Just know it says golden goblin will change every thing.  Every gurvan.  Will ask for sacrifice,” he said, grimly, looking at his companions. 

“Sacrifice of what?” Tyndal asked, frowning.  Usually when the gurvani spoke of sacrifice, it was humanity they were referring to.  He knew all too well how the urgulnosti priests slaughtered thousands of his people during their horrific invasion and subsequent occupation of the Umbra.  That was how they established the arcane barrier between humanity and Sheruel’s lair.  The Black Vale.  His homeland.

“Gurvani,” Resh whispered.  “Sacrifice . . . gurvani.”  It was clear the thought disturbed him, and he was uneasy speaking of it to two humani wizards.  But something seemed to compel him.

“That sounds ominous,” Tyndal reflected.  “And potentially grisly.  Is it more specific than that?” he prompted.

“Don’t know prophecy well,” Resh repeated, shaking his head.  “Not shaman.  Ask shaman.  Not Black Skulls.  But ask shaman,” he urged.

“The first one we meet,” Tyndal promised.  “Tell me, where were you lads headed when the storm hit?”

“Turgovet,” he said, pointing up.  “Camp on next ridge.  Trade furs there.”

“That’s apparently where we’re going next, too,” Rondal explained.  “If you fellows behave for the night, we can give you a ride in this thing.  That might shorten your trip.  And be considerably warmer.”

“You give us hospitality,” Reshitelin nodded, solemnly.  “We give you peace.  Why you give us hospitality?” he asked, curious.

“Because the war is over, and winter is upon us,” Tyndal explained.  “The world is harsh enough without fighting over what little we get to enjoy.  Better to share it, and hope for better days than squander our blood needlessly.  Besides, I like the way you fellows drink,” he added, as he refilled their mugs with the last of the keg.  “And comfort unexpected is always twice as welcome.”

As the gurvani settled down in the coziness of the suddenly cramped cabin, Tyndal and Rondal returned to their chairs, reclining them (once Tyndal had shown Rondal how) to the point where they could chance some sleep.  The gurvani muttered away quietly among themselves while Tyndal pulled his cloak over himself.

“You know we could wake up with our throats slit,” he informed Rondal quietly.

“They seem like good enough fellows,” Rondal said.  “Besides, I set a few spells, in case there’s problems.  But I think were good enough hosts to avoid that.”

“What did you think of Reshitelin’s story?” Tyndal asked, curiously.

“I think there’s some sort of cult using this prophecy to lure a bunch of gurvani west, into the mountains,” Rondal proposed.  “But I don’t know if Gurkarl is involved or not.  And I can’t think of how Lilastien is involved, but she did write down the word Adrian.  That must be this mountain spirit.”

“Who apparently lives at the coordinates of a long-abandoned Colonial Period base,” Tyndal reminded him, giving Rondal a meaningful look. 

“And he’s somehow associated with the gurvani prophecy about the golden goblin, the one who ‘brings new life’,” Rondal nodded.

“The one who requires sacrifice.  Gurvani sacrifice,” Tyndal emphasized.  “That sounds incredibly sinister.”

“But that’s exactly where Lilastien was apparently headed,” Rondal postulated.  “Gurkarl, too, it seems.”

“Well, that settles it,” Tyndal decided, closing his eyes.  “Tomorrow morning . . . we’re off to see the Adrian.”

Chapter Sixteen

The Outpost

I’ve often thought of the emergence of my rajira, just as every wizard does, and how it changed my life.  For some, it opens up possibilities in a reliable vocation.  For others, it deprived them of their family legacy and even their patrimony.  For me it was more the former, as my first master promised me fortune, esteem, and respect in the world if I mastered the difficult craft.  But as I did, I recognized that my magical Talents were secondary to my wit, wisdom, and ambitions.  Without the latter, the former would have made little difference in the man I have become.  Without character, we are nothing.  And character is destiny, as my second – and far better – master is fond of saying.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal  

Rondal

The storm raged through the night, with wild winds buffeting the mountains so hard that even the Beast shook with the force of the winds in its protected position.  As uncomfortable as things were inside with two humans and four gurvani, one glance out of the window or one crack of the hatch reminded them all of the alternative.  The temperature outside was unreasonably frigid, and would have challenged any of them to have survived the night unsheltered.

The storm did not break until mid-morning the next day, when the last of the snow stopped falling and the winds died down appreciably.  True to Belsi’s prediction, the protected grotto accumulated only an inch or so of snow inside, whilst beyond the lee of the cliff there was six additional inches or more. 

The landscape was transformed, smoothing the rough faces of rock into an elegantly sculpted vista.  The evergreens that dotted the mountainside were caked in snow and ice, and for a few brief moments the sun returned long enough to make the entire scene blinding.  Icicles hung dangerously long from the boulders and cliffs overhead, resembling the hungry mouths of giant beasts.  The gurvani’s eyes were mere slits as they regarded the sight.  Tyndal and Rondal had to use magesight to mute the dazzling snowfields.

Tyndal had the gurvani gather their gear and their skins from the camp and pile them on the roof of the Beast.  They were frozen solid and stacked in neat planks, the result of three weeks of hunting the wooly sheep and goats that roamed the mountains.  A makeshift skin bag filled with prime cuts of their kills was frozen solid, destined for their soup pots at home.

“We should make good time,” he assured Reshitelin, as Cheshtan, Umnik, and Kratko, as the other tribesmen were called, climbed over the Beast like children while they lashed down their pelts.  “We should be at the crest by noon,” Tyndal predicted. 

“Lot of snow,” Reshitelin grunted, doubtfully, as he stared at the long incline ahead. 

“This . . . vehicle can manage,” Rondal said, with false confidence.  In truth, he was highly concerned at the proposed route.  There was only one pathway that reached the crest of the ridgeline, and it was incredibly long and impossibly narrow, according to the map, not to mention forbiddingly steep.  With fresh snow to contend with, he was starting to doubt the Beast’s capabilities, himself.  “We wouldn’t have gotten this far if it couldn’t.”

Resh stared at the machine with quiet contemplation.  “Humani build this?” he asked, skeptically.  “Sheds, yes.  Carts, yes. Barns, yes.  This?” he asked, cocking his head.

“Our ancestors did,” Rondal assured him.  “We . . . recovered it.  Once we had thousands and thousands of them.  This is one of the last.  We don’t know how to make them any more.  Even with magic,” he confessed. 

“All things fall down,” Resh observed, grimly, as his eyes moved toward the distant pathway above them.  “All things,” he repeated.

Rondal did his best not to take the tribesman’s words as omens, as he sat in the cockpit and warmed the power plant up.  He eyed the fuel level with some trepidation – using some of the features drained the power cell more quickly, he knew.  But there were still more than six hundred hours left, according to the panel.  That should be plenty, he reasoned.

He got up when Tyndal came aboard and took his accustomed seat.  He was more than happy to leave steering such a dangerous route to the more experienced – and, he had to admit, more confident – pilot.  Tyndal may well make a mistake that plunged them over a cliff to their doom . . . but then it wouldn’t be Rondal’s fault.

“Try to get them secured,” Tyndal said, as he flipped through the controls and assessed the route on the screen.  “This is going to be a steep grade, and I don’t need them flopping around back there if it gets bumpy.”

“Try to avoid the bumpy parts, if you don’t mind,” Rondal muttered, as he went back and showed the gurvani how to use the restraint systems.  There were only two other chairs that had a full harness, but the interior had plenty of hand-holds and straps around the cabin.  With Reshitelin’s help translating, he showed the others what to do.

“Whatever you do, try to stay put and don’t panic,” Rondal explained, apologetically.  “It may feel strange, but you’re perfectly safe inside this thing,” he promised.  Reshitelin and the others looked skeptical, but they complied.  They really weren’t bad fellows, for goblins, Rondal decided.  They might occasionally eat human flesh, but besides that he’d met worse people in taverns before.

“Are you ready?” Rondal asked as he returned to his chair.

“Spectrum is green,” Tyndal nodded, and pushed ahead on the steering horns.  The Beast lurched forward until it hit the deeper snows, and Rondal felt the enhanced traction dig into the bank and propel the vehicle forward.  In moments they were bounding over the freshly fallen snowfield and headed for the start of the great incline.  Tyndal had to maneuver around a newly fallen birch tree to get to the first section, but once he had the Beast lined up he took a deep breath and started up the narrow ledge.

They weren’t moving terribly fast, Rondal noted, not much faster than a horse could trot.  Belsi’s sensors were evaluating every yard of terrain ahead of them for stability and traction, and constantly adjusting the power to the six big wheels  to keep the forward momentum going.  But that did not make it a particularly comfortable ride.  The grade was steep enough to make Rondal nervous at every stressful noise from the power plant or unexpected shift in orientation.

For ten minutes they made good progress, and Rondal could see that they were, indeed, rising high over the vale below.  Unfortunately the perspective also reinforced to him just far down they had to fall if there was a mistake.  The height wasn’t so bad, when he looked over the eastern horizon – the scene was breathtaking – but he couldn’t help but feel anxious that just a few feet outside of the window led to a plummet he was certain that the Beast, as tough as it was, would not survive.

He gave Tyndal a brief glance.  His friend was looking ahead with determination, his hands locked on the steering yoke, his knuckles white, his jaw set.  He gave a longer look to the passengers behind him.  The four gurvani’s eyes were wide with alarm, and they clung grimly to the straps and handholds, but they did not look ready to panic.  More like they had consigned their souls to whatever outcome the gods and a couple of crazy humani wizards would determine.

“You’re doing quite well,” he offered Tyndal, quietly.  His friend chuckled.

“I’m glad you think so.  We haven’t gotten to the hard part, yet.”

The hard part was the stretch of slightly wider but much steeper cliffside.  While the width of the passage was more comfortable, to Rondal’s view, it also proved to be more treacherous.  The wider ledge had allowed a greater accumulation of snow, and the weight of it had turned the rocky base into a layer of compacted ice.  The moment the Beast’s front wheels hit it, they started to spin.  A few moments later, the vehicle began to slide backwards almost as much as it was moving forward.

“Belsi, maximum traction!” Tyndal ordered, as he monitored the readings on the screen. 

“Maximum traction activated,” the machine reported, coolly.  Rondal felt the vehicle slow, but also felt the big wheels finally find traction on the ice.  For ten anxious minutes the Beast only ascended thirty yards, but it ceased slipping on the ice.  After that the wheels found better purchase through the snow.

Twice more they had to slow down and allow the machine to proceed cautiously, and the third time the thing slid almost a foot toward the edge of the cliff, but Tyndal recovered and kept it on course.  The gurvani were muttering darkly to each other as they clung on for dear life.  But they were calm, Rondal conceded. 

The hardest part was a turn in the trail that required some careful maneuvering – and at one point Rondal swore one of the rear wheels lost traction completely as it was extended beyond the edge of the cliff.  But Tyndal managed the controls masterfully, and in seconds the crazily-shifting attitude of the vehicle righted itself again, and they were headed back up the cliff in the opposite direction.

“That . . . was interesting,” Tyndal murmured, as he stared fixedly ahead. 

“Any more interesting and I’d have to change my trousers,” Rondal agreed.  “How much further?”

“About another half-hour,” Tyndal decided, as he inspected the map.  “But the worst of it is behind us.”

Rondal turned around and gave a triumphant grin to the gurvani.  They did not seem heartened by the gesture.  But they joined in Rondal and Tyndal’s cheer when the Beast finally mounted the more level and stable crest of the ridge, a snow-covered plateau a quarter-mile wide.  Tyndal brought the Beast to a stop, flexing his fingers as he took his hands off the steering horns. 

“Let’s give the old girl a break for a few minutes,” he decided.  “Besides, I really have to pee now.”

The six of them piled out of the Beast and took a few moments to appreciate the majestic view from this vantage.  To the east was the series of ridges that blended into foothills that eventually became the rugged Wilderlands.  But to the west was nothing but seemingly endless peaks and ridges of unyielding rock, with small pockets of greenery situated wherever enough soil had accumulated to support it.  With the snowfall it looked impossibly beautiful – and unbelievably stark. 

The mountains were a thing monstrous and free, Rondal felt, a vast expanse whose emptiness challenged his sense of scale and belief in his own importance.  This was the wild, the true wilderness, where life struggled to persist, much less any sort of civilization.  The ridge they were on the summit of was dwarfed by the ones in the distance, he could see, massive walls of rock that attacked the horizon like giant teeth.  The snow, while beautiful, promised even greater treachery, a confection of icy death that glazed the teeth of the world. 

“It’s majestic!” Tyndal praised, reverently, as they all looked around.  One of the gurvani began chanting, one of their musical chants that took full advantage of their deep throated voices and seemed to penetrate to Rondal’s bones. 

“It’s bloody desolate,” Rondal complained.  “We’re supposed to get through that?”

“The continental divide isn’t that far from here . . . on the map,” Tyndal offered.  “We can travel across this ridge for about three miles.  Once we descend the other side of the ridge it should be easier.  For a little while,” he suggested.

“There’s nothing easy about that!” Rondal insisted, miserably.  “It’s like one big cracked stone table!  Like the one in Old Sevendor Castle!  How are we getting across that?”

“One leg at a time,” Tyndal said, confidently.  “Don’t let the scale of the place concern you.  We can do this.  The mission is the mission,” he reminded him.

“It’s a suicide mission,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “All right, let’s get back inside.  That outpost should be around here somewhere.”

Indeed, the outpost appeared almost unexpectedly, in the eastern lee of a protruding ridgelet that gave it some shelter from the western-born storm.  It was built into the cliff in a little hollow, a timid structure of wood and rocks that had been almost entirely covered with snow.  But the tiny chimney on the side of the structure produced woodsmoke, and there were footprints and other signs of habitation surrounding the squat structure’s doorway.

“I think there’s someone actually living there,” Tyndal guessed, as he brought the Beast to a halt.  As if to answer him, the door opened and several figures spilled out – gurvani and humani.

“So there is,” Rondal agreed.  “I hope they’re friendly.  I don’t feel much like a fight, after that.”

As remote as the trading station was, just the sight of it seemed homey to Rondal.  Indeed, it was the only sign of civilization of any sort beyond the Beast.  He was grateful that there was at least something this far west.  Like an oasis in the desert or a desert island in the endless sea, it was a tiny speck of security his mind could cling to.

The inhabitants of the station crowded around the Beast, but they showed no signs of belligerence, just curiosity.  They were a little jumpy after Rondal opened the hatch, but when he revealed himself with empty hands and then escorted all four gurvani out, the natives relaxed.  Most seemed to be hunters, too, though a few of the outpost’s goblin staff were dressed in more civilized fashion, with cloaks of wool or fur to keep the cold winds at bay. 

But it was the human who caught his attention the most.  An older man with an unsavory look to him examined the exterior of the Beast with far more interest than mere curiosity could account for. 

“Well, hello, gentlemen!” Rondal began, politely, as he approached the man, who carried a battered old wooden pipe between his teeth.  “I hope you don’t mind a few unexpected visitors.  Do any of you speak Narasi?” he asked, hopefully.  He was pleased to see several of the goblins nod . . . and the man scowl.

“How in five hells did you get up here, after that storm?” he asked without preamble.  “In this thing?”

“We’re wizards,” Tyndal explained, calmly.  “I’m Viscount Tyndal of Callierd, late of the Magelaw, and this is my friend Baron Rondal.  We’re on an expedition.  And yes, this remarkable engine brought us safely up the mountain to the summit.  Don’t touch that,” he said, pushing one of the gurvani’s hands away from the cover to the power plant.  “It’s hot,” he added, apologetically.

“Ishi’s tits, that’s amazing,” the human finally admitted.  “Tekka, I take it?  It don’t look like enchantment,” he said, knowledgeably. 

“Yes, one of our ancestor’s devices, rescued from obscurity,” Rondal agreed, sizing the man up.  “Tyndal and I are taking it out and putting it through its paces.  We were looking for a challenge, so the Minden’s seemed a good place to see what she could do.”

“If it made it up here, then it’s part mountain goat,” the man assured.  “I’m Melestrer, the manager of the station.  Turgovet Outpost,” he named it.  “It takes me a full day to climb that trail.  In summer,” he added.

“Well, Master Melestrer, If you have room, we’d like to take refuge here for a bit,” proposed Rondal.  “Our friends have furs and skins to sell.”

“Aye, I know Reshitelin well,” he said, nodding to the hunter.  He said something in gurvani, which earned him a respectful reply from the goblin.  “He says you’re good people.  Of course, he used the term ‘good’ that usually implies delicious, but . . . these scrugs got a sense of humor,” he chuckled.  “Sure, you’re welcome at Turgovet.  You can join the rest of them.”

“The . . . rest of them?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“The other wizard and his company,” Melestrer said, looking from one to the other.  “It seems we have a convention of them today.”

***

The interior of Turgovet station was cramped, and the construction haphazard at best.  It was never meant to be a permanent residence, Rondal could tell at once.  It was designed – if that was the word – to provide some basic type of shelter for goods, more than people, against the harsh conditions of the Mindens ridges.  The ceiling rafters were low, as would be more comfortable to the gurvani who frequented it, though one side was purposefully built with human statures in mind. There seemed to be some entrance to a cave or cavern in the rear, where the skins, furs, and sacks of emeralds were stored securely.

The long, low central structure was a simple hall with a stone fireplace bearing a fire that attempted in vain to heat the entire place.  There were extensions on either side, one dedicated to the human trader and his wares and the other a kind of stable where donkeys, a few llamas, and a single small red shaggy cow was quartered.  A second level over the stables housed the gurvani staff of the station, four goblins who wore a scrap of red cloth around their necks as they hurried on their errands.

“It’s not an inn, but it will keep you alive up here, Melestrer assured them, as he escorted them inside the darkness.  There were probably a score of gurvani riding out the storms, here, most with pelts to sell or baskets of raw emeralds to trade.  In return for their skins and shiny rocks Melestrer had a carefully-guarded stockpile of trade goods at hand behind the bar that designated his office area.  There he would meet with the natives and haggle over the price for their wares.  The ventilation in the place was terrible, and the woodsmoke mixed with the odor of raw skins, rotting meat, and unwashed gurvani. 

But there, in front of the fireplace, Rondal spotted the very last person he expected to see here – or anywhere, for that matter.  Huddled under several layers of wool and sheepskin was the somewhat familiar face of the man who had first introduced him to magic: Garkesku.  The Great.  Former spellmonger of Boval Vale.

The pure shock Rondal felt at recognizing his old master sent him speechless.  Tyndal, too, recognized the man, albeit more slowly.  It was the hacking that assured Rondal of his identity – Garkesku had a habit of clearing his throat loudly and suddenly, and very unexpectedly, a quirk that had often startled his clients . . . and sent his apprentices into a peel of anxiety. 

Most people ignored it, as they weren’t around the noise often enough or long enough for it to become annoying.  But Rondal had lived with that hack for two years, until it had become the audible signal that he was about to be ruthlessly criticized, usually unfairly.

“Garkesku!” he whispered to Tyndal, nodding in the man’s direction.  He looked miserable, under his furs, his face thin and drawn, the whisp of white whiskers on his pallid chin a half-hearted attempt at appearing wise.  He looked older, so much older now, than he had the last time Rondal had seen him.  He used to have to dye his hair with lime to make it appear white, giving him (he’d thought) an air of aged wisdom.  He didn’t need the lime anymore.  Garkesku’s face was a map of wrinkles and malnutrition, his cheekbones peeking out from under the skins like bones through the dirt. 

And his eyes . . . there was a haunted look in the wizard’s rheumy eyes that shook Rondal.  He was used to those eyes being filled with spite, or jealousy, or resentment, or obsequious lies to flatter wealthy clients.  But what they were filled with now, Rondal could not name.  There was an emptiness there, and a horror, a faint scrap of the man he used to be drowned in a river of regret. 

“Ishi’s . . . tits,” Tyndal breathed.  “What in three hells happened to him?”

“How did he find his way here?” Rondal whispered.  “The last time I heard, he was the puppet lord of some slave estate in the Penumbra!”

“That was years ago,” Tyndal reminded him.  “There’s been a lot of water past the dock, since then.  But he looks terrible!” he said, shaking his head. 

“I . . . I have to speak with him,” Rondal decided, his voice faint.

“No, Ron, you really don’t,” Tyndal assured him.  “Leave him be.  You don’t need to—”

“Yes, alas, I do,” Rondal said, heaving a deep sigh. 

Rondal was hesitant to approach him – the old wizard was accompanied by two gurvani, clearly servants, who sat near and had a watchful regard on their master.  He wanted to turn and slink away before the man recognized him.  But he swallowed and forced himself forward.  There was no way this was a coincidence, he reasoned.  The chances of this happening by random chance boggled the mind.  As much as he wanted to flee the very sight of the man, he compelled his feet forward until he was standing in front of the heap of bones and fur.  Rondal hesitated, at the last moment.  Tyndal stepped in.

“Master Garkesku,” he began, hesitantly.  At the mention of the name the wizard’s head shot up, startled and surprised.  “It’s been a while,” Rondal continued, unsure of what else to say. 

Those haunted eyes looked at him uncertainly, confused . . . but then the glimmer of recognition dawned in them.  A sense of focus came over Garkesku until he became confident in his own judgement.

“Rondal?” he asked, in a harsh whisper, wrapped in wonder.  “Rondal!  Rondal, little Rondal!  What in nine hells are you doing in this hellscape?” the man asked, genuine horror in his voice.

“I could ask you the same question,” Rondal said, settling into the dirt floor beside him.  The two goblin servants looked at him balefully, as if they were ready to spring on him if they bothered their master.  Neither one looked as if they could have done much against him.

“Rondal,” Garkesku repeated, his tone mystified.  “Why have the gods sent you to me . . . now?  After what I . . . I . . . forgive me,” he said, finding some reason to get ahold of himself.  “It has been a long and difficult journey.  One affected with much loss and bewilderment.  Please, welcome, come and speak with me a little,” he said, sounding much more collected.  “I have not seen you since . . . since Boval Vale,” he said, with a deep, sad sigh.

“Ten years ago,” Rondal nodded.  “If I recall, we parted on less than good terms.”

“I was a coward, and wouldn’t follow Minalan into the void,” his old master admitted, his voice hollow.  “Much to my regret.  I counted on my ability to impress our new masters.  I was in error,” he said, casually.

“So it seems,” Rondal agreed, reluctantly.  “Still, you yet live.  When many others didn’t.”  Rondal felt a pang of bitterness about that.  He’d lost so many friends and even family in that horrific siege.  To see such a petty and bitter man as Garkesku still alive when so many had perished enraged part of his soul.  If anyone had deserved the worst that Sheruel could have granted, it was his former master.  The remark was not lost on the old wizard, and he looked away a moment.  Good, Rondal thought to himself.  He still can feel shame.

“It seems you have found fortune, in your travels,” Garkesku observed, clearly trying to change the subject.  “I’ve heard of your exploits, from time to time.  You have prospered in your service to Minalan.”

“He was a good master,” Rondal said, pointedly.  “But I am my own man, now.  I passed my examinations.  I am an accepted adept.  And a baron.  And the Deputy Court Wizard of Alshar,” he said, with a modicum of pride.

“Are you, now?” Garkesku asked, genuinely impressed.  “I never thought you’d amount to much,” he admitted.  “Perhaps a good hedgewizard at some other obscure little vale, or some poor Wilderlord’s court wizard . . .”

“I’m accounted one of the most deadly warmagi in Alshar, now,” he bragged.  It wasn’t quite true, but neither was it untrue, he reasoned to himself.  “I am highly placed in His Grace’s counsels.  And . . . I got married.”

“Is she from a good family?” he asked.  The question rocked Rondal, for some reason.  It seemed appalling that this man, a murderer and an oathbreaker, would see fit to pass judgement on any human being, much less his wife.

“They are high nobility in Alshar, tracing their lineage back four centuries,” he said, haughtily. 

“Well done,” Garkesku said, with unconvincing enthusiasm.  “Well done, boy.  Far better than I ever expected out of you.  But then I couldn’t give you irionite, and Minalan did.  How is he?  Has he been assassinated yet?”

“He is the Count Palatine of the Magelaw, baron of Sevendor, and counsel to the King himself,” Rondal said, flatly.  “Every assassin who ever thought about taking him is dead, now.  He is the Spellmonger.  He is counted amongst the mighty by the arcane and mundane alike!” he related, proudly. 

“Oh, well, it’s only a matter of time,” Garkesku sighed.  “Pesky man, that Minalan.  No proper sense of his position.  You know, I was a magelord before he was?” he bragged.  “He claims credit for that, but I was named lord of Terrihall long before he found his way to Sevendor.  Oh, yes, I know what he’s done,” Garkesku said, ruefully.  “I know what he took from me and what he did with it.  His time will come,” he said, his eyes slits as he pronounced his prediction.  “He will get what is coming to him.  You can’t escape that.  None of us can,” he insisted.

“You seemed to have,” Rondal said, boldly. “By all rights, you should be dead and the unfortunate result of indigestion in some scrug’s chamberpot, by now.  But you are not.”

“A credit to my wit and wisdom, dear boy,” Garkesku sighed, resigned.  “I’ve had to learn to live by my wits and my guile, you see.  I seem to find my way out of trouble . . . and then into more trouble.  Judge me not for what I had to do in order to survive – if you were in my place, you would have done the same,” he declared.

“I hardly think so,” Rondal said, the contempt scarcely hidden in his voice.  Despite his resolve to restrain himself, he reached out and grabbed Garkesku’s left wrist, and pulled it forth from his furs like he was pulling a splinter from a festering wound.  His goblin attendants looked outraged, but did nothing to stop him.  He pushed back the man’s motley sleeve and showed his frail arm in the firelight.  The brand was clearly evident.  “You did not earn this by living on your wits and depending on your wisdom,” he said in a low and dangerous voice.

It was the brand of the Soulless – the human slaves who had earned the trust of their gurvani overlords by slaying five of their human fellows on the altar of sacrifice.  According to Narasi tradition, five cold-blooded murders eroded the soul of the murderer away, depriving them of their essential humanity and placing him beyond the possibility of redemption.  While Rondal took issue with the arbitrary nature of that number, and wondered frequently about its interpretation, there was no doubt that the mark told more about Garkesku’s character than any boast or brag.

“I did what I had to do!” the old wizard said, his eyes blazing, as he struggled to pull his arm away.  He was stronger than he looked, but Rondal did not relent.  “I survived!  Do you not understand what that means?  I was taken in bondage by savages, and only through the force of will did I survive!  I had the Old God stare into my soul, Rondal – may you be spared that horrible fate – and I yet live!  What better proof of my worth would you ask?” he begged, his eyes wild and desperate.

“Better an ignoble death than life as a coward and a murderer,” Rondal said, indignantly, as he released the frail wrist.  “How many good men died because of your weakness?” he asked in whispered contempt.

“You presume to judge me?” Garkesku asked, shocked.  “You, a mere boy, a half-Talented peasant who would not enjoy his position if it wasn’t for my recognition of your limited gifts?”

“I do!” Rondal assured him, his emotions getting the better of him.  “I do, indeed, presume to judge you, sir!  A better man would have accepted death gladly, than endure what you invited upon yourself by your treachery!  You were a poor master,” he condemned, the words and emotion flowing from him like a river.  “You conspired against your own people when you thought it would benefit you.  I will judge you gladly, and submit myself and my actions to those same accountings!  Have you no shame for what you have done?  The deaths you have caused?  The misery you are responsible for?”

“I am the Court Wizard of His Majesty, Ashakarl!” Garkesku exploded.  “I will not be spoken to by some stripling wizardling like that!”

“You will keep your seat, lower your voice, and perhaps keep your head,” Tyndal said, suddenly, as his mageblade appeared in his hand and in close proximity to the wizard’s throat.   “For I have little patience for you today, old man, and I would count it a boon to end your miserable existence right here and now.”

The sudden intervention of his friend was gratifying to Rondal.  His rage at his old master was palpable, but not particularly useful, he realized.  As much as Garkesku deserved his ire – and richly so – he was also a potential source of information at a time when they desperately needed it.  He glanced up at Tyndal.  His friend was deadly serious, he saw.

Garkesku recognized his danger as well.  “If you slay me, you will gain the enmity of His Majesty, Ashakarl,” he promised, darkly.

“We just came from an audience with Ashakarl,” Tyndal replied.  “He didn’t really notice you had left his court.  Besides, the mountains are high, and the king is far away.  I wouldn’t wager on your chances, if I decide you should no longer pollute the sacred soil of Callidore.  There’s a cliff just outside with a gorge at its bottom.  It appears to be vacant,” he warned.

“Peace!” Garkesku said, finally, as he evaluated his chances with a blade at his throat.  “I bear you boys no ill, I swear!  Spare an old man a bit of grace, for the sake of old times.  Indeed, it gratifies me to see you well, after all these years.  Come and sit, and let us talk . . . and perhaps we’ll both learn things we want to know.”

Chapter Seventeen

The Warlock

The night of Uric’s Rebellion was one of the most frightening of my life, even in the middle of a siege.  It revealed to me the horrible fact that cruelty can reap a harvest of madness and retribution, no matter how harmless the act might have seemed.  That’s why we took our oaths to the Spellmonger, when he gave us our irionite.  To break that oath is more than a mere violation of regulation, it is an acknowledgment that you’ve abandoned your responsibility to police your own behavior when there are no witnesses.  Those who break that oath deserve what inevitably happens to them.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

Tyndal made his blade disappear with a sigh of disappointment.  He enjoyed the advantage suddenly producing a weapon provided him, and using it against such a vile specimen as Garkesku was particularly satisfying.  It would only have taken a flick of his wrist, he knew, to open up the man’s throat with the blade.  The paraclete within urged him to with a bloodlust he had to exert no small will to control.  All he would have had to do was whisper a mnemonic and Garkesku’s head would have exploded in arcane fire. 

But this was not a mission of vengeance, he knew, and it was quite possible the old fraud might have some usable intelligence, he reasoned.  While he was disappointed at losing the chance to settle an old score, he was gratified by the look of absolute terror and surprise that Garkesku had gifted him with when he’d been that close to dying.

There was a brief stir amongst the tribal gurvani in the hall as they waited for a fight to begin.  They all turned back to the business, disappointed, when Tyndal’s mageblade vanished.

“What, did you forget about me, Garky?” Tyndal asked, taking a seat on the floor next to Rondal.  He gave a dismissive sneer to the two upset-looking gurvani.

“Master Tyndal,” the old man said, deferentially. 

“Viscount Tyndal,” he corrected.  “Of about nine times the land Boval Vale possessed.  So what fetid hole did you crawl out of?” he asked, with undisguised contempt.

“The Royal Court Wizard here was just explaining that to me,” Rondal said, his eyes narrow.  “After the betrayal and his subsequent enslavement in Boval Vale, the murder of five of his fellow human beings on a sacrificial altar, he was the very first magelord, apparently.”

“How auspicious,” Tyndal said, sarcastically.  “I was more curious about why you are out here, at the arse end of nowhere.  I have to guess that you pissed someone off, back at Kral Krebhet.”

“His Majesty thought it impolitic to flaunt his humani Court Wizard in front of the urgulnosti priests, when they came to the capital,” Garkesku explained, gathering what dignity he could around him.  “The Black Skulls are already fanatics when it comes to a human’s proper role in society.  Believe me, I struggled against them for years, just to keep my head.”

“Yet here it is, completely attached to your body,” Tyndal pointed out, shaking his head mockingly. 

“Only because of my wits,” Garkesku assured them.  “I made many enemies among them before Sheruel was captured by Korbal.  Thankfully, many of those shamans were purged when the Enshadowed took control, and for a while I was free to demonstrate my loyalty to Ashakarl.  When he came north with his court, he invited me to accompany him as his Court Wizard,” he added, proudly.

“He has plenty of shamans in his court,” Rondal said, skeptically.  “What use would he have for you?”

“They practice gurvani magic.  There are only a few humani who are familiar with Imperial magic, and those human wizards in his court, like Lord Predavam, are warmagi.  I offered a unique advantage to His Majesty by providing a civilian wizard’s powers and tools to aid in his rule.”

“Which means that he didn’t have any better use for you, so you get to help his courtiers with their impotency, awkward hair loss, and any unsightly blemishes,” Tyndal suggested.

Garkesku stiffened, but then sighed.  “You are not wrong, entirely,” he admitted, tiredly.  “There wasn’t much for me to do there.  When the rumors of the golden goblin came to light, on the heels of the urgulnosti delegation arriving from the Black Vale, His Majesty thought it best to send me on a field assignment to investigate the matter, rather than risk arousing the ire of the Black Skulls.”

“So what did you find out?” Rondal prompted. 

“About the golden goblin?  I . . . I saw him,” the wizard said, his voice getting lower, and his eyes narrowing at the recollection.  “A week ago, in a cave many miles west of here.”

“You saw him?  That’s great news!” Tyndal said with a grin.

“No, no you foolish boy, it’s terrible news!” Garkesku spat, his eyes filled with fear and worry as they darted around the room anxiously.  “You don’t understand!  The prophecy was quite clear, and the arrival of the Golden Goblin is clearly a harbinger of doom.  For the gurvani . . . and perhaps for humanity,” he said, darkly, staring at the fire.

“How so?” demanded Rondal.  “This is the first we’ve heard of it.”

Garkesku heaved a great sigh, and then spoke a few words to his servants.  The two answered back anxiously, but then rose and left at Garkesu’s command, leaving the three humans to speak.

“It’s best not to discuss this matter with the gurvani in earshot,” he said, his voice quiet.  “It is difficult to know how they will act.  Or which of them are spies.  So you do not know about the prophecy of the Golden Goblin?” he asked, looking back at them, his eyes shifty.  He cleared his throat absently and then settled into the tone of a lecturer.

“I heard of the prophecy for the first time after I was . . . removed from Terrihall.  A shaman spoke of it to me one night.  I heard other versions later, but his was the most complete.  The prophecy was given centuries ago by a seer in the mountains, and passed down through oral history to a number of tribes.”

“Hence the various versions,” Rondal reasoned.

“Exactly.  It concerned the future of the gurvani, of course, but there is no way to examine the original prophecy in any way.  But the essential meaning is clear: the appearance of a gurvan with golden fur is a sign of a great tragedy to the gurvani people,” he continued, sorrowfully.  “They will be sacrificed, somehow.  That much is evident.  It is a symbol of the end of their race.”

“Or just a transformation, perhaps spiritual,” Rondal argued.  “We’ve heard that interpretation, too.  Is there anything else to the prophecy?  Portents we should be aware of?  Signs and symbols?”

“Oh, there is much more, but some of it has already come to pass,” Garkesku sighed.  “The transformation of the land in antiquity was a terrible crisis for the gurvani.  Many had to flee, or adapt themselves to the changes.  The rebellion of Gurvos was predicted, and the short period in which the gurvani people lived in relative peace.  Then the loss of the sacred cave, the bloody war of extermination humanity waged against them . . . and then the meddling of the Alka Alon. 

“That’s what the Black Skulls originally preached,” he added, informatively.  “Before Sheruel emerged from his caverns, his priesthood was already seeding the tribes with a new mythology that seemed to defy the prophecy.  Sheruel was a gurvan, after all – originally, I mean.”

“Of course, he was himself a manipulation of the Alka Alon,” Tyndal pointed out.  “The Enshadowed were behind the creation of that monster.  We’ve established that much.”

Garkesku gave him a serious look.  “And the Alka Alon Council did not step in to intervene when the Wilderlords rode down every gurvan they could find in the Goblin Wars.  They asked,” he insisted.  “They begged.  But the Council refused.  They apparently felt it beneath them to get involved in a struggle betwixt inferior races.”  The contempt in Garkesku’s voice was evident.

“I . . . did not know that,” Tyndal nodded.  “Not that I think it would have made much difference.  It takes the Alka Alon a decade to make up their mind to do anything.  By that time the Goblin Wars were over.”

“Exactly,” Garkesku nodded.  “In any case, the promotion of Sheruel and his genocidal war of vengeance was an attempt to counter the prophecy.  Instead it ended up fulfilling it.  That . . . may be . . . on purpose,” the wizard offered, hesitantly. 

“How so?” Rondal asked, sharply.

“As I said, the prophecy is old, misinterpreted, and a source of perpetual religious argument amongst the gurvani.  But the sacrifice of the gurvani is supposed to lead to the judgement of the Alka Alon, according to the prophecy.  Specifically their all-mighty Council.  I fear that the Enshadowed mean to hurry that, now that they are in an inferior position, and may have created this golden goblin with sorcery in order to subvert the rule of the council.”

“That . . . is a very interesting idea,” Tyndal admitted, reluctantly.  “And it does make a certain kind of sense.  Minalan has forced a treaty on Korbal, and he’s protecting the Goblin Kingdom now, but only because he has the backing of the Alka Alon Council.  If the Enshadowed can weaken or even remove the council, that would give them an opening, perhaps.”

“Do you have any evidence for this?” Rondal demanded.  “Or are you just speculating?”

“Speculating, for the moment,” Garkesku admitted.  “But I came to know the Enshadowed back in the Penumbra, when I served there.  Vile people,” he condemned, without a trace of irony.  “Their only creed is power and control.  But they do talk, particularly around stupid humani servants.  That’s how I knew to flee with Ashakarl: they were about to recruit every magically Talented human in their lands to provide host bodies for the Nemovorti,” he said, his voice hollow.

“So that’s why you left,” chuckled Tyndal, mirthlessly.  “You old coward!”

“It seemed the wisest course, at the time.  And I am still alive,” he pointed out.  “My point is that the Enshadowed are quite capable of that sort of ruse.  They delight in meddling with the affairs of their client species.  It makes them feel superior to use unwitting dupes to achieve their goals when more brutal methods are too costly or undesirable.  And exploiting the prophecy of the Golden Goblin to get the gurvani stirred up again would be just the sort of underhanded scheme that would appeal to them.  Especially now that Sheruel is free and a threat to them.”

Rondal sighed.  “You are not wrong,” he admitted.  “The Enshadowed and Nemovorti we’ve met delight in such plots . . . when they aren’t trying to burn us alive with dragonfire.”

Garkesku shuddered at the mention of the undead lords who were the nobility of Korbal the Necromancer’s court.  Tyndal took some pleasure in the man’s discomfort. 

“So you are certain that this golden goblin is legitimate?” Tyndal asked.  “I mean, if he’s just a tool of the Enshadowed—”

“I saw him,” Garkesku interrupted, looking around the hall at the gurvani uncomfortably.  “As I said, not a week ago I met him.  He was preaching to a group of shamans who had gathered to hear him.  Shamans from all over the mountains.  But also gurvani from even further away.  Gurkarl was there – I was quite surprised to see that,” he assured.  “And there was an Alka Alon with him.  I’ve always suspected him to be the tool of the Enshadowed, but that proved it to me.  And that is what makes me think that they are behind this golden goblin farce.”

“Gurkarl?  You saw Gurkarl?” Tyndal asked, excitedly.

“Yes, and he was just as surprised to see me,” Garkesku said, uncomfortably.  “We rarely agreed, in council with the king.  He has radical ideas about how the gurvani should live.  I argued for a more gradual approach, with his human subjects providing temperate guidance and benevolent direction for the realm.  The only thing we really agreed upon was that the urgulnosti were a threat to the kingdom,” he admitted.

“Did he mention where he was headed?” Rondal asked.

“He was going with the Alka Alon, so I assume it was to one of the many lairs of the Enshadowed.  They pride themselves at having secret refuges all over the place.  But he met the golden goblin and pronounced him legitimate,” Garkesku revealed.  “That will carry much weight in His Majesty’s court, I fear.  He is well respected, even amongst his political enemies,” the wizard admitted.  “He has the king’s black furry ear.  So, if he is a pawn of the Enshadowed, they have provided themselves with the perfect means to get Ashakarl to continue to resist Sheruel’s dominion.”

“So they have,” Rondal said, without betraying the identity of Lilastien.  “I was just curious about the direction they headed.  We would dearly like to speak to Gurkarl.”

“West, I believe, deeper into the wastes,” Garkesku offered.  “Fools.  We barely made it back to this outpost, after our meeting.  Savages took us by surprise and slew three quarters of our company.  Cannibals,” he said, with a grisly expression on his face.  “They eat other gurvani, not just humans.”

Tyndal stared at the man skeptically, almost certain that Garkesku himself had resorted to cannibalism.  During the invasion many human slaves or sacrificial victims had been cooked and eaten by the gurvani.  Human flesh was considered a delicacy, for some reason.  The wizard’s prominence amongst the renegades and the Soulless collaborators had likely put him in a position where he had been forced to eat the flesh of his fellow men.  Or perhaps he had done it voluntarily . . .

“What I don’t understand is if this is just an Enshadowed plot to manipulate the gurvani further, then how does it fulfill the prophecy?” Rondal asked, confused.  “They just conjured some golden fur.  Surely the gurvani will recognize that.”

“You don’t understand,” Garkesku argued, “this gurvan was . . . different.  He wasn’t a maragorku or an eunuch, but he was very different than most gurvani.  Larger.  Heavier.  Taller.  At first I thought it might be a man or a dwarf in disguise, but I got close enough to examine him with magesight.  It is no costume,” he assured.  “He was unmistakably a gurvani, but very different than any I’ve ever seen.  And his fur was the most beautiful gold . . .” he said, his voice trailing off at the memory.  “He spoke of peace and rebirth . . . and of sacrifice.  His accent was strange, but he appeared very educated.  He knew Narasi,” he admitted.  “And he had rajira.”

“Wait, the Golden Goblin has rajira?” Tyndal asked, startled.

“And he is trained in its use,” nodded the old wizard.  “He demonstrated that quite handily.  But he would not speak to me,” he lamented.  “He said I was . . . I was not cleansed.  That my soul was . . .”

“Absent?  Stained?  Filthy? Grotesquely fouled by your own cowardice and malice?” Tyndal suggested, helpfully.

“Something like that,” Garkesku sighed, reluctantly.  “It was very disappointing.  He was a rather inspiring speaker.  But I fulfilled my mission.  Now I must return to His Majesty and report a harbinger of doom on his frontier.  As well as a cult of gurvani who seek to follow him.  For he instructed all those who had the will and the desire to travel west to hear him speak his most powerful sermons.  Clear trickery, of course, deigned to build support for a rebellion against King Ashakarl,” he predicted.  “He’s probably building an army or something.”

“Perhaps,” Rondal said, doubtfully.  “So what does this have to do with the Adrian?” Rondal prompted.

“The Adrian?” Garkesku asked in surprise and confusion.  “Nothing.  The Adrian is a mere gurvani folktale,” he explained, “far more recent in origin than the Golden Goblin.”

“Something else we’ve never heard of before,” Tyndal observed.  “So what is it?”

“The legend says that the Adrian is a wizard – sometimes its human, sometimes an Alka Alon, sometimes a gurvani shaman or a mountain spirit or even more unlikely characters – who lives in some impossibly remote part of the Mindens,” Garkesku related.  “It’s some secret cave or hidden fortress.  Occasionally some gurvan will stumble across it, and the . . . whatever it is speaks with them.  Grants them wishes.  Gives them quests.  Arranges unfortunate circumstances for their enemies.  Pure wish-fulfillment for gullible fools.  A fairy tale, you might say,” he suggested.  “It’s all rubbish, of course.  No one lives up here, not anyone civilized.  This is the very last outpost, I assure you,” he said with an air of finality, gesturing around the dark hall.  “Believe me, after this it is just gurvani tribes and the occasional dwarven prospector.”

“What about beyond the Mindens?” Tyndal challenged.  “On the other side?”

“Who knows?” the wizard dismissed.  “An entirely different world, perhaps.  But you would have to cross hundreds of miles of impassible mountains to get there.  The Adrian is a myth, a tale goblins tell each other when they need some magical hope to sustain them.  No one has ever seen him, and no one has ever returned from his lair to my knowledge.”

“Korbal, the Demon God of the Mindens was considered a myth,” Rondal pointed out, soberly.  “Sometimes those myths contain a kernel of truth.”

“Are you going to make a case for the Frost Princess to be actually a secret Alka Alon maiden, now?” Garkesku asked, with amused contempt.  “Really, Rondal, I thought you an educated man!  Korbal’s legend was passed to humanity from the Mountain Folk, who remembered ancient tales of the Alkan who dared stand against the council.  That happened before humanity ever came here.  The Adrian, that is a far more recent thing.  Perhaps some old wizard from the Magocracy took refuge up here during the Narasi invasion, and the tale survived, but the rest . . . the rest is rubbish,” he dismissed, shaking his head.

“Interesting,” Tyndal nodded.  He did not doubt Garkesku’s veracity on the subject, but he felt there was more to the story, and that the old wizard was speaking from ignorance.  “So you were attacked on your way back from seeing the Golden Goblin?” he asked, purposefully changing the subject. 

“Yes, it was terrible,” he lamented.  “I had a full guard carrying my litter through the mountains, and—”

“A litter?” Rondal asked, astonished.  “You made a bunch of gurvani carry your old wrinkled arse through . . . this?”

“Well, I am the Royal Court Wizard,” Garkesku objected.  “There is a certain dignity associated with that office.  Besides, they are paid – were paid,” he corrected, “very well for the service.  And it was considered an honor,” he insisted.  “They fought for the right to bear my litter.”  He ended with the abrupt clearing of his throat.  Tyndal couldn’t help but laugh at that. 

“But we were attacked several times,” Garkesku continued, his pallid face blushing a bit.  “The highland tribes are ruthless, savages, not like our good civilized gurvani friends,” he defended.  “They attack anyone who trespasses in their territory.  They have no loyalties beyond their chieftain, and no respect for authority beyond the blade of a sword.  They will eat . . . anything that they catch.  Anyone,” he said, with a note of disgust.

“How uncivilized,” Rondal dismissed.  “And how very brave of you to complete your master’s commission.”  The scorn in his friend’s voice was palpable. 

“Well, I had little choice,” Garkesku confessed, the sarcasm escaping him.  “His Majesty has become irritated with me, for some reason.  I blame my enemies at court for poisoning his opinion of me behind my back – you have no idea how vicious courtiers can be,” he said, making Tyndal suppress another laugh.  “Ashakarl gave me a choice: undertake this commission or seek other employment.”

“Well, I hear Sheruel is hiring again,” Tyndal pointed out.  “But I don’t think you’d have much success beyond the Penumbra and the Goblin Kingdom.  There is far too much competition, these days.”

“Apropos to that,” Garkesku said, hesitantly, as he turned to Rondal.  “You are, you claim, the Assistant Court Wizard of Alshar?”

“Deputy,” Rondal corrected.  “A minor but important distinction.  Why?” he asked, confused.

“Well, with the invasion and the abandonment of my dear little shop in Boval Vale,” Garkesku said, softly, “I seem to have lost my documents.  My charter, and my examination results.  I was wondering if I could impose on you to see if you could re-issue them,” he asked, politely.

Tyndal was awed by the audacity of the man.  Here he sat, a traitor and a renegade, and he had the temerity to request his . . . documentation?  He stared at the old wizard, mouth agape. 

“Your . . . documents?” Rondal asked, confused.

“My credentials,” Garkesku clarified.  “My license to practice in Alshar.  I believe the originals were stored at the Censorate’s office in Vorone, but I have . . . well, let us say that my correspondence has gone unanswered.  I am no friend of the Censorate, but I have to admit that they were far more responsive than the current administration,” he said, critically.

“You want . . . me . . . to re-issue your . . . credentials?” Rondal asked in disbelief.

“Do the goblins really care how well you did on your thaumaturgy final examination?” Tyndal asked, barely able to keep from howling at the bold request.  “You’re the bloody Court Wizard . . . issue your own damn credentials!” he said, scornfully.

Garkesku looked offended.  “One would suspect that I would have that authority, but, alas, His Majesty has not seen fit to . . . invest in proper credentialling, as of yet.  As very few of his subjects can even read gurvani, much less Narasi, he has little use of such important elements of civilized society.”

“How appalling!” Tyndal said, with mock horror. 

“Exactly,” Garkesku said, still missing the sarcasm.  “If we don’t have the credentials to establish our credibility, by what means does anyone have of judging your professional competence?”

“I don’t know,” Rondal confessed, “perhaps merit?  Efficacy?  Actually displaying competence?”

“That quickly becomes a matter of mere reputation,” Garkesku dismissed.  “Reputations can be undermined by jealous rivals – believe me, it happens to me all the time,” he assured.  “But acknowledgement that you have, indeed, presented yourself to officialdom and achieved some measure of recognition . . . that cannot be taken away from you,” he said, with certainty.

Tyndal looked at his friend and tried to guess what was going on in his mind.  The bold request was laughable, of course – anyone who fretted about his credentials in the midst of war and ruin was, by definition, a fool, he understood – but he also understood how duty-bound Rondal was.  If there was ever a man who paid attention to such things, it was Rondal.

“You . . . want your license . . . to practice magic . . . restored,” Rondal summarized.

“Recognized,” Garkesku corrected.  “To my knowledge, it was never officially revoked.  It is my right to have my record established for my clients to review,” he continued, smoothly.  “I did pass my examinations, after all.  I was granted a proper license.  I merely wish for that fact to be recognized by the duchy, now that the Censorate is no more.”

“You do understand that the duchy has been subject to invasion and rebellion for more than five years,” Rondal pointed out.

“That is no excuse for the failure of the state to see to its legal obligations,” the wizard insisted.  “Really, it should not be that difficult a thing to accomplish.  I figured with your position, you could use your influence on my behalf, in consideration of our professional relationship,” he said, magnanimously.  “After all, as the assistant court wizard of Alshar, you must have some pull in the office in Vorone.”

Tyndal was impressed by the sheer gall of the man to make such a request, after everything he’d done.  He considered bringing back his mageblade and ending the conversation permanently – there would be no repercussions, he knew.  Not here, and not with Ashakarl.  Nor did he much care.  He knew how bad a tutor Garkesku had been to his friend, and how his petty drive for recognition and respect had encouraged him to betray his people. 

But Rondal had the matter well in hand, he discovered.

“Your request is valid,” Rondal said, slowly, after a few moments’ thought.  “Anyone who has taken the examinations and passed them deserves to be able to say as much.”

“You have my gratitude, Rondal,” Garkesku said, kindly.  Or at least what passed for kindness.  Tyndal didn’t think he was being genuine in the slightest.

“However,” Rondal continued, his voice becoming firmer, as he affixed Garkesku with an icy stare, “your license to practice in Alshar is hereby revoked,” he pronounced.  “You have violated your oath, and therefore—”

“My oath?” Garkesku interrupted, furious.  “I did no such thing!”

“When you were granted your license, you attested and swore an oath to defend and support the duchy,” he said, evenly.  “To give all proper aid to its officers and officials, and to render all due consideration in times of war or other emergency.  In that, Garkesku, you have failed,” he said, his voice thick with condemnation.  “You violated that oath when you took service with the enemies of Alshar.  That makes you an oath-breaker – a warlock, in the common parlance,” he declared.  “Thus I name you.  And no warlock shall ever gain the sanction of the duchy to practice magic.  Not while Baroness Pentandra is Court Wizard.”

Tyndal was surprised and impressed by his friends mettle; he had expected Rondal to be, at least in part, intimidated by his first master.  Yet there was steel in his voice and determination in his eyes as he pronounced his decision that Tyndal hadn’t expected.

“Further, if you ever attempt to practice as much as a squib inside the bounds of Alshar, proper, you will be arrested, fined, and perhaps even executed,” he said, quietly.  “Your history will be examined under truthtell and your fate will be decided by the courts of the Magelaw – and Minalan has ensured that the penalties for a High Mage who betrays his people are severe.”

“You have no authority to do that!  You are merely the assistant court wizard!” the old man blustered.

“He is empowered to do all he has said, and I bear witness to it.  By all means, take the matter up with the current Ducal Court Wizard, Baroness Pentandra,” Tyndal suggested.  “You know, the lady whose character and reputation you cast aspersions upon, back in Boval Vale.  She is a close counselor to His Grace, the Duke of Alshar, and has very particular ideas about such things.”

“And I am a deputy, not an assistant,” Rondal objected.  “The distinction, as I said, is important: I am authorized to make such decisions without consulting my superiors.  You are free to appeal the decision, but like Tyndal said, you would have to come meet with Lady Pentandra in person and plead your case.  I do not favor your chances,” he said, his voice becoming more stern and his expression hardening.  “Lady Pentandra and Viscount Terleman – the other deputy – would hear your case, of course, but considering they have spent the last decade fighting a war against the side you chose might go poorly for your case.”

“That’s preposterous!” Garkesku objected.  “I merely did what I had to in order to survive!”

“Then live with the consequences,” Rondal dismissed.  “We have actually spoken about just this eventuality, if you must know.  The Magocracy of old had a term for magi who misused their powers, broke their oaths and rejected the authority of the Archmage: warlocks.  If you know your history, you understand what the penalties for such betrayal were.  We believe that those penalties were appropriate, and Pentandra has codified the classification.  A warlock may not practice commercial magic, may not be hired by any subject of the duke, and if he is found in violation, he forfeits his life.”

“Only your position as Ashakarl’s lackey grants you any protection,” Tyndal agreed, though he was unfamiliar with the regulation.  He just liked delivering bad news to bad people.  “The moment you come to the Magelaw, you’d best put your powers away.  Unless you feel your chances at court – with Count Minalan sitting in judgement – are favorable.”

The mention of Garkesku’s old rival made him grow pale.  He had resented the younger and more vibrant mage since he came to Boval Vale, and had conspired against him more than once.

“I . . . I see,” the old wizard whispered.  “It seems I am cast out once again, forced to make my way in an unkind world, beset by foes who would see me ruined.”

“I have no sympathy for you, old man,” Rondal pronounced.  “You were a shitty master.  You are a mediocre mage, at best.  And as for your personal character . . . well, I don’t think we need to speak of that here,” he assured.  “You are a warlock, now.  An outlaw.  And if we ever cross paths again, I think it will go poorly for you!”

Chapter Eighteen

The Luncheon At The Edge Of The World

It has always been a mystery to me why, despite how exasperated he can make me, I have enjoyed such a long and bountiful relationship with Tyndal.  It seems to be a mystery as him, as well.  As we get to know our new brides it has often been a topic of speculation, with all manner of unlikely answers proposed by our beautiful wives.  The truth is, we just know each other, and while their may well be more fit companions and comrades in the world for either of us, habit and long acquaintance has made up for any deficits we may have originally seen in each other’s character.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

“Well, that was unexpected,” Tyndal said, gloomily, as they left the outpost to secure the Beast for the night.  “Of all the miserable worms in the world to encounter at the edge of oblivion, Garky was not in my mind.”

“He has a way of doing that,” Rondal grunted, tight-lipped after the ordeal.  He felt vindicated with denying his old master his vanity; he had no business operating under the auspices of Alshar, he reasoned. 

Rondal could not help but recall the man in earlier days, when he was just a boy, confused about his emerging rajira.  His mother had been no help – indeed, she was eager to get rid of him, as soon as she could.  To her, Garkesku had been a savior, a means to remove the extra mouth to feed. 

To Rondal, however, the old man had represented the harsh realities of life as a mage.  Rondal had known the man was full of shit the day he had come to evaluate his Talent. There was no one singular reason to discount him, but after two full days of silly tests, Rondal had come to realize that Garkesku, despite his pretensions of expertise, was relying on his authority and his audacity more than his understanding of the arcane. 

What followed had been two long years of near servitude and menial labor.  Rondal had learned more about his powers on his own than because of the paltry lessons Garkesku had given him.  Teaching him to read had perhaps been the most important legacy of the man’s tutelage.  Once Rondal knew how to read, and had access to the wizard’s meager library, Rondal had taught himself as much magic as Garkesku ever had.

“I thought you handled it rather well,” Tyndal praised.  “I was more in favor of killing him, myself.”

“Why?  What did he do?  What crimes do you have evidence that he committed?” Rondal asked, a little appalled at Tyndal’s casual attitude to the idea. His friend shrugged.

“I don’t.  Some men just need killing,” he decided.  “Garkesku is a cockroach, to have survived all that.  The fact he didn’t end up in the soup pot may be a testament to his cunning, but it’s also a revelation of his character.”

“We have no proof that he has committed any crimes,” Rondal sighed.  “Nor are we empowered to render justice.”

“Treason?” Tyndal offered.  “That’s a nicely broad crime that I’m certain he has committed.  And as far as our empowerment . . . well, as I mentioned, the mountains are high and the king is far away.”

“We’re better than that,” Rondal snapped.  “Besides, we got some useful intelligence from him.  Turds like Garky are helpful that way, sometimes.  And I did declare him a warlock,” he added.

“Never heard of it,” Tyndal admitted.

“Pentandra came up with the idea,” Rondal explained.  “In the absence of the Censorate, regulating magical professionals fell entirely to the ducal court wizard’s office.  Most of the time we’re able to use existing regulations to handle unusual situations.  But in cases that the Censorate would have resorted to capital punishment, Pentandra wanted an intermediate step, a kind of outlawry, that would strip an offending mage of any traditional rights.  The Magocracy used the term ‘warlock’ for people like that, before the Conquest, and she resurrected it.”

“So what does naming him a warlock do?” Tyndal asked, intrigued.

“It denies him the rights and protections given to normal, law-abiding magi, which is particularly harsh in the Magelaw.  If he breaks a law then he has to face a normal criminal court, not the special courts Minalan designed for the magi.  His testimony can therefore be compelled, in most jurisdictions, and the punishment for his crimes would likely be more severe.  Oh, and he cannot legally practice in Alshar, anymore.  If he does, his witchstone is forfeit and he faces a rather impressive fine.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly dire,” Tyndal said, disappointed.

“It forces him to stay in the Goblin Kingdom, or wander the Penumbra, instead of trying to set up shop in Vorone or Vanador.  Or even the Wilderlaw,” Rondal explained, as the entered the Beast.  “That’s something.”

“Perhaps,” Tyndal agreed, doubtfully.  “I was hoping for some sort of horrific magemark or an amputation or something.  You remember that thug we held down and drew a dick on his face?” he suddenly guffawed. 

“I barely remember it – I was pretty drunk at the time,” Rondal admitted. 

“That’s the sort of thing you should do to a warlock,” Tyndal declared, as he activated the auxiliary power.  In a moment warm air started blowing through the vents.

“I shall pass that opinion along to my superiors at the next staff meeting,” Rondal snorted.  “I was actually more interested in what he had to say about the Golden Goblin, and the Adrian, than I was concerned about his fate,” Rondal lied. 

“That was interesting,” Tyndal agreed.  “So Lilastien and Gurkarl met up with the Golden Goblin – whose identity is not yet known – who is apparently a harbinger of doom for the gurvani people,” he summarized.  “And they appear to continue in a westerly direction.”

“Toward Kurtz Station,” Rondal nodded.  “That has to be their destination.  There really doesn’t seem to be any other place for them to go.”

“Well, we can likely be there in a week, if we keep going at this pace,” Tyndal said, as he called up a regional map.  “Belsi, display best route from present position to Kurtz Station,” he instructed.

Obligingly, a series of pink lines appeared over the map.  The indicated route was wildly twisted as it went up and down ridges to find small gaps or passes between them.  Much of the trip appeared to hug the narrow alpine valleys, moving more north and south than westward for most of the journey.  Rondal frowned as more lines appeared in fainter pink.

“What are those?” he asked, irritated by his own ignorance.

“Alternate routes,” Tyndal explained.  “Which might be more dangerous, but if something happens along the main route, we have options.  Some of them are quite intriguing,” he said, tapping the screen.  “But these maps are based on images taken over six hundred years ago, so there might have been some changes since then.”

Rondal shook his head in amazement over his ancestors’ craft.  He knew about the machines they left that were still there, beyond the sky, endlessly circling the world.  All without the benefit of magic. 

“What’s this section here, that’s relatively straight?” he asked, noticing an aberration.

“That . . . is one of our options,” Tyndal said, with a sigh.  “One of the more interesting ones, at that.  According to Belsi it’s an old service tunnel our ancestors dug through the mountain ridge between this valley and this one,” he said, indicating the shortcut.  “It’s more than two miles long . . . but it would cut about thirty-nine miles off of our journey and keep us from going through some truly spectacularly bad country.”

“So why don’t we go that way?” Rondal prompted.

“Because we don’t really know if it’s still there,” Tyndal revealed.  “It’s been more than six hundred years, Ron.  A lot can happen in that time.  Rivers can change courses, shorelines erode away, all sorts of things can happen.”

“It’s a bloody hole in the ground, though,” Rondal challenged.  “I doubt it got filled up.”

“We’ll just have to see if it’s practical,” Tyndal decided, doubtfully.  “It will take us out of our way by a few miles to get to the entrance, but it might be worth it to spare us the time and wear on the Beast.  But what has me more worried is this,” he said, enlarging the centerpoint on the screen.  “We still have to get down the western slope of this ridge, and the way isn’t any going to be any easier than it was coming up.  We’ve got six inches of new snow on top of several inches of old snow and ice.  That’s going to be a challenge.”

“You don’t think we can make it?” Rondal asked, concerned.

“I know we can make it . . . it’s just going to be a challenge.  The question is do we go in the daytime, when it’s warmer and the snow will melt a little, improving our traction ever-so-slightly, or take our chances at night when it re-freezes and turns the surface into a slick of ice?”

Rondal snorted.  “I suppose that depends on just how fast you want to get down the mountain.”

“That’s my point,” Tyndal said, rubbing his eyes.  “Going uphill, if you slip and slide, you usually only fall back a few yards at most.  But with gravity working against us we could get into real trouble if we slide while we’re going down the slope.”

“We could try to enchant the tires to increase their traction,” Rondal proposed.

“I thought about that,” Tyndal nodded.  “It’s worth a shot.  Supposedly the traction system on the Beast can handle just about any kind of snow in any kind of terrain – she’s even amphibious.  But I’d feel better if we had a little arcane assistance, too.  The good news is that once we get beyond this point,” he said, indicating with his finger on the map, “the really steep parts will be behind us.  We’ll be on what our ancestors called the Great Minden Plateau.  There are even glaciers there,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Glaciers?” Rondal asked, confused. 

“Huge fields of permanent snow,” Tyndal explained, “built up over hundreds of thousands or even millions of years.  I’ve read about them, and saw some in the distance in Anghysbel, but I’ve never explored one before.”

“It sounds . . . fascinating,” Rondal said, sarcastically. 

“It sounds easy to drive across,” Tyndal maintained.  “Glaciers tend to be flat.  And Kurtz Station is not that far beyond that, just eighteen miles across the glacier.  The plateau marks the continental divide.  All the rain and snow on this side drain into the Shattered Sea, while everything that falls beyond that drains to the west,” he said, authoritatively.  “That is the very edge of the Colonial Zone.  We’ll be standing on the edge of the known world.”

“Let’s see if we can get there, first, before I appreciate the magnitude of the experience,” Rondal suggested. 

They spent another hour of work cleaning and preparing the Beast for departure, casting spells where they thought they might do the most good, and saying goodbye to their new gurvani companions.  Or, at least, some of them.

“Umnik and Kratko will leave with another hunting party,” Reshtailain explained.  “Cheshtan and I wish to come with you.”

“You . . . want to do what?” Rondal asked in surprise. 

“We wish to come with you,” he repeated. 

“You don’t even know where we are going,” Rondal objected.  “In fact, we don’t even know where we’re going, yet.”

“You go west,” Reshteltian stated, matter-of-factly.  “You seek the Adrian.”

“Well, yes, in a way I suppose we do,” admitted Rondal.  “But that’s not our primary goal.  But if you have no objections to a long, dangerous journey with an uncertain outcome and a likely early death, you’re welcome to come,” he decided.  “We can probably use a translator.”

“Yes,” the tribesman agreed.  “You should not try to speak gurvani anymore.  Call me Resh.  Your gurvani words hurt my ears.”

“Well, let me tell Tyndal, and if you gentlegurvani want to prepare yourselves, we will be leaving soon.  I think,” he added.

“What was that about?” Tyndal asked a moment later, as the gurvan headed back toward the lodge.

“He wants to come with us,” Rondal said, thoughtfully.  “He and Cheshtan.  I told him they could.”

“I’ve had worse traveling companions,” Tyndal shrugged.  “And they haven’t killed us in our sleep thus far.  I find that encouraging.”

“So have you decided when we’re leaving, yet?” Rondal asked.

“Soon,” Tyndal announced.  “Very soon.  While these spells are still in effect.  I think our chances are slightly better during the daytime with slightly slushy surface conditions than at night.  Best get started early,” he said, looking at the sky.  “As it is we probably only have a few more hours of daylight, this time of year.  And once we get down into the valley it’s going to get dark quickly.”

The two of them finished their preparations and were just settling into their seats when Resh and Cheshtan returned, smug grins on their faces.

“Good price on skins,” Resh explained.  “High demand back in Kral Krebhet.  Sent coin back with Umnik.  He will see it to my wives.”

“Wives?  Gurvani take more than one wife?” Tyndal asked, curiously.

“Some do,” Resh shrugged. 

“How in three hells do you live with two wives?” Tyndal asked.

“We hunt a lot,” Resh grinned.  “Must be silent to hunt.  Two wives makes silence precious.”

“I have no doubt,” Tyndal said, shaking his head as he activated the main power plant.  “We have just the one apiece, and it’s all you can do to hear yourself think, sometimes.  Spectrum is green,” he announced, as the screen reported back to him.

“Two wives always argue,” Resh nodded, sagely.  “Until you get home.  Then they both argue with you.”

“Still, there must be some benefits,” Rondal suggested.

“One can cook,” Resh conceded.  “Other . . . can not.”

“Then why did you marry her?” Rondal asked.

“She has other talents,” Resh replied.  “But she talks.  She talks and talks.  So I hunt.”

“Sound reasoning, there,” Tyndal agreed, as he nudged the yoke forward.  The Beast lurched, and they began moving slowly.  A small crowd had gathered around the Beast while it powered up, and Tyndal touched a control.  A raucous sound filled the air, startling the onlookers.

“What was that?” Rondal asked, mystified, as Tyndal turned the forward lights on.  Most of the gurvani shielded their eyes and moved.

“The horn,” Tyndal explained.  “Useful thing, in a situation like this.  It’s just noise.  But it got them to move,” he said, with satisfaction.  He directed the vehicle past the lodge and up a bit of an incline before he cut left.  In a few moments they were poised at the top of the ridge, the long path down the northern side laid out before them.  Tyndal took a deep breath.

“Let’s hope those spells work.  Everyone secure themselves.  Belsi, maximum traction.  Prepare for a descent down an icy trail, however you do that.”

The trip down was even more harrowing than their ascent that morning.  But the Beast managed it in a methodical sort of way, rarely going fast enough to risk sliding.  Still, Rondal could see how white Tyndal’s knuckles were as he carefully maneuvered down the trail. 

The descent to the first switchback only took about an hour, but it seemed an eternity to Rondal.  Regardless of the spells, the heavy weight of the Beast and the slickness of the snowpack saw the machine slide down some of the more severe stretches of the path more than once.  Thankfully this ledge was wider than the southern side, so there was less worry about plunging over the side to their deaths.  By the time they made the first switchback it was already starting to get dark, as the sun lingered in the west, just above the next ridge.

By the time they made it to the bottom of the trail, the shadows crowded around them and the sun was completely behind the mountains.  The last seventy yards was both steep and particularly slick, however, and Tyndal had to struggle to keep from losing control of the Beast altogether.  When they finally came to a rest, he exhaled deeply and flexed his fingers.

“We’re alive,” he pronounced.  “I never could have predicted that.”

“You did fine,” Rondal praised.  “So did Belsi.  But I wouldn’t mind a pause for a piss, a pipe, and perhaps a meal,” he suggested.  “These fellows haven’t eaten since last night, and I’m hungry.”

Though there was still another hour or two technically left in the day, the vale between ridges was locked in a gloom that resembled twilight.  Rondal scryed the area and found no signs of danger before unfastening the hatch, but he readied himself just in case he was mistaken.  The landscape at the bottom of the ridge was desolate, a scant few evergreens and minimal underbrush, with drifts of snow disguising every rock and boulder.  There were hundreds of places from which to mount an ambush, he saw.

“Smells like snow,” Resh muttered in Narasi, as he emerged from the Beast and looked toward the darkening sky.  “More snow.  Another storm coming,” he said, with certainty.  “Wind spirits are restless.”

As if to acknowledge his observation, a powerful gust of chill air rushed through the vale, sending Rondal’s cloak straining against his neck as it blew.  He had to set his back against it, even in the lee of the Beast.  He was gratified to see the mighty machine did not even quiver under the atmospheric assault.

“I think you’re right,” Rondal called to the hunter.  “That may affect our choice of route.”

“Dark soon,” Resh added, his eyes widening.  “More dangerous at night.  Savage tribes more active.”

“You’re just full of inspiration today, Resh!” Tyndal said, with a chuckle.  “Ron, can you see to dinner?  I’m going to set some wards.  And I have to piss like a racehorse!”

“What does that even mean?” Rondal asked himself, with a sigh, as he pulled the supply wand out of his belt.  “Do you fellows have any preference for dinner?” he asked Resh.  He turned to his companion and had a swift conversation in gurvani. 

“We eat what you offer,” he assured.  “You cook better than my wife.”

That made Rondal chuckle.  He turned to his Ring of Rations, instead of the supply wand, and selected a meal he had purchased months ago in Wilderhall.  He felt like impressing his guests.  In a few moments he had conjured a roast haunch of venison easily large enough for the four of them, complete with a sauce made of pears and sherry, a barley porridge, a huge loaf of maislan bread, a casserole of turnips, potatoes and onions, pot of butter, a basket of apples, a pot of pickled vegetables, a jug of ale and another of cider.  A second hoxter provided a camp table to set it all upon, including dishes and plates since they lacked proper trenchers, and a number of serviceable wooden cups. 

“I’m afraid proper table linens are out of the question in this wind,” Rondal called to the gurvani and Tyndal.  “But otherwise there’s no need to be uncivilized about dining.”

“I actually have some chairs . . . somewhere,” Tyndal said, as he began to search his own hoxters until he produced four little stools.  “I got them for the Winter War,” he explained.  “They were good for late night games of dice.  Kept me from freezing my balls off.”

“You and your frozen balls,” Rondal said, rolling his eyes.  “Let’s eat while it’s hot, gentlemen.  Before the wind freezes it all.”

The repast was greeted with unexpected enjoyment by the gurvani, who seemed to love the pear sauce with the venison.  Rondal was partial to the bread – he’d grown used to the pure white wheat loaves that were popular among the aristocracy in Falas, but he had a special place in his palate for maislan bread.  The four of them tucked in greedily, and Rondal realized how famished he was. 

“Resh is right,” Tyndal said, between bites.  “There is another storm coming.  Belsi says that the barometric pressure is dropping like a stone in a well.  Up to another eight inches of snow, more than likely.”

“So how does that affect our plans?” Rondal asked, as he conjured a salt cellar and sprinkled a pinch over his roast. 

“Well, the long-way around takes us through a lot of low-lying areas – thirty four miles of them, on and off,” Tyndal reported.  “That much snow all at once is going to make them unreasonably treacherous.  So, I was thinking . . .”

“The tunnel,” Rondal sighed.  “You want to take the tunnel.”

“’Want’ is a strong term,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “But it shortens our journey considerably, and it is highly unlikely that the tunnel will be affected by the snow.  They rarely are, in my experience.”

“If it is still even traversable,” Rondal reminded him.

“Yes, there is that,” Tyndal admitted, frowning.  “Theoretically it should be wide enough to pass a Class 4 terraformation unit, one of the larger ones.  That means it should be positively roomy for the Beast.  But,” he continued, “it is literally a trip into the darkest unknown.  Underground, far from home, away from help.”

“But the Ways should still work, if we get into a spot,” Rondal pointed out.  “We can still reach all the way back to Vanador, at need.”

“It would be a shame to have gone this far just to turn back,” Tyndal said, with determination.  “But if the tunnel entrance is still accessible, and if we don’t find anything using the place for a lair, and if there are no collapsed sections, it might be our best chance at gaining the plateau.”

Rondal studied his friend thoughtfully, as he bit into an apple.  It was as fresh as it had been when he’d purchased it, and deliciously cold in the wind.  “You just want to take the tunnel,” he accused.

Tyndal started to object, then sighed.  “Yes, I just want to take the tunnel,” he admitted.  “Look, it’s a remnant of our ancestors’ genius for engineering.  It may even contain tekka from that age.  Or there might be a dragon who decided it was a cozy little place to winter in.  But I have to admit, the prospect intrigues my sense of adventure.”

“Your sense of adventure is going to make Gatina a widow,” Rondal predicted.  “Not to mention your darling Tandine.  Are you certain this is our best avenue?”

Tyndal was quiet for far longer than Rondal found comfortable.  He was used to his friend’s brash, bold approach to dangerous situations.  His confidence seemed a special magical power all of its own, and Rondal realized, with sudden clarity, just how often he had depended on Tyndal’s stupid luck to get them through a bad situation.

“Certain?  Yes,” Tyndal finally agreed.  “I might be wrong, but I’m not uncertain.  This is the best route for us to take, to achieve our objectives.  On parchment,” he emphasized.  “The problem is, there is just too much we do not know.”

“Isn’t that always the problem?” Rondal lamented, philosophically.  “Still, I trust your judgement.  Trygg alone knows why, but I do.”

“Why?” Tyndal asked, suddenly, and very unexpectedly.  The question sent Rondal into a torrent of uncomfortable questions about his relationship with Tyndal, from their early days desperate to survive the siege of Boval Castle to their service in the war to their more recent escapades in Falas.  Not to mention their noteworthy mutual honeymoon. 

The question inspired a thousand others, some he was not comfortable asking, much less answering.  Tyndal was . . . he was a friend.  A collogue.  A countryman.  A rival, a rebel, a professional bad influence.  He had talked Rondal into doing more mischief than he naturally had in him, and he bore the results with a mixture of shame and pride.  Tyndal would steal his pipe, if he needed it, and most certainly criticize any mount that Rondal ever rode, he would lambast him relentlessly about his marriage and his taste in wines.

But there was never any question where his loyalty lay.  Ever. 

Since the fateful events at Inrion Academy, and the tragic death of poor Estasia, the pretty Wenshari alchemy student, he and Tyndal had entered into a partnership that could not be described by mere feudal custom.  Nor even the fraternity of apprenticeship.  Ever since that infamous night with Belsi, he realized, there was no mistaking his friend’s absolute loyalty to him.  He knew, with absolute certainty, that Tyndal would look out for his welfare and interests more than anyone, perhaps, other than Gatina.  And even that was an open question in his mind.

“Because we’re still here,” Rondal said, hoarsely, and with far more emotion than he was comfortable with.  “We should have been in the goblin’s soup pot a decade ago, but here we are enjoying the fare of one of Wilderhall’s finest taverns, with a couple of gurvani who – you must admit – seem fine fellows in their own right.  We should be dead,” he stated, flatly.  “We’re not.  I don’t know if that’s because of you, or because of me, or because of this mad mixture of fate and fatality we seem to attract, but we’re still alive when we shouldn’t be,” Rondal declared.  “What are the chances of that?”

“Ask Ifnia.” Tyndal snorted.  “I don’t know.  But I also don’t know why you’d invest your trust in me, when . . . well, when I’ve made a career out of making poor decisions.”

Tyndal stared at his friend.  “We faced a dragon together,” he objected.  “We stood shoulder to shoulder at Timberwatch, at Greenflower, at bloody Olum Seheri, with the Necromancer writhing at our feet.  We stared Sheruel himself in his rotting face and nearly spit in his eye . . . together,” Rondal proclaimed.  “We dined with kings and princes and called sovereign dukes our friends.  How could I not trust you implicitly?”

“Just means you’re a bit mad,” Tyndal said, philosophically.  “Really, considering the girl you married, is there really any other explanation?”

Rondal sighed, dismissing his friend’s flippancy and appreciating the real feeling that lay underneath – as strong as adamant.  Tyndal’s remarks did not matter.  When the arrows were flying and the dragonfire was belching destruction and every heartbeat was precious because it might be your last . . . that was when Tyndal’s mettle was evident.

“Gatina hasn’t killed you yet,” he pointed out.  “That has to count in her favor.”

“My wife likes her,” Tyndal dismissed, irritated.  “They’re going to be best of friends, you know.  The sword and the dagger.  The goddess of light and the spirit of darkness, incarnate.  And we’re just . . . we’re just a . . . we’re screwed!” he said, shaking his head and pushing the last morsel of venison into his mouth.

Resh looked from one of them to the other, and then gave Cheshstan a knowing glance.  Cheshtan said something to Resh in gurvani, which made him laugh.  The boys looked up at the goblins, confused.

“You said you were married,” he finally offered, in Narasi.  “Did you mean to each other?”

Chapter Nineteen

The Maw In The Mountain

Every man confronts the unknown, at some point in his life.  Most shy away from it and stick to the comfortable, even if it means their misery.  I’ve always been of the opinion that the risk of danger and discomfort under such circumstances is minor, compared to the cowardice of avoiding the darkness.  Death may lurk within, certainly; but what treasures might also linger there?

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

The terrain became more and more difficult as they searched for the entrance to the tunnel, as was recorded on the map.  It was supposedly in the southeastern portion of the mountain – which the ancient map said was named Mount Marlow – at the head of a steep incline.  But it was difficult to find.  Evergreens had grown profusely across the incline, and finding whatever ancient roadway had once been there seemed impossible.  He was following the directed route, but when a century-old pine tree was directly in the way he had to find alternate routes around them.

It was frustrating, painstaking work, and they made slow progress.  The snow did not help – in the shadow of the mountain little of it had thawed, Tyndal noted as he struggled at the controls, and the powdery surface made it even more difficult to ascend the slope.  The wind, too, took a toll on their speed.  It picked up plenty of the powdery snow and flung it through the air at unexpected times, creating great swirling clouds that obstructed his vision.  The snowflakes were so tiny that they often stayed suspended in the air, creating a kind of icy fog that was difficult to see through.  He could still use the Beast’s instruments to keep from hitting anything, but it made driving that much harder.

Rondal had been moody, since they’d seen Garkesku, and Tyndal had largely kept his thoughts to himself after they got underway.  He stared blankly out at the snowfog and barely flinched when they hit a snag or a hole or a small hill along the way.  Tyndal attempted to engage him several times, but Rondal kept quiet.  Tyndal left him alone, after a while.  There were times, he knew, when a man did not want to talk.

As night fell swiftly he switched on the running lights.  They did an admirable job illuminating the path ahead, when it wasn’t obscured by a cloak of windblown snow.  But when the snowfog got thick it completely obscured their surroundings and the lights just made it worse.

Tyndal almost jumped when the first arrow flew across the windshield. 

He wasn’t even certain he saw it, at first, but Rondal did – but before he could say anything two more thudded against the hull of the vehicle. 

“Those are gurvani arrows!” Rondal called, grimly.  “We must have intruded into some tribe’s territory!”

Resh and Cheshtan looked at each other, concerned.  They were far outside of their own tribal hunting grounds, now, and had little knowledge of the more primitive gurvani who lived in the interior of the Mindens.  Tyndal had questioned Resh extensively about that, over luncheon.  While Resh agreed he could probably understand their dialect, he also explained that they were unlikely to be willing to talk to him regardless.  Most of the tribes along the plateau were grimly xenophobic, he explained, even resorting to attacking and eating the occasional traveling shaman who disturbed them.

“Cannibals!” Resh said, a tone of fear and disgust in his voice as more thuds indicated the ongoing attack.  He looked longingly at his spear, which had been lashed alongside Cheshtan’s to the ceiling of the vehicle to keep it from dangerously rattling around during transit. 

“We will be fine,” Tyndal assured them, over his shoulder.  “This hull is designed to take up to eight atmospheres of pressure and endure heavy hail.  A few little arrows aren’t going to hurt her!”

As if to challenge his words, a few spears began to be flung, as well.  Then a very loud thud, something that sounded like a rock or a big chunk of ice, rang out on the roof.

“Ishi’s tits!  Enough of that!” he snarled.  While the hull was certainly thick enough to defy such primitive weapons, there were sensors and other equipment mounted on it that could be damaged.  “Belsi, activate periscope display!  Infrared scan!” he ordered.  The Beast beeped obligingly, and one of the auxiliary monitors over his head opened to show the view from the camera on the roof.  Tyndal brought the Beast to a halt on a little hillock about half-way up the wooded slope.

“What are you doing?” Rondal asked, alarmed. 

“Getting powerfully irritated,” Tyndal responded, as he used the controls to swing the camera around.  “This thing has a kind of eye on the roof.  It can see all the way around it,” he explained.

“Even with this fog?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“It sees heat, like we did when we spotted Resh and his comrades.  In this cold the goblins should stand out like beacons.” 

“So where are they?” Rondal asked, as Tyndal scanned around.  He saw no tell-tale signs, at first, and then he began changing the elevation of the camera’s perspective.  There was a large red smear – several of them, he saw – behind a boulder further up the mountain.  There were a few others flanking it, hiding behind trees or smaller rocks, but there had to be eight or ten of them behind the big rock.

“Right there!” Tyndal said, triumphantly.  He unfastened his straps and stood.  “They must have had a hunting party out tonight before the storm, and saw our lights.”

“What are you going to do?” Rondal asked, also unstrapping.  An arrow came down particularly hard on the windscreen.  It did not crack, but Rondal looked concerned.

“We’re going to convince them we’re not worth the effort,” Tyndal said, moving between the gurvani towards the back of the Beast.  He found the arms locker and pulled it open.  There they were: two plasma rifles.  The weapon of choice for his militant ancestors.  He picked one up and handed it to Rondal.

“You remember how to use this?” he asked, as he took the other.  He still had the slug-throwing pistol he’d taken from the locker tucked into his belt, but he felt the plasma rifles were a better tool for this particular job.

“Like a wand,” Rondal nodded.  “Point that end towards the foe, pull the catch.”

“Trigger,” Tyndal corrected.  “And you want to aim it with the sight – here, I’ll set it for infrared.  They should show up as big red blobs.  Put the crosshairs over it and pull the trigger.”

“But won’t they be shooting back at us?” Rondal asked, examining the rifle.

“Yes, but they have to account for the wind – which is doing them no favors, this evening,” Tyndal explained, as he led his friend to the side hatch.  “That’s probably why their aim is so lousy,” he said, unfastening the catch and pushing the door open.  It provided enough cover for him to move outside, where he readied the rifle.  “Our weapons ignore the wind.”

“It’s still more than two hundred yards away,” Rondal pointed out, inhaling sharply as the cold hit him.  “And they have the height advantage.”

“We don’t need to kill them, just scare them away,” Tyndal reasoned, as he prepared to shoot.  An arrow flew wide of them by more than twenty feet.  Others littered the ground around them.  “Just take a couple of shots, see what they do, and then take a couple more.”

To demonstrate, he stepped bravely out from behind the door and took aim, depending on the tiny image in the sight to offer him a target.  He focused on the largest cluster of red blobs, a target so distant and obscured by darkness and snow that he couldn’t see it.  Then he pulled the trigger.

He was gratified to see flashes of bright-hot plasma leap out of the barrel and illuminate the surrounding trees and swirling snow in the darkness.  He loosed ten shots across the snowy darkness before he returned to cover.

“Now you try,” he said, grinning.  “It’s fun!”

He watched as Rondal checked over the weapon once again, going through the procedure to activate it properly.  He pulled the stock to his shoulder, darted into the open, aimed through the sight and began shooting.  He lobbed more than a dozen bolts of plasma through the fog before he sought cover.

No arrows answered their volley.  Tyndal peered around the door with the sight to his eye, and the only red blobs it detected were small and moving away – fast.

“Do you think we hit any of them?” Rondal asked, glancing around at the snowy landscape.  The waxing moon was already hidden by the approaching clouds, and a few fresh flurries joined the wind-borne snow.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Tyndal shrugged as he powered down the weapon.  “But they were in our way, and they weren’t going to move unless we did something.  Now they’re gone.  And I’m cold,” he said, hugging the warm barrel of the rifle.

“There will be more,” Resh warned.  “Those are Blood Foots.  Savages,” he repeated. 

“Then we’d best hurry before they come back,” Tyndal declared, as he returned to his seat, dropping the rifle next to him.  As soon as he heard Rondal close the hatch he pushed the yoke forward, lurching the Beast back into action.  He was gratified to hear his friend yelp in surprise as the sudden movement made him stumble.  “I’m going to push on through until we get to the top.  That’s where the entrance is.  Where it’s supposed to be,” he amended.

Tyndal abandoned caution and quit worrying about rough spots on the ancient trail.  His adrenaline was up, and he was half-hoping one of the cannibals would pop up in front of the Beast so he could demonstrate what ten tons of metal could do against a scout.  But there were no attempts to ambush.  The plasma bolts and the strangeness of the vehicle were apparently enough to scare them off.

“Destination reached,” Belsi announced, helpfully, a few moments after he brought the Beast up to a more or less level portion of the mountain.  Rondal struggled to get back in his seat and spared Tyndal a dirty look as he strapped back in. 

“Where is it?” he asked, confused.  Tyndal activate the spotlight and swung it forward . . . and revealed the gaping entrance.

“I believe its that ominous mouth-like opening, there,” he suggested, as he played the light across the entrance. 

Tyndal couldn’t imagine his ancestors leaving one of their installations in such a mess.  The tunnel entrance was there, a gaping maw in the side of the mountain more than thirty feet wide, like some kind of demonic mouth ready to swallow anything and everything.  But the edges of the place had fallen in, and rockslides and other mishaps had smashed what was likely once a very neat excavation into an utter mess.

What remained was haunting.  The position of the rocks and the snowdrifts had transformed the tunnel entrance into the mockery of a squint-eyed face, complete with eyes, nose, and facial features, as Tyndal played the searchlight across the expanse.  The actual entrance was protected from the snow, somewhat, and a thick pad of gravel could be seen inside, giving the impression of a long, evil-looking tongue stretching out into the snow.

“Ishi’s tits, you want us to go in there?” Rondal asked, his mouth agape.

“You have to admit, it seems to be inviting us inside,” Tyndal pointed out, grimly.  “Hungrily, even.”

“I don’t find that very reassuring,” Rondal muttered.  “Dear gods, Tyn, that thing looks like . . .” he trailed off, at a loss for words. 

“We’re about to get a lot more snow,” Tyndal reminded him.  “And then have to travel thirty four miles through uncertain terrain in the middle of it.  With plenty more friendly fellows like the Blood Foots along the way to greet us.  Now, I’m as adventurous as anyone, but less than three miles through a mountain seems a lot easier than thirty four miles around it.  Certainly, the tunnel might not be intact, it may be filled with vermin and unspeakable horrors, but we know what pushing through the Mindens in a snowstorm is like.  I’m trying to apply reason to the situation.”

Rondal sighed.  “Reason.  Now you bring up reason.  If the worst happens, we can escape through the Ways, I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit!” Tyndal grinned.  “We’ve been to Olum Seheri – twice!  We fought Korbal the Necromancer hand to hand and didn’t get our asses kicked!”

“You are clearly mad,” Resh’s calm voice observed from behind him.  It was observation, not an accusation.

“I once charged an attacking dragon with nothing but my sword, a couple of pounds of molten lead, and my dashing good looks,” Tyndal dismissed.  “This?  This is a morning stroll through the castle garden.  We can do this,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.  “Let’s at least try it.  What could possibly go amiss?”

Rondal groaned, and Tyndal could almost hear the frowns from the goblins behind him.  He pushed the horns forward.  The Beast proceeded to enter the maw in the mountain.

Tyndal started to reconsider almost at once.  The passageway was thirty feet wide, which provided plenty of space for the vehicle, and the clearance overhead was ample, more than twenty feet.  Whatever monster machine had chewed through the stone had left a relatively smooth finish on the sides.  The floor was a thick and tightly packed gravel, which Tyndal estimated had been made by the passage of . . . whatever did this.

The first few yards of the tunnel were filled with rocks and debris, the result of centuries of rockslides and cave ins that had littered the place.  Some animals had used it as a lair too, he saw, as they passed next to tangled piles of woodland detritus.  Piles of snow-kissed sticks and leaves made a haunting sight as their unnatural lights passed over them.  Tyndal half-expected some bear or other hibernating creature to emerge, but he saw no signs of it. 

Beyond the first big support, carved out of the rock itself and augmented with poured concrete, the tunnel cleared somewhat.  He was able to increase speed slightly, though he paid careful attention to the random bits of rock that still littered the floor to steer around them.

“Well, we’re safely past the mouth and well into the gullet of this thing,” he reported, cheerfully.  “It’s not so bad, once we’re down here.”

Ten minutes later he wasn’t so certain.  While most of the tunnel was straight, there were areas that banked or dipped for no reason he could tell.  One such portion had managed to collect water in the bottom.  It cut across the entirety of the passage like a great ditch, more that forty feet wide at some points, and at least ten feet in others.  The water lapped at the irregular sides enough to convince Tyndal that it was flowing, fed from some stream or spring from below.  Tyndal pulled the Beast to a stop.

“I don’t think this was supposed to happen,” he observed, warily.  He began to train the spotlight on the edges of the underground river.  “The question now is, how deep is it under the surface?”

“Can Belsi tell you?  Belsi, scry the body of water directly in front of you and tell us how deep it is, please,” Rondal requested.

“Unknown command,” the machine replied promptly.

“Belsi, scan the depth of the river ahead,” Tyndal suggested.  “She doesn’t know what ‘scrying’ is,” he explained.  “Sometimes you have to use Old High Perwynese terms she understands.”

“Depth indeterminate,” Belsi announced. 

“What do you mean indeterminate?” Tyndal demanded.  “It doesn’t have a bottom?”

“Depth extends beyond the range of sensors,” the machine replied.

Rondal groaned and unfastened himself.  “I’ll take a look,” he said, manifesting his baculus to his hand.  “I’ll find us a safe way through.”

He returned a few moments later.  “It’s actually shallow on the narrow, left side.  Whatever water source intruded came from the other side.  It’s at least fifty, sixty feet deep.  What in three hells could have caused that?”

“Earthquake,” Tyndal suggested.  “We got caught in one in Anghysbel.  They can break apart mountains and cause cracks to appear, deep underground.  One may have hit this place since it was built.  The left side, you said?”

“Stay as close to the wall as possible,” Rondal directed.  “I think we’ll be fine.  You did say this thing was amphibious.”

“I really don’t want to test that when we’re underground,” Tyndal said, as he re-directed the vehicle to the left.  “But she should clear this with no problem.  Belsi, configure suspension for maximum clearance,” he instructed. 

The entire vehicle obligingly lifted up several inches as the pneumatic suspension elevated it.  Tyndal very gingerly drove through the water, which splashed up against the nose of the hull for a few frightening minutes until the front wheels grabbed the bottom.  Tyndal could feel Rondal tense as the front wheels lost footing for a moment, then suddenly got footing as they climbed the bank on the other side.  Tyndal coaxed a little more power from the rear wheels to push the Beast up the bank.  In moments they were through.

“Belsi, return to optimum suspension,” Tyndal said, with a sense of satisfaction and relief.  “See? I knew she could handle that!”  Rondal just gave him a look.

Half a mile later they encountered an obstacle that belied any novel configuration of the Beast: a cave in.

The rocks that had fallen in some ancient catastrophe had not entirely blocked the passage, but there was no way that the Beast could maneuver around them.  Or even over them.  There was but one narrow passageway at the top, far too small to consider driving through.  They studied the matter thoroughly with the sensors and the spotlight, but eventually everyone agreed: they could not drive through.

“So, are we just going to turn around?” Rondal asked.

“I’m not certain we can, right here,” Tyndal admitted.  “But let’s take a look and see if there are any other options first.”

“What if the rest of the tunnel is collapsed?”  Rondal asked.

“We won’t know until we look.  Time to stretch our legs, gentlemen!” he called to their goblin companions. 

The collapsed ceiling provided enough of a grade for them to walk up to the opening with some effort.  Rondal conjured a magelight to light their way, in addition to the Beast’s spotlight.  The two contrasting light sources doubled the shadows of the fallen rocks, producing a grotesque effect in the subterranean environment.  There was air flowing through the opening, a good sign that the entire way was not blocked, to Tyndal’s mind. 

Peering through the dark opening made him anxious – it seemed the perfect place for something ugly to jump out at him.  But nothing appeared.  It was just a gap barely tall enough for a man to walk through.  Tyndal pushed himself through, cautiously, concerned that the rocks underneath might shift.

“It goes all the way through, apparently,” Rondal said, as he sent the magelight ahead.  “I think we can get down the other side easily.  Well, it’s not impossible,” he decided, as he examined the slope with magesight.  “There’s a lot of debris down there, though, it might be unstable.  And there’s no way we can take the Beast through there.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Tyndal objected.  “We can put it back in the hoxter, stroll through like gentlemen, and then  bring her back on the other side where the way is open again.”  He cast a trio of his own magelights and sent them beyond the rubble and into the passage.  “See?  It’s relatively clear after this part,” he pointed out.  Just for a moment he thought he saw something moving on the rock face as the magelights zoomed by, but he dismissed it as a trick of the shadows.  Nothing could live this far underground, he reasoned. 

“That might work,” Rondal conceded.  “The alternative is to try to remove the rocks with hoxter wands, and I’m concerned about causing a bigger cave-in with that.”

“Go ahead and secure the Beast,” Tyndal advised, as he stepped through the opening and continued to direct the magelights with his fingers.  “The sooner we’re through this, the sooner we can be underway.”

It didn’t take Rondal long to walk back to the Beast, return it to the special hoxter wand that carried it, and make his way back up the slope to the opening.  While he was gone, the two gurvani chatted amongst themselves in their own language while Tyndal continued to keep watch. Rondal made his way up the incline as Tyndal peered into the darkness of the passageway.  All seemed dark and quiet.

And then he saw it: unmistakable movement.  He bit his lip as he directed a magelight in that direction, and then was horrified to see something spring from the shadows and attack it.  In a flash, Tyndal trained his magesight on the location.  Magnifying his view, he was soon viewing one of the ugliest, most fearful creatures he’d ever seen.

It resembled a cockroach in shape and configuration, but the creature that sprung at his magelight was at least four feet long, and a pale, deathly white.  It had a much larger head than a cockroach that size would have, which did nothing to increase its appeal.  Indeed, it looked far more fearsome than a mere bug, to Tyndal’s eye.  It was a monster.  The grist of nightmares.

“Ron,” he called out over his shoulder.  “You should hurry,” he suggested, urgency in his voice.  Tyndal became acutely aware that their refuge, the Beast, was now in some interdimensional space.

“Why?” Rondal asked, slowing his pace.

“There’s . . . something in the rocks,” Tyndal reported, anxiously.  He watched the creature try again to attack the floating ball of arcane light over its head.  It could leap surprisingly well, and Tyndal lowered the light to see if that had any effect on the creature.  He waved the two gurvani forward, too. They nimbly made it in advance of Rondal, who seemed to be stumbling up the mound.

“Resh, any idea what that is?” he asked, pointing out the angry bug-like creature when the joined him at the top of the pile.  The gurvan peered into the gloom over his shoulder for a moment before he spoke.  He knew the gurvan’s eyes would be better than his at seeing in this light, a benefit of being nocturnal.  But he wasn’t prepared for the answer.

“Which one?” Resh asked.  That startled Tyndal.  He repositioned the other two magelights closer to the pile of fallen rocks.  In a moment he revealed hundreds of the things lying amongst them, sometimes clustered in pairs or trios, lurking in the debris.  They all seemed to start moving at once, making the entire rock face crawl in a way that sent a shiver up Tyndal’s spine.

“What in five hells are they?” Tyndal asked in a low voice.

“Chistachu,” the gurvan supplied, a note of disgust in his voice.  “Not usually this big, though.”

“Chistachu?  What is a chistachu?” Tyndal demanded, as he realized just how many of them there were.  “And what size is it usually?”

“Big as my palm,” he said, holding out his hand for scale.  “Live underground.  They eat.”

“They eat what?” Tyndal asked, as a sinking feeling came over him.

“Everything,” Resh assured.  “Plants.  Animals.  Everything.  Very nasty,” he condemned, the tension in his voice growing.  “So many,” he said, shaking his head.  Cheshstan was standing behind him, and started babbling in gurvani.  Tyndal didn’t understand the words, but he recognized the tone: it was the kind of tone you had when you realized you’d stumbled into a nest of wasps or snakes.  Only the chistachu were all as large as dogs.

And they seemed to be moving toward them.

“Ron!” Tyndal shouted, excitedly.  “Hurry your ass up!”

To emphasize his point, he summoned his mageblade to his hand and cast more magelights with it.  The entire pile of rocks seemed to be coming to life.  The nearest chistachu was only a dozen yards away . . . but it was moving determinedly in Tyndal’s direction.

“Where our spears?” Resh asked, his voice raising as he drew a knife from his belt.

“In the Beast,” Tyndal admitted, guiltily, as Ron finally made it to the entrance, a look of fear and confusion on his face. 

“Ishi’s tits!  What have you done?” he demanded as he saw the churning swarm of skittering creatures move toward them.

“They were hiding in the rocks,” Tyndal explained, apologetically, as he sent a burst of magical fire towards the nearest one.  It made a horrific squealing noise as it caught fire, a sound that assaulted Tyndal’s ears and buried its way into his subconscious.  Unfortunately, the sound stirred the rest of the swarm into greater activity.  “They got disturbed by the light.  And the sound.  Resh says they eat everything.”

“Very bad,” Resh agreed, grimly.  “What do we do?”

Tyndal took a deep breath.  “We run.  Terribly fast.  And we hope we can run faster than they can.”

The gurvani doubtful exchanged glances, then nodded.  Rondal looked even less enthusiastic about it.  “I suppose if we can get far enough ahead of them we can conjure the Beast back.  That should keep them out.”  He conjured his own mageblade and a battlestaff from a hoxter. 

“Let’s go,” Tyndal decided, and started down the slope.  He hoped the others were following him, but he was too busy keeping his attention split between the swarm of chistachu heading toward them and the treacherous path down the hill.  Every step promised a broken ankle if he faltered.  Twice he paused to send bolts of magical destruction against the creatures.  While he was gratified by how quickly they died, each new horrific squeal seemed to upset the chistachu even more.

Finally, he made it to the bottom of the pile, where the floor flattened out.  As soon as he was on firm footing, he paused, turned around, and saw how fast the others were managing to descend.  The gurvani were not too far back behind him.  Rondal was hurling bolts of magic at the closest of them as he descended, and they were a lot closer now.  Indeed, the leading edge of the swarm was within pissing distance of his friend.

Tyndal drew the pistol from behind his back and cocked it.  It was a relic of an earlier age, but he had grown to appreciate its simple use and destructive power.  He took aim and fired three rounds from it at three creatures he felt were menacing the gurvani.  The report rang loudly through the tunnel, and seemed to drive the chistachu into a frenzy.  They were rushing at them now, just as Resh made it to the bottom.

“Don’t wait for us!” Rondal yelled as he used his staff to blast two more, then leapt haphazardly down the hill of debris.  “We’ve got to get ahead of them!  Run!”

Chapter Twenty

The Fortuity of Darkness

As much as my beloved wife adores the very idea of Darkness, and embraces its protective value, I have misgivings about the subject.  Call me a traditionalist, but Darkness for me has been the metaphor for my own ignorance and the dangers that lurk in the unknown.  As much as I love my wife and her family, I do not think I will ever be able to plunge into it unafraid.  Perhaps that is a defect in my character, but a man must fear something in this world, and the unknown is a constant challenge.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

There was something wrong with the universe, Rondal thought as he cycled through the warspells on his staff and tried not to stumble.  One moment he had been riding along comfortably, vaguely annoyed that his arse was starting to fall asleep in the cushy seat of the cockpit, the next he was sliding down a hill in an underground chamber in the dark being forced to fight giant bugs he had no idea existed five minutes ago.  Whichever god was in charge of his day decidedly had a sense of humor. 

Rondal wasn’t laughing.  The very existence of a four-foot long pale white cockroach offended his sense of decency – putting a hundred of them together in one place made it so much worse. 

They weren’t even proper cockroaches, with whom he was lamentably familiar, they were clearly some natavia species he’d never heard or read about.  Their heads had more pronounced faces, with a tri-fold mandible that looked brutally capable of chewing through flesh.  The eyes were multifaceted, and each of their faces sprouted creepy-looking antennas above and below their heads.  Instead of insect-like legs, they had at least a score of short, tentacle-like appendages on each side of their bodies. 

Their expressions were unchanging, but he couldn’t help but think they looked angry as they scurried across the rocks toward him.  They moved fluidly, too, gliding over the rough terrain like they were swimming through water.  His attacks on them were filled with intense purpose, a horrified reaction to the hideous things.  He was thankful they seemed to be subject to the full effect of his spells – they died quite obligingly.  But the noise they made when they died, or were in pain, was nightmarish, a savage rending of his ears that made him want to grind his teeth together.

So he killed them.  And he ran.

As rearguard, he had a responsibility to watch ahead and behind at the same time, but in the darkness, even with magesight, it was difficult to watch both the gurvani ahead of him and all the nooks and crannies of the rock face where the bugs were hiding – and then keep his feet on top of it.  He managed to follow the route the others had taken, but they hadn’t had to contend with the close approach of those horrors.  As he slid to the bottom of the slope he used his momentum to thrust the point of his blade into another one.  But he never stopped running.

Unfortunately, Resh was set upon by two of the creatures just ahead of him, and was knocked from his feet by the stumpy shaped things.  Rondal was forced to stop and dispatch them, while dozens more approached, enduring their horrible shrieks while helping the gurvan to his feet.

And then they were running again.  

Thankfully, their longer legs and their terror had inspired them to outdistance the fastest of the pursuing creatures.  Rondal saw Tyndal – far outpacing the gurvani – finally turn in the gloom and wait for the rest of them to regroup.  He was alternatively blasting at them with battlefield spells from his mageblade and firing that antique weapon, keeping the leading edge at bay while they caught up.  The sharp report of each shot echoed loudly down the expanse of the tunnel, and produced a shriek of pain as the monsters were hit.  The gurvani took up positions behind him, anxious expressions on their wide-eyed faces. 

“Conjure the Beast!” he ordered Rondal, breathless, when he was within earshot.  “This is a clear enough area.  I’ll keep them busy!”

“I hate these things!” Rondal declared, unnecessarily, as he fumbled for the right wand.  He desperately wanted the safety of the metal hull between him and those monsters.  He struggled to find the calm required to activate the spell, but a moment later the vehicle popped back into existence.

Rondal opened the hatch and immediately went to the driver’s seat, activating the power plant and waking Belsi up from her slumber.  He noted the rifle Tyndal had left next to the seat and picked it up as the lights began coming on across the instrument panels.  He heard the thing whine as it powered up, and immediately felt better.  He emerged from the hatch a moment later, and noted how dangerously close the horde of creatures had gotten in that short time.

“Get inside!” he directed Resh and Cheshtan.  Then he raised the plasma rifle to his shoulder and began picking off the closest of the horrors.  Tyndal fell back, slapped him on the shoulder, and followed the gurvani.

Rondal took a few extra moments to enjoy shooting the powerful weapon at the hideous creatures.  Every blast sent the target into a gooey explosion of gore, like exploding pumpkins, which he found immensely satisfying.  He didn’t even have to focus his mind to do it, as he did when employing warmagic, which allowed him the luxury of venting his fear and anger while he plied the destructive bolts into the squealing foe.

Then he heard the horn of the Beast summoning him.  He lowered the weapon reluctantly, took one last look at the relentlessly crawling menace, and then climbed aboard, fastening the latch behind him with relief.  Tyndal started driving the instant it was closed.

“That was far more exciting than I anticipated,” Tyndal admitted, as Rondal settled into his seat.  “Resh, were you hurt?” he asked, over his shoulder.

“Just a slash,” he mumbled, holding up his hairy arm.  There was a smear of dark blood on his fur.  Rondal was all too familiar with the sight of the wound, having inflicted enough of them on the battlefield. 

Rondal immediately started searching for the right hoxter amongst his gear until he found one with medical supplies.  He hadn’t used it in more than a year, but he always carried it; it came in handy.  The satchel he summoned was filled with bandages, as well as a bottle of an alcohol-based liquid disinfectant popular with barber surgeons.  In a moment he was sponging on the salve – difficult, with all the fur – to reveal a four inch laceration below. 

“Scratch,” dismissed the gurvan with a grunt. 

“No need to invite infection,” Rondal insisted.  “And there might be a toxin.  I’ll cast a spell for that, too.”

“Feet felt worse than bite,” Resh admitted.  “Skin is crawling.  Nightmares for years,” he predicted.  “Chistachu are vile.  Not supposed to be that big.”

“They must have found something to eat down here to get that large,” Tyndal pointed out grimly as he steered the Beast through the tunnel.  “Only another mile to go, and we should reach the other side.”

“Let’s try to avoid any more excursions,” Rondal suggested, as he wrapped Resh’s wound with a bandage.  “I’ve had my fun for the day.”

Cheshtan said something in gurvani.  Resh answered back in the same language and then grunted.

“Cheshtan says you fought bravely,” Resh translated.  “Better than most humani.  Next time won’t leave spear behind.”

“Well, it all turned out well in the end,” Rondal concluded, tying off the bandage.  “And we’re almost through.  Let’s just hope the rest of the way is clear.  I wouldn’t be happy about having to turn back around and go through all of that once again.”

“Then let’s hope that whatever this is doesn’t prove to be a problem, then,” Tyndal said, warily, as he stared ahead intently.  Rondal quickly returned to his seat to see that the structure of the tunnel had changed.  A long bay as tall as the tunnel had been cut into the side. 

As they passed they saw dark shapes of ancient equipment that their ancestors had abandoned: huge vehicles of uncertain utility, caked in rust where they weren’t altogether decomposed.  Tyndal slowed, and turned the spotlight to splash on the ruins.

“What are those?” Rondal asked in confusion.

“Likely they’re terraformers,” Tyndal guessed.  “Big machines they used to prepare the land for the original colony.  They did everything from move and analyze soil to planting trees and other seeds.  The archive has some records of them, if you want to see them in action,” he suggested.  “Those aren’t even the really big ones.  You know,” he continued, casually, “we might find something interesting in there, if we stopped and looked.”

“No,” Rondal said, flatly.  “The last time we did that it went poorly.  They are probably crawling with those things.  We’re not going to find any treasure in a pile of rusty old tekka,” he assured him.  “We can just mention it to Minalan the next time we see him.  He loves that sort of thing.”

“Most of it was, what was the word, robotic, anyway,” Tyndal sighed.  “They were controlled by Constructed Intelligences, like Belsi.  And not even terribly smart ones.”

“How smart do you have to be to move dirt or spread seeds?” Rondal asked.

“Exactly,” Tyndal nodded, as the bay ended and the tunnel resumed.  “That was probably some sort of maintenance installation, in case something broke down along the way.  That happened a lot, apparently.”

The tunnel continued for what seemed like forever in front of them, but soon enough they began to see signs of the outside world: clumps of brush that had been used as a nest or a lair by some woodland creatures.  The entrance – or exit, Rondal preferred – appeared soon thereafter.  Curiously, the sides of the tunnel nearest the opening had been painted with pictographs and runes – gurvani runes, Rondal noted with interest, as Tyndal brought the Beast to a halt twenty yards from the beckoning opening.

It was pitch dark outside, he could see, but he could also see the glint of falling snow through the entrance.  Plenty was already piled outside of the rocky overhang that protected the entrance to the tunnel, the lights showed.

“I believe we have come to the rectum of this tunnel,” Tyndal announced.  “But it’s snowing like seven hells outside,” he observed, “and it’s dark.  I suggest we get some rest and perhaps a meal and let the storm pass, before we continue.”

“I suppose we’ll be safe from those things—” Rondal began.

“Chistachu,” Tyndal supplied.  “They’re called chistachu.  Resh knew about them.”

“Not supposed to be that big,” the goblin offered.

“I hope that’s gurvani for ‘grist for the nightmare mill’,” Rondal quipped.  “But I don’t think they can get inside here.”

“Not with the wards I’m about to cast,” Tyndal agreed.  “The Beast has a proximity alarm we can arm, too.  If anything larger than a chipmunk gets within fifty feet, Belsi can alert us.”

Rondal relaxed, somewhat.  Just being able to see the outside after the treacherous journey through the tunnel was a relief.  He never liked being underground, and in his unusual profession he had spent far more time there than most people.  He found himself genuinely tired, too, though he hadn’t exerted himself that much. 

The four of them ate another conjured ration – an egg pie, ham, and a potato dish, along with a loaf of fine white bread with pickled relish, stewed pears in sparkling wine, and one of the Bovali-style cheeses they’d secured in Pregaz – and he recalled the lovely little tavern in Castabriel where he and Gatina had enjoyed the original meal.  He’d liked it so much that he’d ordered a second helping for his ring.  That made him feel homesick. 

“I’m going to lay down and try to get some sleep,” he said, when he finished the last of his pie. 

“Good idea,” Tyndal agreed with a belch.  “I might make you drive for a little while.  That last part was harrowing,” he admitted.

Rondal wasn’t thrilled with that announcement, but he knew he couldn’t depend on Tyndal all the time.  In truth, he was becoming more comfortable with directing the huge machine.  It wasn’t that it was complicated to drive – his ancestors had gone out of their way to make it as simple as possible – but he still wasn’t confident that he wouldn’t run into something, or plunge them over a cliff, or press some button he didn’t understand that would doom them all. 

He found a space on the cot at the back of the Beast and pulled his cloak over him.  But he didn’t go to sleep immediately.  The homesickness he suddenly felt was overwhelming.  He took a deep breath and then used his witchstone to reach out, mind-to-mind, to his wife.

Striker! he heard her say into his mind when she answered.  My love!  Where are you?

Somewhere in the middle of the Mindens, he answered.  And I do mean the middle.  We’re about to reach the central plateau.  Nothing but rock, ice and snow.  It’s pretty, in a stark and desolate sort of way, he insisted.  What are you doing?

Oh, I went to visit Tandine, and now we’re doing a little sightseeing, she said, casually – far too casually, Rondal realized.  That was the tone that Gatina used when she was up to something, usually a heist.  He couldn’t imagine what kind of heist she would require the Wilderlord lady to perpetrate, but he trusted her judgement. 

That sounds lovely, he sighed.  I hope it’s someplace warm. 

Well, we started in Falas, she admitted, but then we just let our feet take us through the portals where they wanted to.  It’s been fun.  She’s a really nice person, once you get past that dour Wilderlord exterior.  We’ve done a little shopping—

Gatina, you aren’t stealing anything, are you? he asked, warningly.

Nothing important, she assured.  I’ve been spending your money instead.  I hope you don’t mind.

That’s what it’s there for, he agreed, reluctantly.  Any news I should know about?

Well, it seems about half of the wizards in the world are quietly gathering in Farise, she reported.  Including my brother.  I can’t quite figure out why, yet, but Duchess Rardine thinks Minalan has something to do with it.  She knows he’s not actually working on the ruins at Palomar Abbey, but she’s trying to give him a wide berth in the matter.  Duke Anguin is desperate to get the piracy problem under control.

I know, Pentandra has been complaining bitterly about that for two years, now, he agreed.  Alshar has good stock going to waste on the docks for fear it will be taken by pirates from Farise.

It’s appalling, Gatina agreed.  When we forced them out of Alshar, I thought that they’d leave us alone.  But they’ve been worse since they all went to Farise than they were when they were here.  Rardine thinks Minalan is the only one who can get rid of them.

Perhaps not the only one, but he’ll do it most quickly and cheaply . . . if he doesn’t send the entire situation into the chamberpot, he predicted.  That’s almost equally likely.

You don’t have much confidence in your former master about this? she asked in surprise.

Oh, I’m not saying he won’t be successful, Rondal objected.  Minalan hates to lose.  And sending the whole thing into the chamberpot might be part of his strategy.  But I also know Pentandra is hedging her bets.  She has a secret project she’s been working on—

You mean the ship she’s building in secret? Gatina asked.  Rardine already knows all about it.  Although she doesn’t think one ship is going to make much of a difference.

Then you don’t know Pentandra that well, Rondal argued.  I don’t even know her that well, but what I do know is that if she’s been investing this much time, treasure, and effort into something, it’s going to be important.  You remember how she was at planning our wedding, he reminded her.  This is just an arguably bigger and more important project.

That’s why Rardine has given her plenty of leeway to do it, without asking too many questions.  Our duchess has learned how to trust wizards and use the magi properly – by letting us do what we know needs to be done.  That’s uncommonly wise of a ruler.  Especially a Castali woman, she said, with an implied sneer in her mental voice. 

Rondal was well-aware of his wife’s good-natured prejudices about foreigners – she even considered him one, albeit one who had the good sense to be born in Alshar.  Gatina was descended from an old and distinguished Imperial family, after all.  They tended to look down on everyone.

But there’s no earthshaking news from court? he asked, almost eager for something to suddenly drag him back to civilization.

No, it’s been surprisingly quiet, Gatina admitted.  It’s almost boring.  Oh!  Rumor has it that Dara is getting married.  No one knows to who, though.  It's some kind of secret.  But I'll find out, she said, confidently.

Dara is getting married? Rondal asked in surprise.  That’s . . . that’s great news!  I guess we started a trend, he suggested.

It’s still just a rumor, but I have it on good authority – Tandine and I spent a few days in Sevendor before we . . . went elsewhere.  I never took my mother seriously when she said that weddings begat weddings, but there seems to be some truth to that.

Blame Ishi and Trygg, Rondal suggested, philosophically.  Apparently they have some deal with Minalan that involves multiplying magelords for the next generation.  And Briga might have something to do with it.  She’s always lingering around Minalan and his household.

Well, isn’t that interesting? Gatina said, softly.  Are you going to be ready to do a little multiplication when you get home?

Are you ready to put aside your working blacks and your shadowblade long enough to look like you swallowed a pumpkin for a few years? he retorted.  It’s hard to scale a building with a baby in your belly and swollen ankles.

My mother managed just fine, thank you! Gatina shot back.  She was wise enough to know her limitations in pregnancy.  But it’s hard to manage a baby when his father is off getting himself killed all the time.  Are you ready to hang up your sword and contend with the eldritch power of baby shit, Striker?

We’ll see after this little expedition, Rondal said with a mental sigh.  Mostly, it feels like we’re stumbling around in the darkness chasing rumors, legends, and ancient goblin prophecies. 

I’ve been curious about how you are faring in your quest.  Is there any news I can bring Pentandra?

A little, he offered.  We know Lilastien went this way.  She’s probably still alive.  We suspect she is in the company of Gurkarl – you’ve met him, he reminded her.  He was at the wedding.  He’s pretty important, amongst some goblin circles.  Anyway, there seems to be a cult involved, or more than one, some ancient ruins, and a lot of depressing gurvani learning human ways and humans exploiting ignorant gurvani.  And politics.  Always politics. 

That sounds . . . exciting, she said, sarcastically.

I did run into my first master, unexpectedly.  I told you about him.  Garkesku.

That foul old wart? she asked, appalled and surprised.  You said you thought he would be dead, by now!

He’s remarkably hard to kill, Rondal observed.  Indeed, he’s managed far better than I ever expected.  He is now the Royal Court Wizard of His Majesty, Ashakarl, the King of the Goblins.  They carry him around on a litter, apparently.  But he’s still just as vile, he assured.

How did it feel to see him again, after all these years? she asked, quietly.  It couldn’t have been easy.

It wasn’t, Rondal admitted.  It was hard.  But it’s all been hard, he assured her.  I just spent the last few hours going through an ancient tunnel through a mountain, being chased by . . . well, some local creatures I’ll tell you about sometime.  In the daylight. 

Darkness isn’t necessarily bad, Gatina argued.  There is serenity in darkness.

Her family cult revered the concept Darkness as a protecting force for their trade. As thieves, they often worked at night and used the darkness like a cloak.  That had taken Rondal a while to get used to. Their professional legacy had embraced and adored the very concept of Darkness, using it as an oath, a protective force, and personifying it in their devotions.  To his in-laws, darkness was an impersonal force they’d learned to use like the sailor uses the sea.  It was their natural habitat.   

I’m sorry, I am not feeling serene, Rondal contended.  I don’t find comfort in darkness.

You find things in the darkness, she assured.  It conceals and obfuscates, but that’s what provides the excitement of discovery.  And the thrill of hidden danger.  Darkness challenges us and requires us to be at our best, lest we stumble and fall.

Or something leaps out at you unexpectedly and kills you, Rondal grumbled.  I speak from recent experience.  I didn’t discover anything particularly significant in the process.

Sometimes what you discover isn’t something you can slip into your pocket, Gatina advised.  My father says that a man can only find his inner truth within the darkness.  He’s being metaphorical, of course, but he has a point.

Gatina, you know I’m not afraid of the dark, he insisted.

Of course you are, she retorted.  We all are.  That’s what makes going into darkness important: to challenge that fear.  Darkness draws the courage to you like a lodestone.  It forces you to face your fears and find the will to go bravely forward.  You may stumble, you may fall, you may be challenged by the things that lurk within, but every step into darkness turns the unknown into the known.

I understand, he groaned into her mind.  That doesn’t mean I enjoy it.

You just aren’t as perverse as I am.  Don’t misunderstand me, my love, I am not attempting to emasculate you.  I know fully how brave you are.  It’s just some advice.  I spend a lot of time in darkness.  It’s best to treat it as an old friend.

I’ll consider that, he agreed, reluctantly.  I suppose I’m just missing you.  The landscape and the loneliness are compounded with missing the comfort of my wife.  Tyndal has been . . . he’s been fine, actually.  And we have two new gurvani companions--

Gurvani?  You’re traveling with goblins? she asked, shocked and appalled.

They’re decent enough fellows, Rondal explained, reasonably.  A little bit smelly, but they’ve been fine.  They’re veterans.  They’re not part of Sheruel’s army anymore.

Anymore, Gatina repeated.  Are you mad?  They eat human flesh!

It’s a very nuanced relationship.   We’re keeping them well-fed enough to keep from tempting them.  In fact, we just had the ham from Castabriel we enjoyed that night.  You remember, after the theater?  Where you stole that necklace?

You shared a meal you originally shared with me with goblins? she asked in disbelief.  I don’t know how to feel about that!

I told you I was missing you, Rondal reminded her.  It made me sentimental, I suppose.  A reminder of why I’m out here in the darkness.

I had very little to do with it, she protested.  This was Minalan’s idea, if you recall.  But I take your meaning.  You’re trying to make the world a slightly better place.  In my way, that’s what I’m doing right now. 

By . . . shopping? he asked, confused.

Something like that, my love.  Trust me.  We’re just having a little fun.  But in the service of a higher ideal. 

So . . . you’re stealing something, he concluded.  For the greater good.

It’s more nuanced than that, she assured him.  Trust me.  But I do miss you, too, she confessed.  I’ve grown very accustomed to waking up next to you.  It makes me feel all homey and domestic.  I miss that.

The rest of their conversation devolved into the intimacies of a young newlywed couple, the private praise and teasing flirtation that the closeness of mind-to-mind communication facilitated.  Rondal said good-night, finally, and fell asleep with his peace of mind re-established.  His wife was doing well, it seemed, and that was an anxiety he didn’t know he carried.

He was shaken awake the next morning by Resh, who informed him that it was time to prepare to depart the mouth of the tunnel.  Tyndal had already scouted the entrance thoroughly and pronounced it passable, even after the passing of the storm.  Six additional inches had piled up overnight, Rondal saw as he stumbled out to join him.

“It’s bad, but it’s not that bad,” Tyndal pronounced, critically, as Rondal took his morning piss in the new fallen snow.  “Our route takes us that way, west across that little ridge . . . and then see that broad expanse of snow and . . . nothing, beyond it?  Everything beyond that is glacier,” he explained.  “We should be fine, out there.  In fact, it should be as smooth as a cobbled road.”

“Smooth would be nice,” Rondal agreed, as he buttoned up his trousers.  “It’s still is as cold as a banker’s heart, though,” he pointed out, his breath making a cloud in front of his face.

“We’ll be warm enough in the Beast.  She is down to about five hundred hours of fuel, though, he mentioned.  “That should be enough, but then I don’t know exactly how much we’ll use getting to that abandoned station.  Or even if there is anything there.”

“We won’t know until we go,” Rondal said, with a cock of his head.  “I spoke with Gatina last night, mind-to-mind, before I went to sleep.  She and Tandine are out . . . shopping.”

Tyndal looked at him with a smirk.  “You know they aren’t really out shopping,” he said with a chuckle.

“Yes, I know she’s stealing,” Rondal admitted with a sigh.  “She had her ‘I’m in the middle of a heist’ voice.  I can tell when she’s up to something, and she’d decidedly up to something.”  He was quiet for a few moments, then continued.  “She also mentioned having a baby, when we get back.”

Tyndal nodded sympathetically.  “It’s in the air, I think.  Tandine mentioned that, back before we left.  She’s afraid I’m going to get myself killed before she can give me an heir.  At least your wife sort of understands what we’re doing.  It’s not just simple errantry.”

“That only helps so much,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “Sure, she understands, but that doesn’t mean that she wants me to go.”

“Sometimes your wife just needs to miss you,” Tyndal offered.  “Minalan told me that, once.  Sire Cei certainly ascribes to that philosophy.  Don’t worry, you’ll have a very sincere reunion when we get back.”

“She’ll insist on it.  She wants babies, I think.”  He paused and gazed out at the stark, cold, beautiful, deadly landscape.  “So what of you think of that?  Us two, as fathers?”

Tyndal gave a long, thoughtful look at the distant glacier.  “We live a dangerous life,” he finally said.  “We live in a dangerous world.  You have to admit, the thought terrifies you.  As it should.”

“But will we be good at it?” Rondal asked, reluctantly. 

“I don’t know,” Tyndal admitted.  “I want to think so.  I fear I’ll fail, somehow, in some horrible way.  But right now, I think tackling that glacier is going to be easier, somehow.”

The distant smear of white across the horizon was stark, a frozen wasteland.  In an instant, Rondal understood exactly what his friend meant.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, philosophically.  “Let’s get to it, then.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The Glacier

Is it a fault in ourselves that we seek glory and acclaim among our fellows for our legitimate accomplishments?  I think not.  Our world is bitter, callous, and our lives all too short for us to relax in repose for centuries, like the Alka Alon, and our civilization too mighty for a good man to languish in obscurity.  Though the ant will never defeat the dragon, he may take some measure of pride in climbing the beast like a mountain, and boasting afterwards of the deed.  The portion of glory allotted to you is not determined by your might, but by your determination to do the difficult, and court the impossible.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

Tyndal was feeling apprehensive about taking the Beast out on the glacier, but he tried not to show it to his companions.

.  It wasn’t that he doubted the engineering genius implicit in its design – he adored the capabilities of the vehicle.  But he was becoming increasingly aware of the frailties of the ancient construct.  Every mile he drove he became more attuned to her idiosyncrasies.  The monitors and screens and instruments told the tale in stark numbers that seemed to decrease every day.  He hadn’t discussed it with Rondal, for fear of disturbing his friend’s peace, but, in truth, he was concerned. 

He had read the manual.  He knew that the machine had been designed to tackle a multitude of harsh environments, and had been built to handle just about anything short of a cataclysm.  But it had also had been designed to last five hundred years, maximum, if maintained properly.  That put Belsi two or three centuries beyond her projected demise.  From what he understood from the ancient texts, the rugged little vehicle could be expected to exceed the stated limits of its use, but Tyndal was inherently skeptical. 

He loved the machine.  But there was no denying that it was rattling in disconcerting ways when it encountered rough terrain – and that was all it had seen since it entered the Mindens.  As they cleared the little ridge and began their journey across the glacier he mentally said a prayer to whichever god was in charge of antique equipment to keep the Beast going.

He had a long conversation with Belsi about the trek, mostly through the consoles and verbal status reports, as he prepared to go out on the ice.  Tyndal was surprised and pleased to discover that the Beast had a specific sensor and traction configuration for glaciers, one which involved scanning ahead for crevasses.  Then he had Belsi explain to him what crevasses were.  That led to her displaying a basic tutorial about the nature of glaciers, how they moved, and what dangers they presented.  The more the recording droned on, the more concerned he and his companions got.

To his relief, the thing actually did quite well on the glacial surface.  Even the recently fallen snow did not do much to degrade their speed, though it wasn’t much faster than a horse would have been.  After a bumpy entrance, there was soon nothing around them but the vast, sterile plain of the glacier and the rock-ringed horizon. 

Tyndal celebrated by calling up some of the music that was stored in Belsi’s archives.  There were millions of songs there from the Colonial Period or before, and he had listened to them randomly from time to time.  Some were appallingly strange.  Others were rather pleasant, even when he didn’t know the language.  Still others were easily translated into Narasi by the Constructed Intelligence, and while not everything translated perfectly, he found them enjoyable.

The gurvani seemed less impressed with entertainment.  Every now and then they’d listen to something that engaged them, usually the more rhythmic songs featuring percussion, but mostly they ignored it, or gave little scowls if they found something particularly discordant to their ears.  Considering what gurvani singing was like, Tyndal didn’t mind.  Resh didn’t hesitate to make snide comments about the odd sounds emanating from the control panel, but they were largely good-natured.  It gave them something to argue about as the bleak and forbidding landscape outside rolled by.

Several times they had to stop and get out to survey a particularly bad patch of snow and ice before deciding which direction to take around it.  Some of those incidents had led to no good choices, and forced them to backtrack before proceeding.  The crevasses that opened naturally in the ice went down for dozens of yards, sometimes, making them all but impassable.  And once, Rondal had everyone get out, braving the frigid temperatures, and put the Beast back into the hoxter until they were able to cross a section on foot, to where the ice was more stable.

It was a grueling crossing, to Tyndal’s mind.  He fretted ever yard of it.  Yet he could see the progress they were making.  By twilight they had nearly reached the half-way point across the icy waste.  They halted long enough to prepare a light supper – cooked cabbage with salt pork, biscuits, a plate of sausages, a flagon of ale, and more Bovali-style cheese – before piling back into the Beast, with Rondal driving this time. 

The topic of conversation around dinner soon turned to the odd relationship evolving between the humans and the gurvani in the Goblin Kingdom.  Resh had decided opinions on the matter: though he agreed that some of the human ways the goblins were adopting were superior, he disdained the human culture that came with it – affectations like wearing clothes for decoration, using money for exchange instead of barter, and human institutions like official government. 

“Tribal ways are better for gurvani,” he argued.  “Hunting.  Foraging.  Gardening.  We need no fields to plant,” he dismissed, scornfully.  “We are not farmers.”

“You should reconsider.  Grain agriculture provides surpluses that can ensure your people live through the winter,” Tyndal pointed out, enjoying the discussion.  “Your folk like bread just as much as mine.  Even if you turn your nose up at cheese, you enjoy beef.  And raising chickens provides a very regular source of protein.  You may not like it, but more of your cubs will live to maturity if you adopt these ways.  The Tal Alon population in the Magelaw has exploded, once they got the hang of it.”

“We are not Tal Alon,” grunted Resh.  “We are gurvani.  When we live in towns, we lose what makes us gurvani.”

“A lot of human tribes believe that, too,” Rondal observed.  “The Coutu tribes in the Penumbra despise farming.  The Kasari only practice it a little, on the edges of their lands best suited for it.  Yet it is a far more stable existence than depending on your skill as a hunter to feed you through the winter.”

“If you have no skill as  hunter, you do not deserve to live through winter!” insisted Resh.  “It is more than that.  How you raise your food is not as important as how you raise your cubs.  Living as the humani do makes them weak.”

“Living as the humani do makes them strong in ways that a thousand years of tribal living would not,” Tyndal countered.  “And there would be a lot more of them.  How many of your cubs survive through their first year?”

“One in three,” admitted Resh with a sigh.  “Weak ones die.  Cubs whose fathers cannot hunt, die.  Sickness takes them.  If shamans cannot heal, they die.”

“I just think it’s worth a little cultural compromise to improve that,” Tyndal suggested, kindly.  “Using money, for example.  It repairs a number of problems that bartering has.  You can save, for one, and accumulate wealth for the future.  With tribal ways your wealth is determined by what you hunt and how well you hunt . . . and it only lasts a few days.”

“Some of my people herd sheep,” Resh pointed out.  “But not to eat.  For wool to trade.  They are not true gurvani,” he condemned. 

“I think your idea of what a true gurvani is might need some expansion, Resh,” Rondal suggested.  “You are excellent hunters and good fighters.  Is that all you want to be, though?”

“What is better than that?” Resh objected.

“Well, that’s the question,” Tyndal admitted.  “I suppose it depends on whether you want three grandchildren or a dozen.  Whether you want hungry cubs or well-fed cubs.  And your wives cannot be happy when your larder is bare,” he pointed out.

That observation made the goblin wince.  He chatted for a few moments with Cheshtan, then shook his head.  “Wives always hate hungry times,” he admitted.

“Your skill as a hunter doesn’t matter much, if the game is not there,” Tyndal said.  “You’re dependent on luck, as much as anything else.  How many times have you come home from a hunt empty-handed?  At least with humani ways you can spend some of that silver money to buy food at market.”

“Market!” sneered the goblin.  “I hate market.  It is big argument, nothing more.”

“It’s a way for everyone to get rid of their surplus and get what they need,” Rondal argued.  “It’s the only fair way to do that.”

“Who sets value?” demanded Resh.  “Hundred potatoes is one price one time, another price next time.  Counting money makes head hurt.  Argument, all the time.”

“That’s just bargaining, not arguing,” Tyndal chuckled.  “And the coin makes that much easier than trying to figure out how many potatoes a sheep is worth.”

Cheshtan spoke up, and a moment later Resh translated.  “Market cheats us,” he relayed.  “Cheshtan says emeralds worth less every time he goes.  Good tools, though,” he conceded.  “But not worth the trouble for most gurvani.  Gurvani should be hunters.  Should be able to make everything a gurvan needs.”

“You will see the advantages, over time,” Tyndal assured him.  “A single man – or gurvan – can only do so much.  He might be able to tan a hide, or forge a knife after he smelts the iron, or build a hut, but can he do all three at once?  And hunt for enough food to feed himself while he does it?” he asked.

“It is too much change,” Resh sighed.  “Too soon.  My people are not ready.”

“They won’t ever be ready, if they don’t start,” Rondal insisted.  “Resh, I understand your reluctance to embrace humani ways, after what our people have done to you.  But you should use what works best, regardless of where it comes from.”

“That’s what urgulnosti said when they came,” Resh revealed, wrinkling his nose.  “Sheruel’s ways better than tribal gurvani.  Fight in legions, not by warrior societies.  Use swords, not clubs.  Kill humani, not trade with them.  That killed many of my people.”

Tyndal gave Rondal a glance.  “That killed plenty of mine, too.  The difference is that we’re trying to teach you how to live better lives, longer lives, in peace.  You don’t have to raid if you can trade.  You don’t have to conquer if you aren’t starving in the mountains.  War is an affliction it is best for everyone to avoid.”

“Yet your folk hunted us like animals,” Resh pointed out.

“And look what we earned for doing that,” Tyndal explained.  “Invasion.  War.  Death.  Genocide.  I don’t say that humani are wiser than gurvani.  We’re just better at feeding ourselves.  That’s something you can learn, and as you do your lives will improve and your tribes will multiply.”

It was a tough argument to make to the stubborn tribesmen, but neither side took the other’s position personally.  As they finished their meal and piled back into the Beast they had at least offered each other something to think about. 

Tyndal resumed driving, as darkness quickly set in.  For once the sky wasn’t completely overcast, and the waxing quarter moon hung low on the eastern horizon for a change.  The gurvani were both taking naps in the back, so they could talk without being interrupted.

“You know, we once had a city on the moon,” Tyndal said to Rondal, as it came into view.  “That’s hard to believe, but I’ve seen recordings of it.  There’s no air, though, so they had to live in sealed structures and provide their own air and water.  Like bubbles, made of glass and steel.”

“That sounds hellish,” Rondal said, wrinkling his nose.  “How can you only live inside?”

“It was where they did a lot of mining during the Colonial Period,” Tyndal explained.  “Apparently it was easier to mine the moon for the iron and such we needed than to do it here.  The people were fed by imported food and paid very well for their labors.”

“And now they’re all dead and forgotten,” Rondal answered.  “So what is your point?”

“Just that I think us trying to convince Resh and Cheshtan that our ways are better is a lot like one of our ancestors on the moon trying to convince us why his ways are better,” Tyndal pointed out.  “You think their lives would have been hellish, because you aren’t used to it.  But they undoubtedly lived better and longer than the average peasant.  Even the average mage.  Or the average king.  It’s a matter of what you are used to, and how much change you’re willing to accept in order to achieve a better life.”

“So you think the gurvani should stick to being hunters and foragers, and not learn how to farm?” Rondal asked in surprise.

“I think it’s inevitable that they will,” Tyndal countered.  “As proud as Resh is of his culture and his prowess as a hunter, his wives are going to complain that the next goblin family who learned how to herd sheep is living better.  That will be what forces him to change.”

“Yes, wives do that,” Rondal agreed, reluctantly.

“That doesn’t mean he has to like it,” Tyndal continued.  “In fact, I think there is going to be a great sifting amongst the gurvani, if things continue like this.  Those who are wedded to their tribal culture and those who don’t want to starve every winter.  You saw how the goblin towns were – they were almost as well-run as human towns.”

“That might be an overstatement,” Rondal frowned.

“Oh, they’re just getting started with it, but you remember what a mess Sevendor was the first few years,” he reminded his friend.  “It took Minalan a while to figure it out.  But as much of a mess as it is, I think that they’ll evolve into something more sophisticated in a couple of years.”

“Perhaps Priviken is ahead of his time, and not just an aberration,” mused Rondal.

“Exactly.  So is Ashakarl.  Hells, so is Gurkarl, if you want to know the truth.  You remember how he was, back then.  Not much more sophisticated than Resh is now.  It’s just going to take some time,” he predicted.  “But once you see a new, better way to do something, it’s pretty hard to ignore it in favor of the older, harder way.”

“Like driving a Beast instead of riding a horse?” Rondal suggested.

“I find the two complimentary,” Tyndal admitted.  “But there’s no denying that if we were on horseback we’d still be just outside of Pregaz, not almost seventy miles into the harshest territory in the Five Duchies.”

“I’m not certain we’re still in the Five Duchies,” Rondal said, philosophically, as he looked out the window at the vast expanse of white in the darkness.  “We might still be technically in the Colonial Zone, but we left the influence of our civilization some time back.  This is the true wilderness.  Mile after mile of . . . absolutely nothing.”

***

They stopped again just after midnight, when both Tyndal and Rondal were too tired to keep going, and fell asleep in their cockpit seats.  The next morning they continued, though the going was much slower.  The day was slightly warmer and the sun beat down hard enough on the snow to turn the top layers soft.  The great wheels had a much harder time gaining traction, and required all of Tyndal’s skill and the Beast’s capabilities to keep going.  Twice they had to use magic to lift the wheels out of hopeless ruts. 

But the worst part came mid-morning.  They came to what appeared to be a fairly flat, well-packed surface, and Tyndal was going at a decent rate for a change.  Then the front two wheels suddenly dipped dramatically, and the Beast stopped suddenly, throwing everyone against their straps. 

“Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal snarled, as he did his best to reverse course.  The wheels spun, but did not grip.  What was worse was the network of crevasses that abruptly opened up across the field in front of them, the sound of the splitting ice loud enough to be felt in the Beast.  It was like a suddenly-appearing spiderweb of deep cracks in the ice and snow appearing before them, Nature’s way of stopping them. A cloud of snowy mist rushed into the air as the cracks appeared, cloaking the extent of the damage for several minutes.

“We’re stuck again,” Tyndal announced with a disappointed sigh.  “We still have seven miles – nearly eight – before we get to that ridge.  But that looks . . . imposing,” he said, nodding toward the cloud outside. 

“What in three hells happened?” Rondal asked, confused.  “Is it magic?”

“It’s ice,” Tyndal explained.  “Small variations in temperature or movement can create cracks in the ice.  And the glacier is always moving.  And the sun shines every day.  The top melts a little, then refreezes, then you get cracks.  The disturbance from the wheels must have been just enough to trigger them.”

“So what do we do now?” Rondal asked, frustrated.

“We may have to put the Beast in the hoxter again, find a way through on foot, and then bring it back when it’s safer,” Tyndal proposed.  “I don’t really see any other way.”

The gurvani were not pleased with the plan, but they had no better remedy.  The ice around the cracks seemed firm enough – until it wasn’t.  Rondal ended up conjuring a rope and tying them each together as they meandered their way through the treacherous field.  While the temperature was certainly cold, the heat of the sun brought some comfort to them as they cautiously picked their way through the ice.  It wasn’t comfortable, but neither was it deadly.  Every few minutes the icy wind would pick up and blow for a few tense, spine-clenching moments as they marched. 

Tyndal had brought one of the plasma rifles along, slung over his shoulder, just in case they encountered any belligerent creatures on the ice.  Rondal elected to use his baculus as a walking staff, using the butt to probe the ice ahead as they painstakingly crossed the solid portions. 

There were several close calls.  At various points each of them slipped and fell, and Cheshtan nearly took them all into a crevasse when the ice broke beneath him, revealing a deep ravine of jagged packed snow to threaten below.  But with great effort and a little applied warmagic they pulled him up to the surface.

“He says thank you,” Resh translated, as the goblin sprawled on the snow and chattered in gurvani.  “Never has he been on such an adventure.”

“This one is a little unusual for us, too,” Tyndal admitted, his breath heaving with the effort of the rescue.  “”I still don’t understand why you two wanted to come with us, though.”

“We will tell you when we meet Adrian,” Resh assured. 

“Assuming we even meet the legend,” Rondal said, shaking his head.

“If we do, it will prove it,” Resh said, cryptically.  “Let’s move.  Far to go,” he said, nodding toward the ridgeline.

They traveled nearly two miles in the cold before the fissures were left behind, and they returned once again to reasonably firm footing.  Rondal did his best to scry the ice for weakness with his baculus, and pronounced it solid enough before he conjured the Beast back from its arcane storage.  Gratefully, they piled back inside, where Tyndal insisted on running the heating system until he could at least feel his fingers again.

Curiously, just a mile from the ridgeline they came across something even more unexpected.  Half buried in the snow was one of their ancestors’ terraformation machines.

It had been exposed to the elements for centuries, but it was otherwise in surprisingly good condition.  It was the size of a large cottage, though it was difficult to tell its exact size under the snowfall.  And it was at an odd angle, as if it had encountered some treacherous hole and was unable to free itself.  It had been abandoned, Tyndal decided as he got out and inspected it.

“It’s a seeding unit, I think,” he guessed as he studied the markings on the side and saw the many appendages protruding from the roof.  “Once a thousand of these rode through the Wilderlands, planting trees and grasses and shrubs.  When this one crashed, they probably just forgot about it.  Too hard to get out,” he suggested.

“You could do it with magic,” Rondal pointed out.

“But why?  If you have a thousand more of them?  Besides, our ancestors didn’t have magic, much.  They would have had to do this with machines, or by hand.  That’s a lot of trouble.”

“Could it be useful?” Rondal asked.

“Only if you have a lot of trees you want planted,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Oh, I’m certain there are some parts that Gareth might find useful.  But apart from that, it remains a monument to the ancients’ ingenuity—”

Tyndal was interrupted when something suddenly sprang at him from between segments of the ancient machine.  It was white, and he had little chance to look at it closely, but in an instant he was fighting for his life as the creature snarled and coiled itself around him.  The face of the creature found his, and he was suddenly staring into four beady little black eyes and far more teeth than he was comfortable with.

Rondal sprang into action at once, as Tyndal realized his arms were pinned uselessly to his body.  His friend used his baculus to smash at the creatures head from the side, forcing it to turn to face him . . . but it did not relent on its grasp of Tyndal.

He was startled and panicked and angry at the unexpected attack.  He tried to think of a spell or reach the plasma rifle, but even if he could summon his mageblade he was in no position to wield it.  He couldn’t even reach the pistol behind his belt.  The coils of the thing – it seemed to be a great, furred serpent of some sort – were constricting his chest painfully.  Indeed, it was soon difficult for him to breathe.

He looked on helplessly as Rondal conjured his own blade and starting hacking at the thing.  A moment later Resh and Cheshtan joined him, stabbing at the snow serpent with their spears, screaming in gurvani with savage looks on their faces.  But with each successful strike that painted the snow red, the powerful coils sapped the life from him.

Finally, Rondal used warmagic to maneuver close to the thing’s head and managed to strike it hard enough to nearly decapitate it with his mageblade.  Tyndal felt the spasming coils give his body one last vicious squeeze before it relaxed into death.  Panting, he pushed the limp body off of him and heaved for breath.

“What the hells was that?” Rondal demanded, wide-eyed, as he stared at the twitching, furry corpse staining the snow red. 

“Obviously, a . . . snow . . . serpent,” Tyndal said, gasping.  “It’s white.  It’s a snake.”

“It has four eyes!” Rondal objected.

“And far too many teeth,” Tyndal agreed as he willed his heart to slow, and he struggled to control his breathing.  Neither his heart nor his lungs seemed to want to pay attention to him.  “It must have taken shelter in the machine, lying in wait for unsuspecting sight seers.”

“It has to be natavia,” Rondal decided, studying the head of the corpse.  “Are you all right?”

“I just feel a little skinnier, is all,” Tyndal nodded. “Thank you.  Thank all of you,” he said, sincerely, to the two gurvani.  “That was not how I wanted to end my day.  And I think we’ll have our luncheon in the Beast,” he decided.

“This thing is at least thirty feet long!” Rondal said, appalled.  “Snakes should not get that big!”

“We’re out on the edge of the known,” Tyndal reminded him.  “That means we’ll encounter the unknown.  But I think I’m going to take it with me,” he decided, pulling the supply wand from his belt.  Rondal looked even more revolted.

“Trygg’s grace, why?” he demanded.

“That’s thirty feet of silky soft white fur,” Tyndal argued.  “Not to mention the most hideous face I’ve had in mine since the Ugliest Maid in Castal.  I’m going to stuff it and put it in my tavern.  It will look great!” he predicted.

Once they were underway again, the ridgeline was growing larger as they approached.  Indeed, Belsi announced that they were crossing the continental divide as they got within a half mile of it.  Tyndal had some sense of accomplishment with that – although he hadn’t even heard of a continental divide until he had started this adventure. 

“I think we have gone further west than any other living man,” Tyndal decided. 

“Adrian,” offered Resh from behind him.  “He is no gurvani.”

“We don’t know that,” Rondal pointed out.  “We don’t even know if he’s a man.  Hells, we don’t know anything about him.  If he even exists.”

“Legends are like that,” Tyndal agreed.  “Still, for non-legends I think we have done something very noteworthy.”

“If we survive long enough to make it back home and tell someone,” Rondal pointed out.  “The way things are going, I’m beginning to doubt that.  More likely some future explorer will find our frozen corpses out here and wondered what a couple of idiots were doing on a glacier.”

“I still think it’s impressive, and you should feel pride in it,” Tyndal insisted.  “We’ve almost crossed the glacier.  We’re within just a few miles of that old abandoned station.  Once we cross the ridge we have a small descent until we get to the valley where it’s located.  Then . . . well, perhaps we’ll meet the Adrian.  And find our lost friends,” he proposed.

“As long as it’s warm, I’m enthusiastic about that,” Rondal agreed.  Then he started, staring out the window.  “Tyn, do you see that?” he asked, curiously.

“See what?” Tyndal asked, confused. 

“Up on that ridge, right at the crest – to the right,” he described, as he pointed.  “Am I hallucinating?  Or do you see it?”

“See what?” Tyndal asked, slowing down the Beast and activating his magesight to amplify his vision for long distances.  Then he gasped.

Standing there on the crest of the small ridge was a gurvan – but one covered in long golden fur.  Not tawny, not yellow, but golden, with a faint metallic sheen to it.  It was taller than other gurvani, broader and more well-muscled.  It stood stoically and watched them, its wide black eyes surveying them from under a mane of golden hair.  But the face was unmistakably gurvani, Tyndal could see.  Just not like any kind of gurvani he’d ever seen before.

The gurvan held a strange weapon, a long pole arm with a head like a cross between a spear and an axe that curved elegantly toward the handle.  The blade was highly polished and glinted in the cold sun. 

Tyndal looked closely at the goblin’s face for a moment with magesight – but then it was gone.

“That was the golden goblin!” Rondal gasped.  “Did you see it?”

“I saw it,” Tyndal assured him, grimly.  “You weren’t hallucinating.  It was the golden goblin.  Which tells me we’re very close to what we seek.  Or at least on the right path.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Magnificence of Lemons

Among the most surprising of developments in my life – outside of meeting my darling wife – was finding some sympathy for the gurvani against whom I have spent a good portion of my life trying to kill.  My association with Gurkarl and a few other gurvani educated me about their history, their people, and their plight.  Of course, as a warrior, one must learn to gather intelligence on one’s enemies; but beyond the mere martial utility, once a man learns things about his foe he cannot unlearn them.  Among them is the fact that we are fore more alike than we are different.  That insight has forced me, however reluctantly, to give my sympathy for the goblin.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

“It was gurvan zlatsist,” Resh pronounced, solemnly, his voice tinged with wonder.  “We saw him!”

“Is that good?  Or bad?” Tyndal asked, curiously.  The goblin shrugged. 

“It is . . . auspicious,” Resh said, after struggling to find the proper word.  Rondal was impressed by the gurvan’s knowledge of Narasi vocabulary, despite his reluctance to use definite articles.  “The prophecy is true.”

“The prophecy is half-remembered, misunderstood, and obscure,” Rondal reminded him.  “Believe me, there’s a reason why humani magi tend to shy away from prophecy.  It almost never goes well.”

“Prophecy is prophecy,” Resh insisted.  “It said gurvan zlatsist would come.  He has come!”

“Yes, but what does it mean?” Tyndal stressed.  “Is he a savior of your people?  Or a harbinger of their doom?”

“We shall see,” Resh nodded, his expression unreadable.  “But I have seen him with my own eyes.  That is enough to know.  He has come.  So will change.”

“I admire your faith in Fate, Resh,” Rondal admitted with a sigh of resignation.  “As for Tyndal and myself, we tend to avoid situations where we might end up being too important.  It’s almost never as exciting as it sounds.”

“Says the man who conquered an entire ducal capital nearly single handed . . . and without anyone knowing who did it,” Tyndal chuckled, giving Rondal a sly look.  “Don’t let him fool you, Resh.  Like it or not, we find ourselves in the center of such things all the time, despite our best efforts.  Whatever this golden goblin means, whoever he is, the very fact that you saw him will likely see you entangled in some mad adventure that shakes the pillars of the world.  That’s the danger of prophecy.”

“What will be shall be,” Resh said, quietly.  “I will endure.”

“At least you have the right attitude,” Tyndal praised, shaking his head.  “The first time I met a human goddess in person I about shit myself.  Let’s hope seeing the golden goblin doesn’t lead to our collective doom.”

“All things must die,” Resh said, philosophically. 

Rondal was fascinated by Resh’s stoic attitude in the face of such wonder and despair.  Though he appeared a simple tribal hunter, Rondal had detected a depth of intelligence and thoughtfulness in the gurvan’s words that continuously surprised him.  It would be easy enough to hear his halting Narasi words and conclude that he was ignorant or stupid, but Rondal had found a wealth of wisdom in his simple words.  Cheshtan, too, was clearly insightful and invested in this mad quest for reasons beyond mere adventure. 

The entire question of the Golden Goblin was troubling to Rondal.  From his perspective as a warrior in the fight against Sheruel, he saw it as a possible watershed in the war.  To see the gurvani hordes destroyed was the natural conclusion to the genocidal conflict that had preoccupied most of his life. 

But after getting to know Gurkarl, his perspective had shifted.  He had come to realize that the bloodthirsty, human-flesh eating gurvani were themselves victims of circumstance, being used as pawns in a struggle between Alka Alon factions that was more than then thousand years old.  Indeed, when he examined what little he knew of the history of the Alon, the gurvani had suffered their interference more than any of the other sub-species. 

They had been cruelly manipulated by the Alka Alon from the beginning, down to their essence, twisted into their present form as a matter of utility and with little regard to their own lives.  And then the Enshadowed had manipulated them further, exploiting their disposability to make them a ferocious soldiery to conduct their wars.

Gurkarl had shown him that a savage goblin warrior could also learn to read sacred scriptures in a foreign language and argue philosophy and metaphysics as well as any human high priest.  Ashakarl was clearly as intelligent as any human lord.  As uncomfortable as gurvani like Priviken and his two sinister brothers made him, Rondal had to admit that they were as adept as any human courtiers in any ducal capital. 

The issue with the gurvani’s low estate was not a lack of intelligence.  The Alka Alon had deprived them of their original longevity to make them more disposable as laborers.  Their birthrate had been increased to provide a constant flow of young, strong, and ignorant workers.  Their physiology had been altered to make them more efficient.  They were purposefully kept ignorant and primitive to make them easy to manipulate.  When there was a need for their strength and endurance they were encouraged to breed.  When the need was gone, they were ignored and allowed to go feral.

But the Alka Alon had not affected their intelligence.  Nor their passions.  Nor their sense of culture and self.  The gurvani were not inherently evil, they were just appallingly misused.

The Alka Alon Council took a condescending attitude toward the gurvani, he knew, insisting that they were merely guiding one of the lesser races as they exploited their labor.  The gurvani were allowed token representation at council, but only in an advisory capacity that the long-lived Alka Alon felt free to ignore – and usually did. 

The Enshadowed, the authoritarian renegades amongst the Alka Alon, were more blatant in their exploitation, using flattery, gifts and incendiary rhetoric to achieve their aims.  The Enshadowed even stooped to employing Transgenic Enchantment to contort their bodies further, making them a larger, stronger, and more vicious soldiery: the morogorku Great Goblins.

But neither faction respected the lives or the culture of the gurvani in the slightest.  They studied them in an academic sense, perhaps out of boredom, and feigned interest in their race, but Rondal cynically suspected that their observations were more like a farmer evaluating the health of his herds, not legitimate scientific inquiry.  The gurvani were tools, utensils, a servile class that could be grown or shrunk in the service of the Alka Alon.  And when the Alka Alon eventually fled dying Callidore they would only take enough gurvani with them to establish new breeding stock.

Rondal could not but help feel some compassion for them, now that he understood their plight and a little of their history.  They had taken up arms against humanity because it was useful to the Enshadowed, who had exploited old hatreds into a genocidal rage.  Rondal also could not help but feel a bit abused in the process, himself – and wondered whether or not the Enshadowed or the Alka Alon Council had somehow convinced his ancestors to clear the Wilderlands of the gurvani by force . . . or at least not discourage it.  The Alka Alon were subtle that way.

And that gave Rondal not just a basis for his compassion, but actual sympathy for the strange-looking nocturnal folk.  Their lives were an exercise in suffering no less than that of any man, and perhaps worse.  But both their races had been used by the Alka Alon for their own purposes.  They had a common opponent, and faced common challenges.  Perhaps that was why Minalan had been so eager to include Ashakarl’s realm under his political protection, Rondal reflected, as they arrived at the ridge. 

“We have successfully crossed the glacier,” Tyndal announced, as he brought the Beast to a halt.  “Congratulations, gentlemen.  Now all we have to do is find the way off of it.”

“What do you mean?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Well, Belsi gave me a number of possible routes – with an emphasis on possible.  Because each one comes with its own problems.  And none of them, in fact, guarantee that we can make it safely to Kurtz Station, which is at the bottom of the plateau’s escarpment, about six miles that way,” he said, pointing.  “The problem is that Belsi’s most recent information on this place is six hundred years old.  And glaciers move,” he reminded Rondal.

“So . . . which route will we take?” Rondal asked, anxiously.  He questioned sometimes whether or not Tyndal really understood the concept of having a plan. 

“We’ll know in a moment,” Tyndal revealed.  “Once we reach that little pass, we’ll be able to see how the actual conditions are now, and not during the Colonial Period.” 

When the Beast finally did cross through the small gap in the ridge, Rondal watched his friend’s face grow grim when they arrived.  Below them was an incredibly steep, incredibly long slope completely covered in snow.

“Ishi’s tits,” Tyndal said, softly.  “This is unfortunate.”

“What?” Rondal demanded.  “What is unfortunate?”

“Both routes we could potentially make it down are completely covered in snow,” he observed, as Belsi’s sensors informed him of their conclusions.  “Far more than the old maps show.  And that grade is too steep for us to try to make it down directly.  We’d tip over at any number of spots, I think, and there’s no telling what kind of rocks that snow conceals,” he said, disappointingly.

“We could put the Beast in the hoxter and try to climb down,” Rondal proposed.

“Purzalka!” Cheshtan said suddenly, in alarm.  Clearly he was picking up some Narasi. 

“Snowslide,” Resh translated.  “If we walk, we risk a snowslide,” he predicted, grimly.  “Snow is too deep.  We would sink, cause a snowslide.”

“Avalanche,” Rondal nodded.  “That’s our word for it.  Ironically, that’s our master’s name for his war staff,” he recalled.  “But you’re right.  It would be dangerous.  That’s more snow than I think I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said.  “So what do we do?”

Tyndal stared at the imposing slope.  “We think about it a little bit.  And perhaps have some breakfast.”

Rondal conjured a basket of hot biscuits from his rapidly depleting stores, and checked on Resh’s wound while Tyndal furiously tapped on Belsi’s console.  He was impressed with Tyndal growing familiarity with tekka and appreciation for what it could do.  He was only beginning to learn some of his ancestors’ arts himself, and he could already see the potential. 

But Tyndal had absorbed an incredible amount of knowledge during his longer association with tekka, far better than Rondal ever would have suspected.  He understood the weapons of the ancients, their history, their complex civilization, and knew the rudiments of its capabilities in ways that continuously surprised Rondal.  He knew Tyndal wasn’t stupid, but his normal mannerisms did not often suggest the bright mind and curious nature that lay under his often oafish guise.

“I have an idea,” Tyndal finally said, when he left the panel and joined them for the meal.  “It’s a bit . . . bold, but it might work.  I think it will almost certainly work.  But I need to speak to a few people mind-to-mind before I explain it.  I’m going to need some special equipment.”

“Have at it,” Rondal said, handing him a biscuit and a mug of ale.  “Until we figure this out, the alternative is to go back the way we came.  And I would not enjoy that excursion,” he assured.

“Our path has not ended,” Resh agreed.  Cheshtan grunted an assent.

“All right, then,” Tyndal murmured, retuning to the pilot’s chair.  “Let’s see if I can make this mad scheme happen.”

Whatever his plan was, it took some time to arrange.  Tyndal spent hours in mind-to-mind communication with someone, perhaps several people, which was intriguing.  He continuously referred to the diagrams and charts on the control display. He had long, intense conversations with the unemotional machine, most of it in Old High Perwynese that he only barely understood. Eventually, he stopped trying. It was all a mystery to Rondal, but he was decidedly intrigued. 

He passed the time waiting by teaching Cheshtan some basic Narasi, with Resh helping, and learning a bit of gurvani himself in the process.  The gurvani picked up the words more quickly – all of the Alon had a better facility with language in general than humanity, he’d learned.  By the time Tyndal rose from his seat and rejoined them, he had learned all the names for gurvani private parts – information he didn’t think he’d ever be likely to use, but was fun to know.

“Well, now we wait,” Tyndal announced.  “Hopefully the smiths of Vanador can get this done quickly.  But until then, we can’t do anything but wait.”

“In the snow,” Rondal observed, miserably.  “In the cold.  In the darkness.”

“We will abide,” Resh assured, stoically.  Cheshtan nodded. 

“How long, do you think?” Rondal asked.

“It will be done when it’s done,” Tyndal said with a sigh.  “I was told that it might be ready in the morning, if all goes well.”

“You aren’t going to try to strap wings on this thing, are you?” Rondal asked, skeptically.  That was exactly the kind of thing that Tyndal would consider, he knew.

“Worse,” Tyndal promised.  “But I don’t want to say more, lest I spoil the surprise.  I suppose we’ll just have to keep warm and play dice or something until we hear.”

Rondal considered.  He did not relish the idea of sitting on his arse for a day or two at the edge of the world, surrounded by strange beasts and an unforgiving environment.  He longed for the comforts of home, or just the ability to go to sleep without worrying about the Beast tumbling over a cliff or into a hole.  The food had been acceptable, but he was growing tired of camp food, however delicious.

“Do we?” he asked, earning a quizzical look from Tyndal.  He had an idea of his own.  “We are bloody wizards after all.  Mighty in our craft, subtle in our regard, and all of that crap.  Why shiver in a metal box all night when we could sleep in comfort, after a good meal and a bottle of ale?” he proposed, conjuring his baculus.

“Don’t tell me you’ve tucked an entire cavern into your hoxter!” Tyndal said in disbelief. 

“No, but I did tuck a Waystone in my baculus, the same as you,” he reminded his friend. “We’re still within range of Vanador.  I propose we slip through the Ways, have a lovely meal under the Overhang, and then retire to Spellmonger’s Hall for the evening of slumber in peace and warmth.  Then we pick up the . . . whatever it is you’ve ordered and slip back through the Ways to here.”

“That . . . is bloody brilliant!” Tyndal agreed, grinning.  “What do you think, gentlemen?  Would you enjoy taking an evening on the town in the City of Wizards?  Rondal’s buying,” he added, quickly.

***

The gurvani were justifiably anxious about both the magical mode of transport and the destination.  From their perspective, Rondal knew, they were going into enemy territory.  Recent events had made him sympathetic.  Even though neither of them had participated in the ill-fated attacks on Vanador a few years before, the tale of the results of those battles had drifted back to Ashakarl’s kingdom and beyond.  It had a reputation amongst the gurvani nearly as dire as that of the Black Vale amongst humanity.

The names of Terleman and Carmella, Mavone and Azar and most especially Minalan were well-known in gurvani territory.  They had a sinister connotation, as did the name of Vanador itself.  It was the abode of the enemy, or at least a place gurvani were wise to avoid.  Indeed, only a few brave souls amongst them had ever visited the place.

But when Tyndal and Rondal emerged from the Ways in the central square with two tribal, the guards on duty were attentive, but not belligerent.  The folk of Vanador were used to Alon of all kinds, and as unusual as the two gurvani’s presence was, Tyndal and Rondal’s well-known association with Minalan gave them a lot of influence.  In mere moments the two goblins were sporting bright yellow sashes and attracting only casual interest, not antipathy.

The two were astounded by the city.  The largest such town they had ever seen had been Kral Krebhet, and it had been impressive.  Vanador was overwhelming in comparison.  The sight of so many humans, not to mention Alka Alon, Tera Alon, Dradrien and Malkas Alon, Tal Alon servants and even the occasional Karshak, filled them with wonder. 

They spent an hour just walking around the central city and showing them the sights: the magical light show overhead, the singing wooden mushroom statues, the moss gardens and the interesting shops that were still open.  Then they retired to the Staff & Scroll, where Tyndal arrogantly ordered a table for the four of them and nearly dared the management to say something unkind about his guests. 

What followed was a truly exceptional meal, Rondal thought.  The ale flowed like water, though the gurvani preferred the beer the tavern offered as closer to their own style.  The cook brought out a well-prepared beef roast stuffed with garlic and wrapped in bacon, as well as a dish of potatoes, turnips and onions, a plate of grilled mushrooms covered in a delightfully tart sauce, cabbage leaves stuffed with pork and spices, crusty white bread with butter, a local cheese from Countess Alya’s very own creamery, and four ripe oranges brought through the portal from Falas.  The gurvani were quite pleased with the exquisite meal.

“My senior wife should learn to cook here,” Resh stated with a belch, which startled the other patrons of the tavern.  “She boils water badly.”

“My wife can cook – after a fashion,” Tyndal conceded.  “But it is simple fare, at best.  A lot of beans and roots.  But she manages a dish of lamb and mint that is renown for its blandness.  They didn’t have much in the way of spices up in the north.”

“My wife considers preparing a meal a matter of hiring the right cook,” Rondal revealed with a wry chuckle.  “And then threatening her life if she is unhappy with the fare.”

Cheshtan added his own observation – the gurvan understood more Narasi than he was willing to speak, and he was starting to pick up the nature of their conversations.  Resh listened, and then laughed before he translated.

“Cheshtan says senior wife can cook, but won’t,” he revealed.  “But junior wife can’t cook, and does.  That is why he hunts so well.”

That made them all laugh, which startled the other patrons anew.

“These fruits are glorious,” Resh continued, after popping a section of orange into his toothy mouth.  “But sweet.  Like sunshine that is too bright.  Delicious, but painful.”

“Here,” Tyndal offered, signaling the barman, “I think they may have something you’d favor more.  Please fetch my guest a few lemons, if you would,” he instructed the man. 

A moment later the gurvani were each peeling the rind off the fruit and smelling its rind suspiciously.  But the moment they took a bite of it, their faces transformed.

“Magnificent!” Resh pronounced, enthusiastically slapping his wide palm on the table.  Rondal never would have suspected he knew the Narasi word.  “If. . . orn-jas are like sun, these are like sweet full moon,” he insisted, reverently.  “Humani grow such things?” he asked in disbelief. 

“In the far south,” Rondal agreed with a grin.  “In my adopted home country.  Falas grows all sorts of fruit, and lemons are very popular . . . when sweetened,” he added.

“Why ruin the moon fruit?” Resh asked, with a gasp.  “It is perfect as it is!”

“It’s clear gurvani tastes are different than humani,” Tyndal observed.  “For us, lemons are a very tart treat that pairs nicely with sugar.    We use it sparingly, as a compliment to other foods, usually.”

“It is . . . enchanting,” Resh said, appreciatively.  “Never tasted anything like it before.  Like first love, sharp and revealing,” he said, philosophically.  Cheshtan added his own insights, but Resh was growing so intoxicated he did not bother to translate them, just nodded in agreement.

“Wait until you try lemon cake,” Rondal offered.  “One of the specialties of Falas bakeries.  I think you would like it.”

“Vanador is a city of wonders,” the gurvan admitted.  “No gurvani town is like it.”

“No town anywhere is like it,” Tyndal assured him.  “It is unique amongst the cities of men.  But I would suggest that the gurvani could build something comparable, someday, in your own distinctive way.  I think that’s why Minalan wanted the alliance with Ashakarl, to afford your people the opportunity to do so.  It is said that the Malkas Alon are building a kingdom in the foothills of the Kulines, under his protection.  And the Tal Alon fill the Nanz valley with their lodges, managing their own affairs.”

“And the Kilnusk are searching for a new home in the foothills of the Kulines, since their return from exile.  The Magelaw is a bit like a garden,” Rondal reflected, as he sipped his ale.  “Minalan is giving the Alon a chance to flourish on their own, without the oversight of the Alka Alon.”

“Saw Alka in market,” Resh pointed out.

“Oh, those are the Tera Alon, in their natural forms,” Rondal explained.  “They have pledged themselves to fighting Korbal until fair Anthatiel is recovered and rebuilt.  They have a great settlement here.”

“Many gurvani fight for Korbal,” Resh reminded him, troubled.

“Many Alka Alon were killed and eaten by the gurvani,” Tyndal responded.  “You used our own renegades against us.  War is a complicated endeavor.”

“You speak truth,” Resh admitted.  “But sometimes good things arise from it.”

“The smelliest manure produces the most beautiful flowers and the tastiest vegetables,” Rondal agreed, feeling the affects of strong ale, despite the hardiness of the meal.  He had overindulged in both, but he didn’t feel guilty about it after the harsh conditions of the last few weeks.  “War is a terrible, terrible thing.  But it does reap benefits, sometimes.”

“Like an appreciation for luxury, and the fact that someone else is paying for it,” Tyndal said.  “Gentlemen, I cannot wait until you enjoy the hospitality of Spellmonger’s Hall, one of the finest and most decadent residences in town.  Once you sleep on a featherbed, your opinion of my race may well take a turn for the better.”

The next morning the four of them arose at Minalan’s townhouse and frightened the servants.  Rondal half suspected that Resh and Cheshtan enjoyed the shocked reaction of the skeleton crew that kept the hall standing in the winter months when they found two naked gurvani enjoying a breakfast ale in the kitchen. 

But when Tyndal announced that their order was ready, and being delivered to Rael’s office that morning, they dutifully dressed themselves in their yellow sashes and followed the boys over to the Wizard’s Mercantile, where the reaction to the sight of them was slightly more subdued.  Rael looked surprised, Rondal noted.

“I didn’t expect to see the two of you back here so soon,” the young arcane merchant said with a frown after they introduced their gurvani colleagues.  “And with two such fascinating companions.”  The goblins were peering in every bin and crate of the expansive warehouse, smelling and examining the host of exotic wares the Wizard’s Mercantile bought and sold.

“We got stuck in a spot and needed some assistance,” Tyndal explained, as three husky Dradrien carried the odd-looking gear into the warehouse.  “It seemed silly to wait in the miserable cold in the midst of the Mindens when we could have an evening out while we waited.  We met some of your agents along the way, actually,” he mentioned, casually.

“They’re quite an interesting lot,” Rondal agreed, coolly.  “Do you know they’re selling trashy coastal necklaces of shells and beads to the gurvani?  At obscene profits?”

“Are they selling?” Rael asked, curiously.  “That’s a new line, and I took a chance on it.  The margins are incredible,” she assured.  “If they actually sell, that is.  Banamor didn’t think it would work, but I thought they would do well, up in the hills.”

“They are selling very well, and at an obscenely high price,” Rondal said, accusingly.  “They’re not jewels, Rael, they’re just seashells!”

“They’re seashells a thousand miles away from the sea,” she shrugged.  “Scarcity begats value.  So does an exotic ware,” she added.  “I get high prices for Castali and Alshari wool down in Falas and Remere – where the sheep don’t have the thick pelts.  And Cormeeran wine is only considered a delicacy outside of Cormeer,” she argued.  “Distance breeds profit.”

“But you’re taking payment in emeralds!” Rondal pointed out, indignantly.  “You’re making a huge profit on selling garbage to ignorant savages!”

Rael gave him a long, thoughtful look.  Then she sighed.  “Come here,” she beckoned, leading him over to a bin near the back of the warehouse.  “I understand why you’re upset.  You think we’re being outrageously greedy.  And perhaps we are.  But there is method to our business strategy,” she defended, as she lifted up a great wicker basket’s lid, revealing scores of newly-forged tools. 

“So you’re selling them an iron hoe in exchange for a fortune in emeralds,” Rondal said, dismissively.

“I’m making enough profit on the barley and the cotton and the tin I sell west – and, yes, the godsforsaken cheap shell necklaces – to be able to sell these to the gurvani at near cost,” she explained, patiently.  “And that’s not iron, that’s steel – Yltedene steel.  Not the really good stuff, of course, but the Dradrien are producing so much that they can turn scraps into a hundred of these things in a day.  Pure apprentice work, of course, but it’s bloody Yltedene steel.  The finest peasant in Castal doesn’t use steel to work his farm, much less the steel of legend.”

“Is it legendary?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.

“It’s the best damned steel being produced in the Five Duchies today, and we’re giving it to the gurvani at just above cost,” Rael said, her expression serious.  “Not just hoes, but wood axes, saw blades, butcher knives, wool shears, needles, thimbles, and all sorts of domestic items,” she declared.  “I could sell this stuff in Remere for thrice what I charge the gurvani.”

“Don’t forget knitting needles,” Tyndal reminded her.

“Yes, the godsdamn knitting needles!  The gurvani are brilliant at knitting – who would have guessed?  I sell them some wool shears and knitting needles, and six months later I buy their scarves and jumpers for good coin – and they’re excellent quality!  Then I sell them to the Gilmorans or the Wenshari and buy cotton or furs and sell them to the Castali.  Every step leads to profit,” she lectured.  “And every profit provides an opportunity to build a customer into a position to buy more.”

“But that’s . . . that’s just exploitation!” Rondal objected.

“That, my naïve little wizard, is the magic of the market at play,” Rael replied, coolly.  “It’s not fair.  If it was fair, there would be no real profit, and therefore there would be very little reason to play.  Certainly, the gurvani don’t know the value of the emeralds they trade to me, but the Remeran ladies do – and they do love their emeralds!  Likewise the Remerans don’t think there’s anything special about a good steel hoe – why pay such a high price for a tool they don’t like using in the first place?” she asked, rhetorically.  “But to the gurvani who take up farming, that hoe will become a valuable heirloom for its durability and utility.  Which one is actually more valuable?” she asked, throwing up her hands.

Rondal realized that he had, perhaps, not considered such matters when he was observing the blatant exploitation he’d seen in Ashakarl’s kingdom.  But it spawned a question.

“So why are you doing that?” he asked, curiously.  “Just out of the goodness of your heart?”

Rael snorted.  “It’s good business,” she countered.  “The gurvani are a vibrant, growing society.  The ones who followed Ashakarl into exile are more willing to learn how we farm potatoes than how we taste in a soup.  They’re an industrious people, too.  If we give them the tools, then they will be a very good trading partner in the future.”

“We just saw how ‘vibrant’ Ashakarl’s realm is,” Tyndal objected.  “It was hardly the picture of an idyllic society on the verge of widespread prosperity.”

“He’s only getting started,” Rael said, shaking her head.  “But that’s when the canny investor sees an opportunity for outlandish profit.  Not just in the short term – honestly, we make more coin trading oil and garum between Remere and Alshar than we do with everything we sell in the Goblin Kingdom – but in ten years that could be a very different story.”

“So was it your idea to enrich the gurvani in steel hoes and shovels?” Rondal asked, trying to determine how he felt about the admission.

“No, actually, it was Minalan’s,” she admitted.  “His and Banamor’s.  Planus went along with it, after they explained their reasoning.  It’s a deterrent to war,” she explained.

“How so?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Because it’s really godsdamn hard to justify going to war against your single largest godsdamned trading partner,” she explained, grimly.  “If Ashakarl’s gurvani are dependent on us for their nails, and their shears, and – most importantly – their beer and their chance to sell wool at a profit, they might think twice about rising up and slaughtering us all.  No matter who is telling them that we are both fundamentally wicked and undeniably tasty.”

Rondal felt taken aback; he had not considered that element of the Wizard’s Mercantile.  It was as much as an expression of Minalan’s understanding of power as it was an attempt to circumvent pesky tolls and tariffs.  He reflected in awe, for a moment, at Minalan’s ability to foresee something like that . . . not with magic, but with shrewd wisdom.  In enriching the gurvani he was building a workforce, as well as a customer.  He thought about the busy wainwrights and wheelwrights and coopers of Pregaz, and how hard and how well the gurvani adapted to such industry.  He could imagine a whole nation of such dedicated workers feeding the demand for labor across the Wilderlands.  But it wasn’t an investment that would show a return for years, yet – decades.

Tyndal interrupted his train of thought when he leaned forward promptly, and spoke to Rael in a stage whisper.

“You really want to see a profit?” he suggested.  “Sell them lemons.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Slide Into Secrets

I know I have a reputation for being reckless, impulsive, and rash in my actions, and there is some truth to that.  But what most don’t realize is that my reputation springs not from impulsiveness, but from a willingness to commit to an idea that I have decided that has merit.  I calculated the risks, I determine whether or not I can overcome them, and then I make my decision.  Once that decision is made, I banish all doubts from my mind and commit unreservedly.  Admittedly, that has occasionally led to unexpected and – arguably – disastrous consequences, but it succeeds often enough to give me confidence that when I do get myself killed, eventually, it will not be for a lack of commitment.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

Their return to the glacier was reluctant, after their luxurious night in Vanador.  Stepping from the relatively warm clime under the great rock and into their bleak and unforgiving perch on the edge of the glacier was jarring, and a melancholy set over the group as they grimly prepared.  Nor was the weather welcoming.  A great bank of gray clouds was encroaching from the west, pregnant with snow and ice, murmuring darkly on the horizon.

“So what is the nature of this mad plan of yours?” Rondal asked, as he pulled his baculus from the snow and stowed it in a hoxter. 

“It’s actually not that mad,” Tyndal argued, as he pulled the supply wand out of his belt.  “In fact, it is based on one of the configurations the Beast is capable of.  We just didn’t have access to the proper attachments.”

“Wings?” Rondal asked, skeptically, looking out over the great slope.

“Skis,” Tyndal supplied, as he triumphantly conjured them onto the snow. 

There were four of them, each wider and longer than one of the great tires that supported the Beast.  They had a superstructure of steel, with a base of highly polished wood. 

“The original plans showed them as an option for arctic expeditions,” he explained, proudly.  “They spread out the weight of the vehicle over a wider area, allowing the pilot to traverse over deep snow pack.  The two rear wheels are used for power and steering,” he said, as if reciting one of the ancient records word for word.”

Rondal stared at him in stunned disbelief.  “So you want to send us hurtling down this slope, on top of the snow, with no way to control our velocity and no real way to stop,” he stated, cooly.  “That’s your plan.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Tyndal insisted, persuasively.  “Belsi is configured to run in this mode.  She even had schematics in her archive.  These are almost exactly the same ones built for the originals, only the skids are made of wood and not . . . whatever fancy material the ancients originally used.  But I had them enchanted over at the bouleuterion after they were made – just a little spell to reduce the coefficient of static friction over the snow.  A smith, a carpenter and an enchanter worked through the night on these – at Minalan’s expense,” he added.  “So I paid them double for a speedy delivery.”

“You are remarkably generous with other people’s money,” Rondal agreed, with a smirk.

“And if you notice, that slope fades into a field that doesn’t have any trees or rocks that are visible,” he added.  “We should be able to find purchase with the wheels enough to stop . . . or at least control our path a little.”

“This is a very stupid plan,” Rondal objected.

“This is a very stupid plan that could very well work,” Tyndal corrected, as he began to place the skids in front of the tires.  “We’ll have to be careful – as much as we can be – but there is a very definite chance this could work.”

“As well as a very definite chance it could kill us all,” Rondal answered, with a frown. 

“The Beast is built to handle a tremendous amount of abuse,” Tyndal argued.  “It was designed to work in a wide variety of very harsh environments.  It can take a lot of punishment.  As long as we’re safely strapped in, we should be fine.”

“I find your lack of certainty a little disturbing,” Rondal admitted, anxiously.  “Ishi’s tits, Tyn, there has to be a better way!”

“I am open to suggestions,” Tyndal agreed.  “But until you can come up with one, this is our only way off of this glacier . . . unless you want to give up the quest,” he challenged.  Tyndal knew how much Rondal had enjoyed the previous night’s comfort, and the feeling of security he had being in familiar surroundings.  He knew the temptation was strong to declare their mission done and admit failure and go home to his wife’s embrace and dubious cooking skills. 

But he also knew his friend well enough to understand how he would react to such a challenge.  Rondal was highly conscientious, and giving up on a mission he knew he could have completed was not in his nature.  Nor was he one to throw up his hands at encountering an imposing obstacle.  Not when Tyndal was willing to go forward.  The suggestion that he was had a predictable effect on his friend.

“Of course not,” Rondal snapped.  “Not when we are so close.”  He took a long moment to peer down the path the Beast would take, once they began their descent.  “And we probably won’t go as fast as I fear we will.  That thing is fairly heavy, after all.”

“More than ten tons,” Tyndal agreed as he placed the last skid.  “But if its spread out sufficiently, there’s little danger of disturbing the snow under us, allowing us to gracefully glide down the slope until we gently regain control,” he proposed.  “Now let me pull this thing forward onto the skis and lock the wheels.  Then I have to put the supports and the safety chains on.  Those cost extra,” he added.

Within ten minutes, the front four wheels of the Beast were settled securely on the skis, locked into place.  The rear wheels still turned, and would serve as a kind of tiller, after Belsi adjusted the suspension.  Tyndal had been enchanted by the idea since he’d first come across it during his search for an answer to their dilemma.  They were stuck on top of a snow hill.  They wanted to get down.  Skis seemed a natural solution.

“This will work,” he insisted confidently to Rondal, as he took his seat in the pilot’s chair.  “The Kasari do this sort of thing all the time, up in the Bransei hills.”

“They strap them on their feet, not on their wagons,” Rondal said, grimly, as he fastened his full safety harness on.  “And they have poles to control their descent.” 

He turned around to check to see if the gurvani were fully strapped in.  Tyndal had been surprised how quickly they had adapted to the strange tekka of the marvelous machine, but once he’d shown them how to employ the strap system, they did it as a matter of habit, now.  Resh and Cheshtan had continuously surprised him with their intelligence and observations.  The language barrier could be frustrating at times, but they had performed as well as a human could have, once they understood something.

In fact, they were completely reasonable fellows, he’d found.  That had surprised him, too.  So reasonable, in fact, that they had harsh expressions of profound anxiety on their faces as they started to realize what Tyndal was about to do.

“Relax!” he encouraged everyone.  “Ron, you’ve ridden on the back of a giant hawk, before.  You’ve scaled tall buildings before.  You’ve charged a godsdamned dragon before.  You married Gatina.  This is not even close to the most dangerous thing you’ve done.”

“Yet it might be my last,” Rondal said, with a resigned sigh.  “Fortune favors the foolish, it is said.  What could possibly go awry?”

“Let’s find out!” Tyndal said, with a grin, as he pushed the Beast forward.  Propelled only by the two rear wheels, it took a moment to go forward, and it seemed to do so sluggishly, at first.  But then Tyndal felt the big machine begin to glide, and the sensation sent a tingle up his spine.  “It’s working!” he laughed.  “We’re moving!”

He felt Rondal tense up as the Beast rumbled over the last few yards to the crest of the slope.  The nose of the vehicle paused for a moment, then the entire hull tipped, smacking the wooden skis onto the top of the snowpack.  The rear wheels cut in and pushed it, and then they were gliding again.

It was magical, in a purely mundane sort of way.  Tyndal had little control over the descent, but he didn’t really need much control – gravity was doing all the work.  The Beast picked up speed as it evened out its place over the snow, and within moments they were moving far faster than they ever had using just the wheels.

And then even faster.  And faster.

Tyndal’s mood turned from jubilant to concerned to anxious to terrified in a matter of moments.  The rumble of the skis underneath shook the entire cabin, and the little drifts of snow that seemed so inconsequential from far away suddenly lifted and lowered the entire Beast into the air or hard onto the surface as their velocity increased.  Soon it felt more like he was falling than he was speeding, and his heart pounded in his chest.

But they were getting down the mountain.

“What’s that?” Resh called from the back seat.  The rumble was increasing in volume, shaking the entire hull as they flew down the slope.  The gurvan’s pointed ears twitched as he cocked his head.  “What’s that sound?  Behind us?”

Tyndal slapped the rear display, but he saw nothing – just snow, the trail of their passage, and the thin cloud of snowspray they left in their wake.  Until he realized that the trail was disappearing, as the snow it was made in crumbled.  It was on the move, Tyndal realized with horror.  Indeed, they all saw it at the same time and recognized it for what it was.  Just then, the Beast hit a particularly prominent snowbank and launched itself briefly into the air.

“Purzalka” screamed Cheshtan.

“Snowslide!” barked Resh.

“Avalanche!” yelled Tyndal and Rondal in unison.

Tyndal was completely powerless.  They were moving far too fast for the rear wheels to do more than suggest a direction – half the time they were barely touching the snow.  The hull was careening wildly, far to quickly for the automatic pneumatic suspension to compensate for.  But the vibration implicit in the descent was compounded by the growing roar coming from behind.  It was a wall of death spawned of an unholy marriage of gravity and snow.

But Tyndal gripped the horns of the yoke manfully, doing his best to keep the Beast moving straight, lest she tip and roll.  That was a very real danger, he knew.  And he also suspected that, as clever as the skid system was for the vehicle, it had not been designed with this kind of travel in mind.

The avalanche was what truly concerned him, though.  He felt confident that – barring a crash – he could regain full control of the vehicle at the bottom of the slope, when if flattened out a bit.  It would strain the rear wheels to do so, he guessed, but Belsi could take it. 

But a relentless wave of snow would toss the doughty little Beast like driftwood at the seashore, he knew.  The sudden release of potential energy in the form of a dramatic repositioning of thousands of tons of snow and ice was cataclysmic.  There was no predicting what would happen if they got hit with that kind of chaotic, unrelenting force.  But he doubted they’d fare well.

Still, he gripped the horns, peering ahead with determination and ignoring his fervent desire to piss himself.  He realized that their best hope, perhaps, of avoiding being destroyed by the avalanche was to actually increase their speed, if they could, and outrun the leading edge as they reached the bottom.  That meant abandoning the gradual, slow attempt to take control of the craft when they reached more level ground.  That meant that their options for slowing or stopping would also be limited.  But he had little choice.

The last few hundred yards of their descent was filled with a wordless, terrified howl from four different throats as the companions assessed their mortality and their regrets in life.  The imposing bottom of the hill came at them with frightening speed, promising a decisive end to their descent.  But instead of braking, or even reversing the rear wheels to slow the free-falling craft, Tyndal jerked the horns to the side to take advantage of another prominent rise, just before the bottom. 

The angle of the craft jerked wildly up, and for a few glorious seconds the entire Beast was airborne again, freed, for a moment, from gravity.  Tyndal’s stomach threatened to erupt out of his throat as he braced himself for the inevitable impact.

“What are you doing?” screamed Rondal in his ear.

“Going faster!” Tyndal said, through clenched teeth, as the front skis hit the cusp of the slope dramatically.  He had no idea just how fast they were going, now, he just knew that it was faster than he had ever gone before, on any horse, bird, or ship.  They were moving faster than they would have fallen, he guessed, as he madly tried to keep control of the vehicle as it was hurled across the snowy plain. 

He glanced at the rear display again.  The wall of snow was still approaching.  There was no telling just where it would stop and how far away they would have to be to escape it.  All he could do was hang on to the horns, try to keep their course straight, and try to avoid any implacable obstacles by sheer force of will alone.

For several frozen moments they all sat, paralyzed.  Then Tyndal began to relax, his confidence returning as he realized that they would, indeed, very probably outrun the extent of the avalanche’s field of destruction.  Maybe.

But then the front skis of the Beast began to turn, and the entire craft began to slide as they hit a patch of ice.  Tyndal tried valiantly to get the rear wheels to gain purchase, but the terrain was still rough enough and they were moving at such a fast speed to make that futile.  In seconds the Beast was sliding sideways, careening into increasingly rougher territory.

Then they hit a rock protruding through the snow, and the entire hull started rolling.  All pretense at control was lost – the gods and the spirits and the unerring rules of physics were in charge of his destiny, now, Tyndal knew.  He braced himself for impact, and endured a savage pounding as their course slammed him repeatedly against his harness and against his seat.  His spine and shoulders protested mightily as he did his best to not just fly from his seat. 

The scene outside the cockpit window was a tempest of snow and sky in a rapidly rotating helix.  Debris and the contents of the interior flew wildly around them, pelting their faces and necks and arms as the Beast was tossed like a basket of eggs.  Tyndal felt something smack the side of his head before it came to a stop. 

His hands went limp on the steering yoke and all was darkness.

***

Tyndal did not know how long he was unconscious.  He just knew he hurt, everywhere.  Every limb, his head, his chest, his hips, all of it ached brutally.  He felt someone pull at his straps, and he realized he was sitting upright, with gravity restored to its normal place under him.  But then he slid back into unconsciousness. 

When he woke again, it was with the return of the pain, but augmented by the sensation of being carried.  He was outside, no longer protected by the hull of the Beast, and he was moving. He was well-wrapped in a cloak or blanket, he realized, and someone was carrying him, flat, on a stretcher of some sort.  When he opened his eyes he saw the open sky, dark gray clouds belching forth a torrent of snow into his face, like a glimpse of infinity.  He painfully turned his neck a few degrees to see who had rescued him. 

To his surprise, the face that looked down on him was not human.  It was gurvani.  And covered in golden fur.  Startled, he looked to the other side . . . and saw another golden goblin carrying him.

The strange face gave him an encouraging grin.  Tyndal lost consciousness again.

When he awoke the third time he was inside, protected from the cold.  He could smell and hear a fire nearby.  Ther was a warm blanket around him.  His pain had lessened considerably.  But it was still there when he tried to sit up. 

“Easy, now!” a familiar voice said to him, as a hand caught his chest.  It was a Tera Alon voice, one Tyndal knew well.

“Lilastien!” he gasped, as he realized who was tending to him.  “We found you!”

“Actually, we found you.” she corrected with a chuckle.  The Alka Alon woman was in her Tera Alon guise, human sized, her hair in a bun and her distinctive white coat complimented with a thick woolen scarf.  “In a beat-up Beast in the middle of the Mindens.  You four got scrambled like an egg, in there.”

“Did everyone—” he began to ask with a start.

“Everyone survived,” she assured him.  “Rondal is in the other room.  No serious injuries, just a wealth of hematoma and contusions.  You got smacked in the head by something, but it’s not quite a concussion.  It’s just going to be sore for awhile, despite the spells.  One of the gurvani had a laceration on his arm, but it was already bandaged.  The other has a broken rib.  But you all survived.”

“Good,” Tyndal said, sinking back in relief.  “I was piloting.  It was my idea.”

“To start an avalanche?” the Alka Alon sorceress asked, frowning. 

“To get down the escarpment,” he answered.  “The route on the map was blocked by snow, so we . . . improvised.”

“And nearly got yourself killed.  But that begs the question of what are you doing out here in the first place?” she asked, concerned.  “You and Rondal were the last people I expected to see.”

“We were searching for you,” he revealed, a little defensively.  “You disappeared from your laboratory and Ithalia got concerned.  So she got Minalan involved.  And then he got us involved.  She worried that agents of Sheruel had taken you.  Or Korbal.”

“Or any number of my other enemies,” she finished.  She sighed.  “Well, that was not an unreasonable assumption.  But I had my reasons for my secrecy.  And I never expected anyone to come after me.  Indeed, I took great pains to obscure my movements from scrutiny,” she grumbled.

“We wizards are a sneaky lot,” Tyndal reminded her.  “You should have expected Minalan to send someone after you, if you just vanished like that.”

“I suppose I figured he would be too busy in Farise to concern himself with me,” Lilastien admitted.  “And I was in a hurry.  Sometimes you make a mistake, when you’re in a hurry.”

“Well, once we realized that Gurkarl was involved, things became more interesting,” Tyndal explained.  “There seems to be a lot happening in Goblin country, and you wading into the middle of it was concerning.  So Minalan sent us to make certain you were safe and find out what you were up to.”

Lilastien looked guilty, Tyndal could see.  She put her hands in her coat pockets and let her shoulders slump.  “I wish he hadn’t,” she finally sighed.  “I was trying to do this without involving your folk.  But I suppose the monkeys couldn’t help messing with it.  They always do,” she said, philosophically.  “Well, since you’re here, you should stay a while and see what I’m doing.  You’re going to need some time to heal, anyway, after that tumble down the mountain.  But I need you to promise not to reveal what I’m doing here to anyone, mind-to-mind or in person,” she warned.

“Why?” Tyndal asked, confused.  “And what are you doing here?”

“Because it’s a secret, that’s why!” she said, exasperated.  “Haven’t you realized by now that when a woman wants to get away with something, she does it in secret?  That’s why I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.  Or what I was doing.  Or when I’d be back.  So I could slip back here without anyone suspecting.”

“As far as I know, we’re the only ones who do,” Tyndal admitted.  “But we’re still confused as to where ‘here’ is, and why you might want to come here.”

“Of course you are,” she nodded.  “To start with, we are in one of the outposts of a place once known as Kurtz Station.  It was a terraformation staging area for about forty years, back during the colonization,” she explained.

“We saw the note on your desk,” Tyndal nodded.  “Gareth had his CI look it up and figured it out,” he said, proudly.  “So we reasoned you were headed here, for some daft reason.”

“Crafty little bugger,” Lilastien chuckled.  “I had no idea I’d left a note behind.  Like I said, I was in a hurry. 

“But after the major terraformation efforts were completed in the western sector – modern day Alshar – this station went dormant.  The machines were moved elsewhere, for the most part, and eventually it went unmanned.”

“I still don’t understand why they put it here in the first place,” Tyndal admitted. 

“You’d have to ask the Colonial Corps of Engineers,” she shrugged.  “But probably because it’s a huge installation that left an ugly scar on the landscape, and they didn’t want to leave it just anywhere.  Or maybe because it’s on the edge of the Colonial Zone and they wanted to maintain it for monitoring purposes – which they did,” she added.  “Or maybe it was part of the Continuity of Civilization and Species doctrine – it’s hard to tell with your people,” she criticized.

“But it’s still here,” Tyndal stressed.

“It’s only partially intact,” she informed him.  “Most of it was abandoned.  It’s just one huge field of level macadam, usually covered in a layer of ice and snow.  This is where they landed shuttles from orbit and cargo flights from Perwyn without a spaceport.  But there are some underground facilities left,” she added.  “And parts of it have been very well preserved.  They’re still usable to this day.”

“Really?  Who managed to do that?” Tyndal asked.  “When we found the Cave of the Ancients, it was sealed,” he reminded her.

“So was part of this station,” Lilastien said.  “It was specially prepared to survive . . . centuries ago.  By me,” she revealed, guiltily.

“You?” Tyndal asked, in disbelief.

“There’s a reason they call me Rebel, in the Alka Alon Council,” she explained.  “I rebelled.  And rebels have secret bases.  Safe houses, if you like.  Hidden strongholds, caches of weapons, places where you can hide in safety and obscure their real plans.  This is one of mine.  So is the Tower of Refuge.  But the Alka Alon Council doesn’t know about this place.  Neither do the Enshadowed.”

“But you do,” Tyndal accused.  “How?”

“Because I was here for a little while during the Colonial Period,” she explained.  “At the time it was being used as someone else’s safe house.  But they had abandoned it by the time I had need of it, sadly.  It was a complicated time,” she said, her eyes growing soft as a memory overtook her.  “This place was very useful to me, once.  It’s far from any Waypoint, it’s about as remote as you can be on Callidore without being in the ocean or the tundra, and it’s hardened against casual observation.  There was even a military outpost here.  Colonial Defense Force,” she added, proudly, for some reason.

She sounded half-mad, to Tyndal’s ears.  Her eyes shifted relentlessly across the room as she spoke, and she seemed jumpy.  But she continued.

“The Tower of Refuge was also my hidden fortress, but the Council knew about it.  When I accepted internal exile and house arrest, I chose to do my time there.  But they never learned about Kurtz Station.  Or else they forgot about it.  I didn’t.  So I was able to hide my secret here, like they did with their vault in Anghysbel.”

“Why would you need to hide secrets?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“Because they aren’t secret if you don’t hide them,” she explained, patiently.  “And some things need to be secret.  If only for a while.  That’s what the office of the Aronin is for, partially, to guard the secrets that are important to our civilization.  Your own Constructed Intelligences kept a good number of your people’s secrets.  Everyone has secrets,” she concluded.

“You’re still avoiding telling me what you’re keeping secret here,” Tyndal observed.

“I’m keeping a good many things secret here,” she agreed.  “So you’ll have to be more specific.”

“I’m curious about what your involvement is with the Golden Goblin, for one,” Tyndal decided.  “I had the strangest dream that he carried me back from the Beast.  Only . . . there was more than one.  So I think I hallucinated that,” he admitted.

Lilastien chuckled.  “Perhaps you did,” she nodded.  “Or perhaps you were being subjected to a mystical experience.  That is not uncommon, after a head injury.  And seeing double is fairly common, as well.”

“It seemed so real,” Tyndal said, shaking his head. 

Lilastien sighed.  “That’s because it is real,” she finally answered.  “I suppose I can’t hide that particular secret from you, any more.  Yes, I am involved in what you call the Golden Goblin.  Which is a particularly lurid name,” she reproved.

“It’s part of a prophecy,” he informed her.  “A gurvani prophecy.  An important one!”

“Oh, I know, dear boy,” she answered, coolly.  “And it’s more important than you can imagine.  For the gurvani, for the Alka Alon, and, oddly enough, for humanity.  The appearance of the Golden Goblin is a keystone event in a prophecy that originated centuries ago amongst the feral gurvani of the Minden foothills.  It means the ending of a great many things, and the beginning of many others.  Mythologically, it is a transformational moment that was prescribed from the most solemn of sources.  It has brought hope and despair to many generations of gurvani.”

“So, how did you meet him?” Tyndal asked.

“Meet him?” Lilastien asked, softly.  “Tyndal, I created him.  Or them, I should say.”

“Them?” Tyndal asked, confused.  Lilastien rolled her eyes, debated with herself, and then pulled the covers off of Tyndal.  She pulled him painfully to his feet, ignoring the wincing he did as she did so.  Taking him firmly by the arm, she led him out of the room and into a corridor.  Before Tyndal could ask where they were going they emerged into a room – a great hall more than thirty feet on each side. 

And it was filled with golden goblins.  Scores of them.  They stared back at him curiously, their wide black eyes half-lidded in the magelights overhead.  Then he spotted Rondal sitting in their midst.

“That’s them,” Lilastien said, with manic insistence, but also with immense pride.  “Tyndal, I like to introduce you to the Gorod Alon.  The Golden Goblins, you would say.  And, so far, my finest professional achievement.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Sorceress’ Secret

Being married to a wife whose legacy is a host of secrets, some centuries-old, has demonstrated to me the importance and value of keeping secrets.  It is not a comfortable position, for me, because I tend to prefer honesty and forthrightness in my affairs.  But Gatina assures me that she admires that in me, despite her teasing about my squeamish nature.  I assume that is because that makes me a more gullible husband.  But I have, indeed, come to appreciate the value of keeping secrets in life.  At least as long as they need to be kept. 

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

Rondal had a hard time believing that he was seated in a crowd of bright, golden furred gurvani who were, some of them, taller than he was.  Indeed, the entire experience was surreal. 

The golden gurvani were not just different in color, their entire physiology was different.  They walked with a different gait, they had a different posture, their heads were of a different proportion to the normal gurvani.  Most were as large as the maragorku warriors that were the elite of Sheruel’s fighting force. 

Their shoulders were broader, he noted, and their faces were flatter.  Their ears were smaller and closer to their head.  Their big black eyes remained, only they seemed more soulful, somehow.

And they all spoke Narasi, Rondal quickly learned.  It was a little overwhelming.

He’d stumbled out of bed not ten minutes before, desperate for a chamberpot.  He had no idea where he was, or who had rescued him, or where his companions had ended up.  Then he took a left turn and found himself in a sea of golden fur.

“Are you all right, human?” one of them asked in passable Narasi.

“He looks pretty pale,” another one observed.  “He’s one of the ones they brought in yesterday.  Found them out in the wastes.”

“Poor thing,” clucked a female, who petted Rondal’s hair like he might a dog.  Rondal was startled.  He was used to gurvani females being ugly, to his sensitivities, a misshapen caricature of femininity.  But this one was surprisingly elegant, he saw.  She brushed away a lock of hair from his eyes with a soft fingertip.  “Are you all right?” she echoed, concerned.

“I’m . . . I’m fine,” Rondal stuttered, as he struggled to answer.  “Just . . . very, very confused.”

“Well, you’re just a human, aren’t you?” she chuckled.  Despite her low and gravelly voice it wasn’t the unpleasant cackle Rondal expected from a normal gurvani female.  “Of course you’re confused!”

“Are they friends of Adrian?” one asked, curiously.

“The Adrian?” Rondal asked, suddenly intrigued.  “Is the Adrian real?” he asked.

That brought a chorus of laughs from the strange gurvani, for no reason that Rondal could see.  It was as if they all enjoyed a joke he was not privy to.

“It would be best to ask . . . her,” one of the taller males said, pointing a golden arm at the doorway.  Rondal looked up, startled, when he saw Tyndal standing there . . . with Lilastien.

The reunion that followed was a little chaotic, as the two caught Tyndal up on what had happened since the avalanche.

“Lilastien was just explaining to me about these fellows,” Tyndal said, casually, as he gestured to the golden gurvani. 

“I started to,” the sorceress agreed, “but I figured I’d find you and tell you both at once.  It’s a bit of a long story,” she said.  “Perhaps we should make some tea.”

Ten minutes later they were in a simple room that appeared to be her quarters and office.  Three different tables were spread with sheafs of parchment, and her CI module lay atop a stack of folios. 

“I suppose I should begin at the beginning . . . or at least the beginning of this particular secret,” she began, as she poured water into a kettle and heated it with magic.  “It starts long before I was born, when my people first came to Callidore from Alonaral.  As you both know, they brought the rest of the Alon with them.”

“As slaves,” Rondal pointed out.

“Servants,” she corrected, as she added tea to the pot from a sachet.  “They were quasi-independent sub-species, not slaves.  But your point is well-taken,” she sighed.  “They were dependent on us, and we on them.  My people have always taken a particularly condescending attitude with the other Alon.  It’s in our nature.

“But then we started to meddle with them,” she continued, as she poured the hot water into the pot.  “We made each of them better, more useful to us and to each other.  Or, at least, that’s what we told ourselves.  More candidly, we abused them damnably, in the most evil of ways.  Both us and the Enshadowed,” she explained. 

“We were aware of most of this,” Tyndal agreed, as she poured each of them a cup.

“Well, growing up I didn’t think much of it.  The Alka were the Alka and the rest of the Alon were . . . well, they weren’t Alka.  So I didn’t think about them much.  Until I started studying alien species, and then I saw what we had done with fresh eyes.  How we convinced ourselves that our practical-minded ‘guidance’ was always, ultimately, for our benefit.  How we abandoned or even suppressed various Alon factions or families or tribes for our purposes, without regard to their interests.  And that led me to seeking out our most secret histories.  The ones that concerned those changes, when we first came to Callidore.  I used my academic credentials to explore them.”

“So what did you find?” Rondal prompted, as he sipped his tea.  “Something dark and horrific?”

“So many things like that it shames me for my people,” she confessed, looking down.  “Entire subspecies were eliminated, after we came here.  Allowed to languish without help until they perished, or sometimes actively driven extinct.  My people are not bloodthirsty, but they know how to run a genocide,” she said, shaking her head sadly.

“So, many centuries ago, I let my moral indignation get the best of me.  I started investigating how I could restore the old lines – very casually, at first, and in secret, because that sort of thing is permitted only if authorized by the full Council – and nobody wanted to do that.  And in Alkan society, when you don’t have a consensus, things don’t get done.

“I pursued my work in secret, instead.  That is, until your people fell out of the sky, and I was recruited to learn about the strange new monkey people who liked boats and instrumental jazz.  That was a far more pressing – and, I daresay, exciting – field of study, and for the most part I abandoned my work.  But I never forgot about it.  Not for centuries.”

“So this is what the ancestors of the gurvani looked like?” Rondal asked.  “Golden goblins?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Lilastien said, shaking her head.  “Don’t mistake me, they’re still gurvani, still genetically descended from the root stock of the race . . . mostly.  But thanks to a wonderfully sophisticated bit of enchantment Minalan created for me, I had the opportunity to not just regress the gurvani, using Transgenic Enchantment, but to give them some recompense for the humiliation and oppression they had suffered under Alkan ‘guidance’,” she sneered.  “I didn’t just make a better gurvan.  I made the gurvani . . . better.”

Tyndal and Rondal exchanged uncomfortable glances.  “You’re going to have to explain that, I’m afraid,” Tyndal said, after clearing his throat.

“I took a few liberties,” Lilastien admitted, casually.  “Blame it on my madness, after Anghysbel, but to be candid my alien memories are what convinced me to make the attempt.  I have a far more subtle understanding of genetics, now, and thanks to Minalan I have the perfect tool to express that understanding with unbelievable control,” she boasted.  “I made Carmella a Malkas Alon,” she revealed, proudly.  “Not only that, I made her a hot and sexy Malkas Alon.  That takes vision!” she assured, a little too emphatically.

“So you turned that same vision on the gurvani,” Rondal reasoned.

“I wanted to repair the damage that had been done, and repay them for their millennia of service,” she explained, as she sipped her tea.  “All completely against the will of the Council, of course – they would be scandalized.  But when I decided to commit to finishing my research, I realized that I wasn’t limited to mere regression.  I wasn’t even limited to using exclusively Alon genetic material.  So I . . . used a little artistic interpretation.”

“How so?” Rondal asked.  He only partially understood what she was talking about – Transgenic Enchantment was something Dara might be familiar with, but he was largely a stranger to it.

“Well, for a start, I gave them longer lives,” she began.  “The Gorod Alon will live for four hundred years or more, not forty.  They are physically larger than common gurvani.  They have a higher bone density, greater musculature, greater fat deposits to encourage durability, better eyesight and hearing, better olfactory senses, a more acute sense of balance, a more robust circulatory system, stronger skeletal structure, greater lung capacity – I took a lot of inspiration from the Kilnusk,” she revealed. 

“That’s where the golden hair comes from!” Tyndal burst out, in realization.

“That’s what I started with,” she agreed.  “But it’s more sophisticated than that.  Their fur is photoreactive.  If the light is bright enough, then it is golden.  At night, it turns black. 

“But my best work had to be on their central nervous and limbic systems,” she continued.  “That’s where I borrowed from a lot of Alka Alon genetics.  I gave them our adrenal and pineal systems, for one thing, as well as boosting the thyroids’ efficiency dramatically.  Which is why the Alka Alon can walk around naked in a snow storm

“And that is something that has always been forbidden: muck around with the client species all you want, but don’t pollute our good Alkan genes with the lesser species.  It’s undignified, or something,” she sniffed.  “But that allowed me to grant them the gift of rajira.  Now, instead of only a small proportion of gurvani having it, all of the Gorod Alon will have it.  Each and every one of them will be able to practice magic.”

“But what kind?” Tyndal asked.  “Gurvani?  Alka Alon?  Imperial?”

“Probably some combination of all of them,” she decided.  “This first lot was my test population.  Twenty volunteers, mostly shamans or warriors who followed Gurkarl’s  doctrines.  I began the transformations about a year ago, after we returned from the Anghysbel exhibition and Minalan gave me my new toy.”

“So you’ve been sneaking away to breed your own gurvani in your secret lab?” Rondal asked, a bit appalled by the idea.

“More or less,” mumbled Lilastien.  “They all volunteered for it.  I found I could slip away up here for a week or so, administer the new version of the enchantment, and learn what changes needed to be made for the next iteration.  There was a lot of trial and error involved, despite how fine a tool I had to work with.  And the Gorod Alon were very good sports about it,” she praised.  “They knew what my intentions were, and they gladly participated.  Some even considered it a holy destiny, thanks to that prophecy.  But the process was essentially the same one I used to help create the giant hawks and the overlarge hounds Minalan needed,” she reminded them.

“Only you’re doing it with people,” Tyndal reasoned.

“I’ve done it with people before,” Lilastien pointed out, gesturing to herself.  “I was the one responsible for the original Tera Alon treansgenic template, back during the Colonial Period.  It was better, I thought, than using the old warrior forms.  Those were too reactive and prone to unfortunate fits of hysterical strength and paranoia.  The adrenal response is far too pronounced.  The Tera Alon version was much better suited to Alon-humani relations.”

“A fair point,” Rondal conceded, after consideration.  “But that’s something that you did to yourself, for your own benefit.  It’s something you’re doing to the gurvani,” he accused.

“If you suddenly had a chance to quadruple your lifespan, would you take it?” Lilastien asked, pointedly.  “If you could suddenly be twice as smart, would you consider it?  The Alka Alon bred the gurvani to be disposable.  I enchanted the Gorod Alon to be durable – as tough as dwarves, as wise as the Alkans.”

“So you just created a goblin super-soldier,” Tyndal observed, dryly.  “However can we thank you?”

“They aren’t really goblins any more,” Lilastien argued.  “They’re more like cousins of the gurvani, now.  They don’t have the same psychological and biological pressures on them that made them so susceptible to manipulation.”

“And yet here you are manipulating them,” Rondal said, flatly.

“For their own good!  And with a great deal of their input!” she insisted.  “This was not done lightly, fellows.  I face capital punishment for this temerity, once the Council finds out about it,” she predicted.  “And if the Emissary from the High Kings learns of it . . . well, he is empowered to order a genocide to ‘correct’ my error,” she said, sourly.

“He wouldn’t dare!” Tyndal said, his nostrils flaring. 

“They’ve done it before,” Lilastien assured him.  “Like a farmer plucking a weed.  He wouldn’t think twice about it, if he disapproves.”

“But . . . but then why did you do it before he came?” Rondal asked, confused.  “Your notes demonstrated that you knew when he would be here, approximately,” he pointed out.  “That means you planned to do this before he came.”

“That’s right,” she agreed.  “Because I don’t plan on hiding the Gorod Alon from the Emissary.  That would defeat my purpose.  I’m going to force him and the Council to come to terms with our shameful past and accept them,” she proposed, boldly.  Rondal thought her eyes looked a bit unsteady.  Almost maniacal.

“But you said yourself that you feared he would just order them . . . eliminated,” Tyndal reminded her.  “What makes you think he won’t?”

“Two things,” Lilastien said, taking a deep breath.  “First, that treaty with Minalan that Ashakarl signed did one very important thing: it placed the sovereignty of the Goblin King under the purview of the Count Palatine of the Magelaw.”

“Why should a human legalism matter to the gurvani?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Because if the gurvani enjoy a de facto role under a human government hierarchy, then Minalan can object to any harm befalling his subjects. Such as a genocide. It wouldn’t just be an international incident, it would be an interspecies incident – and an invitation to war,” she warned.

“And Minalan would, indeed, get bothered if someone spoke to one of his pet Tal Alon harshly,” Tyndal nodded.  “But could he really go to war against the Alka Alon High Kings?  Could he?”

“Five years ago, I would have said no,” Lilastien said, thoughtfully.  “He was a good adept, don’t mistake me, but he was screwing around with irionite and snowstone and figuring out how to defend against dragons and kill goblins at scale.

“But now?  Since he returned from Anghysbel with his new memories – his madness,” she clarified, “he also understands realms of magic that the Alka Alon think are only theoretical  Dimensional magic, necromancy, even divine magic – and that scares nine hells out of them,” she assured.  “When Minalan started befriending gods, and, worse yet, getting them to be persistent, he changed the balance of arcane power.  He made himself a far more powerful enemy, for one thing. 

“But he was also smart enough to claim some actual secular power, too,” she continued.  “His position as Count Palatine and Marshal Arcane gives him diplomatic standing . . . and he’s one of the few humani who understand that properly.  He could, indeed, take any issue he has up with the High Kings themselves.  And the bastard has the balls to do it, too!” she declared.

“Well, no argument there,” Rondal conceded. 

Minalan was, after all, a very prideful and very subtle wizard.  He took his role as the guardian of humanity very seriously, particularly when it came to relations with the Alka Alon.  They had a history, he knew.  From the very beginning, when Minalan had first met the Aronin back in Boval Vale, he had been subject to the manipulations of the Fair Folk . . . and he resented it.  Minalan knew he needed the Alka Alon Council’s help in order to fight the war against Sheruel and Korbal, but he had never forgotten how callously they had used humanity.

“You said there were two things stopping him,” Rondal continued. 

Lilastien paused, and studied him for a moment.  Despite her crazy-looking eyes, he could feel her discernment pass over him like a magic spell. 

“The second factor is the Gorod Alon, themselves.  They won’t let themselves be exterminated.  Not lightly.  And now that they have rajira and are learning how to use it effectively, they’re going to be much, much harder to fight than the regular gurvani, even when Sheruel was directing them.  They have the Alka Alon style of synchronicity, for example,” she informed them.  “They can act in perfect unison in just about any situation, compounding their efforts by perfect, flawless cooperation.

“And they have been learning magic,” she added, softly.  “They have spent months mastering it, far more efficiently than a human does.  They are learning to combine their powers.  They are exploring the possibilities with their own style of songspells.  Some are even learning more advanced sorcery, and at an impressive level.  In a few more months they will be as adept as any human mage, and likely some Alkan sorcerers,” she said proudly. 

“That’s all very fine, I suppose, but there are only a few of them, aren’t there?” Tyndal probed.

“Just over a hundred, at the moment,” Lilastien agreed.  “I think we finally have the final genetic template we wanted.  There’s still plenty of room for refinement, and the chance of some unfortunate side-effects, but I’m pretty happy with the results.  More importantly, so are the Gorod Alon.  Their council approved using the present incarnation of the spell to spread to others.”

“Well, that’s going to keep you busy for a while,” snorted Tyndal.  “There are hundreds of thousands of gurvani.”

“The spell is simple enough, once you understand it, for the Gorod themselves to cast it,” she revealed.  “When they finally leave this fortress they will be able to transform their fellows on their own, without my assistance.  But only those they find worthy,” she added.  “The ones who have well and truly embraced the sadistic elements of Sheruel’s philosophy, will be excluded.”

“Well, how do you test for that?” Rondal objected.  “Walk up to them and ask politely, ‘excuse me, but are you evil?’”

“It’s not as hard as you think,” Lilastien considered.  “In fact, the Gorod have been discussing just that matter for weeks, now.  They understand the importance of offering their transformation only to those who deserve it – or at least excluding it from those who don’t deserve it.  They have no trouble putting a moral condition on their work.  Thankfully, cruelty and selfishness are difficult to hide, if you’re looking for them.  They’re developing as series of rites – think of them as trials – that will help weed out those who would abuse their more powerful new selves.”

“So you’re making a gurvani elite,” Rondal reasoned.

“I’m giving the gurvani the opportunity to evolve into a better, more durable form,” she argued.  “The point is to uplift as many of the strongest ones as possible and give them the advantage of a better body . . . and the possibility of a longer, better life.  And yes, I realize that this will lead to the bifurcation of the species,” she confessed.  “There will be the common gurvani, who were found unworthy of being raised, and there will be the Gorod Alon, who will wisely see their people into a new age without Alkan guidance.”

Rondal stared at her.  “Lilastien, what does ‘gorod’ mean?” he asked, suspecting he already knew the answer.

“Noble,” the sorceress reluctantly answered, realizing his trap.

Rondal sniffed.  “Well, nothing elitist about that, is there?” he asked.

“I understand your point, Rondal,” she said, after a moment’s thought.  “And I don’t entirely disagree with you.  I am making them elite, compared to their original stock. 

“But I’m also giving them a chance,” she pointed out.  “I am giving them some power back over their own destinies, without being ordered about by vicious undead or smarmy Alka Alon lords.  I gave them the biological tools – it is up to the Gorod to decide how to use those tools to express their new culture.  But I wager it won’t continence genocide,” she predicted.  “Or eating the flesh of other intelligent beings.  Indeed, the Gorod are inherently more peaceful than the gurvani.  More rational.  Less prone to impulsive and risky behavior.  Their intelligence goes up dramatically, and they can conceive of other means of action than smashing something in the head with a club.”

“Well, that’s an improvement,” Tyndal agreed.

“I remain ambivalent about it, from a moral perspective,” Rondal argued.  “Though I admit it’s murky territory.  And I’m starting to appreciate just why you kept it secret.”

“It was the only choice,” she agreed, nodding gravely.  “I couldn’t even tell Minalan, though I hinted broadly enough that I suspect he guessed.  If he didn’t officially know, then he couldn’t officially take action.”

“But if he unofficially suspected, he sent his two dashing young idiots off to investigate,” Tyndal concluded, cheerfully.  “A subtle plan,” he praised.

“I still don’t see how a hundred Gorod Alon are going to resist the might of the Alka Alon by themselves,” Rondal objected.  “Or even with Minalan’s help and protection.  You’ve said yourself that the High Kings don’t care much about humanity, much less their vassal species.”

“They don’t and they don’t,” Lilastien agreed.  “Which is why the only way I see to move forward is to ensure that there are so many Gorod Alon in the Mindens that there will be no effective way to contain them and eliminate them,” she revealed.  “If we can manage that before the Emissary arrives, then he won’t be able to do anything without making an even bigger mess.”

“What happens if a Gorod Alon breeds with a common gurvani?” Tyndal asked.

“Tyndal!” Rondal gasped, disgusted at just how quickly Tyndal’s mind was drawn to sex. 

“It’s a valid question,” Lilastien assured, solemnly.  “The fact is, we don’t know.  They’ve only been around for a few months, after all, and the two species are, indeed, genetically compatible.  I did take certain steps to mitigate crossbreeding, but . . . you know, birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it . . .”

“Won’t that cause problems?” Tyndal asked.  “As well as some very wild parties?”

“Of course it will,” Lilastien snapped.  “It always does.  The Alka Alon hate that sort of thing.  It’s untidy and can lead to dangerous outliers that they can’t anticipate.  They’re already completely scandalized by the Tera Alon casually breeding with humans – you should have seen the reaction when Fallawen married Sire Ryff and had his children!” she cackled. 

“They really object that strongly to . . . to babies?” Rondal asked.

“When they don’t come from the right set of parents, yes.  No appreciation for genetic diversity,” she sneered.  “What Varen is doing right now with Taren is being openly condemned in council.  Onranion has a reputation for being an utter disreputable rogue, for all the bastards he’s left in Sevendor, and the Tera Alon are breeding with each other in Vanador and the stuffy bastards on the Council can barely stand it that they’ve lost so much control over such things.”

“It sounds like the Emissary of the High Kings is going to have his hands full,” Rondal predicted.

“He’s going to be utterly appalled by this.  And that is perfectly fine.  Indeed, it is the crux of my plan – one of my plans,” she corrected.  “I need to demonstrate the moral disaster that my people’s policies have caused, and show them what is needed to demonstrate our level of contrition,” she pronounced.

Rondal frowned.  “That doesn’t seem to be the opinion of most of the Council,” he pointed out.

“That’s why you build a consensus,” she reasoned.  “Believe me, the bulk of the Alka Alon simply do not care, as long as the chores get done.  The few that do care tend to be passionate about it . . . and are considered marginal, the way we reckon things.  The issue of the other Alon has always been a point of contention, in our politics.  Not everyone considers their fate to be of little consequence.  But convincing everyone else to confront the issue has always been difficult.  It’s much easier to just ignore the problem, forget the history, and pretend that everyone is perfectly happy with the way things are.”

“You just described every political issue, everywhere,” Rondal observed, shaking his head.

“Exactly,” Lilastien nodded, wearily.  “I could be a good Alka Alon and just make a few passionate speeches at the right parties and quietly persuade another few Alkans to pay attention to the morality of the situation, regardless of how bad it made them feel . . . or I could do something so radical and spectacular that they are forced to confront the issue.  Humanity taught me that sometimes the best way to get something done is to take a good healthy metaphorical dump in the middle of the party.”  That made the boys chuckle.

“So that’s your plan with the Gorod Alon,” Rondal nodded.  “Interesting.  But I can’t help but wonder whether what you’re doing isn’t just another attempt by the Alka Alon to meddle with the other Alon for their own purposes.  By transforming the gurvani into the Gorod, aren’t you basically doing the same bloody thing that you’re upset about?  What does Gurkarl think of this?”

Lilastien looked pained at the accusation, but nodded.  “A legitimate point.  I know I risk hypocrisy, here, and I don’t deny that I am motivated in part by wanting to humiliate the smug bastards in Council who think there’s nothing wrong with what we have done over the millennia.  I’ve given a lot of deep thought and introspection to the matter, and you may well be correct.

“But as for what Gurkarl thinks about all this . . . well, firstly, he was my very first subject for this experiment.  He was the original Golden Goblin.  So if you want his thoughts on the matter . . . let’s go ask him.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Gorod Alon

I have always heard that ‘when the gods fail, magic intervenes’ as a common maxim of my craft.  It is often considered a conceit of the magi that we can repair the oversights of the gods, fix their mistakes, and re-make our universe to better reflect our desire.  I choose to see it as a willingness to rise to the challenges Nature and the divine have laid in front of us, with magic being but one potent tool in our arsenal to contend with the trials the divine considers important to our growth as a species and as a man. Of course, that’s likely what any wizard would say when confronted with the results of a particularly powerful spell that may go disastrously wrong.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

Lilastien led them through the labyrinthine corridors of the ancient station and into a section that was not nearly as well-kept as where the Gorod Alon were living.  Tyndal thought it might have been an old maintenance bay, or similar workshop.  There were a few unrecognizable old tools still lingering around the place.

But in a far corner of the cavernous chamber they found Gurkarl working diligently at a normal forge.  As they approached him Tyndal saw that he was working on one of the distinctive weapons he’d seen the Gorod Alon carrying: a kind of spear-axe with a wide blade that tapered gracefully toward the haft, like a leaf to a stem. 

The goblin looked up at them, startled at the interruption, then replaced the blade into the glowing forge.

“If it isn’t the Ugliest Maid in Castal,” Tyndal quipped, as he embraced his friend.

“You two were the last ones I expected to see out here,” he grinned, embracing Rondal in turn.  “What madness possessed you to come into this desolation?”

“Minalan suggested that Lilastien was in trouble,” Rondal explained.  “We couldn’t take the chance that Korbal or Sheruel had taken her.  So . . . we took a little break from marital bliss and went on this excursion.  We’re gratified she remains safe.”

“We’re a bit curious about her secret army of super goblins, however,” Tyndal said.  “We’ve met the Gorod Alon.  They’re quite impressive.”

“But we were wondering about whether or not you approved . . . and why,” Rondal finished.  “Isn’t this just more interference with the gurvani?”

Gurkarl looked up at the sorceress, as if for permission, before he spoke.

“A good question,” he admitted.  “Do you know what I was working on?” he asked, removing the blade from the forge once again with his tongs and placing it on the anvil.  The steel glowed bright orange with the heat of the forge.  “This is what we’re calling a kopach,” he informed them.  “The tradition weapon of the gurvani warrior is properly called a toyaga – that’s the ceremonial club, usually made of stone or iron.”

“Yes, we’re familiar with them,” Tyndal reminded him.  “We’ve both been hit with them repeatedly.”

“They’re particularly harsh on kneecaps,” Rondal agreed.

“Only because you humani are too godsdamned tall,” Gurkarl snorted.  “They’re used because they are cheap to make, require minimum skill to wield, and if they break . . . well, you’ve only lost a rock and a stick,” Gurkarl pointed out.  “They are disposable weapons.  As are the gurvani,” he said, thoughtfully. 

“This, on the other hand, is the weapon designed for the Gorod Alon’s larger stature,” he said, pulling a finished weapon from where it was leaning against a wall and showing it to them.  “It is a fine weapon – steel, both blade and haft, designed to cut, slash, thrust, and guard.  It takes a good smith to make one, and it requires hours at the forge.  It has a counterweight that makes it perfectly balanced,” he said, showing the perfectly smooth ball of steel on the butt of the weapon.  “That can be used as a mass weapon, too.  In the hands of a well-trained Gorod Alon warrior it is a dangerous and precise.” 

To demonstrate, he took the strange spear and went into a guard position, then glided into a thrust, a block, a slash and back into guard.  It looked a little oversized in the gurvan’s hands, but Gurkarl managed admirably.

“Now,” he continued . . . which would you prefer to carry in battle?  The toyaga?  Or the kopach?”

“The kopach,” Tyndal answered, at once.  “Those clubs are bothersome, but they aren’t particularly effective.  But I’d likely be dead a dozen times over if you scrugs were armed with these,” he admitted.  “It’s like a halberd, or a bill.”

“It isn’t just a weapon, it’s a tool,” Gurkarl explained.  “The broad blade can be used as a shovel to cut through the soil.  The steel haft is strong enough to pry rocks out of the ground without breaking.  The wide, heavy blade can be used as an axe to cut down trees and shape wood.  The point can be used in hunting.  And once it is balanced properly, it can even be thrown,” he pointed out.  “It is a far more expensive, far more useful tool than a mere club.”

“I understand,” Rondal nodded, “but I don’t see your point.”

Gurkarl replaced the weapon against the wall and took up his tongs again.  “The gurvani get used by the Alka Alon because we are useful . . . and disposable.  We are strong but we are brittle.  We are like the toyaga: useful for one thing, and not particularly good for anything else.

“But when Lilastien granted us this opportunity, it is the chance to make us strong and resilient . . . and far more valuable.  Both to the Alka Alon, and to ourselves.”

“Why would you want to remain being useful to the Alka Alon?” Rondal asked, confused.  “Isn’t escaping their influence the goal of this secret plot?”

Gurkarl snorted.  “Can we escape the sunlight?  The rain?  The air that we breathe?” he asked.  “We must share this world with all the other races.  Regardless of what our future may hold, it is a certainty that the Alka Alon will remain a factor in it.  We have already seen how pointless wars of extermination are,” he reminded them.  “The goal is not to merely rebel against the Alka Alon but to redefine our relationship with them.”

“By changing who you are?” Rondal challenged.  “It took me a long time to tolerate and then appreciate the gurvani.  Largely thanks to knowing you,” he conceded.  “And while I admit that I still have my prejudices, and I find certain cultural practices disturbing and your tastes in ale, disgusting, I have learned to respect them.  And now you want to give up who you are, to spite the Alka Alon.”

“It is not out of spite that we act,” Gurkarl assured.  “It is out of desperation and despair.  We had no say in how our ancestors were . . . changed to suit the needs of the Alka Alon.  This time, we do.  Our essence does not change when we become the Gorod Alon.  It is enhanced,” he argued.  “The Alka Alon do not care what we think or how we feel because we are inconsequential to them.  By becoming the Gorod Alon, we can force them to consider us with consequence.  But we will still remain essentially gurvani.”

“It sounds as if you wish to change the very meaning of being gurvani,” Rondal proposed.

“These bodies,” he said, indicating himself with a broad claw on his chest, “are mere vessels.  Like suits of clothing, you could say, mere fleshy garments in which our souls reside.  Changing from disposable rags to something more fine and durable – and far more resilient – serves my people.  It improves our position when we go to bargain with the Alka Alon.  It gives us the fortitude and the strength to resist the lies of the Enshadowed.  It is, I believe, our only hope to reach our true potential,” he argued.

“I see what you mean,” Tyndal nodded.  “I could have remained a stable boy, had not my master recognized what I could do, and then taught me how to do it.”

“In that way Lilastien has offered us a chance no other Alkan has ever done,” Gurkarl agreed.  “I am an old gurvan, by the standards of my people, and while I am known for my wisdom, the sad fact remains that I will perish of old age all too soon.  My bones ache when I am at the forge, now, and I must rest frequently . . . because the Alka Alon decided that I am no longer useful once this frail vessel wears away.”

Gurkarl fingered a ring on his left hand that Tyndal hadn’t noticed before, as it was hidden within the gurvan’s thick black fur.  Gurvani didn’t generally wear rings, Tyndal knew, save for a few courtiers like Priviken who had adopted humani customs.  But then he whispered something, and suddenly transformed.

In an instant he grew almost a foot taller, and several inches more broad across the shoulders.  His muscles became more prominent, his fur changed to a smoother texture, though it remained black in the dark gloom of the forge, and his arms and legs were longer and more in proportion to his body. 

Tyndal was amazed.  He’d seen Transgenic Enchantment in action before, of course, with the Tera Alon and the giant hawks and giant dogs.  But it was incredible to see a stooped little gurvan become the proud, strong Gorod Alon in front of his eyes for the first time.

“This vessel is far more durable,” he said, the timbre of his voice changed.  It was just as low, but richer, Tyndal noted.  “If I have to sacrifice my old one to gain all of this, it is a sacrifice I am willing to make.”

“You’re willing to give up who you are to get a little taller?” Rondal asked, skeptically.

“It is more than that,” Gurkarl argued.  “My . . . my mind works better, now.  More importantly . . . I can use magic.”  To prove it he cast a magelight, about three inches wide, and bright.  His fur immediately changed to a golden hue.  “The Gorod Alon all have rajira.  We are learning to use it.  But I am still me,” he emphasized.  “I am no less Gurkarl just because I learn to speak another language,” he pointed out.

“Yes, I was wondering about that,” Tyndal admitted.  “How did your people –your new people – learn magic so quickly?  And Narasi?” he asked.

“As far as the magic, there were several shamans amongst the first cohort of subjects,” Lilastien explained.  “And during my first journey back here, when I was setting up the trial, I had my CI upload a tutorial on Alka Alon and Narasi language to the local terminals that still work.  They’ve been learning both languages for weeks, now.”

“Well, their Narasi is flawless,” Tyndal praised.  “I’m curious why you did that, though.”

“Because one of the ways the Alka Alon manipulate the other Alon is with language,” Lilastien explained.  “Few of the other races know it.  But Minalan understood, when he learned it.  Knowing a language brings a unique understanding to how someone thinks.”

“Is that why you taught them Narasi, too?” Rondal wondered.

“That was more of a practical consideration,” Gurkarl admitted.  “Ashakarl’s realm is already engaged in trade with the Magelaw.  That will no doubt increase over time.  We thought it best if the Gorod Alon knew how to speak directly to their neighbors.  It simplifies things.”

“They picked up both surprisingly quickly,” Lilastien praised.  “As well as some of the basic songspells – modified to suit their biology and their thaumaturgical capacities.  Within a year I predict they’ll be using magic the way my people do.  Personally, I think they’ll end up coming up with an entirely new magical system.  It will be fascinating to watch as it develops!”

Gurkarl shook his head.  “She’s always a researcher, first and foremost.”

“It’s what I’m best at,” Lilastien defended.  “But compared to where they were a few months ago, they’ve made tremendous progress in a very short time.  They outperformed my expectations.  I think it was the introduction of Kilnusk genetics . . .”

“That may have been a dangerous inclusion, unless you want them to have an aversion to humility,” Tyndal suggested.  “Those fellows are bold.”

“We will require boldness, for this experiment to survive,” Gurkarl noted.  “Lilastien’s original idea was to seed the Gorod Alon amongst the gurvani gradually, in hidden pockets beyond their notice, until we were so ubiquitous that the Alka Alon would be forced to accept us.  But now we plan to force the issue in front of their face in such a way that they will have to contend with our existence.”

“I don’t see how they could have a problem with it,” Rondal said, shaking his head.  “They already have the dwarven clans and the Tal Alon and trolls and such to live with.  What’s one more client race?”

“From the Council’s perspective – and from the perspective of the High Kings – the more voices that are heard reduces their own influence on the outcome of events,” Lilastien explained.  “Alka Alon show respect for the various dwarves because we need their technical expertise.  They have cultivated an adoration in the other races to exploit their labors, and offer praise, rather than respect to them – and very little of that.  And our magical dominance gives us both the means to enforce those customs and the status to maintain our influence.  When only a small fraction of your species can practice magic in any meaningful way, it limits how you can respond to that.”

“But if all the Gorod Alon know how to use magic, it dramatically changes the dynamic,” Gurkarl continued.  “We can treat with the Alka Alon on a more equal basis.  We become more difficult to out-live, with much longer life spans and universal magic.  And they aren’t going to like that.”

“Well, with only a hundred or so of you, even a few thousand, they still won’t really take you seriously,” Tyndal predicted. 

“I am formulating a plan to mitigate that,” Lilastien revealed, biting her lip.  “If there is a way to cast the enchantment in a broader way, rather than just individually, that could transform thousands and thousands of gurvani at once.  But I’m still working out the details.”

“That’s the prophecy!” Tyndal realized.  “The appearance of the Golden Goblin results in the sacrifice of the gurvani race, just like Resh said!”

“That’s one interpretation,” Gurkarl said, his face suddenly troubled.  “Another says it divides the gurvani race.  Another says it leads to horrific war, death, and extinction.  Reshtailian was always somewhat single-minded on that subject,” he reflected.

“You know Resh?” Tyndal asked in surprise.  It was, after all, foolish to assume that Gurkarl would know every gurvani, and the primitive tribal sort seemed remote from his circles.

Gurkarl smiled.  “And Cheshtan.  They are . . . humans would say royalty, of a sort.  The traditional heads of warrior societies, tribal chieftains responsible for thousands in their clans, both supposedly descended directly from Gurvos, and Garm before him.  Indeed, they were present the night when the urgulnosti presented the Garm toyaga – the Mace of Garm – to the assembled.  They were overcome with the importance of the relic and led their people into a disastrous war as a result.”

“Wait, you’re telling us that good old Resh and Cheshtan are important?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“Very,” Gurkarl agreed.  “They were early supporters of Ashakarl’s retreat from the Penumbra into the sacred hills.  They are important counselors to His Majesty, and very influential amongst our people, even those outside of their clans.”

“We just thought they were a band of hunters, caught in a snowstorm,” Tyndal admitted. 

“They were on what we call a veshtan luvon,” Gurkarl explained.  “A kind of sacred hunt, in which the leaders of the various tribes go on a spiritual journey together when some important matter of concern to them all is presented by the gods.  It is a custom, a ritual, from the old days.  The hunt is supposed to provide them with some metaphorical answer to their questions.”

“Then they ran into us,” Tyndal snorted.  “Your gods must have a very perverse sense of humor.”

“Don’t they all?” Gurkarl asked.  “But you must see it from their perspective: they had a collective question for the universe, and went on a hunt to get an answer.  The gods presented the two of you – whom I have spoken about in my sermons,” he revealed.

“You talk to the gurvani about us?” Tyndal asked, surprised.  “Ishi’s tits, why?”

“Because you two and your master had every reason to hate us,” Gurkarl replied, “but you showed me mercy.  You demonstrated your compassion and your kindness when it was well within your right to slay me.  You treated me with hospitality – which is sacred in my culture – and with respect.  I tell them that you are the reasons why we must re-think the insidious poison that spews from the lips of the urgulnosti priests and the cunning Enshadowed.  They told us you were ruthless killers who were determined to exterminate the gurvani.  You two proved that wrong, and I felt I had to share that tale.”

“I take it you left out that unfortunate business in Castal,” Tyndal reminded him.

“That should never be spoken of again,” Gurkarl said, firmly.  “My point was to . . . you would say ‘humanize’ you, to make you real people in their eyes, not merely implacable foes.

“So when two of the most powerful chieftains in Ashakarl’s realm, who trace their origins to the mythic age, find themselves in the same grotto with the very fellows I have spoken so frequently about, they took notice.  If they were seeking some sign from the gods, then you provided it.

“How did you appear?  In a wondrous magical wagon with nothing pulling it.  One that was a warm, safe place in the midst of a terrible storm.  You offered them food and drink and warmth when they were hungry and cold.  You did it unbidden and without request for compensation.  Your generosity and your hospitality impressed them.”

“Well, we like to set a good table,” Rondal admitted.  “But we were just being kind.”

“And you didn’t have to be,” Gurkarl pointed out.  “In doing so you validated everything I said about you, proving the truth of my words.”

“Is that why they stayed with us?” Tyndal asked.  “Because they were . . . evaluating us?”

“The chieftains have always been circumspect about the humani,” Gurkarl suggested.  “Your ways are strange and your belligerence and greed has oft wounded my people.  But they saw you as you are for themselves, when they used human slaves to feed Sheruel’s war machine.  They realized how complex you are, and what a crime it was that you be treated as animals, not people.  It offended their dignity and sense of honor to be asked to beat or slay your folk for no reason, or as cruel punishment, when they had done no individual crime worthy of such treatment.  That contributed to their rebellion against the Enshadowed, when Korbal captured Sheruel and deprived them of what they considered to be legitimate leadership.”

“It is a spiritual crisis that is infecting the gurvani,” Lilastien confirmed.  “It is articulated in many different ways, and different factions are taking different approaches to contending with it.  It springs from both the shame and regret for fighting such a pointless war, losing hundreds of thousands of gurvani lives on the one hand, as well as the guilt from the pitiless cruelty they were encouraged to mete out on their human slaves.  The gurvani are not a naturally cruel race,” she insisted.  “Their culture may seem brutal and unforgiving to you, but it isn’t evil.”

“My people are at a crossroads,” Gurkarl said, solemnly.  “Sheruel proposed that he was the answer to their plight.  I aim to provide an alternative.”

“The Black Skulls aren’t going to like that,” Rondal warned.  “Neither is Sheruel.  From what I understand he is depending on Asharkarl’s realm to provide shock troops for his wars.”

“Which means we may well go to war against him,” Gurkarl agreed, sadly.  “That would be regrettable.  But our goal is to free my people from all domination, even by the likes of Sheruel.  The Great Ghost has no business ruling over living gurvani,” he declared.  “Not when it is clear he is the fabrication of the Enshadowed, not a fulfillment of prophecy.”

“The Gorod Alon will plot their own destiny,” Lilastien affirmed.  “They will establish their independence, with Minalan’s help.  Those Kilnusk genetics you’re so worried about supply quite a bit of independent thinking and abject pride that will preclude them from bowing to any other force lightly.  These new bodies are strong.  They will not bend,” he said, resolutely.  “Neither will the society that we will forge.”

“That’s quite an ambitious undertaking,” Rondal noted.  “You’re essentially going to have to remake all of gurvani society.  At a fundamental level.  That’s going to cause a lot of problems.”

“We have a lot of problems now,” Gurkarl objected.  “Whether his purpose was good or evil, Sheruel and his priests brought hundreds of thousands of us out of the mountains and into the world.  We are being forced to adapt to our new lives, when for centuries we were mostly content with being hunters and herdsmen.  My people are confronting some very difficult issues.”

“We saw, on our tour of Kral Krebhet and environs,” Tyndal agreed, gloomily.  “They did not look entirely happy with how things turned out.”

“They are still working through the process.  It’s inevitable.  We can either grind through this transition slowly, painfully, and with great suffering or we can embrace the opportunity to change ourselves mindfully, with deliberation and alacrity.  Such a sudden change will be shocking, we know.  But we think a revolution is preferable to evolution, if the latter threatens our doom.”

“Perhaps that will be enough to persuade Resh and Cheshtan,” Tyndal suggested.  “They do seem quite proud.  And their sacred hunting quest makes sense, now.  They wanted to come see the Adrian,” he explained.  “Probably to get some clarification of the prophecy, or something.”

“That is where they are right now,” Gurkarl agreed. 

“What?  The Adrian actually exists?” Rondal asked, skeptically.  “I figured he was a myth.”

“A legend,” Tyndal corrected.  “Some mysterious human wizard who has been lurking around the Mindens for a few centuries, popping up and granting wishes or giving advice or something.  They were a little murky on the details.”

“Legends are like that,” Gurkarl nodded.  “Adrian is very real, however.  Though he might think calling him a wizard is a little insulting.”

“Doesn’t he use some sort of magic?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“Oh, certainly – Imperial magic, Alka Alon, he probably even knows a little gurvani magic.  Almost certainly,” Gurkarl decided.  “He has been instrumental in teaching the Gorod Alon magic.  But he dislikes being referred to as a wizard.  Adrian is much more than that.”

“So . . . he’s a part of all of this?” Tyndal asked, surprised. 

“He’s been working with me on this project since its inception,” Lilastian informed them.  “He’s quite insightful about the subject.  And terribly critical.  He’s relentlessly meticulous about research, and hates skipping steps and ignoring unreliable data.  But he’s also been a useful foil in the development of the line.”

“He lives around here?” Rondal asked. 

“He is, for lack of a better term, the lord of Kurtz Station,” Lilastien revealed.  “It is his home.  He’s fussy about it, but I persuaded him that this was a worthy endeavor, and he relented.  He values his privacy.”

“How come we’ve never heard of this fellow before?” Tyndal asked.  “We know nearly every wizard in the world, it seems like, and I’ve never heard of the Adrian until I came into Goblin Country.”

“For the longest time those were his only visitors,” Lilastien explained.  “They are called the Mountain Folk, after all.  They have traveled across the mountains for centuries.  He’s a bit of a recluse, but even he gets lonely, when he’s awake.”

“But you’ve never mentioned him, either,” Tyndal pointed out.  “We’ve known you for almost a decade and you’ve not mentioned any mysterious wizards living in remote mountain lairs.”

“Adrian is . . . special,” Lilastien admitted, an odd look coming over her face.  “He’s not a wizard, really, though he is a mage.  And he lives here because he always has.  I have my reasons for not bragging about who’s looking after a safe house I don’t want anyone to know about.”

“No doubt you do,” Rondal nodded.  “Gatina is like that about her secrets.  But really, Lilastien, we trust you to keep us informed of things like that.  If you know of something that could help us, we appreciate it when you tell us.”

That produced a frown on Lilastien’s lips that Tyndal had rarely seen. 

“Young man,” she began, sharply, “it may surprise you that I have come to know a great many things in over a thousand years of living on this world, and I may not have had the time to mention all of them to you.  Some of them require a great deal more education on a subject than you have for you to even understand them and their importance.  Some of them would take a lifetime to explain – one of your depressingly short ones.  Some of them are trivial or inconsequential or have no bearing on the current crisis.  So please excuse me if I did not properly educate you on all of the whimsical experiences I’ve had in the last millennium.  I am still recovering from doing my time under house arrest.  Three centuries worth,” she reminded him, sternly.

“Besides,” she continued, less harshly, “I’ve always been protective about Adrian.  This is his home and I do try to respect it.  He is very graciously letting us use it for this project, and for that he has my gratitude.”

“You have to admit, you seem awfully fond of this mage who isn’t a wizard,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “If he was that important to you, we just thought you might have spoken about him.”

“For years he was essentially behind enemy lines, which makes him very difficult to visit,” Lilastien reminded him.  “It’s only been recently, with the treaty, that the journey has gotten at all easier.  And he is a recluse.  He doesn’t like being involved in the affairs of the world.”

“He sounds a little arrogant,” Tyndal guessed. 

“He’s brilliant,” Lilastien insisted.  “I am very proud of him and what he’s accomplished, considering what little he’s had to work with.  He has endured a difficult existence in a world he did not make.  I cannot blame him if he doesn’t want to invest his responsibilities into it.”

“The Adrian sounds like quite a character, to have charmed you like that,” Tyndal suggested.

“First, it’s ‘Adrian’, not ‘the Adrian,’ Lilastien insisted, her frown returning.  “And secondly, he didn’t have to charm me.  I’ve loved him since the moment I met him.”

“That’s . . . unusual,” Tyndal offered, warily.  He knew Lilastien had had several lovers, over the years, and at least one husband, but she didn’t seem the type to be seduced easily.  Of course, he didn’t know much about Alka Alon mating customs.

But he watched her face soften, the frown disappear, and a soft smile emerge on her lips.

“It’s the most natural thing in the world,” she countered.  “A mother always loves her child, unconditionally.  Adrian is my son,” she explained.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Clown

Growing up, I was always told that the gods fashioned humanity out of clay or mud or some other base medium, and then some god breathed the divine spark of life into their inert creations.  Later, when I was properly educated, I learned the truth: that our ancestors had crossed the great Void of the heavens in a gigantic metal ship, without recourse to magic or, presumably, the divine.  It was human ingenuity, not the whims of the gods, that brought us to this world.  In retrospect, sometimes it’s hard to figure out which story is more unlikely.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

The Kurtz Station was large, encompassing more than thirty acres of stony vale paved flat in front of the vast subterranean complex, Rondal discovered.  It was a bleak, desolate place, covered with snow and ice in the winter, a stark, withered plain that looked at odds with the face of the rock behind it.  Once, he knew, hundreds of machines were based here, painstakingly transforming the wastelands of the Five Duchies into the pleasant, green and forested land it was today.

The complex built into the mountain was just as stark, a barren, artificial cavern of concrete and steel constructed in the excavated hollow under the mountain.  The first level was the most impressive, a titanic bay more than thirty feet tall, supported by a sea of round concrete pillars.  The upper stories were smaller, but there were five layers of them overlooking the pads outside.  Rondal had no idea what they had been used for originally, but now they were the abode of the Gorod Alon . . . and Adrian.

The mysterious figure had his headquarters in the northern section of the ruin, a three-story annex that was separated from the rest of the complex by a single long corridor, with several imposing steel doors that segregated Adrian’s home from the rest of the complex.

There was a visible difference between the two sections, Rondal noted as Lilastien escorted them from one to the other.  Each door was strange, an expanse of ancient steel with a peeling layer of paint – or some covering – that had protected the metal long before Rondal was born.  This part of the complex seemed more intact, compared to the rest.  The areas in which the Gorod Alon had settled in the main section were gutted, usually, of the debris of the colonial civilization.  Adrian’s home was not.  As soon as Lilastien led them through the first steel door, it was as if they had stepped back in time.

The compound was shabby, of course, after so much time passing.  The painted walls had faded to a non-descript, dingy yellow.  The place still had power, Rondal noted, as he passed under lights set into the ceiling.  There were ancient signs in Old High Perwyneese offering directions to various locations that no longer existed.  A map of the installation was helpfully posted near every door, but it was difficult for Rondal to place himself in relation to everything else.

“How is this place still functioning?” Tyndal asked, curiously, as the four of them went through the second steel door. 

“Oh, there were three big reactors built under the next mountain over,” Lilastien answered.  “When they decommissioned the site they powered them down, but my people were able to restore one.  It’s been active at low power for six centuries.  It has enough fuel to last another four.”

“And . . . Adrian has been living here continuously, all this time?” Rondal asked, skeptically.

“Off and on,” she conceded.  “He’s made the occasional excursion into the rest of the world.  But it’s more complicated than that.  In any case, most of the basic functions of this section are intact.  Ventilation, heating, lighting, water, sewer – at least enough to support a few people.”

“I still don’t understand why an Alka Alon would want to live in isolation like this,” Rondal wondered. 

“Adrian is not an Alkan,” Lilastien explained.  “He was born on Perwyn, and his father was human.  I was using an earlier iteration of the Transgenic Enchantment, so he is genetically mostly human, with some Alkan traits.  Like full rajira.  And an enhanced lifespan – theoretically. 

“But the original enchantment that transformed me was never supposed to be a permanent, sustainable guise,” she continued, as the walked down a long, sterile-looking corridor.  “It was for convenience.  It was meant to be temporary.  So it had a lot more Alkan traits than the present version, which the Tera Alon use.  I have refined the enchantment significantly since then.”

“So he’s a kind of half-Alkan,” Rondal concluded. 

“More like an eighth Alkan.  Based on genetics he has about thirteen percent Alka Alon genes, some of which are nearly identical to human genes.  But it’s complicated,” she admitted.  “Adrian is a little sensitive about that, though, so I wouldn’t mention it.  He has a very definite opinion about the Alka Alon Council.  And a very negative one.”

“Why?” Tyndal asked.

“Because they said he wasn’t supposed to exist,” Lilastien related.  “Me and the other members of my research team were permitted to use transgenics to facilitate our research, but we were expressly forbidden from mating or – gods forbid – breeding with the aliens,” she said, chuckling fondly at the memory.  “Of course, they just assumed we wouldn’t do something so close to bestiality, to their minds.  But once my team got to know humanity better, well, some of us wanted to get to know humanity better.  It gets lonely, when you’re in the field.  And at the time Perwyn was undergoing a strong Population Enhancement push, so . . .”

“You decided to add one more child,” Rondal nodded.

“It wasn’t exactly planned,” she confessed.  “I was still getting used to the humani mating cycle, and learning about my new body.  I’d only had it for a couple of decades, at that point, so one famous night I had a bit too much to drink, the music was just right, and Adrian’s father smelled particularly delicious, so . . .”

“So Adrian was born on Perwyn,” Rondal said, mystified by the idea.  Perwyn was the most ancient of human civilizations, the original root of all of the others.  It’s tragic destruction was the starting point for history, as he understood it.  And the ending of the advanced civilization that had produced this outpost.  It was the largest watershed event in the colony’s history.  Perwyn was the stuff of legends and lore.  “How did he escape?”

“He left long before the Inundation,” Lilastien answered, as they approached a third steel door.  “He was in hiding on the mainland – hiding from the Alka Alon, that is, which meant he lived pretty normally as a human. 

“But his magical abilities and his personality made him a little alienated from the rest of humanity – that was common, in the early days of the human experience with rajira.  The poor dears had a hard time understanding what was happening to them, and no one really knew what would result.  Some of them became reclusive as a result.  Or committed suicide,” she added, sadly.

She paused in front of the door – a much larger and stronger door than they’d passed previously.  “Then my . . . activities on Perwyn finally came to the attention of the Alka Alon Council.  Once that inquiry began, I couldn’t take a chance on them finding out about Adrian, so I brought him here.  It was supposed to be temporary, because I didn’t think the Council would actually do anything about Perwyn.  But then I did some other arguably foolish things, pissed them off, and landed myself in house arrest.  By that time Adrian settled in, here, and had made it his home.  The rest of the colony had fallen into the chamberpot by that point, so he just stayed here.”

“In the wasteland?” Tyndal asked.  “Didn’t he get lonely?  I thought the Alka Alon had to be around other Alka Alon, at least some of the time.”

“Let’s say he’s about thirteen percent lonely,” Lilastien decided.  “The rest of him is pure, stubborn, human introvert.  He likes it here,” she said, shaking her head.  “He’s made friends with the gurvani, when he’s awake, and he can pursue his studies in peace.”

“What kind of studies?” Rondal asked, curious what anyone could study out in the Mindens except for geology.

“Anything he wants,” she shrugged.  “He hasn’t had a Constructed Intelligence beyond a mark two to help him, but he’s managed.  There’s a decent archive here.  And he likes birds,” she added.  “I almost wish you’d brought Dara along.  He’d like Dara, I think.”

“Who else knows about him?” Rondal asked.

“Besides me?  Just Gurkarl and the Gorod Alon.  He retains a few servants when he’s awake, but they don’t really know who he is or why he’s here.  To them he’s just a half-mad hermit with magical powers.  And they aren’t entirely wrong,” she pronounced.  She reached up and touched a panel next to the door.  “Lilastien to see Adrian,” she announced.  A moment later there was a click, and the door slid open.

“He’s a little paranoid, too,” she added, as they stepped through the door and into the entry chamber.  “I suppose I’m at fault for that, making him flee his home at such an early age and filling his head with tales of why the Alka Alon Council was looking for him.  But I’m still quite proud of him, despite his antisocial tendencies.”

The chamber was a bit cluttered, for Rondal’s taste, though it felt homey in comparison to the rest of the outpost.  There were chairs and couches of an unfamiliar design lining the walls, and a row of hanging pegs that contained various cloaks, coats, and other cold-weather gear.  A container filled with walking sticks or magical staves was near the door.  The light overhead was a little brighter, bathing the room in a soft but comfortable glow.  A large, threadbare rug of elaborate design covered the floor. 

A man – one of Adrian’s servants, Rondal guessed – was waiting for them.  He was of average build and clean-shaven, save for a bushy mustache in the style of the Wilderlords.  He wore a threadbare old jacket which had been repeatedly patched, sometimes with bright-colored cloth that was at odds with the color and style of the original garment.  That gave him a clown-like appearance that Rondal found intriguing.

“Ah!  Igor!  Where is my son?” Lilastien asked.

“In his office with those two gurvani, pretending to be the sage oracle of the mountains,” the strange-looking man informed her in perfect but accented Narasi.  “He will be out when he’s finished.  You know how he hates to be disturbed when he’s pontificating.”

“Of course he is,” she sighed.  “The other two patients have awakened, finally.  May I present Viscount Tyndal of Callierd and Baron Rondal of Oirghort, both noblemen of Alshar and magelords.”

“Magelords!” the man said, surprised.  “That’s a term I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“Gentlemen, this is Igor,” she said, introducing the man.  “He is Adrian’s . . . companion? Majordomo?  Therapist?  Court jester?”

“I’m his landlord, if you want to be technical,” the man grumbled.  “I am the last surviving stockholder in the Terraformer’s Guild.  Therefore I own this entire complex,” he said, making a sweeping gesture with his arms.  “Are you not impressed with my vast wealth?” he asked, sarcastically.  “This is just the jewel in the crown of my empire.  I actually own the entirety of the Shattered Isles, too.  If anyone was left to recognize my claim,” he added, with a mixture of bitterness and humor.

Then his mood shifted.  “So you’re the two barbarians who managed to pull an old EM-21 over the mountains?  That was clever work!” he praised, amused at the idea.  “Probably hasn’t been done in centuries.  I’ve always loved that model – built tough, classic styling, and fairly decent amenities for extended field operations.  I drove it back, myself,” he added.

“You recovered the Beast?” Tyndal asked, surprised.  “How did you get past the security protocols?”

“Oh, I have command overrides,” he demurred.  “For most vehicles.  A legacy of my inheritance,” he sighed.  “She drives well, though, for an old girl.  And you certainly put her through her paces.  Whose idea was it to attach skids?” he asked.

“Mine,” Tyndal admitted with a guilty sigh.  “We thought it would be the most expedient way down the glacier.”

“Well, it worked,” Igor pointed out.  “You got here alive, more or less.  But that just makes me ask why you came in the first place.”

“They were looking for me,” Lilastien informed him.  “Their liege lord is a friend of mine, and he sent them to search for me when I disappeared so abruptly.”

“You could have just left a note,” Rondal reminded her.

“She’s impetuous, like that,” Igor said, philosophically.  “Always has been.  But I was quite surprised to see one of those machines being piloted by a couple of barbarians.  I thought that art had been lost.”

“Barbarians?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Oh, Igor thinks anyone who didn’t grow up in the Colonial Period are barbarians,” Lilastien explained.  “He was born early in the Later Magocracy – ironically in the Narasi heartland, north of Vore.”

“My grandparents were administrators for the Anglo-Russian Mineral & Mining division of the Guild – so I technically own all the gold mines in Vore, too,” he assured them, though he sounded half-mad.  “I met Adrian at school.”

“They’ve been friends ever since,” Lilastien nodded. 

“How is that possible?” Rondal asked, confused.  “Are you . . . part Alkan, too?” he asked.  That inspired a loud, barking laugh from the man.

“Me?  Akan?  No, no, I’m thoroughly and wretchedly human, my boy,” he sighed.  “When it was clear that human civilization was going to Hell, some of us sought refuge and a life of quiet repose in this little out-of-the-way palace.  Which is pleasantly stocked with hibernation chambers.  Adrian and I have made abundant use of them.”

“The boys put themselves in suspended animation for fifty years or so,” Lilastien said, a faint smile on her lips.  “Then they wake up for a year or so, take a look around to see the state of the world, and then go back to sleep.”

“It really hasn’t gotten much better,” grumbled Igor.  “Barbarians everywhere, agricultural economy, just the barest hint of industrialization . . . this is taking far, far too long.”

“What is?” Tyndal asked.

“Human beings regaining advanced civilization.  I would have thought you’d at least discovered electricity by now.”

“We know all about electricity,” Tyndal argued.  “I can conjure a lightning bolt right now, if you’d like,” he said, a note of humorous challenge in his voice.

“No doubt you could,” Igor said, shaking his head.  “Magelords!  We’re back to magelords again.  How is this not a step backwards?” he demanded of Lilastien.

“There is more going on than you think,” she informed him. 

“Isn’t there always?” he asked, exasperated.  “Every time I wake up, I’m hoping to be flown to my private island for an exquisite meal, tended by the very best robotic chefs . . . and every time I am disappointed.”

“The future isn’t going to look like the past, Igor,” Lilastien reproved.  “But these boys’ former master is slowly starting to pick at the ruins of your civilization.  He’s likely your best hope for some sort of revival.  In another fifty years you might see some progress,” she suggested.

“Bah!  I have about given up and accepted death in obscurity, amidst the ruins,” he sighed.  “But then Adrian talks me out of it and we continue this mad quest across time.  He’s obsessed,” he pronounced, shaking his head.  “Would you fellows like a drink?  I’m going to have one,” he said, crossing over to a table where he poured a bottle of spirits into five crystal glasses.  “We secured ten hogsheads of whiskey a few centuries ago,” he said, as he poured.  “It’s about the only thing that’s actually better, when we wake up.”

The liquor was, indeed, very good, Rondal decided.  It was smoky, delicate, and sophisticated on his tongue, yet it was undeniably powerful.  It was hard to believe that it had survived for centuries.

“Very good,” Tyndal nodded.  “So, how do you keep this place running, while you’re asleep?”

“Adrian has cultivated a small tribe of local gurvani who watch over the place,” Lilastien said, as she took a seat and sipped her drink.  “They’re very loyal.  They nearly worship him as a god.”

“A position Adrian delights in,” Igor said, drolly.  “It makes him feel all noble and warm and gooey inside.  He recycles some odd bit of wisdom from a thousand years ago, translates it into gurvani, and passes it off as cosmic insight.  The nerve!” the strange little man snorted.  Then he turned to Rondal.

“So tell me about this man who is tinkering with the cogs of civilization, again,” he instructed Rondal. 

“Your master,” Lilastien clarified.  “He wants to know about Minalan.”

“And do focus on the facts, not his bloody hagiography,” Igor insisted.  “I don’t need to know what gods thought his shit smelled like roses when he was born!”

“He’s . . . a wizard,” Rondal began, confused by the question.  “He’s a warrior – a warmage, we call it—”

“Of course you do,” Igor said, condescendingly. 

“He was trained in Imperial magic at the Inrion Academy, he served in the army in Farise, he retired to become a village spellmonger – in our home village,” he added, gesturing to Tyndal, “then we got caught up in the invasion.”

“That Sheruel fellow I was telling you about,” Lilastien supplied.

“Ah!  The magic undead gurvan head,” Igor nodded.  “I recall.  Very creepy.  Go on,” he encouraged.

“Master Minalan used his leverage with the dukes to remove the limitations on magical practice our Narasi ancestors laid upon us, and then used his powers to fight the war,” Tyndal continued, picking up where Rondal left off.  “He was granted lands, where he was able to improve the science of enchantment to unprecedented levels.”

“To summarize, he’s been able to establish magical analogues for telecommunications, warfare, logistics and travel,” Lilastien explained.  “Among a great many other things.  He’s quite remarkable.  And he’s aware enough of the Colonial civilization and its history to want to revive it – in some form,” she conceded.  “Indeed, he’s talking to the Vundel.  And the Met Sakinsa.”

“Oh!” Igor exclaimed, clearly pleased.  “The Alkans won’t like that one bit!”

“Our master has a very . . . nuanced relationship with the Alka Alon Council,” Rondal admitted.  “They are just becoming aware of his overtures.”

“And Minalan is just becoming aware of the original agreements that founded the colony,” Lilastien agreed.  “He’s starting to understand just how the Council interfered, and he is not happy about it.”

“Well, but what can a wand-waving barbarian warrior prince do to the mighty masters of magic on Callidore?” Igor asked, rhetorically.

“Quite a lot, actually,” Rondal said, defensively.  “Minalan has special insight into their culture.  And he’s got a devious and suspicious mind.”

“We raided the Council’s super secret vault and stole a bunch of dangerous weapons,” Lilastien said, proudly.  “And while we were there, he just happened to discover an entire cache of uninitiated CIs,” she revealed.  “CI1s, up to CI5s.  Including the military modules.”

Igor’s eyes got wide.  “The Calaport raid!” he gasped.

“That’s where they went,” Lilastien assured him.  “They weren’t destroyed, like they told us.  We found them all, all intact, still in their boxes, sitting in a cave in the north.  And Minalan and his people were smart enough to initialize one for me,” she said, displaying the small black module she took from her pocket.  “I had it configured for medical, of course, but it’s a good CI3.  Works just like its supposed to.”

“That’s . . . incredible!” Igor agreed.  “And there’s more?”

“Hundreds,” Lilastien agreed.  “Minalan has taken possession of them.  More importantly, he understands what they mean about the Council.  He is very unhappy about that.”

Igor’s shoulders sank.  “But they’re useless, aren’t they?  As soon as they’re initiated, they’ll be corrupted.”

“Not so!” Lilastien assured.  “Because Minalan also found an old CI3 that was abandoned in a cave . . . from before the attack,” she added, meaningfully.  “Completely uncorrupted.  Once we got it sufficiently powered, it was able to act as a template for the core code of the initiation sequence.  We have our mechanical friends back again.”

“But only up to a C3,” dismissed Igor.

“So far,” she admitted.  “But he’s working on it.  The original code for the advanced models still has to exist, somewhere.  Perhaps on one of the satellites, or the moon base, or somewhere around the colony.”

“Well, that’s possible,” Igor admitted.  “And it’s likely that bloody UN has a copy, not that those greedy bastards are likely to share it.  But I agree, it’s encouraging.  So you think this . . . wizard can pull it off?  Restart civilization?”

“He’s already started,” Lilastien affirmed.  “Trust me, if anyone can do it, Minalan the Spellmonger can.  He’s already starting to train his people up.  That’s why these two were able to pilot the Beast.”

“Encouraging!” Igor grinned.  “It’s not much, but it’s something to build on.  Adrian will love hearing about that, too,” he assured.  “He’s always thought that the responsibility would lie with him, alone.”

“There are a great many forces at play in the world, Igor,” Lilastien said.  “Things are moving, once again.  Slowly, painfully, and in very unexpected ways, but Minalan is making things happen again.”

“If you start talking like he’s one of the Great Men of History, I’m going to vomit!” Igor declared.  “You know how I feel about Carlysle.  Adrian is always preaching that crap to me, and it’s bullshit!”

“He’s the real thing, Igor,” Lilastien said, cocking her head.  “As gifted as my son is, Minalan has capabilities to actually see this happen that challenge Adrian’s brilliance.  He understands this world and what it has become more than Adrian does.  He has political power, not just arcane power.  He has the intelligence to see what is wrong, and the vision to see what is possible.  And he has the temerity and boldness to act – something Adrian, sadly, lacks.”

“He’s just biding his time,” Igor objected.  “Another century or so and he’ll be ready.”

“If he lives that long,” Lilastien said, quietly.  “He’s not well.”

“He’s old,” Igor corrected.  “And he’s too stubborn to change.  He’ll get by,” he assured, confidently.  “Adrian is unkillable.  It’s just a matter of whether or not human civilization can catch up with and exceed the technology we once had,” he reasoned. 

“I can fix it with magic,” the sorceress reminded him.  “If he’d let me.”

“You know how he is,” Igor dismissed.  “But I want to hear more about this Minalan.  He sounds interesting.  Tell me of the man, not just his curriculum vitae”

“He’s a bit of an asshole, if you want to know the truth,” Tyndal pronounced.  “He’s very loyal to his friends, loves his wife and children, he’s relentless when he’s in the middle of a project, and he’s been half-mad for a year or so, but he’s getting better.”

“He’s a bit of an academic, a bit of a politician, and a bit of a businessman,” Rondal added.  “But he keeps the welfare of the common people foremost in his mind.  His father was a baker,” he explained.  “He did not arise from nobility, so he doesn’t think like a traditional noble.  Indeed, his reforms have shaken up the feudal order of the kingdom greatly.”

“Another bloody populist!” Igor groaned.  “Still, its better than nothing.  If he can pry the rusted ruins of our civilization from the mud, I don’t care if he’s a bloody Marxist.  We can plan a revolution for later.  I look forward to hearing more about this man.  What do you think of him, Gurkarl?  Have you met him?”

The gurvan – no, the Gorod, Rondal corrected himself, mentally – had been awfully quiet while they had been speaking. 

“I owe him my life,” he admitted.  “He spared it on the battlefield, and he took me prisoner.  He extended me every courtesy and comfort, under the circumstances, and protected me from his own people.  He is very wise,” Gurkarl decided.  “Often despite himself.  A good heart.  A courageous spirit.  And he doesn’t take himself too seriously,” he added.  “That’s quite a departure, for your species.”

“I am morally offended by such a prejudicial judgement,” Igor said, with mock dignity.  “Still, that’s good to hear.  And he’s a bit of an asshole.  I think I like this man already.  Ah!” he said, suddenly rising, as one of the doors to the chamber opened, “Your host has finally arrived!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Old Man Of The Mountains

When our ancestors first came to Callidore, it is said, they selected an island on which to construct their first permanent settlement, while they surveyed the mainland and determined how to change the land to make it more suitable for our race.  Perwyn was their first bold experiment on this world, a seedling from their original great civilization transplanted into alien soil.  There it thrived for more than a century before catastrophe struck, and the calamitous Inundation sank the wealth of our people beneath the waves.  I’ve always been fascinated about that era, and Perwyn in general.  I think nearly every mage is.  No other place symbolizes humanity’s genius and folly as well as the fabled island whose loss reduced our people to our current state.  It offers both the promise of our intellect and a warning to our pride.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

The man who emerged from the doorway was surprisingly tall, but decidedly old and pale.  Indeed, he appeared sepulchral, an animated image of death carved out of alabaster.  His movements were spare and cautious, and his gait was measured, despite his height.  He wore a long, gray robe of fine linen, cut in a simple style, with cotton trousers of black and a pair of shoddy old slippers.

Adrian’s face was lined with age, though Tyndal saw plenty of his mother’s Alka Alon heritage in it.  His ears were elongated and pointed, his cheekbones were sharp and high, and his eyes had an unreal quality to them.  His hair and long beard were gray with age, though well kept and trimmed.  He had a quiet dignity about him as he glided into the room, like a king making an entrance into his court. 

“Mother,” he said, giving a nod to Lilastien as Tyndal and Rondal stood.  “And more guests,” he said, sounding vaguely disappointed as he took note of them.  “I take it you two gentlemen are the ones who drove these gurvani here,  ” he noted.  Indeed, Resh and Cheshtan followed him into the room.  Their faces were impassive, he noticed, as if they had been given some monumental news.

“We had that pleasure,” Tyndal agreed.  “You are Adrian?  We’ve heard a lot about you,” he began, politely.  “I am Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd, and this is my friend Rondal, Baron of Oirghort.  Magelords of Castalshar,” he added, with a bow.  “These fellows wanted to come talk to you.”

“And so they have,” he agreed, his eyes examining Tyndal like a specimen in a bottle.  “They treat me like some oracle, not just an old man in the mountains.  But what brings you two young fellows to the edge of the world?” he asked, a bit of condescension in his manner.  “Sightseeing?  Thrillseeking?  Barbaric conquest?”

“We were looking for your mother,” Rondal explained.  “When she disappeared from her laboratory, we were concerned.”

“And yet you managed to track her down here,” he said, his lips pursing critically.  “Mother, that’s poor security,” he reproved. 

“These are exceptionally talented young wizards,” Lilastien dismissed.  “And I wasn’t fleeing for my life, I was merely concealing my movements.  The fact that they were able to follow me is a credit to their training and resourcefulness, as well as their intellect.”

“Yes, they are very resourceful barbarians,” Adrian said, continuing his critical examination of them.  “Very well.  I will speak to them.  As for these two gurvani, they have wisely elected to participate in the Rite of Transformation and become Gorod Alon,” he announced, turning to Gurkarl.  “Prorok, will you see them to the purification chamber, and instruct them in the rite?”

“It shall be my pleasure to escort my friends on the first steps of their new journey,” Gurkarl said, reverently.  He then delivered a short speech in the gurvani tongue, seemingly assuring Resh and Cheshtan of the correctness of their choice.

“Good luck!” Tyndal called after them, as Gurkarl finally led them away.  “I hope this is what you were seeking!”

“They sought renewal,” Adrian reported.  “They are gurvani of deep thought and consideration, and they share the concerns of most of their fellows.  They will make fine Gorod Alon.”

“Well, we are recruiting for the third phase cohort, now,” Lilastien agreed.  “If they managed a trip with Rondal and Tyndal and didn’t kill them, I’d say that vouches for their character.”

“Now,” Adrian said, as if the matter was settled and done with, “what did you gentlemen wish to speak to the Old Man of the Mountains about?” he asked, his voice lined with condescension. 

Tyndal looked at Rondal and nodded.  He always felt more comfortable when Rondal was in charge of this sort of discussion, he found.  Rondal was a better diplomat than he, by far. 

“Our initial concern was Lilastien,” Rondal began, respectfully gesturing to the Sorceress of Sartha Wood.  “And then we became alarmed when we discovered Gurkarl had left Kral Krabhat so suddenly.  We concluded the two might be related, and then heard that they were seen together along the trail.  We plotted the fastest route through the mountains to try to catch up with her before . . . well, we had no idea who or what the Adrian was that we kept hearing about, so . . . “

“You were trying to protect her from the evil wizard in the mountains with the army of strange goblins,” Adrian concluded.  “As two young barbarian heroes do.  So where did you secure the vehicle you were riding in?” he asked, curiously.

“An old geophysical and volcanic research facility in the realm of the northern jevoloar,” Tyndal answered, the Old High Perwynese words falling easily off his tongue.  “It was sealed, but we were able to gain entrance with Minalan’s CI.  The Beast was in there, just waiting for us.  There are one or two others in Minalan’s collection, but this is the only one we’ve found intact and functional, so far.”

“And you managed to learn to operate it?” he asked, skeptically.

“The controls are not difficult, and once the tutorials were translated into Narasi learning proper operation was simple,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Our friend Gareth is even learning maintenance and upkeep . . . though parts can be hard to find.  That’s why we had to have the ski’s custom built.”

“Yes, I saw them,” Adrian nodded.  “Fine craftsmanship.  Dradrien smiths, I take it?”

“And Malkas carpenters for the wooden parts,” Tyndal agreed, proudly. 

“See what I mean, Adrian?” Lilastien said, casually.  “Perhaps its time for you to finally emerge from your reclusion.  The world is waking up, and getting ready for a change.”

“The world is always changing,” Adrian dismissed, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.  “It’s the direction of the change that concerns me.  I do not want to commit myself and my resources until I am assured of success.”

“No one is ever assured of success,” Lilastien countered.  “There is risk inherent in any enterprise, and there are certainly no guarantees.  But I think this is the best opportunity we are going to get.”

“I would have preferred awaiting industrialization,” Adrian decided.  “A more gradual progress would help diminish the cultural and economic shocks.”

“They are inevitable,” Lilastien argued, shaking her head and holding her glass out to her son for a refill.  “And magic can mitigate many of them.  No, I feel we must embrace the opportunity that Fate has presented us, and contend with the world as it is, and not how we wish it to be.”

Tyndal was confused.  “Your pardon, but could you please explain what you are talking about to us poor, ignorant, confused barbarians?” he pleaded. 

“They’re talking about re-starting human civilization, my boy,” Igor explained, as if it was obvious.  “Real human civilization, the one that crossed the Void to get here.  They want to bring back the advantages we once enjoyed, before stupidity and treachery tore them from our grasp.”

Tyndal thought about the amazing scenes he’d recalled from the archives in the Cave of the Ancients.  The visions of ancient Perwyn with its majestic, gravity-defying towers and flying ships was dumbfounding.  The image of the ships and satellites that orbited the world beyond the envelope of the atmosphere had amazed him.  The views of the moon city, and the New Frontiers, and the electronic memories of humanity’s original homeworld, Terra, were breathtaking.  And it had all been accomplished without magic.

It all seemed so different and strange to his conception of life that it was hard to believe it had all been accomplished by his people.  The thought of somehow restoring that incredible age on Callidore was tantalizing.

“Minalan is already starting to explore that idea,” Rondal said, before Tyndal could speak.  “Even now he is excavating an old military outpost in Falas, under some old abbey.  He’s being very secretive about it, but I know he has aspirations of reviving as much of our legacy as possible.”

“It’s questionable just how much that would be,” Igor said, philosophically.  “The Colonial government famously went into debt over their vaunted Continuity of Species and Civilization program, which most people at the time thought was paranoid and a needless expenditure.  There are, supposedly, caches of helpful technology and valuable references scattered all over this world.  But a lot of time has passed,” he grumbled.  “These things were not designed to last forever.”

“All the more reason why we should take advantage of them before they fade,” Lilastien encouraged.  “With the recovery of the CIs, and a clean programming template to work from, we might be able to re-establish control over several of them.  I am no expert on that sort of thing—”

“I am,” Igor said, gloomily.  “Even if we have the pieces, it would be a titanic task to cobble them back together into something useful.  To do that we have to actually manufacture new things, not just dust off old things.  You can’t build a technological civilization with a hammer and anvil.  You need a blast furnace,” he insisted.

“We have one,” Tyndal countered.  “At Yltedene.  And they’re using designs provided by the Cave of the Ancients to build new machines to work the steel.”

That seemed to interest Adrian, who sat forward.  “You have a blast furnace?”

“It was designed by the Dradrien master Suhi,” Tyndal informed him.  “Apparently the iron deposits in the Wilderlands are superior, and the coal is easily accessible.  We’ve been producing tons of good steel every month at the foundries.”

“Well, I’d like to take a look at that!” Igor said, surprised. 

“We are more sophisticated than you give us credit for,” Rondal proposed.  “We are educated men, after our fashion.  And once a man knows how to learn, there isn’t really any reason he can’t learn anything that’s within his capacity.”

“Well spoken!” Igor nodded.  “That was my attitude, when I was in school.  Now I have three degrees in Engineering, Nuclear Science, and Information Systems and excellent prospects at a secure position with a prestigious firm,” he finished, sourly.  “In retrospect I should have studied music, I suppose, and died a comfortable death in the decline of my civilization.  But now, I had to be curious about how the colony would turn out.”

“My point is that there are plenty of intelligent minds who can grasp some of the arts of the ancients,” Rondal continued.  “The magi in particular are familiar with the realms of nature and their respective rules far more than the common man, thanks to our abilities.”

“Learning third-year runic chords was a lot harder than figuring out how to pilot the Beast,” Tyndal agreed.  “I think if I had a year to just study tekka, like Gareth did, I could master a lot of the techniques.”

“Master Minalan has also advanced the science of enchantment to an unprecedented extant,” Rondal agreed.  “Sometimes in ways that are as good or better than what the original colony did.”

“Such as?” Adrian asked, skeptically.

“Such as a network of instantaneous transport between the capitals of the duchies and major economic centers,” Rondal supplied.  “That’s a relatively new innovation, but from what I understand the ancients couldn’t just walk through a doorway and find themselves in another city.”

“I think the lad has a point,” Lilastien agreed.  “Those boys transported all of their supplies in hoxter pockets – magically-accessible interdimensional spaces.  That’s something that the Colonial Science Foundation never managed.”

“That is intriguing,” admitted Igor, rubbing his chin. 

“It’s more than the Alka Alon ever managed,” snorted Adrian.  “When they developed the Ways, that was almost by accident, using naturally-occurring nodes of congruency to execute transport.”

“Minalan discovered Waystones,” Tyndal bragged.  “Crystals that allow the use of the Ways independent of the natural Waypoints.  I could take you to Vanador for lunch right now,” he proposed.  “Then we could wander through the Portals over to Remeralon and have a lovely dinner of noodles and cheese and a truly good wine.”

“That does have some appeal,” admitted Igor.  “So, let us assume that these new . . . enchantments,” he said, using the word condescendingly, “are helpful for establishing the foundations of some sort of half-baked infrastructure.  How do you propose bootstrapping them into something really impressive?  From what I understand most of the colony is under some sort of theocratic feudal system, or outright warlordism.”

“There is a difference between the political structure and the economic and cultural structure of a society,” Lilastien said.  “And I wouldn’t expect progress in one particular region or discipline wouldn’t be less welcome because it wasn’t known anywhere else.”

“You do have to start somewhere, I suppose,” Igor mumbled, looking toward Adrian.  “So what do you think, Old Man?  Are we ready to end our long slumber and look upon the world with fresh eyes?”

“I still have many misgivings,” Adrian admitted.  “I am skeptical that the opportunity is as ripe as Mother suggests.  But I am intrigued.  And curious.”

“Did not the colony have a plan for this sort of thing?” Lilastien asked. 

“Of course they did,” Igor snorted.  “They had a plan for everything.  But how many of those plans actually worked out the way they intended?  Just ask the refugees from Perwyn.”

“There are going to be mistakes and missteps along the way,” Lilastien agreed.  “That’s to be expected.  But this is our best chance, now that we have the CIs.  And a popular and powerful political leader in Minalan.”

“But does this . . . wizard really understand what we would be trying to do?” asked Adrian.  “The man is a barbarian!”

“You need to stop thinking in those terms, Adrian,” Lilastien lectured, a maternal tone in her voice.  “I would argue that Minalan is ushering in an age of exploration and enlightenment.  He’s not just aggrandizing his own power, he is building the institutions necessary to advance progress.  They are still crude, but he’s a canny administrator,” she praised.  “And he has been subject to the same sort of memory treatment as I have,” she admitted.  “One of his ancient memories is of someone from the early Colonial Period – someone who grew up on Terra.”

“I still have a hard time believing some ancient alien just happened to stuff your head with the memories of other aliens,” Adrian said, skeptically.  “But there is no denying that there is something . . . different about you, since last you visited, Mother.  I suppose your tale would explain it.”

“It’s fading,” Lilastien assured.  “I hope to be able to sleep normally, someday.  In the meantime, it has provided both Minalan and myself with unique insights on a host of subjects.  For example, I do not think I would have had the confidence to commence the Gorod Alon program without them.  And Minalan would not have been able to craft such exquisite instruments to make it possible. 

“But to answer your question, Minalan has been very aware of what your people have lost, and developed a yearning to restore your civilization to at least a semblance of its past glories.  Not to mention saving the world from its eventual destruction.  That, indeed, is his primary goal.  But he sees the restoration as essential to his plans, so he is committed to it.”

“That won’t happen for three thousand years – if it happens at all,” Igor reminded her.

“Minalan is a far-sighted fellow,” Lilastien observed.  “But I think he needs some sort of orbital capability to see his plan through.  So his interests neatly dovetail with yours.  If you cooperate with him, I think you both might be able to get what you want.”

“And you think that the Alka Alon Council will allow that?” Adrian asked, dryly. 

“Minalan is not the sort of wizard to take their obstructions lightly,” she reminded him.  “He sees them as an hindering force to his plans.  He is not the type to bear that hindrance lightly.”

“Our master has a way of metaphorically swinging his staff around in council,” Tyndal agreed.  “I don’t think he and Pentandra have ever really trusted the Alka Alon.  No offense,” he added to Lilastien.

“None taken,” she answered.  “We aren’t trustworthy.  We’re blatantly opportunistic.  We’re just polite about it.”

“If the Council gets in Minalan’s way, he will deal with them,” Rondal agreed, solemnly.  “The same way he deals with the dukes, the King, and the royal court.  He understands leverage – magical and political.  And he’s not afraid to use it.”

Adrian’s eyes got a far-away look, and Tyndal and the others made a point of being quiet and letting the old man think.  There was, indeed, a deep intelligence at work there, he thought.  Adrian looked every inch the sort of wizard that Garkesku was only a caricature of.  But there was more there than just wisdom and magic.  Tyndal felt that he had the same manner as Heeth, or Thinradel, or Taren, or any other of the deep-thinkers he knew. 

“I may have no other choice,” he finally said, his voice hoarse.  “How many more centuries can we keep the hibernation cylinders working?  At what point will this frail body give out?  Perhaps you are right, Mother.  Perhaps it is time.”

“I think it is worth taking the chance, Adrian,” she agreed, encouragingly.  “Really, what are you doing with your life, up here in the mountains?  Watching the world go by in fifty-year increments?”

“We’re going to run out of whiskey eventually, Old Man,” Igor agreed, sympathetically.  “It might be time.”

Adrian looked at each of them in turn, skepticism writ large on his brow.  “Perhaps I give it a few years and examine the situation thoroughly,” he reasoned.  “I suppose I owe the world that much.”

“It’s your world, Adrian,” Lilastien said, quietly.  “You were among the first generations born here.  And it’s a wonderful world.  You deserve to see what it has become.”

“Fine,” the old man sighed.  “I’ll do it.  Just for a few years,” he warned his mother.  “If things don’t work out, I’m going back to sleep.  For a century, at least!”

“I just want you to be happy,” Lilastien insisted.  “That’s all I’ve always wanted.  Happy and protected.”

“Just how secret have you kept Adrian’s existence, if you don’t mind me asking?” Tyndal said, suddenly.

“As much as possible,” Lilastien sighed.  “Not even my own family knows about him.  My children would be scandalized.  My husband—”

“Wait, you’re married?” Tyndal asked, in disbelief.

“Relationships are complicated, when you can live for a few thousand years,” she dismissed.  “My husband and I are separated, and have been since before I went to Perwyn.  It is not uncommon, in Alka Alon families.  Marriage is primarily about breeding and children, and once they are raised you tend to go your separate ways.  There are notable exceptions, of course, but after a thousand years or so you are usually more willing to pursue your passions on your own than share them with your spouse.”

“I have never met my Alka Alon family,” Adrian agreed, bitterness in his voice.  “Not that they would ever accept me, of course – I’m an aberration, nearly an abomination, according to them.  I long ago gave up any hope of having a relationship with them.  I’d always be a freak, a mistake, the token of my mother’s rebellion.  As harsh as it was, I had a better time amongst humans.”

“And he was always a hard fit there, too,” Igor chuckled, mirthlessly.  “The other students never really accepted Adrian properly, even though he was brilliant.”

“They were just intimidated,” Adrian said, throwing up his hand.  “My abilities and intellect were superior, and they reacted emotionally, not reasonably.  That is to be expected.  I overcame that,” he said, proudly.  “Had civilization not fallen into the chamberpot I think I would have become accepted in thirty or forty years.  They’re all dead now,” he added, sadly.  “All those bright minds.  It’s hard to believe, sometimes.”

“Well, just about everyone we ever knew is dead, now, Old Man,” Igor said, cheerfully, as he sipped his whiskey.  “Perhaps it’s time to make some new friends.”

***

“Thank you, boys, for helping me with Adrian,” Lilastien said, as they retreated from his compound.  “I really was hoping to convince him to come out, this time around.  Having you there to help persuade him was an unanticipated boon.”

“I’m still very confused by him,” Rondal confessed.  “You said he was a mage, and he was brilliant – and I’m not disputing that – but that Igor fellow seemed to treat him like he was . . . some sort of ‘chosen one’.”

Lilastien smiled indulgently.  “Ah, Igor!  Adrian’s one true friend.  He’s half-mad himself, after what he’s witnessed.  He went into hibernation the first time figuring that things would get better in a hundred years.  Instead he woke up just in time to see the Narasi hordes demolish the Later Magocracy.  All his dreams of stratoliners and skyscrapers were dashed.”

“He is a very odd fellow,” Tyndal murmured.  “But he seems intelligent enough.”

“Igor was the son of two brilliant scientists and technicians who were building the future he never got to see,” Lilastien explained.  “A very gifted child.  And one of the only ones who didn’t see my son as a freak.  Of course, Adrian’s attitude at the time was not the best.  He was a socially awkward child.  Who became a socially awkward adult.  But he and Igor have been friends since they first met.”

“It’s an extraordinary story,” Tyndal agreed.  “They are both men out of time.  And they both have aspirations of rekindling civilization, as they knew it.  Was he serious about that?”

Lilastien’s lips pursed as she walked.  “That’s hard to say.  I think so.  And he’s equipped to try.  Adrian is both a master of magic and highly knowledgeable about the old tekka your people tinker with.  That is, he really understands it.  He studied Engineering, too, as well as a host of sciences.  He always felt more at home in an academic environment than anywhere else, and keeping him hidden in university was convenient.  He learned an awful lot, along the way.  You can pile up a number of degrees in forty years . . . especially when you don’t bother with girlfriends and such.”

“He seems so old,” Tyndal observed.  “Older than you, sometimes.  No offense.  But he’s clearly entering his dotage.”

“I know,” she said, quietly.  “And I fear that he will let his stubbornness keep me from saving him with magic.  He knows I could transform him into a proper Alka Alon body, but he’s too proud for that.  But it would give him an Alka Alon lifespan, instead of consigning him to a human body that is rapidly deteriorating.  I fear he only has a decade or two left.”

“Why doesn’t he agree?” asked Rondal, confused. 

“He knows that even with an Alkan body, Alkan society would never accept him.  They would consider him an abomination, then.  If they want to eliminate him as an aberration, you can imagine what they would consider if they named him an abomination, like Sheruel.”

“Your people are harsh, sometimes,” Tyndal observed.

“No harsher than yours, we’re just more devious about it,” Lilastien argued.  “But I wasn’t being devious about one thing: it is time for my son to see the world, and the world to see him.  Even the Alka Alon Council.  And the Emissary of the High Kings.  I’m already damned for creating the Gorod Alon.  One more half-breed added to my sentence shouldn’t increase my punishment significantly,” she reasoned.

“What would Adrian’s plan be, to re-establish civilization?” Tyndal asked.

“That would be up to him,” Lilastien decided.  “He’s got his own mind about such things, but I trust him.  Given the advantages of a working CI, and he may well accomplish his goals.  Especially if we can get him and Minalan cooperating.”

“Our master is always looking for new allies,” Rondal agreed.  “A man who understands tekka as well as magic is rare.  Unique, even.  Adrian could be very helpful to his efforts.”

“And Minalan to Adrian’s,” Lilastien agreed as they passed through the second doorway.  “I just hope they can find some common understanding.”

“You anticipate problems?” Rondal asked, surprised.

“They’re inevitable.  They both have strong egos, strong personalities, and they’re both arrogant as five hells,” she pointed out.  “I think that’s one reason why I liked Minalan so much when I met him, because he reminded me of Adrian – but without all of the judgement.  But when they do finally meet, I think they’re likely to hate each other.”

“Why do you think so?” Tyndal asked, concerned.

“A mother’s intuition,” Lilastien smiled.  “That doesn’t mean they can’t or won’t work together, but that doesn’t mean they’ll like it.  But they need each other.  Minalan needs a mind that understands the ancient world, and Adrian needs a man who understands the modern world.  Together, they can achieve wonders.  But that doesn’t mean it will be easy.  Or without friction.”

“Well, he seems to be helping with the Gorod Alon,” Rondal pointed out, as they approached the last door.  “I suppose that’s a step in the right direction.”

“It’s actually the first time I’ve been able to convince him to take an interest in the outside world in any way in centuries,” Lilastien agreed.  “He does love the gurvani.  For what they are, not for what they have done to humanity.  He’s not quite that much of a misanthrope.  And he hates that Sheruel and Korbal sent so many to their deaths in a pointless war.  Once the Gorod Alon make their way to Ashakarl and plead their case, convince him and his people to undertake the transformation, I think Adrian will feel vindicated about their character, and the nature of their plight.”

Tyndal snorted.  “That’s going to be hard, with that goblin stone making everyone melancholy,” he pointed out.  Lilastien stopped.

“Goblin stone?” she asked, confused.

“Yes, one of the big dark stones scattered around the Wilderlands,” Rondal explained.  “They’ve been there forever.  They’re thaumaturgically active,” he added.

“Sheruel’s priests have been using them to spread a general field of malaise and despair amongst humanity, and accentuate the hatred and cruelty the gurvani feel,” Tyndal agreed.  “There’s a big one, in the temple of Kral Krebhet.  They even named a very bad inn after it.”

“Goblin stones,” Lilastien repeated, her eyes darting back and forth madly for a moment as she thought.  “Why would . . . of course,” she nodded, suddenly, and raised her head sharply.  Her eyes were wide, and slightly mad, as she stared at the boys in recognition.  “The Harmonic Retortion!” she said, followed by a word in Alka Alon Tyndal did not recognize.  “That’s it!”

Suddenly she leaned over kissed them both excitedly on their cheeks.  “Thank you, boys!  You gave me the answer I didn’t know I needed!  Why don’t you go take a look at your Beast – it’s in the main vehicle bay.  I’ve got some research to do!”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Rite of Transformation

Religion is an odd thing; no matter how rational or reasonable a man might be, he has recourse to religion – if not the rites and rituals of the temples, a personal belief or systemic approach sustains his perspective in times of crisis.  Though I am pledged to Duin the Destroyer, thanks to my participation in his martial rites, I am not devout.  My wife’s family venerates Darkness as protector and guide.  Master Minalan’s personal relationship with his patroness, Briga, a goddess of fire, has been instrumental in his life.  But I consider the gods and the temples, the scriptures and the rituals largely unimportant, when the matter is examined carefully.  Every man, it seems, constructs his own temple and writes his own scriptures for his spiritual health.  I contend that the most powerful experience with the divine does not take place on hallowed ground, but within in the mind and the soul of every man.

From the personal journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

The next few days around Kurtz Station were odd.  The number of Gorod Alon camping in the complex seemed to vary widely, the boys noticed as they took up residence in the Beast. 

The machine had, indeed, been driven back to the base intact, save for the skis which were strapped to the roof.  Tyndal spent more than an hour evaluating how much damage it had sustained in the crash, and reported himself satisfied that she was still in drivable condition.

Rondal worked on restoring the interior to a livable condition, returning the various objects and implements to their proper places and seeing what all had been damaged.  He was feeling relieved that there wasn’t very much lost in the crash, just a few broken dishes and a cracked chamberpot.  The damage had not affected the spell, he was relieved to learn.

The Beast seemed oddly empty, with Resh and Cheshtan absent, but the boys were still recovering and they spent their time sleeping, eating, and resting in front of the monitors, listening to music or learning about the ancient world from the limited – but still vast – archives Belsi contained.

“You know, we could just go home,” Tyndal argued, the morning of their second day in the station.  “I almost feel well enough to attempt the Ways.  We’ve fulfilled our mission.  We found Lilastien.”

“We still haven’t informed anyone of that yet,” he reminded Tyndal.  “I’m wondering just who to tell first.”

“And how much to tell them,” Tyndal added, thoughtfully.  “Lilastien wants the Gorod Alon secret for now, I’m guessing.  Not to mention Adrian.  We really can’t tell anyone why she disappeared.”

“Or where she disappeared to,” Rondal agreed.  “So do we make up a story?  Or just be obscure?”

“I think dark and mysterious is the way to play it,” Tyndal decided.  “Any story we would make up would automatically be suspicious.  But if we say that she is on a sensitive mission and leave it at that, then people believe us and just don’t ask questions.”

“That’s probably best,” Rondal agreed.  “At least for now.  But it’s going to come out that we were here when . . . all of this happened,” he pointed out.  “People are going to ask questions.”

“By that time things will be so chaotic that hopefully no one thinks to ask us,” Tyndal suggested.  “Believe me, when it comes out that she invented an entirely new Alon sub-species, there is going to be a fuss.”

“Yes, what could possibly go awry?” Rondal asked, sarcastically.  “Thank goodness it’s just a few hundred of them, so far.  From what I understand they plan on marching to Kral Krabhet and meeting directly with Ashakarl.”

“And that will send the urgulnosti priests into a tizzy,” predicted Tyndal.  “I’m curious as to how the human population of Goblin Country will react, though.  Or what folks like Priviken  and the General and that old shaman will think.”

“I’m guessing it will be like a religious event,” Rondal considered.  “They really are asking for a fundamental change.  I don’t think anything has happened like that in human history.  And what happens if some of the gurvani don’t want to transform?”

“Some of them won’t, I imagine,” Tyndal said.  “They’ll be too afraid, or too stubborn, or just too stupid.  They’ll live in the shadow of the Gorod Alon, or separate themselves entirely.”

“A prophecy fulfilled,” Rondal remarked. 

They got the opportunity to see the process in action when they were invited to attend the purification ceremony the Gorod Alon had constructed to initiate gurvani who had made the decision to join them.  They had dedicated most of the third floor of the vacant complex to the rite, dedicating several chambers to its employment.  Gurkarl was their host and guide as he showed them the ritual.

“It was decided that a transformation this significant should be attendant with some ceremony,” Gurkarl explained as he led them to the first chamber.  “I found the experience quite disconcerting, the first time.  It produced a powerful period of stress as I confronted certain existential questions.  But I grew used to it quickly, and appreciated the new horizons Lilastien’s gift provided.”

“They can always change back, if they want,” Rondal pointed out.

“It is unlikely that they will choose to,” Gurkarl admitted.  “It would be like choosing to be blind, once you could see.  But the rite was designed to ease the transition, give it context to help the mind adjust to the new sensations the new body provides.  It makes it a spiritual event, not just a thaumaturgical transformation.”

“That’s what I figured,” Rondal agreed.  “I think it’s quite brave of you all, if you want to know the truth.”

“It requires some profound introspection and self-knowledge,” Gurkarl agreed.  “Not all of us are equipped to step into darkness and embrace what is there.  First, we must feel purified, to feel worthy of the important decision,” he said, showing them a chamber where several gurvani were surrounded by Gorod Alon, who were ceremoniously covering them in soil, water, and incense.  There was a constant, full-throated chanting that resonated in the dark chamber as the elements were utilized as sacraments of purification.

As the row of gurvani finished receiving the symbolic elements, they stepped over a line of magical fire to demonstrate their willingness to commit to their new existence as Gorod Alon.  A sign of their voluntary acceptance of their new life.”

“What are they being purified from?” Tyndal asked.

“Their weaknesses, doubts, worries, and regrets, mostly,” Gurkarl reflected, a smile on his lips.  “We do not specify what they must give up in order to enjoy new life as a Gorod.  Meditation and reflection on their souls and spirits are encouraged,” he said, leading them to the next room.  “The shamans are insistent that there be this opportunity for prayer and preparation, before the final sacrifice.”

The room was filled with gurvani crouched on their haunches or sitting curled in a ball, quietly mumbling to themselves, their eyes closed or in a blank gaze as they plumbed the depths of their consciousness.  Instead of unified chanting, the postulates were individually speaking to themselves, in whispers or shouts, in the dark gloom of the chamber.  A single bone oil lamp lit the place, casting weird shadows in its flickering light. 

“Is that really the best way to refer to it?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.  “Calling it a sacrifice implies that you are giving up something, not gaining something.  And usually you’re giving up something at knifepoint.”

“Only in Sheruel’s bloodthirsty tradition,” dismissed Gurkarl with a note of disgust.  “That was never part of the gurvani way, before the Black Skulls began preaching their poison.  Sacrifice in the old days was a simple matter of putting a few morsels in a bowl for the ancestors, or leaving the viscera to the elements after a successful hunt.  Sheruel taught us to make it murder.  This uses sacrifice in the older sense: an offering of something precious.  In this case, your gurvani body.  But not your gurvani soul.”

When one of the postulants decided they were ready, they rose, and two Gorod Alon would escort them from the chamber.  Gurkarl followed the fellow, beckoning Tyndal and Rondal to watch.

In the third chamber two Gorod shamans dressed in necklaces and headpieces welcomed the trembling gurvan with kind-sounding words, urging him to the center of the chamber.  One of them poured oil over his head, while the other took a brush and ceremonially combed the wiry black hair into place.  With solemn words they asked the postulate questions, to which he answered, his voice filled with emotion.

Then they pronounced the spell, touching the gurvan on the forehead.  A moment later he was transformed.

One of the shamans made a solemn pronouncement, slapping the new Gorod on the shoulders before embracing him warmly.  Then the other repeated the ritual, welcoming him into the company of the Gorod Alon.  An attendant escorted the trembling postulant over to a basin of water to view his new face for the first time.

“It is a highly emotional moment,” Gurkarl informed them, in a low voice.  “To stare into your reflection and see a new face peeking back at you – but a face that is still your face.  The maragorku have a similar ritual, though it is far harsher and more cruel, when they transform a worthy gurvani into their savage form.”

“What happens next?” Tyndal asked, interestedly.

“The new-made Gorod is escorted to a room to recover,” Gurkarl explained.  “They are given time to adjust to their new body, and tools to experiment with as they grow used to it.  That can take as much as a few days.  And during that time . . . their rajira emerges,” he said, meaningfully.

Rondal knew precisely how that felt.  He’d experienced it himself, when he was nearly thirteen years old.  It had been the strangest of feelings, as if someone was whispering to him constantly, or there were things just out of sight that he almost caught a glimpse of.  It wasn’t until Garkesku had been called and tested him that he understood what had happened.

“That was a hard time for me,” Tyndal agreed, solemnly.  “I thought I was going mad.  Mum thought I was just misbehaving.  Not unreasonably,” he admitted.  “But I wish someone had put me in a nice dark room and let me figure some things out.”

“Then a group of shamans begins to teach them about their new powers,” Gurkarl said, as he led them past the third room and to the fourth.  “It takes three or four days, usually, for them to get adequate control of them.  Once they can demonstrate some basic achievement, we release them to practice and . . . experience their world with their new eyes and ears.”

“And then what?” Tyndal prompted.  “What will you do when they’re all done?”

“Go visit His Majesty,” Gurkarl said, with a deep sigh.  “And try to convince him and his court to join us.  And then as many in his realm as are willing.”

“Do you think he’ll listen?” Rondal asked, curiously.  “What you’re asking him to do is weighty.”

“Ashakarl is young and ambitious, but he has some wisdom,” Gurkarl said, after a moment’s thought.  “He was installed by the Black Skulls as a puppet, before the Enshadowed came.  He took the position far more seriously than they did, and when he had a decision to make about his loyalty, he chose to lead his people into exile rather than become a stooge of Korbal.  That is noble,” he praised.

“But he is also very aware of how precarious his position is,” Gurkarl continued.  “He professes to uphold gurvani traditions, yet he is encouraging his people to adopt human ways.  He is adamant about his opposition to the Enshadowed, but he has accepted a treaty with a bitter enemy to oppose them – no offense,” he added, with a chuckle.  “He is descended directly from Sheruel’s line, but he realized the futility of following the Great Ghost into a war he cannot possibly win. 

“But we offer another alternative.  If he can convince enough of his people to transform, and does so himself, he can establish himself as a prince without the lingering loyalties of our past to bind his rule.  He becomes the voice of a wholly new-made people in a time where his leadership will prove key.  That is a heady responsibility,” he said, quietly.  “It will require courage, and boldness, and insight.  Does His Majesty possess these qualities?  We shall find out.”

“And what if he turns you down?” Tyndal asked, soberly.

“Then we will proceed without him,” Gurkarl said, sadly.  “We will take our question directly to the people.  We will increase our numbers until they are sufficient, and then we will establish our own government, with or without him.  The Gorod will persevere – that is what Lilastien has designed these bodies to do.  They can endure much, and survive great hardship.  And they provide us with depths of will that even the mightiest gurvani warriors and shamans lack.”

“That might means civil war,” Rondal warned.  It didn’t sound as if the Gorod had much of a plan, in his opinion, but then he could not argue that their determination and commitment was strong.  There were other powers at play here than strategy, he realized.  “Are you prepared for that?”

“It is the last thing I wish,” Gurkarl admitted.  “But if it becomes necessary, we shall do what must be done.  This is the only future in which I see my people prosper, not exist as the tools and weapons of the Alka Alon.”

“Besides,” Tyndal pointed out, as he gestured toward the Gorod practicing simple magic under the supervision of the shamans, “those fellows are huge, compared to the average scrug.  Armed with those clever new halberds, they’ll be unstoppable.  And if they use magic?  It won’t be a very long civil war.”

“I . . . will admit that Lilastien took some liberties in her construction,” Gurkarl said, quietly.  “Amongst the genes from the Alka Alon she included, there is that particular one that inspires awe and subservience in the other Alon.  Not to the extent that the Alkans possess it, but the Gorod will attract respect and even devotion from the common gurvani as a result.”

“That does not seem particularly fair,” Rondal said, troubled.  “You have struggled so much to establish the Gorod as superior to gurvani.  Isn’t resorting to that sort of thing cheating?”

“This is no game, Rondal,” Gurkarl insisted, sharply.  “The only winning is our survival.  And if the Gorod fail, then the gurvani, too, shall fail and forever be the slaves of the Alka Alon.  If we must use our newfound magic to ensure our victory, then so be it.”

“That’s the same argument Minalan used to get Rard to ban the Censorate and use irionite,” Tyndal reminded him.  “Existential matters often breed desperate solutions.”

“That . . . was actually meaningful, Tyn,” Rondal admitted.

“Just something I read somewhere,” his friend dismissed.  “I think they have a good chance.  Ashakarl is pretty reasonable, after all, and he’s every bit as opportunistic as a human lord.  He will see the advantages, and eventually make the wiser choice.  Especially if Gurkarl is there, whispering into his pointy ears.  You’re very persuasive about all of this.”

“Some would say it is my destiny,” grunted Gurkarl.  “Others would say I am a charlatan, exploiting my people’s weakness to increase my position. 

“But I just want the chance for my people to assert themselves in the councils of the world, and take some hand at steering our destiny beyond that which has been written for us, by those who do not take our interests into account.  If it would save my people, I would gladly throw myself on the sacrificial stone,” he assured them, grimly.

***

It took a week for the boys to recover from their injuries from the crash, as minor as they were.  They spent the time making observations and writing them down in the Beast every night.  Little things, like how the Gorod were not, strictly speaking, nocturnal anymore.  They seemed completely at ease working in the bitter daylight or the long night.  They also seemed to ignore the cold that dominated the Mindens in winter, eschewing nearly all clothing save for an occasional cloak, or perhaps a belt or harness for carrying their personal items. 

They did seem to enjoy jewelry, however, particularly necklaces.  Most of them wore some kind of chain or pendant, and almost all wore the iron rings that had been enchanted to transform them from their previous gurvani bodies to the Gorod form, at need.  But over time they watched as fewer and fewer of the Gorod chose to wear them, effectively announcing their commitment to their larger, stronger, more intelligent form.

The two humans found some important revelations about the new species very quickly.  For one, they could consume incredible amounts of food at a sitting, easily thrice the amount of the hungriest gurvan.  They were still omnivorous, but they preferred a very protein rich diet.  Their adept hunters came back to camp day and night bearing mountain sheep or goats, or the occasional larger prey.  But as the colony grew, it was clear that the local hunting had been nearly exhausted.

Yet that was not the tragedy it would have been if they’d been mere gurvani.  The Gorod could last weeks without food, Gurkarl assured them.  Short rations was an inconvenience, not a death sentence and invitation to rebellion.

Rondal worried about it, though.  Every day and every night more gurvani trickled into the camp, lured by the legend of the Adrian and the rumor of the Golden Goblin.  Most chose to undergo the transformation and join the strange but wondrous golden people. 

“Lilastien says the third cohort is nearly complete,” Rondal informed Tyndal, as they watched the Gorod exercising on the massive landing stage in front of the complex one morning.  They were lined up in an orderly fashion in one corner, practicing with their new kopachs, moving in perfect unison as a tutor taught them the form.  It was like watching the Sword Dance of the Magi, only with exquisite precision, Rondal decided.  “There are supposed to be three hundred in that one.  Once they are transformed and trained, they will depart for Kral Krebhet.”

Tyndal watched the class with professional interest, sizing the Gorod up as fighters, Rondal guessed.  It was an impressive sight, he had to admit.  Watching his former foemen practicing blows that would split a horse in two on the battlefield brought a mixture of excitement and terror to his mind. 

“They could tear the maragorku apart,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “Look at the way they use those things!  They’re employing leverage, good footwork, perfect form, and total commitment to the strikes.”

Rondal watched as a smaller group of Gorod jogged by with their kopachs, led by another shaman.  When the leader gave a command, all twenty of them sprinted forward so fast they blurred in his vision.  He recognized the spell: humani warmagic, although the Alka Alon had a version of the enchantment, he knew.  The speeding Gorod sprinted across the length of the expansive pad in seconds, making both boys’ mouths gape in surprise.

“That was impressive!” Tyndal declared.  “We could never get a coordinated charge done like that, in formation!”

“With those kopachs they can do an infantry charge and do the damage of a cavalry charge,” Rondal realized.  “They might not have the mass of a horse and rider, but they certainly have the momentum.”

“And the skill,” Tyndal observed.  “Believe me, not every lance finds a good place to rest during a charge.  My knights manage three out of four, and they’re considered elite.  Those things will find a target every time, if I’m not mistaken.  I’d hate to see what they could do on horseback.”  He paused for a moment.  “Do you think it’s a mistake to build a better goblin, after a genocidal war?” he asked, thoughtfully.

“It’s not our mistake to make,” Rondal decided.  “This isn’t even our territory, technically, and those are not our people.  This is an Alka Alon project using gurvani volunteers to build an army to be used against our enemies.  We’re just watching it happen, like good little spies.”

“Good little spies report in,” Tyndal reminded.  “I haven’t mentioned this to anyone, mind-to-mind.  Have you?”

“Nope,” Rondal assured.  “I don’t know who I’d tell or what I’d tell them.  But if I don’t do something soon, Gatina will come looking for me.  You know how she is.”

“And she will bring Tandine with her because girls can’t even go to the privy alone,” Tyndal agreed.  “Ron, we have to tell someone.  Someone who can convince everyone we are alive, and so is Lilastien, but do it in a way that wont raise an alarm or try something stupid.”

“Well, that eliminates just about everyone we know,” Ron said, sourly.  “Even Gareth would want to tell Master Min about this . . . and there’s no telling what he might do.”

“But isn’t that the responsible thing to do?  If Minalan knew this was going on, he’d want to be right in the middle of it, or put a stop to it, or have himself declared Gorod Emperor or something.  You know how he is.”

Rondal frowned, but his friend was correct.  Minalan was decidedly unpredictable, these days.  As much respect as Rondal had for the wizard, and no matter how loyal he felt to the man personally, he understood what this new development meant for the Magelaw he was sworn to protect and defend.  He could not help worry that Minalan would mess this up, somehow, if he was involved.  Likely in some unpredictable but disastrous way.  He was just too erratic since he returned from Anghysbel.

“You’re right,” Rondal conceded with a sigh.  “At this point, we’re overdue.  Another day or so they’ll think we’re missing.  But this is too important to screw up.  Right or wrong, Gurkarl and Lilastien have earned the right to enact their plan unhindered,” he decided. 

“That sounds like you’re making policy,” Tyndal warned.

“I’m making a command decision in the field,” Rondal corrected.  “This is a sensitive matter, and we’re a long way from any kind of meaningful support.  Hells, we’re not even officially supposed to be here,” he reminded Tyndal. 

“We could just pop back into Vanador through the Ways and assure everyone that we’re still diligently searching, and that we’re just back for dinner and a bath before we continue,” he argued.  “That could buy us some time.”

“Perhaps.  But it would just be delaying the inevitable.  Face it, Tyn, this is going to shake the foundations of the world.  You might not realize it yet, but when the Gorod Alon appear, it’s going to change everything.  Including Minalan’s foreign policy.  And certainly our defensive posture in the Magelaw.  Not to mention what it will do to our relations with the Alka Alon Council if we knew about this and didn’t report it.  And I don’t even want to think about what Duchess Rardine would say is my duty in this,” he added, grimly. 

“Yes, we could expose all of this prematurely,” Tyndal agreed, his brow furrowed.  “But I think that would be a mistake.  I think we should let it play out,” he recommended.  “You have to admit, this is an inspired move, one that shakes up the entire board, from Carneduin to the Black Vale.  The moment the Gorod Alon appear, they’re going to attract the ire of just about everyone.  I say give them their chance to do so unhindered by our thoughts on the matter.”

“Now you are making policy,” Rondal smirked.  “Not that I don’t disagree.  I just feel uncomfortable with our position: if we tell anyone, we’re meddling.  If we don’t, we aren’t doing our duty.  I find that disconcerting.”

Tyndal looked at him slyly.  “Weren’t you the one who captured a ducal capital in an effort to shape policy without informing your superiors, while I was off camping for the summer?” he reminded him.  “You are no stranger to this sort of thing, Ron.  And the fact that I agree with you should tell you something about your reasoning.”

“That I’m mad?  You make poor decisions all the time!” he objected.

“I make bold decisions,” Tyndal countered.  “In boldness there is implicit risk.  Risk that can go disastrously wrong – or incredibly well, depending on how bitchy Ifnia is feeling that day.  This is a matter that requires boldness,” he declared.

“I don’t disagree,” Rondal nodded.  “But that doesn’t remove our dilemma.  We have an obligation to inform our superiors of this, so they can adequately prepare.  That is our job as their agents.”

“I see it as a matter of timing,” Tyndal decided.  “Yes, we have a duty to report.  But it’s when we report that’s the issue.  If we go running to the Garden Society now and pull Minalan out of his research expedition prematurely, you know they’re just naturally going to want to do something about it.  And probably the wrong thing. 

“To them, we’re witnessing a renegade Alka Alon sorceress and her half-mad half-breed son build a secret army of soldiery in a mountain stronghold, preparing to assault and conquer one of Minalan’s vassals,” he pronounced.  “They won’t see this in the way we do, I fear.”

“But if we keep this entirely to ourselves, we’re complicit in that – traitors, technically,” Tyndal pointed out.

“I would not call it treason,” Rondal reasoned.  “More like a stunning lack of judgement in the field.  But you’re right.  We need to tell someone.  Someone we can trust.”

Tyndal snapped his fingers.  “I have the perfect person,” he grinned.  “Someone who might just understand the delicate position we’re in, but whose interests might inspire a little much-needed discretion.”

“You have a plan,” Rondal realized, as the despair set in.  Tyndal’s plans were often . . . haphazard, he knew from experience.  He recalled the recent avalanche as a case in point.

“I have a plan,” Tyndal agreed, confidently.  “And one, not surprisingly, that at least gets us a fine meal and a bath before we’re condemned for treason and executed.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Reckoning

On the question of secrets kept, regardless of their reason, I tend to favor honesty over duplicity.  Oft secrets are employed when one desires to escape accountability, which why they are favored by women, for whom accountability is anathema.  To my mind, it has always been best to face my truths boldly, and accept accountability, as well as demand such from the others in my life.  The only exception, perhaps, regards sex and private liaisons.  In all other matters, secrets should be avoided, and, when encountered, are oft best exposed.  But no one needs to know what I did with whom under the stairs at Sevendor Castle.  There are limits, after all.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

The next night there was a kind of banquet held, celebrating the completion of the second cohort’s mastery of magic.  It was a casual affair, from Tyndal’s perspective.  There was no real ceremony involved, or any more formal acknowledgement of the occasion than a chanted prayer at the beginning of the meal.  Several whole sheep had been procured for the feast, and they roasted them over open fires in the main vehicle bay.

Lilastien, Adrian and Igor all joined them for the event.  The second cohort was comprised of over a hundred gurvani, many shamans included in their ranks, and they had learned their magic quickly and with the perfect understanding of the Alka Alon.  Gorod Alon were eidetic, like the Fair Folk, he had learned.  They had perfect memory, something Tyndal was glad he did not.  But it made learning magic and other complex things far easier when you didn’t forget essential instruction, he had to admit.

“It’s a lovely party,” Igor assured him, already swaying drunkenly as he watched the Gorod begin to slice thick gobbets of meat from the spits.  “All it’s missing is beer and dancing girls, and perhaps musicians.”

“Lilastien will take care of that,” Tyndal predicted.  “She’s mad for humani music.  She inflicts it on everyone around her when she’s back at her laboratory.  Some of it is nice,” he admitted, reluctantly.  “She’ll start playing some ancient song from distant Terra about her third drink in.”

“I know.  Adrian hates it,” Igor revealed.  “He’s never been musically inclined beyond playing the flute.  Badly.  He thinks her taste in music is trashy and common.  But I like a good tune, I must admit.  So where is your friend?” he asked, curiously.

“He’ll be here, anon,” Tyndal assured.  “He heard there was a party and he didn’t want us to show up empty-handed.”

“Well, that’s polite,” grunted Igor.  “I hope it’s a bottle of something other than this whiskey.  I enjoy it, but I also like a little variety sometimes.  Perhaps a nice Tiki cocktail,” he mused.  “Something with some fruit in it.  It’s odd what you miss, after a few centuries,” he added, a forlorn tone in his voice.

“What was it like?” Tyndal asked the man, suddenly.  “Growing up in the ancient times, I mean?”

“What was it like?” the man asked, surprised by his question.  “In some ways it was glorious.  Hot water when you turned the tap.  Lights when you flipped a switch.  All of humanity’s knowledge available to you with a whisper.  In other ways, it was chaotic,” he admitted.  “Political turmoil, riots, revolutions, rebels, rabble, repression, depression, decay, despair, and doubt,” he finished, grimly. 

“All I’ve seen are the records,” Tyndal informed him.  “I think it would have been magnificent.”

“Magnificent and terrible all at once,” Igor agreed.  “I never thought the chaos would last, though.  I thought it would be over and things would get restored in a few decades.  Instead I went to sleep to tractors and air cars and woke up to horse-drawn plows and horse-drawn carriages.  It was quite disappointing.  I’ve never been fond of large animals.”

“You seem to be coping with it fairly well,” Tyndal complimented.

“Don’t be fooled,” Igor assured, taking a drink from the crystal glass he’d brought with his bottle of whiskey.  “At any moment I’m one step away from suicidal madness.  The only reason I haven’t killed myself is Adrian.”

“You do seem very devoted,” Tyndal observed.

“He’s the last friend from the old world I have left,” Igor confessed.  “Everyone else is dead.  He’s so bloody determined that he’s the one who can bring it all back, though, that I feel compelled to linger long enough to see how it turns out.  Really, that’s the only thing keeping me going.”

Tyndal left the melancholy man to chat with some of his Gorod Alon friends in the gurvani tongue, while he sought out Lilastien. 

“Where’s Ron?” she asked, looking over to where the beast .

“He’ll be here shortly,” Tyndal dismissed, not wanting to dwell on his friend’s absence.  “So, how many in the third cohort?” he asked, looking around.  The entire Gorod Alon species was in this great room, he realized. 

“Three hundred and ten, so far, with your friends from the trip,” Lilastien acknowledged.  “But there are seven more who wandered in today that will be included.  I think by the end of the week we could see another forty or fifty.”

“What is bringing them here?” Tyndal asked.

“Rumors and legends, mostly,” the sorceress admitted.  “Some of our earlier cohorts are going back to their homes and bringing their families.  We’ll see a lot more females in the future, I’m guessing.”

“So how many in the fourth cohort?” he asked.

“That is the question,” Lilastien sighed.  “Originally I’d planned for a thousand, but Adrian and Gurkarl are eager to get started marching to Kral Krabhet, before the spring flooding begins.  Once the rivers rise, it will be difficult to get there.  And with the Emissary of the High Kings coming, I can see their point.  So I might have to abandon the fourth cohort and proceed with general distribution.  We need to transform as many gurvani as possible into Gorod Alon, or the Alka Alon will be able to wipe them out.  So I’m working on an alternative plan,” she revealed.

“Well, I can’t help but think that you might do better if you had a larger staff,” Tyndal suggested. 

“It’s too late to bring my people from the Tower of Refuge in,” she sighed.  “They would be helpful, too.  But too many of them would object to me proceeding on my own, without a proper consensus.  Not about something this momentous.  And I don’t want them to incriminate themselves by helping me, if things go afoul.”

“A reasonable position,” Tyndal agreed.  “I suppose the Gorod Alon can serve.”

Lilastien made a face.  “They do well enough,” she conceded.  “But they lack the education or training to do much more than they have.  Sophistication will come in time, but right now they’re more like children than anything: awash with wonder about their new world, and oblivious to larger concerns.  I really need someone trained, preferably in Transgenic Enchantment.  But I can’t trust just anyone with this.  It’s too important.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say you can’t trust anyone,” Tyndal suggested.  “You just have to be careful,” he said, manifesting his baculus casually.  “You’re right, you can’t risk sharing this prematurely with anyone who might betray you to the Council.”

He opened a mind-to-mind channel with Rondal.  All right, bring her through, he instructed, then closed it without waiting for acknowledgment.

A moment later, Rondal stepped through the Ways, dressed in clean clothes and accompanying a very confused-looking Tera Alon, who stared about the place in confusion the moment the manifestation was complete.

“Ithalia!” gasped Lilastien, at the sight of her granddaughter.

“Grandmother?  What is this place?  Who are these people?  What are these people?” she began, her words rushing out of her as she stared around in confusion.

“Calm yourself,” Tyndal said, quietly, as the Gorod Alon around them stopped talking and started staring at the stranger in their midst.  “You are among friends.  And family,” he added.  “Ron, did you bring the supplies?” he asked, nervously.  Many of the Gorod Alon looked troubled at the intrusion.

“I surely did,” Rondal said, withdrawing the Supply Wand from his belt.  In a moment there were crates, barrels, and sacks of food manifesting on the broad concrete floor.  Included was a gigantic kettle of a cabbage soup and another of beans, the smell of which quickly filled the great hall and attracted yet more attention.  But when Rondal conjured six big kegs of gurvani beer and four casks of lemons, there was a general cheer from the Gorod Alon, and the sudden appearance of a Tera Alon was forgotten.

“I thought that might distract them,” Rondal said, as he settled into the small circle to talk.  “I’ve heard complaints that there wasn’t any beer for days, now.  Seems a shame to deprive a Gorod of a drink at a celebration.”

“What is happening here?” Ithalia demanded.  “Why did you bring me?”

“To keep it brief, Ithalia, we found your grandmother, safe and sound,” Tyndal began, gesturing to the angry-looking sorceress.   “She and Gurkarl stole up here in secret to transform the gurvani race into something more elegant and durable, to spit in the soup of the Alka Alon Council and because it was generally a nice thing to do,” he answered.

“Grandmother!” Ithalia gasped, as she looked accusingly at Lilastien.  “Is this true?”

“They’re skipping over a lot,” she said, glaring at Tyndal, “but that’s essentially correct.  What were you boys thinking?” she demanded, turning her attention thankfully toward Rondal.  “Do you realize what you have done?”

“We brought you the one person we could think of who was most desperate to learn your whereabouts to assure her that you were well,” Rondal countered.  “We told her nothing, beforehand.”

“They didn’t – or I would have screamed!  Grandmother, what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.  “Do you realize what the Council will do to you?”

“It’s a risk,” Lilastien shrugged.  “It’s one I’m willing to take.  Alone,” she emphasized, returning her glare to Tyndal.  “She was never supposed to be part of this!” she hissed.  “I took great pains to insulate my family from the consequences of what I’ve done!”

“Well, not all your family,” Tyndal reminded her.  “Look, we wanted to help you, but we really can’t help – not more than picking up some beer for the party,” he conceded.  “Rondal and I are merely interested observers on behalf of His Excellency, Count Minalan.  It would be wrong for us to interfere with what is clearly a matter for the Alon to handle.”

“But that doesn’t mean we aren’t sympathetic,” Rondal continued.  “You want to be successful in this endeavor, and we want you to be successful – regardless of the risk.  But we figured that what we could do for you is bring you one of the few people who might understand, and might be of some assistance to you.  Someone with experience in Transgenic Enchantment and who realizes just why this might be important – more important than the dignity of the Alka Alon Council.  If anyone can help speed your plans, we think it’s Ithalia.”

“It would have been nice to have been asked!” Ithalia said, accusingly, as she, too, began to glare at the boys.  “One minute I’m having a perfectly nice dinner in Vanador, the next Rondal whips out his baculus and pulls me through the Ways!”

“I did say I was taking you to see Lilastien,” Rondal pointed out, weakly.

“I thought she was injured in some cave or held prisoner in Korbal’s dungeon!  Not camping with a . . . an experiment!  An experiment that could upset our entire society!”

“Are you really that surprised?” Tyndal asked.  “Really, you’ve known her for three hundred years, now.  You knew she was doing something like this,” he challenged.

“Yes, but I didn’t think you would help her!” Ithalia snorted.  “I figured you’d try to help me stop her!”

“I don’t think she needs stopping,” Rondal offered.  “I think you should help her.  Spend a little time with the Gorod Alon, and I think you’ll agree.”

Lilastien sighed.  “What is done is done.  I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Ithalia, but now that you have you deserve to be told about it thoroughly, so you can form your own judgement.  Not that it will make any difference – we’re committed to this,” she stressed.  “We cannot go back now.  We must press on, and establish the Gorod Alon as quickly and as thoroughly as possible.”

“Do you not see what a mad idea this is?” Ithalia asked in a loud, exasperated whisper, her eyes wide in disbelief.  “You were expressly forbidden to indulge in Transgenic Enhancement by the Council unless it directly helped the war effort!” she reminded her grandmother, harshly.  “It was a condition of your parole!”

“It could be argued that this is helping the war effort,” Rondal pointed out.  “Ashakarl’s realm is technically a vassal and an ally of the Magelaw, under Minalan.  Providing his allies with a better quality soldier is helping the war effort,” he reasoned.

“You know godsdamned well that isn’t what this is!” Ithalia accused.  “She’s trying to right ancient wrongs and atone for our race’s misdeeds and assuage her guilt!”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing!” Lilastien snorted.

“Regardless of her motivations, your grandmother has done something truly momentous . . . and truly decisive,” Tyndal argued.  “It cannot be undone.  With proper credit for vision and boldness given, the chamberpot has been spilled.”

“You’re just excusing her obvious crimes because you’re impressed by her sorcery!” Ithalia said, shaking her head.  “She manipulated you into going along with her mad plan, and disrupting . . . everything!”

“Some things need to be disrupted,” Rondal said, thoughtfully.  “Your grandmother isn’t wrong in her reasoning – we’ve spoken at length to the gurvani.  As it stands, they don’t stand a chance of resisting the Alka Alon’s manipulations.  Either the Council or the Enshadowed.  Their best chance of asserting themselves up to now was Sheruel, and that was a ruse contrived by the Enshadowed to destabilize the Council.  He mobilized the gurvani to their greatest strength, and it wasn’t enough to get them noticed.

“But now your grandmother has changed the rules of the game,” he continued.  “She’s given the Gorod Alon gifts that can be used for themselves, on behalf of all goblinfolk, from a position of strength.  With a mastery of magic that cannot be denied.  And with enough longevity for them to build a culture and civilization every bit as gallant as your own.”

“And that will upset what is already a very delicate situation!” Ithalia objected.  “The Council is already on the knife’s edge over the humani situation, and you want to add this to the scrutiny of the Emissary?  Are you mad?”

“Think of it this way, Ithalia,” Tyndal suggested.  “There is no avoiding the fact that the arrival of the Emissary will be a profound and disruptive event.  It will lead to a change in the way things are done in this realm.  But a time of such change is the perfect opportunity to do this sort of thing.  The Council will already be in chaos.  In a time of reform, the opportunity exists to reform more than one matter.”

“We’re doomed,” Ithalia said, her shoulders sagging in despair.  “You’ve always had a perverse love of secrets, Grandmother!”

Tyndal saw Adrian crossing the expanse of the vehicle bay toward them, curious about the stirring of the crowd.  He wore a regal-looking cloak that looked a hundred years old, and Tyndal could almost sense the power of the frown on his lips without recourse to magic.

“Well, it’s getting late,” Tyndal said, standing, though the hour was still early.  “This seems more like a family matter, now.  We will leave you to discuss it as a family.  Ithalia, I’d like you to meet your Great Uncle Adrian. Rondal, I think that is our cue to retire for the evening.”

***

“That did not go quite as well as I expected,” Rondal admitted, as they entered the Beast and closed the hatch behind them.

“I don’t know,” Tyndal dismissed, as he took off his cloak and hung it on a cargo hook by the door.  “We knew it would be a volatile reunion.  I think it went about as I expected.”

“I was hoping for a little more relief that she’s alive than disgust at what she’s done,” Rondal said, as he began pulling their supper from his Ring of Rations.  He had charged it with three new meals from Vanador last night, Tyndal knew, and had included a few dainties he’d requested.  “She had a lot of questions at dinner about her grandmother.  I had to be cryptic and mysterious until she was about to burst,” he revealed.

“You’re married to a thief,” Tyndal dismissed.  “Cryptic and mysterious describes how you break your fast every morning.  Still, I think it was a good idea, no matter how messy it is right now.  The truth is your shield.  When you trade in secrets too long, you risk everything you work for,” he said, confidently.

“Well, I did agree to hold the goat on this one,” Rondal sighed, reluctantly.  “I hope her inclusion isn’t more trouble than its worth.”

“After she gets over being mad, she’ll do the right thing,” Tyndal guessed.  “I got to know Ithalia pretty well in Anghysbel.  She’s a good girl.”

“We really have put her in a spot,” Rondal reminded him.  “She gets her commission as an Emissary from the Council.  If she participates in this . . .”

“No one has to know anything until it’s too late,” stressed Tyndal.  “They’re going to be gobsmacked by the Gorod Alon.  That’s going to be their focus.  Not who made it happen.  Or helped in the tiniest little bit along the way.  She can dismiss her involvement as mere investigation into her grandmother’s sordid deeds.”

“You’re staking an awful lot on the Council’s distraction,” Rondal pointed out.

“I’m staking an awful lot on our friends, both human and Alkan,” Tyndal riposted.  “Think about what Minalan would say about this whole endeavor.”

The question produced a long silence in Rondal.  Tyndal had learned long ago not to grow anxious when his friend was quiet, despite his misgivings.  Rondal was just one of those people who needed a moment to organize his thoughts.  And Tyndal had learned to give his friend time, when he lapsed into silence.  He was rewarded soon enough.

“Minalan would endorse it, because he’s a subversive bastard at heart,” Rondal finally pronounced.  “He loves sticking it to authority.  And the Alka Alon Council is the greatest authority he’s met.  He’d love this,” Rondal decided.  “He’d love the audacity, the temerity, the sheer gall of Lilastien doing this.  It’s taking a healthy piss in the porridge, and he loves that sort of thing.”

“Agreed,” Tyndal conceded.  “That’s why I’m taking a very restrained approach to all this.  I admire the daring,” he confessed.  “I respect the creativity of approach.  It’s inspired,” he insisted. 

“Inspired or not, it’s going to cause a tempest,” Rondal assured.  “Acrimony, accusations of treachery, recriminations galore,” he said.  “The Council will feel betrayed.  The Emissary – I don’t know what he’ll do, but he’s not going to be happy.”

“Why should he deserve to be happy?” Tyndal objected.  “From what I can tell, the High Kings have ignored this place for centuries, except to cover up their embarrassment.  Ron, this might be the only legitimate way to drag their attention to the Colonial Zone for the first time in centuries,” he insisted.  “Lilastien sees that.  Even Minalan sees that.  Why can’t you?”

“Because I want to believe that the Council – and the King – have our best interests in mind, and that is clearly not the case!” Rondal snapped.  “Moreover, they have the power to make our lives very difficult, if they choose to.  That’s what has me worried!”

“Then calm yourself, my brother,” Tyndal assured him.  “Our master is many things, but he is not a stooge of greater powers.  He will not allow the Alka Alon Council or this Emissary of kings who have never laid eyes on our lands to dictate to him or the rest of humanity what we can and cannot do.”  He spoke with the conviction of his own assurance, but it did not soothe Rondal’s discomfort.

“They’re going to go after him,” he said, quietly.  “You must know that.  I don’t know how, but they will not tolerate a mere human wizard upsetting their delicate sensibilities.”

“Minalan has his agreement with the Vundel,” Tyndal countered.  “I can’t imagine—”

He stopped, when the hatch opened unexpectedly.  Ithalia came in and dogged it behind her, before she sat down in one of the seats.

“I need a drink,” she declared.  “I don’t care what it is, just make sure it’s strong.  And that there is plenty of it.”

“I take it that did not go well,” Rondal said, sympathetically, as Tyndal conjured a bottle of spirits.

“My grandmother apparently had a secret child with a human, some four hundred years ago, and has been keeping him hidden,” she stated, flatly.  “That is perhaps the most irresponsible thing she’s ever done in a lifetime of doing irresponsible things.”

“What is done is done,” Rondal said, with a sigh.  “I thought you’d want to know.”

“I . . . I do,” she agreed, reluctantly.  “I mean, I didn’t, but I’m glad I know now.  But that’s almost secondary to the Gorod Alon,” she said, her eyes wide.  “She didn’t just violate the dictates of the Council by doing that.  She challenged the fundamental assumptions of their rule.”

“You disapprove,” Tyndal observed, handing her a small cup full of spirts.  Pear brandy from the Pearwoods, he’d secured it in Vanador where it was a popular aperitif, especially amongst the Alka Alon. 

“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove,” she decided, taking a sip of the strong liquor.  “She’s always been like this.  Impetuous.  Devious.  Unwilling to see how her decisions affect those around her,” she complained.  “She was my rebel grandmother, and I grew up being told she was a wicked influence, because she loved the humani more than her own people.  That just made me intrigued by her,” she admitted.  “And your species.”

“Which is how you were selected to be an Emissary of the Council,” Tyndal pointed out.

“But I thought her days of bringing shame and turmoil to my family were done!” Ithalia declared.  “She was under house arrest!  Unable to leave the Tower of Refuge!  There were guards!  And yet she was able to hide . . . all of this . . . for more than three centuries.  Even from me.”

“She really was trying to protect you,” Rondal suggested, hesitantly.  “I believe her in that.  She wouldn’t be this angry with us if she wasn’t.”

“Oh, she wanted to ‘protect’ me . . . and keep me from telling the Council!  I couldn’t keep something like this a secret.  I can’t!  This Adrian, who is apparently my uncle, has been hiding away here for hundreds of years, now, and she’s enlisted him in this mad plot to re-make the gurvani in defiance of the Council and common decency and . . . and . . . it’s all just too much!” she declared, finishing her glass.  Tyndal immediately poured her another.

“She’s just doing what she thinks is right,” Tyndal explained.  “As mad as it sounds, it might just be the right thing to do.  It’s reckless, daring, bold, and disruptive, but you have to admit she’s changed the rules of the game with this.  When no one else would.”

“But is that really going to fix anything?” Ithalia lamented.  “Or is it just going to destabilize the situation further?”

“Some situations need to be destabilized,” Rondal reflected.  “Throwing the Censorate out of the kingdom was highly destabilizing.  In one stroke three centuries of magical regulation was ended.  We’ve managed,” he pointed out. 

“This isn’t a matter of regulation, this is a matter of propriety!” Ithalia argued.  “What right does she have to do this?  How can she assume this responsibility all on her own?”

“Because no one else was willing or able to do it,” Tyndal observed.  “The Enshadowed twisted and corrupted the gurvani for their own purposes.  The Council ignores them until they’re useful or a inconvenience, and then goes back to ignoring them.  Lilastien is the only one who has their interests in mind.”

“But does she?” Ithalia accused.  “Or is this just her way of poking the Council in the eye in retribution for punishing her?  You know she’s putting their very existence at risk.  When the Emissary sees what she’s done, and how poorly the Council has handled their responsibilities, it is well within his power to dissolve it permanently and appoint a Viceroy to govern this region directly.”

“In which case it will be the Viceroy’s problem to contend with the humani and the gurvani,” Rondal reasoned.  “They will be relieved of the responsibility.”

“You don’t understand,” Ithalia said, shaking her head.  “A Viceroy might well decide that the only reasonable option is to destroy the Gorod Alon, and withdraw the Alon entirely from these lands.  Abandon humanity to its own devices, to suffer its own fate.”

Tyndal gave Rondal a meaningful look, and he could tell without mind-to-mind communication what they were both thinking.  The Alka Alon didn’t really know the Spellmonger.

“Somehow I don’t think Minalan would let that happen without consequence,” Tyndal suggested, gently.  “Or your grandmother.  In fact, I guarantee it.”

Chapter Thirty

The Dance in the Darkness

One of the best things about being a wizard is the feeling of accomplishment you get when a spell goes properly.  I still recall the heady feeling of mastery I felt the first time I conjured a magelight or a squib, a feeling that is reflected to this day when I master a new spellwork.  There is something nearly divine in watching the results of a process or event you, alone, have initiated and executed, a sense of accomplishment and wonder that few other endeavors provide.  Indeed, a mage who cannot regard his workings with wonder has lost that which is essential to a real wizard.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

“That was very naughty of you boys!” Lilastien reproved them, the next day, when they went to visit her in her makeshift laboratory. 

It was tucked away on the third floor of the complex, back in a corner that was far removed from the entrance to the subterranean facility.  Whatever it had once been, it now looked like a cross between a physiker’s surgery and a spellmonger’s office.  There were tables filled with parchment folios she’d brought from Henga, her various tools for Transgenic Enchantment, her medical monitor, a number of strange tekka machines Rondal didn’t recognize, and, of course, her pet Constructed Intelligence.  It was a darkened chamber, lit by a single magelight and the pinpoints of light from the instruments.

Lilastien’s mood was abrasive, and he could tell she was attempting to overcome her own anger and repair the relationship. 

“We did what we thought was best,” Tyndal began.  “We needed to tell her – tell someone – that we had found you.  But we couldn’t tell her what you were doing, because you asked us not to.”

“So you brought her here and exposed her to my crimes, instead,” Lilastien said, evenly.  “You involved her in something that very well might get me and Adrian executed.”

“I don’t think it’s going to play out like that,” Rondal suggested.

“I don’t think you have the slightest idea what you are talking about!” Lilastien countered, whipping around and affixing him with a glare.  “You two are like a couple of puppies who dug up a bone . . . that happened to belong to someone’s grandfather,” she pronounced. 

“How did she take meeting Adrian?” Rondal asked, curiously.

“How do you think she took it?  She was shocked, appalled, and perhaps a little disgusted.  You people may enjoy your fun with goats, but inter-species mating is still a taboo for my people,” she reminded them.  “Now Adrian has met some of his family, and Ithalia has discovered my shameful secret, and—”

“And now they will be forced to come to terms with each other – and you,” Tyndal finished, smoothly.  “The burden of your secret is gone.  Adrian’s sense of loneliness and disaffection is lessened.  And Ithalia is able to meet a long-lost relative she didn’t know she had.  It had to happen eventually,” he pointed out.

“Did it?” Lilastien asked.  “Perhaps.  But I didn’t imagine it would happen like this.”

Rondal gave her a meaningful look.  “Then how did you imagine it happening?”

“It didn’t involve her discovering me in the process of committing a capital crime!” Lilastien said, exasperated.  She took a deep breath.  “I understand what you boys were trying to do.  I really do.  It’s even admirable, if you look at it the right way.  But you just complicated my plans dramatically, and now I have to change them.  The good news is I’m close to figuring out how we can do the transformations at scale,” she reported, as she turned to the medical monitor and called up a series of maps and diagrams. 

“That is good news!” Tyndal agreed.

“You might not think so, later,” Lilastien chuckled, mirthlessly.  “But you mentioning the Goblin Stones got me thinking.  The problem is, I need to know some things about them that I don’t, yet.  And in that way you bringing Ithalia here the way you did might actually help,” she admitted.  “If she agrees to it, she can act as my agent and gain the information I need.  I hope.  If not, we’ll just have to improvise, stick with the original plan and hope things go our way.”

“There is the matter of us reporting back to our superiors,” Rondal reminded her.  “We need to check in, or the next thing you know Pentandra will send Azar or gods forbid Caswallon the Fox to come search for us.  Not to mention our wives, who are eager for us to conclude the mission.  Enough people saw me in Vanador to give us a few more days, but we’ve got to tell Minalan and Pentandra something, soon.”

“We were thinking of telling them that we found you in the Mindens in a cave, deep in meditation, trying to contend with your madness in isolation,” Tyndal proposed.  “They would believe that.”

“I think I should be insulted by that, somehow,” Lilastien mused.  “But you’re right, they would believe that.  Until I appear with a few hundred Gorod Alon at my back, and then you’re both exposed as having lied to your superiors.  That would reflect poorly on you.”

Rondal shrugged.  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he pointed out.  “Believe it or not, Tyn and I are more and more being put in positions where we’ve been forced to make policy, not just execute it.  Despite our better judgement and our sincerest wishes.”

This time her chuckle was more sympathetic.  “Welcome to the real game, then!  I felt like that too, on Perwyn.  I was there to do one job, but it became clear that the job wasn’t the only reason I’d been put there, and I was forced to make some decisions on my own when I saw how things were really happening.  If I had just kept my mouth shut and stuck to my original mandate, I would have been rewarded with acclaim and respect.  And your people would have been a few scattered neolithic tribes fighting extinction, right now.”

“What really happened on Perwyn?” Rondal asked, very curious.  Lilastien – and now Adrian – were the only two people he knew who had seen the fabled island.

“That is a question that can’t be answered in one sitting,” she sighed.  “I was there for almost seventy years, and a lot happened.  Politics, mostly – with the Alka Alon and with the Colonial Authority, but both sides had innumerable factions that had competing and conflicting interests.  Perhaps when all of this is over, I’ll be able to give you the important points.

“But the basic story is I didn’t like the Council’s intentions toward the race I’d just started studying.  So I started doing something about it.  In their words, I ‘rebelled’ against their authority and their sense of propriety.  They accused me of having too deep an affection for your people.  That I’d ‘gone native’, in Old High Perwynese idiom.  And when I interfered in their plans, they eventually took their retribution.  It took them nearly a century to hold me to account, but the Council has a long memory.  And certain members personally dislike me,” she added, with a sniff.

“Tyndal and I are in agreement that you should be allowed to proceed with your plan – not that we think we could stop you – and we’re generally supportive of it,” Rondal informed her.

“I think it’s rather brilliant,” Tyndal agreed.  “I like these new goblins you’ve made.  As long as they don’t want to kill and eat me, they’re quite nice fellows in their new guise.”

“That food you brought will reduce the chance that they’ll start looking at you with hungry eyes,” she admitted.  “That was well done.  I hadn’t really considered the logistics of raising a secret army in the mountains – foolish of me.  But those supplies will help us sustain our numbers here for a while before we’re forced to march on Kral Krebhet.  Thank you.”

“Thank Minalan,” Rondal dismissed.  “I had Rael charge it to his personal account.  He hired us for this mission, after all.  Speaking of which . . . should we quietly slink back home, after we inform Min and Pentandra we found you?  Or do you want us to linger and watch the birth of new people?”

“That’s your choice,” she shrugged.  “I didn’t include you in my plans, you just sort of intruded.  I’m tempted to send you away just because of that – especially after what you pulled with my granddaughter!” she added.  Clearly she was not over the stunt, Rondal could tell.  “But the fact is, you might prove useful, if you’re willing.  I don’t know how yet, but I am getting very close to a solution . . . and it’s possible I’ll need a couple of puppies to go digging for bones,” she said, giving them a wink.  “Employing you two has the advantage of pleading ignorance in front of the Council.  After all, you’re just a couple of young humani who don’t know anything important.  I can blame some of this on you, perhaps.”

“We’re used to being blamed for things,” Tyndal agreed.  “Being expendable is perhaps our greatest talent.”

They wasted no time contacting their superiors, after meeting with the Sorceress.  Tyndal agreed to venture to speak to Minalan, mind-to-mind, while Rondal informed Pentandra.  They picked a quiet spot in the main vehicle bay, away from the Gorod Alon’s training, and made contact.

Rondal! Pentandra’s mental voice said with surprise.  What’s going on?

I just wanted to check in and let you know that we found Lilastien, he reported, dutifully.  She’s in a cavern in the Mindens.  Trying to master her madness in seclusion.  It wasn’t quite a lie, he reckoned.  This entire operation was an attempt by Lilastien to master her madness, if you looked at it right. And the station was a kind of cavern.

That’s great news! Pentandra said, relieved.  I was worried she’d been taken by the Enshadowed.  That’s one less thing I have to worry about.

We brought Ithalia in to tend her, Rondal added.  We figured another Alkan would know what to do better than we would. 

Excellent.  Well done.  I look forward to hearing your full report, once you get back.  And you can expect to be busy, once you return.  Word just came in this morning: there’s been a revolution in Farise.  They’ve overthrown the rebels and elected a new Doge.

That’s . . . interesting, Rondal noted, as he imagined the implications of the news.  Is Minalan involved? he asked, hesitantly.

I don’t know, she answered.  I’m trying to find out, but he won’t answer my mind-to-mind summons.  If he is involved, it could be that he’s too busy.  If he isn’t, then he could just be dead or imprisoned or something.

I doubt he’s dead, Rondal dismissed.  And if he is, he’ll get over it.  Tyndal’s trying to contact him right now to tell him about Lilastien.  I’ll see what I can find out.

Thank you.  I suspected he was up to something when he started distancing himself from the government, and indulged in that ruse of exploring the ruins in Falas – as if I don’t have twenty spies in that village already.  He has a research team there, but he hasn’t been seen there more than twice since he left.  He can’t fool me, she said, suspiciously.

I’m certain he’s involved, somehow, Rondal agreed.  It should be interesting to see how its plays out. 

It’s going to get very interesting, Pentandra predicted, a certain eagerness in her tone.  Queen Grendine must have heard by now, too.  You should be very busy when you get back.

Tyndal was still speaking mind-to-mind when Rondal opened his eyes, and he waited patiently for his friend to finish, watching the exercising Gorod in the distance.  In the light of the sun they were an army of gold, swinging their new blades with perfect efficiency.  It was hard not to admire the sight.

Finally Tyndal opened his eyes.  “He did it!” he declared, victoriously.

“You got in contact with him?” he asked, eagerly.

“Yes!  He said he almost didn’t take the summons, but when he saw it was us, he wanted to hear about Lilastien.  But the bastard just made himself the Doge of Farise!” he said, with unabashed pride.

Rondal’s eyes bulged.  He had every confidence that Minalan could conquer anyplace he wanted to conquer, with magic, guile, and pure shrewdness.  But this news challenged his respect for his former master in an entirely positive way.

“What happened?” Rondal begged.

“First, he insisted we keep this news to ourselves – strictest secrecy.  Apparently things are still playing out,” Tyndal explained.  “We’re not even to tell Lilastien.  Or Ithalia.  Especially not Pentandra,” he lectured.

Rondal sighed.  Technically, she was his direct boss.  “Agreed.  Secret,” he promised.

“He was brief, but he told me that he had taken advantage of an existing revolution and contrived a way to become the leader of it,” Tyndal said, breathlessly.  “Under an assumed named, even!  Then he declared himself Doge and seized control of the entire place.  He’s just sorting through the good guys and the bad guys and establishing complete control, but he’s done it!  He took bloody Farise!”

“That is amazing,” Rondal agreed.  “The mad bastard conquered Farise!  Without our help!”  He could not help but feel pride about his master.  Minalan was often caustic to work with, but he had proven how adept he was at mastering both the political and the arcane matters in the world. 

“It has to be part of his larger plan,” Tyndal guessed.  “You know he had to be talked into it.”

“I know,” Rondal assured him.  “I was one of the ones who talked him into it.  Pentandra, especially.  Farisian piracy is killing our international trade.  And rumor has it that Merwyn wants to fish in troubled Farisian waters, so Duke Anguin is particularly concerned.  We nearly begged Minalan to do something about it.”

“Well, now he has,” Tyndal smiled.  “Doge of Farise.  That’s a handsome title to add to your name!”

“As if he needs another one,” Rondal dismissed.  “So we really can’t tell anyone?”

“About that . . . or about the Gorod Alon,” Tyndal nodded, after a moment’s thought.  “How do you manage to keep so many secrets?” he asked, suddenly.  “I have just these two, and it’s a burden!”

“When you marry Gatina, you learn to be patient about secrets,” Rondal explained.  “Either you will eventually learn, in the fullness of time, or you will have to be satisfied with the mystery.  It’s the only way to stay sane.  The divided loyalties are what get to me: I’m essentially lying to Pentandra to protect Lilastien, and then lying by omission by not informing her about Minalan.  Am I being disloyal to Pentandra by telling her things I know she would want to know?  Would I be betraying Minalan and Lilastien by telling her, when I know she has far too much to contend with already?  It’s confusing.”

“Well, at least you’re empowered to make some sort of policy,” Tyndal pointed out.  “You are her deputy.  She gave you the authority to make some policy within your purview.  That’s what deputies are for.  So you at least have that.  I’m just a vassal and a nobleman on holiday.  I don’t have any authority, outside my lands.”

“Yes, that is a lovely argument,” Rondal agreed, “and one that Pentandra will completely reject when she hears it.  She’s also my superior in the Garden Society, and it is my duty to report all intelligence related matters to her in an expedient manner.”

“I am too,” Tyndal reminded him, “and my superior just requested some discretion on a delicate matter.  So I’m requesting some from you as a professional courtesy,” he argued.  “So you’re covered.”

“We’re only covered as long as things go well,” Rondal sighed, as he watched the Gorod Alon.  “And right now we’re dangerously close to tipping the chamberpot.  Our best bet is to make our excuses and skulk back to civilization, our mission accomplished.  And then wait to see what happens with the Goblin King.  And the Emissary.  And the Gorod Alon.  And keep our mouths shut until someone asks us.”

“That would be the smart play,” Tyndal agreed.  “We can’t very well be blamed for what we don’t see or do.  The question is . . . is that what we’re going to do?  Or are we going to watch this play out and witness history being made?”

“I’ve seen plenty of history made,” Rondal reminded him.  “I admit, the novelty has worn off.  But . . . this is pretty momentous,” he decided.  “World-shaking stuff.  And you have to admit, it’s fascinating to watch.”

“Would it surprise you that I’m taking notes?” Tyndal asked. 

“Well, yes!” Rondal blurted out.  Tyndal had always had a certain good-natured scorn towards scholarship, compared to Rondal.  That had been tempered somewhat by their experiences at the academy, but Rondal was starting to suspect that his friend was a secret academic.  “What possessed you to do something that useful?”

“I think it was keeping a log book on the Anghysbel expedition,” Tyndal decided.  “It was useful.  And it forced me to order my thoughts.  I’ve been keeping a little log book for this trip, just for fun.  But I’ve filled six pages about the Gorod Alon, already, and notes about Adrian and Lilastien, too.  So . . . technically, we’re still observing the situation.  We haven’t been called upon to act, yet.  Not in any serious way.”

“You’re looking for a justification for staying,” Rondal recognized. 

“Perhaps,” Tyndal agreed.  “We’re out of our depth and out of our jurisdiction, but you can’t deny that this is a unique opportunity to gather intelligence.  Which is part of our mandate, no matter which boss we’re talking about.  I think we can manage another week or so, and take notes before we head back and report.”

“Which would mean that the Gorod Alon will have been revealed before anyone could do anything about it,” Rondal nodded. 

“And which would make our reports suddenly incredibly valuable to our superiors,” agreed Tyndal.  “We get to be heroes with the real truth of them, ready to be explained, and not . . . cowards who didn’t want to go home and face the music.”

“It’s a command decision,” Rondal decided.  “We’re in the field and we have to decide.  We decide to stay and watch thoroughly before reporting.”

“We wouldn’t want to miss something important,” Tyndal agreed.  “That would be unprofessional.”

“Exactly.  We actually have a duty to see this through.  In the interests of intelligence gathering.”

“You realize we’re both just trying to rationalize what we want to do in the first place, don’t you?” Tyndal asked.

“Of course.  That’s what wizards do,” Rondal answered. 

While they wrestled with the question of their mission, both of them watched the Gorod Alon break from their formations as the sun began to sink beyond the distant ridges.  It was twilight, when many gurvani pilgrims would start to wander into the camp, in search of the rumors.  And many Gorod Alon still behaved nocturnally, which made dusk the start of their figurative day. 

But the boys witnessed a strange ritual, one they hadn’t seen before.  The Gorod Alon seemed to all focus themselves on the setting sun for a few moments of silence.  Then one of them began a chant in their low, guttural voice, the words indistinct at this distance and likely unintelligible even if he had heard him – his command of gurvani was spotty, at best.

But there was no denying the feeling behind it.  It was a welcome of the night, an observation of the natural world that seemed both spontaneous and formal.  It was similar, he thought, to the way the Alka Alon of Carneduin had their Vespers and Matins – solemn observations of the change of the day.  Rondal knew some gurvani shamans had a deep connection to the natural world but this . . . this was different.

Then, before he could remark on it to Tyndal, they did something even more surprising.  They began to dance.  As the final rays of the sun splashed over their golden fur, the Gorod Alon began to move in a coordinated manner, their arms raised overhead and their steps measured and precise.  Yet, there was a magnificent barbaric quality about the dance, a primal expression that seemed to reflect the tribal gurvani’s attitudes and manner, yet augmented it with a grace and power that was essentially Gorod. 

The chanting became quicker, but even more complex in rhythm as the Gorod formed a circle, their movements punctuated with shudders or shaking by individuals.  The occasional howl was issued, as they churned the snow underfoot in a perfect circle.  And when the last light of the sun fell, and twilight swiftly overtook them, their fur changed color, from gold to black.

At that moment all pretense at precision was lost.  The Gorod rushed into the center of the circle, throwing their bodies against each other.  They were not trying to hurt each other, as Rondal first thought; as he watched he saw their goal was more subtle than that.  It was as if they were offering themselves to their fellows, giving them something to thud against as they hurled themselves haphazardly into the collective.  The chanting continued, but so did the heartfelt howls the Gorod dancers bellowed.

“It’s happening again,” Adrian noted, from behind them.  They whirled, and saw the wizard and his mother approaching them.  “It’s not the first time they’ve done this sort of thing.  But there are a lot more of them, now.  It gets more impressive every time.”

“What are they doing?” Tyndal asked, confused.  “At first it looked as delicate as a ballroom dance master.  And then . . . this,” he said, gesturing to the scrum out on the field. 

“It’s a kind of spontaneous indulgence in their new bodies,” Lilastien explained.  “They’re getting used to having the full power of rajira, all the time, and the minds sophisticated enough to use it.  But they are also seeing the world with magesight, and feeling the Otherworld in ways they never have before.  So part of this is experimental.  Part of it is pure tribal culture, a kind of primitive art.  I spoke to Gurkarl about it.  It’s a celebration of life, an exercise in strength and toughness, and an indulgence in spontaneous culture.  It’s fascinating.”

“They dance in the dark,” Adrian approved.  “Just as their ancestors did.  But they have the eyes to see the dark anew.  For them, these are the early days, every hour filled with new experiences, and new expectations growing in their hearts and minds.  They are glimpsing the world as the Alka Alon see it, but from the perspective of a gurvan.  It’s a heady process.”

“It’s the oddest thing I’ve seen in a year,” Rondal nodded, as he stared at the rhythmic dancers, their fur completely transformed, slamming into each other in a display of beautiful violence.  They became shadows under the emerging stars.  “But strangely beautiful.”

“This is just the beginning,” Lilastien agreed.  “I’m eager to see how their society and culture develops in its maturity.  Likely with elements from all the other cultures around them – including yours.  You should have seen how delighted they were with the lemons you brought them.  But this dance . . . it’s promising.”

“It’s robust,” Tyndal added, admiringly.  “Those scrugs are hurling themselves at each other like it’s a battlefield ritual.  I’d get creamed like butter if I was in the middle of that.”

“I’m not much of a dancer, myself,” Rondal agreed.  “But that begs the question if they’re going to survive long enough to produce more mature art than this.”

“They will if there are tens of thousands of them, not just a couple of hundred,” Lilastien predicted.  “And I may have just worked out a way to achieve that.  Adrian and I were coming to discuss it with you.”

“What did you figure out?” Rondal asked, with genuine interest.  Lilastien took a deep breath before she began, her eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

“You mentioned the Goblin Stones.  Believe it or not, they don’t have anything to do with the gurvani.  They were put there by the Alka Alon, back when we were making the journey through the molopors.”

“Molopors?  Plural?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“Oh, the one in the Mindens was just one of several that were employed, around Callidore,” she explained.  “The colonization took a little time, and couldn’t be done through one point for reasons that are still murky.  So the Vundel offered my ancestors the use of the molopors that were accessible on land.  Our sorcerers and scientists used them to bring over the colonists – but there were limits to doing so.

“The goblin stones were one of the ways they used to make the process more efficient,” she continued.  “The early expeditions realized that they could keep the portal across the Void open for longer, if they tinkered with the molopors a bit.  They could bring more colonists through even though the field was harder and harder to establish with our homeworld, if they reinforced the nature of its employment in various ways.

“For this one, the ancestors of the dwarves found a mineral that helped support the exterior field of the molopor, and under guidance quarried it, and placed each stone precisely to reinforce the entire field.  They called it a Harmonic Retortion, that’s how it would translate.  It was actually an elegant solution to a difficult magical problem that didn’t require huge amounts of power or other major manipulations of the field.  It was passive, cheap, and the mineral resonates with the first, third, fifth and seventh octaves, which is what was required to stabilize the field.”

“That explains why they’re so bloody good at making everyone feel bad!” Tyndal declared.  “Psychomancy usually uses fifth octave power!”

“Exactly,” Lilastien nodded.  “Beyond their primary use, they can be used as a kind of network that can harmonize a magical field over large areas.  That’s the key to my plan: to use the Goblin Stones to accelerate the transformation at scale.”

“That’s ambitious,” Rondal observed.

“It’s theoretically possible,” Adrian admitted, giving his mother a skeptical look.  “I checked her work.  It makes sense.  If you presuppose a great number of things that she has no business guessing about.”

“They’re educated guesses,” Lilastien argued.  “And you know I’m right.  If we can use the harmonic network of the stones, any gurvan who lingers near one will be able to experience the transformation, if they pass the moral test.  We don’t even need one of our shamans present.  The stones themselves can embody the enchantment . . . if we do it right.”

“And this is where her mountain of presuppositions comes in,” Adrian said, dryly.

“It just requires a little faith,” she dismissed.  “The way the network was set up was in an essentially radial pattern around the molopor,” she explained.  “They’re spaced out to a fairly precise degree to take advantage of the harmonics of the material.  But the majority of them are very close to the molopor.

“And that’s the problem,” Adrian grunted.

“What kind of problem?” Rondal asked, confused.

“In order to use the spell as I envision it, it has to be cast on one of the primary stones – the ones closest to the molopor, by a factor of one to six degrees.”

Rondal startled, realizing the implications just before Tyndal did.

“You mean you need to cast it . . . “ he trailed off.

“In the very heart of the Black Vale,” she nodded, grimly.  “It’s the only way it will work and spread out to all of the other stones.  In the center of Sheruel’s fortress land.  And that’s where you boys come in . . .”

Chapter Thirty-One

The Worst of Plans

It requires a particular kind of mind in a peculiar type of man to accept a course of action you know is folly, and expect yourself to find some way to transform that folly into success.  Indeed, part of me is eager to see how a plan falls apart, and how I might turn that collapse into victory.  It is arguably the most dangerous thing about me.  And what will most likely lead to my demise.

From the personal journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

“You’re absolutely mad, you know,” Rondal said, condemningly, after hearing Lilastien’s proposal.  “Completely mad.  I don’t know what happened to you and Minalan when you went to Anghysbel, but you’re entirely mad.” 

“It’s the only way, I’m afraid,” Adrian agreed.  “If the spell is to work, it must be cast on one of those inner stones, the ones closest to the molopor.  The Harmonic Retortion effect will spread it to each of them, increasing their broadcast and strengthening the spell across the entire area.  Mother’s calculations are, surprisingly, correct.”

“Oh, we don’t dispute the efficacy of the enchantment,” Tyndal corrected the old man.  “Not at all.  We question her sanity for wanting us to go into the Black Vale.  That’s Sheruel’s lair, protected by thousands of gurvani, trolls, fell hounds, siege beasts, parancheck, and the occasional dragon.”

“That’s the center of the Umbra,” Rondal reminded them.  “Sheruel is aware of everything that happens there.  You couldn’t cast a squib in the Black Vale without him seeing it.  It would take an army to fight their way in there.  A much larger army than what you have here.”

“Do you think I haven’t thought of that?” Lilastien asked, frustratedly.  “Of course we cant force our way into the Black Vale.  But we can sneak into it.  This is a mission that requires stealth, not strength.”

“One does not just ‘sneak in’ to the Black Vale at the eye of the Umbra,” Tyndal assured them. 

“You snuck into Olum Seheri,” Lilastien reminded them.  “You got close enough to Korbal to smell his breath, if you recall.”

“That was different,” Rondal insisted.  “We had plenty of support and assistance for that.  You’re asking Tyndal and I to somehow make our way through a hundred miles of hostile terrain filled with people who would want to kill us, perhaps eat us, and then break through the significant defenses Sheruel has built there.  All by ourselves.”

Lilastien made a face.  “Don’t be stupid.  I have a far more elaborate plan than that,” she assured.  “For one thing, you can get there by Waypoint,” she informed them.

That was news to them both.  Tyndal’s eyes got wide as Rondal gasped.  “You mean all this time the Alka Alon could have stopped Sheruel with an invasion through the Ways?  Or struck at the Black Vale . . . and didn’t?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Lilastien frowned.  “The sole Waypoint in the vale is at the hidden city of Amadia, the abode of the late Aronin.  When the city was evacuated, he locked the Waypoint from use to keep it from falling into the hands of the enemy.  And he bolstered the defenses of the city to keep it from being molested by Sheruel’s foul priests or their Enshadowed masters.”

“And its been secure all this time?” Tyndal asked skeptically.  “From what I recall, the place was basically just a big wood.”

“You saw what you were permitted to see,” Lilastien guessed.  “The Aronin was a powerful sorcerer.  His wards are like steel, compared to what you fellows use.  A dozen Enshadowed sorcerers could strive against them for a thousand years and not break them without the proper knowledge.”

“Well, the Aronin, alas, perished in the dungeons of the Necromancer,” Rondal reminded her.  “Presumably his secrets died with him.”

“In fact, they were inherited by his daughter, along with his charge,” Lilastien corrected.  “Ameras knows how to open the wards and activate the Waypoint.  I have sent Ithalia to fetch her.  Since you two broke our security and included her, I thought I’d make use of her.”

“There are still a lot of problems with this plan,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.  “So, we can get there.  But the moment we step out of Amadia, Sheruel will see us himself.  He sees everything in the Umbra.”

“There’s a difference between seeing and noticing,” Lilastien suggested.  “Yes, if you go in looking like you do, you had better be headed for the sacrificial block.  The fact is, we don’t know very much about the Black Vale, these days.  But if we go in quietly, and make our way to the stones without incident, we should be able to escape his notice.”

“You are making a great many assumptions, Lilastien,” Rondal said, shaking his head. 

“I agree,” she nodded.  “That’s why I’m going to send in a spy to do some preliminary work before we actually act.  I’m just trying to establish who I’ll have to help.  You fellows would be outstanding additions to the team: you’re intimately familiar with the geography, you’re capable warmagi, you’re accomplished wizards in your own right, and you understand the risks better than anyone.”

“Which is why we think this is a very, very bad plan!” Tyndal pointed out, aghast.  “The worst of plans!”

“Any illusion we attempted to disguise ourselves would be known,” Rondal agreed.  “We might escape casual notice – somehow – but a spell powerful enough to be effective would also be powerful enough to be noticed.”

“Not a Transgenic Enchantment,” Lilastien said, after a reluctant pause.  “It doesn’t have any active thaumaturgic signatures, after it’s cast.  They’re completely latent.”

Rondal looked at her, stunned, as he realized the implication.  “You can’t mean you want us—”

“I can transform you both into gurvani,” she affirmed, with a sigh.  “All of us, actually.  We won’t be any different than any of the other gurvani there.”

The boys stared at her in disbelief and horror.  Then Tyndal cleared his throat.

“You want us,” he began, slowly, “to be transformed into bloody scrugs to go back to our boyhood home which has been savagely transformed into a pit of stinking evil?” he asked, calmly, barely able to contain his ire. 

Adrian did not seem to appreciate the magnitude of the request.  “Well, yes, that’s essentially it.  Then you can wander around this Black Vale looking like all of the other gurvani.  No one will suspect a thing!” he assured, confidently.

“You are out of your bloody minds—” Tyndal began, anger surging through him.  He felt Rondal’s restraining hand on his shoulder.

“My colleague and I wish to retire and discuss this potential assignment before we give you an answer,” he said, calmly and quietly. 

“Try not to take too long,” Adrian urged.  “We must act quickly, if we are going to be effective.  The longer we wait, the harder this task becomes.”

“We shall take that into account,” Rondal said, icily, as he pushed Tyndal toward the Beast.  “You’ve given us a lot to consider.  Please give us some time to do so.”

They walked back to the Beast in silence, not even venturing mind-to-mind communication with each other as they sorted out their thoughts. 

“This is a very bad plan,” Rondal said first, as Tyndal secured the hatch behind him.

“This is a very, very bad plan,” Tyndal agreed.  “And it’s not one I’m sure I want anything to do with,” he declared.

“I know!” Rondal agreed, as he sank into one of the seats.  “How can she even ask that of us?”

“It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it,” Tyndal agreed, as he took the opposite seat.  “And going back home.  That doesn’t sound like much of a good time, since it changed hands.”

“Sheruel doesn’t have hands,” Rondal dismissed.  “You have to admit, the plan is audacious,” he ventured.

“Well, sure it is!  So would be plucking a hair from Ishi’s twat without her noticing!” Tyndal said, passionately.  “That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea!  Or even possible!  What they’re proposing is a suicide mission!”

“We don’t know that,” Rondal argued.  “But it does sound exceedingly dangerous.  I’m just trying to evaluate it fairly before I reject or accept it.”

“What is there to be fair about?” Tyndal demanded, with a snort.  “Even if we could go in as scrugs, they’d figure it out soon enough.  We don’t even speak bloody gurvani!”

“I’m still looking at the positives,” Rondal said, steepling his fingers together.  “For one, it would be a penetration of an enemy fortress that we have virtually no intelligence about.”

“Yes, we could provide a wealth of information on the Black Vale . . . if we ever made it back alive,” Tyndal said, sourly. 

“Don’t discount the importance of that – we don’t have very much on it even before Sheruel escaped Korbal.  So anything we could bring back would be inherently valuable.”

“Again, you’re assuming we come back alive, and not end up in the soup pot.”

“It gives us a justification for participating,” Rondal argued.  “We’re not just helping her, we’re helping the over-all war effort.  Second, this would advance Lilastien’s plan with the Gorod Alon, which we both support,” he pointed out.

“Because we’re keeping it a secret from our superiors who may very well not support it,” Tyndal added.

“They don’t support it yet,” Rondal said.  “But after she does this, what do you think they’ll say about it?” he challenged.  “I think they will support it, once they can’t do anything about it.  The Gorod Alon aren’t nearly as likely to turn against us, I would wager, and they seem a bit more reasonable than the average gurvan.”

“Well, they’ve only enjoyed existence for a few months, now, so give them time,” Tyndal suggested, sourly.  “They’ll figure out plenty of new reasons to hate us.”

“Perhaps, but it does throw a cobblestone into the millworks of Sheruel’s presumed plan,” Rondal observed.  “If Ashakarl’s realm isn’t going to provide him with shock troops – or actively fights against him – then he’s not going to be able to do much more than defend the Umbra,” he suggested.  “That would be a significant development in the war.”

“Granted,” Tyndal sighed, reluctantly.  “I still don’t see why that should involve us!”

“It doesn’t have to,” Rondal agreed, “but Lilastien’s chances go up dramatically if we go.  We know that place, Tyn, she doesn’t.  Perhaps Ameras knows it well enough, but you remember where all the goblin stones were.  So do I.  We remember the layout of the valley.  And . . . maybe we can do something destructive while we’re there,” he said, slyly.

“Because that will help us evade detection by the most powerful magical abomination of the age,” Tyndal said, sarcastically.

“You have to admit, the idea of poking Sheruel in the eye in his home territory has some appeal,” Rondal proposed. 

“Getting captured, tortured for information, and then sacrificed in his honor does not,” Tyndal said, flatly.  “Look, if Min decides to launch an invasion with a thousand warmagi and a friendly dragon or two, I’ll be at the head of the vanguard with all my knights following me.  But this?  This is an invitation to disaster.  And that’s me saying it!” he pointed out. 

“I’m just sorting through the potential benefits,” Rondal reasoned.  “I don’t think we should reject the mission out of hand.  Let’s see what Ameras says,” he proposed.  “Perhaps she knows something that will make this sound like a better plan.”

“Certainly.  Perhaps she can turn it from a very, very bad plan into just a very bad plan,” Tyndal suggested, sarcastically.  “But I still don’t want to go.”

“Oh, where is your sense of adventure?” Rondal mocked him. 

“At Castle Callierd, in my marriage bed where it belongs!” Tyndal snorted.  “I can’t believe you’re seriously considering this!”

“I think we have to,” Rondal decided.  “We at least need to hear them out.  This has all the hallmarks of a vitally important mission, one that could dramatically affect the course of the war.  We have to consider that, regardless of our personal danger . . . or our fears,” he added, pointedly.

“Godsdamned right I’m afraid!” Tyndal said, passionately.  “That abomination wrecked our home, killed our people, and started a war of genocide against us!”

“I know,” Rondal nodded.  “I’m afraid, too.  But I’m even more afraid that Fate handed us a chance to do something about it, and we walked away out of fear.  I . . . I don’t know if I could look Gatina in the eye, if I did that,” he confessed.

He said it so plainly and with such conviction that it took Tyndal by surprise.  He’d always considered himself the bolder of the two, the one willing to take risks for disproportionate gain.  But his friend was serious in his considerations.  He would, Tyndal realized, risk sacrificing himself if it meant a decisive advantage in the war.  Or just to get some retribution on Sheruel.  He was putting his fears aside and considering his duty – and that stung Tyndal.

What would Tandine tell him to do?  He knew the answer the moment he considered the question.  His bride was as devoted to the tenants of the Code of Chivalry as any Wilderlord, a code that emphasized the virtues of bravery, duty, and honor . . . and needful sacrifice.  While she loved him, he knew, she loved him in part because he upheld that code, in her eyes. 

He never had to tell her how he shrunk from a chance at glory like sneaking into Sheruel’s house and metaphorically rifling through his underwear drawer.  But he would know.  He suddenly understood what Rondal meant.  Their wives loved them because they were fearless and bold.  How could they pass up the chance to prove that? 

Tyndal’s honor and his fear warred with him, as he studied Rondal’s face.  Then he sighed.  There was never really any question, he realized.

“All right.  We will at least listen to the sophisticated details of this very, very bad plan,” he agreed.  “I suppose we owe Lilastien that, after what she’s done for us.  And for how we nearly messed up her scheme with the Gorod Alon.  But if I get killed on this mission, I’m going to be very disappointed in you for talking me into it.”

***

Ithalia returned with Ameras the following day, while Rondal and Tyndal did the best they could sketching out the layout of Boval Vale, as they remembered it.  Tyndal indulged in a bit of psychomancy to help aid his memory, and was gratified just how much he did recall of a place he hadn’t laid eyes on in over a decade.  But it gave them something to work with.  With the help of Lilastien’s CI and some testimony from gurvani who had served there they soon got a more complete picture.

When Ithalia came through the Waypoint in Rondal’s baculus with the Scion of the Aronin, they were in Adrian’s salon, arguing over the details of the plan with Gurkarl and Igor.  Igor seemed to be included in most of the discussions, although Tyndal did not clearly see what the man contributed to the conversation save the occasional bit of humor.

The whiskey was quite good, though, he had to admit.

“So, it’s true,” Ameras said, as she surveyed the room and her eyes lighted on Gurkarl.  He was in his Gorod form, the low illumination in the room keeping his fur black, but there was no mistaking the difference between Gurkarl the Gurvani and Gurkarl the Gorod Alon.  She, on the other hand, was in her Tera Alon form, her sharp features expressed on a human canvas.  “You really have gone mad.”

“I like to think of it as a creative solution,” Lilastien said, casually.  “Ameras, welcome to Kurtz Station.  I believe Ithalia has informed you of what we’re doing . . . after invoking your discretion?”

“That’s why I think you’ve gone mad,” Ameras agreed.  “Doing something as proscribed as this is criminal enough.  Involving me in it seems needlessly risky.  You know I have a duty to the Council,” she reminded Lilastien.

“Your primary duty is as the Scion of the Aronin,” Lilastien countered.  “You may serve the Council, but your duty is to your people.  One of your line’s three charges was the molopor.  You have done nothing to repair that since your return.  This matter concerns that charge, so your involvement was, of course, required.”  She spoke in a formal, businesslike way.  Tyndal could imagine there was some subtle subtext going on in the conversation he wasn’t catching, but that could have been the Alkans’ natural tendency to be aloof when they spoke to each other.

“Also, we couldn’t apparently get through the bloody Waypoint to Amadia without you, so there’s that,” Tyndal pointed out. 

“That may be the maddest part of all,” Ameras said, shaking her head. “When Ithalia told me what you planned, I could not believe her.  Amadia is abandoned,” she stressed, regret in her voice.  “It was my home, and we had to secure it and leave.  To return there would invite the attention of the Abomination.  It would take him time, but should he desire to, he could destroy it.”

“Fortunes of war,” Lilastien dismissed.  “It was just one pretty bower in a whole world full of them.  We can sacrifice it, if we must, to achieve this task.  And I don’t think Sheruel will be worried about a secret back door into his vale nearly so much as the disturbance that tens of thousands of Gora Alon will provide for his efforts,” she predicted.

“Mayhap,” Ameras conceded.  “But it pains me to risk it so.”

“It’s a pretty place – or it was, when I saw it,” Tyndal agreed, recalling fondly the otherworldly treehouses that had filled him with such wonder, when he first visited the glade. It had been magical, in the metaphorical as well as the practical sense.  It had been the first time he had seen the Alka Alon and what they were capable of doing.  He’d seen a lot more since, but that small grove of wonder had introduced him to the masters of magic on Callidore.  “Don’t forget we gave up our homes, too.  At the point of a spear,” he reminded her.  “Nothing lasts forever.”

Ameras sighed, and Tyndal recalled how he had seen the Alkan maiden in Anghysbel, after she had spent years away from magic and the company of her own people.  She’d been a gibbering wreck, a manic pixie overcome with guilt and regret.  She’d recovered from that, now, but there was still doubt in her voice, doubt and uncertainty.

“It will be a hard thing to do,” she finally admitted, “but I will do it.  But that does not mean I condone what you have done in creating the Gorod Alon.”

“That crime is mine alone,” Lilastien nodded, proudly.  “I merely need your assistance to infiltrate the Black Vale.”

“Who else are you taking?” Ithalia asked, curiously.

“I will need to lay the spell, and Gurkarl has volunteered to reconnoiter for us and help establish plausible disguises.  You and Ameras will remain in Amadia as support.  Adrian and Igor shall be remote support, from here.  Beyond that, I have selected Rondal and Tyndal, for their knowledge of the place, and Gurkarl has suggested we bring Resh and Cheshtan, two tribal chieftains who volunteered to help.”

“Resh and Cheshtan?” Rondal asked, surprised.  “They’re going?”

“They’re on some sort of sacred hunting quest,” Tyndal reminded him.  “They probably won’t feel it’s properly done until they do something impressively dangerous.  But they are gurvani.  Or at least they were.”

“They will be gurvani for this mission,” Gurkarl affirmed.  “I will investigate to see how best to present everyone, once you open the Ways, Lady Ameras,” he said, nodding respectfully.

“I still do not understand what exactly you hope to accomplish with this,” Ameras confessed.  “How can you employ the old Retortion array to do anything as complex as Transgenic Enchantment?  Especially at that scale?”

“It’s actually quite simple,” Adrian explained.  “The so-called Goblin Stones are a type of mineral known as sklad basiti by the Karshak, which are remarkably thaumaturgically sensitive, especially if they are properly spaced and set by a competent Stonesinger.  The rock is raisorial, so they don’t need additional arcane power.  Their also parvipotent, requiring little power to begin with.  Their resonant properties make them ideal for the Harmonic Retortion effect, but they also serve as an osculant with a large jubate, which makes them ideal for this purpose.”

Rondal looked at him with new respect.  “It sounds as if you’ve read Master Minalan’s Orismology,” he said, surprised.

“Mother brought me a copy.  A useful work,” he admitted, “if hopelessly derivative, but I understood enchantment better than that a century ago,” he bragged.  “It does help standardize some of the nomenclature, though.”

“Once the spell is actually cast on one of the core stones, it should spread to the others quickly,” Lilastien explained.  “I can handle that aspect.  I just need to get to one.  And then have a few moments to work.”

“Won’t that alert Sheruel?” Tyndal asked, concerned.

“It very well might,” Lilastien admitted.  “In which case we would have to make a very fast retreat.  I am considering some sort of distraction to stall their pursuit.  And there is always the chance that he just doesn’t notice it.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Rondal said, frowning.  “Sheruel seems very thorough.  In fact, I don’t think we’re going to be able to use magic much at all, once we’re there, or he’ll know everything we do.”

“You are likely correct,” Gurkarl confirmed, grimly.  “The Great Ghost sees all.  The urgulnosti will be everywhere.  Some of us may be able to get away with simple gurvani spells, but even those could attract attention.”

“Where is the closest Goblin Stone to Amadia?” Tyndal asked, summoning the magemap they had constructed together to plan the mission.  “We shouldn’t have to go much further than that.”

“Of the fourteen we’ve identified by memory, the one that would probably work best is this one,” Lilastien said, indicating a tiny rectangle near the middle of the map.  “It’s along the main road between this city—”

“Hymas, it was called,” Rondal supplied.  “That stone was just outside.  In a field on one of the farms.  You can just see it from the road.  I used to pass it about thirty times a week.”

“That would be sufficient.  Or this one, near the lake.  Both are core stones, and either one would work.  Any further out and I think we’d lose the coverage we need.  Any closer . . . well, we’d be closer to Sheruel.  I think our chances of getting caught prematurely go up, the closer we get to that castle.”

“The stone in the field would be easier,” Tyndal agreed.  “The one on the lakeshore is far too exposed.”

“I will investigate both possibilities,” Gurkarl said, as he peered at the map.  “It will take me several days to discover the best approach, if Lady Ameras is willing to take me through the Ways.  Once I establish a listening post we can plan more accurately.”

“And we can spend the time preparing ourselves to become gurvani,” Lilastien agreed.  “That will be harder than you think,” she advised Tyndal and Rondal.  “You will need to master at least the basics in the language, and learn to understand some of the customs.”

“Will we at least have our powers?” Tyndal asked, worriedly.

“The ones you cannot use?  Yes,” Lilastien assured.  “If you had rajira in your original form, you tend to carry it into your new transgenic expression.”

“So how does someone like Gurkarl, who doesn’t, transform?” Rondal asked, curiously.  “Do you have to do it for him?”

“I did, at first,” Lilastien agreed.  “We came up with a thaumaturgical solution.”   Her son snorted and gave his mother a side-eyed glance before explaining in more detail. 

“It’s the ring,” Adrian said.  “One of my innovations.  Their rings are special enchantments.  They’re onomastic, tailored to each individual, and the mandamant is discerptible, so even someone without rajira can employ it..  It’s deponent, so it won’t register as an active spell except in a thorough thaumaturgic assay.  But they can allow the transformation nearly instantly, with just a word,” he said, proudly.

“I didn’t understand a bloody thing he just said,” snorted Igor. 

“It’s a gamble,” Lilastien agreed.  “But one I feel we need to take.  Sheruel will not be expecting his realm to be infiltrated, and I think we can take advantage of that confidence.  If all goes according to plan.”

“Yes, you want to infiltrate the heart of an evil land, where the supposedly all-powerful dark lord sits in his power,” Igor summarized.  “Then you want to amble by thousands of warriors and shamans to a particular rock in a particular field, cast a spell that will likely attract the attention of the aforementioned dark lord, and then try to escape before he and his evil minions catch you.  What could possibly go awry?” he asked, sarcastically. 

Lilastien snorted.  “You object?”

“Me?  No.  It’s simply Russian tradition to calmly recite the daunting challenges ahead when you elect to do something this insanely foolhardy,” Igor sighed.  “We  like to make certain that we understand precisely where we will meet our doom before we begin.  It soothes our Slavic soul, somehow,” he slurred.  “And this seems among the worst of plans ever conceived.  This entire holiday excursion into Hell sounds mad, if you ask me.  But I cannot deny . . . it is entertaining.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Darkened Grove

I must admit, I have a perverse sense of satisfaction when I’m embarking on a mission.  The first time Tyndal and I were deployed to Gilmora, after our eccentric education, I felt the weight of the mission dreadfully bear down on me.  But after the surprising results of that sortie, I found the strength to relax, and calmly execute the plans I was given, even though I understand just how badly things can go wrong.  Perhaps it’s Gatina’s influence on me – she has been doing this since she was a child – but once things are set in motion, I find confidence and strength I did not know I had. 

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

Gurkarl spent a week reconnoitering the Black Vale, with the assistance of Ameras, while Lilastien worked with the rest of the group to prepare. 

It was good working with Resh and Cheshtan again, Rondal decided.  They had started to adjust to their Gorod Alon bodies, and he suspected that part of them was relieved to return to their original state.  They were instrumental in teaching the boys some basic gurvani language, and drilling them in the customs and idiosyncrasies of gurvani society. 

Two days into the training, Lilastien and Adrian appeared at the Beast and initiated the Transgenic Enchantment for each of them. 

It was a shock, to Rondal.  One moment he was completely normal, and the next he had an entirely different body, with entirely different sensations and proportions.  The Main Vehicle Bay around him was transformed, as he saw it with gurvani eyes for the first time.  The colors were different, and made patterns that sometimes escaped his human eyes. 

The shift in his center of gravity, and the differences in his sense of balance were daunting, as if he was in a dream.  Even the sounds he heard, the ones he was used to, were different.  His sense of smell was radically changed, and the teeth his tongue encountered felt strange and alien in his mouth – and completely natural.  His hands felt large and clumsy, but they worked well enough.  But his legs were entirely too short. 

“And here I didn’t think you could get any uglier,” Tyndal remarked, in his low gravelly voice.  “Ishi’s tits, this feels strange!”

“Take a few hours to get used to it,” Lilastien advised.  “That’s really the only way.  In a day or so it will feel a lot more natural.”

“Where did my penis go?” demanded Tyndal, pawing at his crotch alarmingly.  “I don’t . . .”

“Penile sheathes,” Adrian reminded him, with a snide looking sneer on his lips.  “All the Alon have them.  You’ll get used to it.  Just . . . try not to do it in public,” he counselled.  “Mother did that, when she first transformed.  She apparently had a hard time adjusting to having just one clitoris.  She can’t stop talking about it,” he said, a trace of embarrassment in his voice.

“I was just exploring the limits of my new biology,” she demurred.  “And it made me a lot of new friends in my flat.  But I wouldn’t be focused on your peckers, fellows.  I would be practicing walking, running, and fighting in your new bodies.  I, for one, think you look very handsome, for a couple of scrugs.”

Desh and Cheshtan were impressed as well, and offered plenty of advice over the next few days to make the boys’ disguises as convincing as possible.  They even practiced fighting with wooden clubs, the way young gurvani warriors did.  Desh constantly questioned them in gurvani as they practiced, until they began to think of simple things in the language.

It was challenging, for Rondal.  He had fully committed to the guise, and practiced his new skills diligently, but it also gave him a strange appreciation for the gurvani, something he never thought he would develop.  Life just looked differently to him in this body.  The night sky was far more interesting, and the landscape at night was filled with things his human eyes didn’t notice, even with magesight.  It was strange and natural and uncanny all at the same time, and he found it confusing.

“They’ll do,” Gurkarl decided, after the third day.  He and Ameras had returned from their early explorations to report and prepare, having successfully infiltrated the Black Vale.  “They look a bit too young for shamans, I supposed, but there are plenty of strong young warriors around.  The breeding pits require the best physical specimens.”

“Breeding pits?” Rondal asked, startled.

“Sheruel and his priesthood realized early in the war that they could not depend on normal gurvani families to supply all of the soldiery they required,” Gurkarl explained.  “After his conquest of the Vale, the Black Skulls separated the fertile females from the rest of the society and put them to duty bearing the next generations of gurvani.  Indiscriminately,” he added.  “They are bred until pregnant, they deliver their cubs, and then return to the pits after weaning them.”  He spoke philosophically about it, but Rondal detected a note of disgust in Gurkarl’s voice. 

“That sounds awful!” Rondal gasped.

“It is not a pleasant experience, either for the females or the males who are selected to sire new children.  It is not the natural gurvani way.”

“It is, however, highly efficient,” Adrian pointed out.  “It’s selective breeding at a mass scale.  Mathematically, they can increase their numbers almost three times faster with this method, over natural gurvani birthrates.”

“Assignment to breeding pits is seen as a reward for valor, for males,” Resh agreed.  “Only finest gurvani warriors get honor.  Expect at least eight or nine sessions a night.”

“Nine?” Tyndal asked in disbelief.  “They can do it nine times in one night?”

“The Black Skulls use fertility magic to help,” Lilastien assured.  “And they’re liberal with the aphrodisiacs.  But that means there are plenty of strapping young scrugs strutting around the Black Vale, looking for love.  You two should fit right in.”

“That’s going to be part of the problem,” Gurkarl revealed, apologetically.  “The stone we seek is right in the middle of the breeding pits.  But access is tightly controlled,” he said, shaking his head.  “It takes an urgulnosti priest to get past the guards.”

Tyndal shrugged.  “A little lime, and you’ll look just like one,” he dismissed.

“That won’t be enough, I’m afraid,” Gurkarl said.  “The urgulnosti run the entire complex.  They know each other by sight, and would suspect me if I appeared as a stranger without cause.  They bear the stones of irionite from Sheruel’s sphere as their badge of office, and that is impossible to fake.  And they guard them jealously,” he said.  “I have yet to procure one.”

Tyndal looked surprised, and then began rummaging around the pile of human clothes next to them.  He pulled out a ring from a pouch, and a moment later activated a hoxter.

“Will this do?” he asked, casually, as he conjured the staff of the Black Skull he had stolen during the riot.  “I picked it up at the market in Pregaz.”

“They sell such things in Pregaz?” Lilastien asked, as she took the piece.  She gave it a quick songspell, assumingly to establish its authenticity, and then handed it to her son.

“Not as a rule, but the priest who owned it was being hauled off to visit the magistrate, and he seems to have left it behind,” Tyndal supplied with a guttural chuckle.  “I thought it might come in handy.  Or make a showpiece for my tavern, back home.”

“Crude, but effective,” Adrian pronounced, a moment later.  “Raw power, a few simple spells.”

“It is more a symbol of their control than a magical weapon,” Gurkarl agreed, as he took the staff from him.  “Through it, the Great Ghost can always communicate with them and inform them of his bidding.”  He held it up appraisingly.  “How would you happen to have just what we need, Master Tyndal?” he asked, suspiciously.

“It’s what wizards do,” Tyndal dismissed, quoting one of Minalan’s favorite sayings.  “Pure chance, actually, but I’m pleased it’s helpful.”

“With this, and some lime, I can likely bluff my way into the breeding pits,” he decided.  “As long as I am not challenged to use it, it should suffice.  Well done, Tyndal!”

“Like a puppy,” Lilastien mused, shaking her head.  “Have you learned anything else of use during your mission?” she asked Gurkarl.

“The place is dark, worse than I recall,” Gurkarl said, his mood turned sour.  “It is a place of despair and desperation, where every hand toils on behalf of Sheruel.  It is a disgusting abomination of what gurvani society should be, a perversion of the sacred vale of the worst sort.”

“Are there any . . . any humani left?” Rondal asked, hesitantly.

“Only their bones,” Gurkarl revealed, grimly.  “They have built huge towers of your skulls, cemented together as a testament to your defeat.  But I saw no living humani, so far.”

“That’s probably just as well,” Rondal agreed, his throat dry.

“The northern lobe of the vale is relatively deserted,” he continued.  “The area around Amadia is sparsely populated and rarely visited – the Black Skulls discourage any fawning to the Alka Alon – so we can operate in relative secrecy.  As long as we do little magic,” he added.  “There is a land to the south of the town and castle that is completely forbidden to all but a handful of urgulnosti.  It is guarded by Great Goblins and none are permitted.”

“What about Sheruel?” Tyndal asked, hesitantly.

“He keeps to his dark fortress,” Gurkarl reported.  “Day and night.  It is strongly guarded, and only his ministers and officials are permitted within.  He roams the rooftops and towers overhead, and can be glimpsed from below, sometimes.  But even this staff will not gain us entry.”

“A pity,” Tyndal sighed.  “I was hoping to at least sneak in and do something nasty to his bedchamber.”

“Keep focused on our mission,” Lilastien instructed, firmly.  “This is going to be hard enough to pull off without any unplanned excursions.”

“Getting into the breeding pits will be relatively simple,” Adrian suggested.  “Once Mother casts her spells, however, it is likely that you will be discovered.  You said you were planning a distraction?” he asked Lilastien.

“I have a few ideas,” she admitted. 

“I have one idea,” Gurkarl said, firmly.  “It will provide sufficient distraction to allow you to depart.  I will need some assistance with it, and we will all require Fortune’s favor for it to work, but if it does . . . it may be far more of a distraction than Sheruel will ever expect.”

***

Three days later, Lilastien and Ithalia escorted the gurvani – including the transformed boys – through the Ways to the Hidden City of Amadia.

The shift in environment was immediately apparent to them, as they emerged into the gloomy underbrush.  The temperature was warmer than it was up on the plateau, and the air was heavier and wetter in his nostrils.  It was still late winter, and the temperature was near freezing, but there were only patches of snow left in the shadowed aisles of the abandoned Alka Alon settlement.  A thin haze of mist seemed to cling to the trees and shrubs.  Rondal looked around, wide-eyed, his nocturnal  vision picking out things he never would have noticed with human eyes.

“Well, this isn’t creepy in the slightest,” Tyndal said, sarcastically, as he looked around at the glade.  “The last time I was here it wasn’t nearly so overgrown.  And there weren’t as many dead trees and bushes,” he noted.

“That’s because the Umbra corrects the Vundel’s enchantment to allow importasta plants and animals to grow here,” Lilastien explained, as she began stripping off her white coat.  “In another five years most of the Terran imports will be dead or stunted beyond the ability to reproduce.  This land will return to its original form.”

“A wasteland,” Ameras agreed, solemnly.  “Our people labored mightily to restore the soils and living creatures to this place, thousands of years ago.  We were never entirely successful.  You humani managed to do more in twenty years with your machines than we did with magic in millennia,” she said, with grudging respect – and perhaps a hint of resentment.

“We don’t live long,” Tyndal dismissed.  “We had to get to it.  But this is sad,” he continued, sympathetically.  “It used to be so beautiful: the lights, the trees, the singing . . .”

“But all things must end,” Ameras affirmed, sadly.  “We monitored the molopor from here for centuries.  Losing it to the Enshadowed was a blow.”

“Time to start reversing that blow,” Rondal said, resolutely, as he dumped the baggage from his back to the forest floor.  “I hope that this is the first strike that will see this entire vale liberated from the Abomination.”

“The sooner, the better,” Ameras agreed.  “We can camp here until Gurkarl leads you into the Vale, proper.  It will be a bittersweet stay . . . but I am gratified Amadia can be useful once more.”

“Not just useful, essential,” Lilastien said, shedding her undergarments.  Rondal would have blushed, if that was something gurvani did.  Instead, he stared with his wide black eyes, despite himself, and was suddenly aware of his penile sheathe in a way he hadn’t been before.  Even though she was a different species from either his origin or his current incarnation, there was something inherently feminine and sexual in the casual way she moved.

He really missed Gatina, he realized.

“Don’t underplay the importance of this mission,” the naked sorceress continued. “This could be a decisive to the war.”  She sang a few notes, and then transformed into a surprisingly attractive female gurvan – the first time he had ever witnessed Lilastien make a transformation like that.  “Just try not to think about what happens if we screw it up,” she continued, in her new, more gravelly voice. 

“I thought we couldn’t do magic here?” Tyndal protested.

“Amadia’s wards provide some protection from the scrutiny of the Abomination,” Ameras explained.  “We’ve been testing their responses all week.  But once you are beyond its protective veil, you will be exposed.  Any magic will be noticed, and it if is not gurvani magic, it will be investigated.”

“Didn’t you risk alerting Sheruel and the urgulnosti by doing that?” Rondal asked.

“We were most careful,” Ameras assured.  “And there was always going to be some risk in this mission.  But the urgulnosti seem preoccupied with whatever they are tending to in the south.  No one seems to pay attention to this old ruin,” she said, glancing around at her home miserably. 

“We will wait for darkness to venture out,” Gurkarl informed them, a moment later.  The gurvan’s face has been transformed by some lime and a few spells, giving him the ghostly Black Skull features that were the goblin equivalent of a tonsure on a monk.  He looked quit intimidating, to Rondal.  “They open the main gate at dusk and allow the penitents to enter for pilgrimage, supplies are brought from the outside estates, and the troops to gather for drills.  And that’s when the new studs are brought in from the field,” he added, glancing at Tyndal and Rondal.  It made Rondal feel very self-conscious.

“Too old for such duty,” Desh snorted.  “You young fellows, enjoy!”

Rondal blanched at the idea that he might have to face servicing a goblin maiden, and wondered whether or not that violated his marriage vows.  Indeed, the idea horrified him.  He’d faced enough rejection by human girls.

Tyndal ignored the jibe, and focused on the mission.

“So once the distraction begins,” he said, nodding toward Gurkarl, “how much time is Lilastien going to have to cast the spell?”

“A few minutes only,” Gurkarl conceded.  “Once it is done, you must flee as fast and as discreetly as possible.  All the Black Vale will be in uproar.  There will be confusion.  Move fast and with purpose.”

“And try not to be discovered,” Ithalia stressed.  “We can do little to help you, until you are back within Amadia’s cover.  If that happens, you are on your own,” she warned.

“How could they possibly suspect anything?” Tyndal asked.  “We look the very picture of a loyal and subservient band of goblins!”

“There are spells here that will trick you, if you aren’t wary,” Ameras insisted.  “Just . . . be careful.  You should eat, before you go,” she suggested.

Rondal was not going to argue with that.  One of the more difficult things he had to get used to about his borrowed body was just how much food was required to fuel it.  It seemed that no matter how much he ate at one sitting, the pangs of hunger began within just a few hours.  It had given him an appreciation for the gurvanis’ inherent anxiousness.  When you are thinking about where your next meal is coming from the moment you finished the last one, it produced some anxiety.

“No magic,” Lilastien warned, as Tyndal began rummaging through the baggage.

“No need for magic,” he agreed, as he pulled a few parcels out, along with a tin kettle.  “We have some premium Wenshari Iron Rations, the best available,” he announced.  “Just a little fire, a little water, and we’ll have a feast in the field.”

Rondal had eaten more common versions of the rations before, of course, but it was interesting trying the ones usually reserved for highly placed officers.  He was impressed, as Tyndal expertly crushed the discs of food from the packets and set them in the hot water, stirring them with a stick.  He began passing out the hardtack-like biscuits included in the pack, and prepared a second kettle for tea.

The soup was good, even accounting for the changes in his tastebuds: a thick pea soup, with bacon, hearty and warm in the chill of the evening.  Someone uncorked a bottle of strong Wenshari spirits and began passing it around.  The party relaxed, somewhat, though each of them was anxious about the night ahead.

“These really aren’t so bad,” Tyndal admitted, after he finished his bowl.  “I’m curious about the tea.  The Wenshari are famous for their teas.”

“Better than beans cooked in a helmet,” Resh agreed, as he bit through a biscuit that would have shattered human teeth, unsoftened.  “Bland but filling.”  Chestan added his own review, at length, and Rondal even understood a few unflattering words in gurvani.  He seemed to be recalling some particularly poor rations that were issued during the invasion.

“Skrub!” he agreed, in the new language, a catch-all gurvani term for sympathy and regret.  “We usually just got issued hardtack and salt pork, and maybe some ale.  I hate army food,” he declared.  “But this isn’t bad.  It could use more salt,” he decided.

As they ate, the sun dove down behind the close-by ridges, plunging the glade into twilight in mere moments.  Rondal was once again intrigued by the transformation night brought to his new eyes.  Gurvani experienced twilight in an entirely different way than humans did.  It wasn’t the withdrawal of light that was the focus of his attention, but the change between too much illumination and very little. 

“Well, let’s begin,” Lilastien finally said, standing.  As a gurvani matron, she still had an imposing bearing about her.  She pulled a tattered shawl from her pack and hung it over her shoulders.  “I think we all know our parts, so check your equipment and your weapons, and we can get started.”

“Is this really going to work?” Rondal asked, suddenly.  That produced a snort and a snicker from Cheshtan. 

“Ludost zaedno,” he said, in a barking laugh.

“We’re all mad to try this,” Resh translated.  “That’s what he said.  He is not wrong.”

***

The road from the great entrance to the Black Vale to its center was crowded, as they joined the throngs who had business there.  They had emerged from the Alka Alon fortress unobserved, quietly taking the path that had lain there for centuries before it joined the main road.  Gurkarl led them, his stolen staff held proudly in front of him as Rondal saw the other Black Skulls did to assert their authority.

Behind him strode Lilastien, her shawl around her shoulders as the other older gurvani females had taken to wearing.  Rondal saw several as they headed south on the road.  They seemed to wear the largely human-made textiles as a badge of pride, for some reason, even if they were not remotely shawl-like.  Some sported shawls made of old dresses or linen underwear or flour sacks, but they didn’t seem to care.  Perhaps they considered them trophies of their conquest.  Lilastien blended right in.

Then there was he and Tyndal, marching side by side.  They were nearly naked, which was disconcerting enough, but each had a leather baldric from which hung their ceremonial clubs – their toyaga.  There were a few pouches that also hung from the harness, and a few small wands he’d concealed behind it, but other than that he was naked and barefoot as he walked through his native land.

Resh and Cheshtan brought up the rear.  They had scrounged up some bits of armor, some humani-make and some made by gurvani smiths, and carried their hunting spears as well as their clubs and knives.  Each had a real cloak of wool over their shoulders, a reasonable comfort for even a furred species in the cold.  They provided enough of a presence to make the entire party seem complete.

No one stopped and questioned them, Rondal noted, as his anxiety grew with each step.  They were just another group of faceless gurvani, on some errand in service to the Great Ghost.  There was a palpable sense of oppression, he noticed in their companions on the road.  Some gurvani were honored to be allowed entrance to the sacred vale.  Some were overwhelmed with dread.  Some were both, he guessed by their reaction.  It was akin to watching devout pilgrims approach a particularly important shrine, fearing divine notice as much as seeking it.

The signs of Sheruel’s cruelty were everywhere.  There was a long row of stakes next to the road where the goblins had pulled up fenceposts and replanted them, adorned with scores of rotting heads.  Most were gurvani, he saw, but there were some human heads scattered in.  It was a ghastly sight, and a reminder to all what the penalty for failing their dark master was.

As they went further down the road, Rondal started to recognize familiar features he remembered from his youth – now turned to horrible purpose.  Barns he had known were stuffed with the loot from human lands, brought back as tribute to display Sheruel’s great wealth.  Cottages next to the road had been transformed into barracks holding dozens of maragorku Great Goblins, the elite backbone of Sheruel’s forces.  They ignored the common gurvani as they lounged around fires in the former gardens of people Rondal had known. 

The cots were in poor condition, repaired only when they had been near collapse, and then badly.  But the sight of seeing a one-eyed brute lean against one of his former neighbor’s doorways and sneer at him had a more powerful effect on Rondal than he expected.  It took an act of will to keep himself from confronting the brute.

In between old farmsteads the goblins had erected plenty of new sheds, made of a pale, ghastly-looking brick.  The goblins of the Black Vale did not seem as adverse to masonry construction as those in the Goblin Kingdom, he noted.  They seemed solid enough, roofed with oaken tiles and sporting untrimmed skins over the windows, but they seemed to have been designed for efficiency than any other purpose.  And they were packed with gurvani who were emerging from the squalid barracks for the night. 

The worst was when they descended the last hill in the road, bringing Hymas Town and the lake into sight.  It was heartbreaking to see the achingly familiar sight of his hometown, clinging to the alpine lake that was emitting a pallid fog as the temperature changed.  The sky overhead was mostly overcast, with one small patch of clear permitting the stars above to peer through.  The moon was yet covered, bathing the vale in a sickly glow.

There were changes to Hymas he noticed at once: it was larger, now, as sheds, cottages, barracks and tents filled the former meadows and fields.  The woods were nearly all stripped away to fuel Sheruel’s war machine – there was nary a tree in sight.  The roofs were patched and deteriorating, the thatch more than a decade old, now, and in desperate need of replacement.  Apparently the gurvani didn’t thatch.

But toward the entrance to the town was a single pale monument: a tall, solitary pyramid that stretched up five stories or more to a blunt, rounded point.  It seemed like a pointless exercise in masonry, a tower built neither for defense nor storage.  It wasn’t until the moon briefly provided a sliver of illumination that he saw the spire for what it was: a heap of human skulls, cemented together in testament to Sheruel’s victories.

He was appalled.  There were so many.  Enough to build that thing.  There were thousands of skulls there, he estimated, far more than ever lived in Boval Vale.  The remnants of victims of sacrifice, slaves, and prisoners, he realized.  He imagined them marching on this very road toward their doom.  Rondal was nearly overcome with despair.

Tyndal, too, was affected.  He reached out and touched the back of Rondal’s knuckles with his, a gurvani custom meant to reassure.  Rondal gave him the briefest glance of appreciation, and forced his bare feet to continue.

And then they saw it, hovering over the town in the distance.  Boval Castle.

The silhouette was unmistakable – it had dominated the skyline of the valley since before he was born.  It was a permanent fixture on the horizon, a central imposing structure that loomed on the hill above Hymas Town.  It had been his comfort, when he was a child, and then his home, briefly, when he had taken refuge there against the invasion. 

Now it loomed like a blot on the horizon, a smear of darkness that stood at odds with the ghastly tower in the foreground.  The rounded towers seemed rough and forbidding in the night, transformed from the symbol of safety they had once meant to him into an icon of dread and despair.  There were lights, within, he saw, both flames of fires or lamps and the pale glow of magelights that the gurvani shamans employed. 

There it was: the very heart of evil in a dark and wounded land. 

He and Tyndal both stopped, without realizing it.  Rondal took a deep breath and uttered a single word in gurvani.

“Gombu,” he said, in gurvani. 

Home.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Breeding Pits

Romance, I’ve always felt, is an art, and seduction its artistic implement.  There is no real pleasure in slaking your lust if your intellect and wit is not engaged.  Desire without the art of romance and seduction is like hunger without recourse to spice.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

It was a shock, to see how much Boval Vale had been transformed under the shadow.  Every step through the vale seemed an exercise in torture to Tyndal, who did his best to control his emotions in the crowd of gurvani.  It didn’t help that he felt like at any moment someone amongst the pilgrims and warriors and servants would point him out as an imposter.  He knew he had the best possible disguise.  He still could not lay aside the worry that he was being a goblin . . . wrong, somehow.

“Prodhul se vihzsh, Pokklon!” Cheshtan insisted, pushing him forward casually with the butt of his spear from behind.  Move along, pilgrim, Tyndal mentally translated.

He forced his bare feet forward in the frozen gray slush that littered the road.  The sight of Boval Castle had stunned him, and brought home just how drastically things had changed.  Sheruel was living there now, he knew, surrounded by hundreds of fanatical priests and savage warriors.  The pale full moon shone down, casting the dark fortress in a unearthly glow.  The full moon did look like a lemon, Tyndal saw, through gurvani eyes.

Below the castle was the great molopor that had allowed his people to escape the siege, thanks to Minalan’s fortitude and Pentandra’s stamina.  The same molopor had been turned into a weapon, since then, used against humanity in a variety of ways.  Tyndal yearned to destroy it, though he knew that urge was futile.  You couldn’t destroy a molopor.

It pained him to see how spoilt the once bountiful pastures of his homeland had become, since the change in ownership.  Once there had been reasonably contented cows grazing as far as the eye could see.

Now the grass was dead in the depths of winter, gray, sickly and pale under the overcast glow of the moon.  The pastures had been turned into practice fields of frozen mud, churned by the feet of thousands of gurvani warriors as they drilled through the night.  Others had been converted to vast workshops, a constellation of hovels protecting the forges and anvils of the gurvani smiths who toiled to arm Sheruel’s soldiery.  And endless stream of porters bearing crude baskets filled with coal or ore fed the foul machine, as hundreds of hammers rang out.  It was like a nightmarish symphony of bells and drums that rang in his long, pointy black ears with a more sinister note than his human ears would have detected.

Other places were more daunting: huge pits that had been filled with offal and bones and garbage.  They passed one foul hole as they neared the edge of the lake and he stopped, startled.

Within the steeply banked excavation, filled with rotting refuse, there was a sight he never expected to see – and never wanted to see again.  A gang of maragorku were leading a monster through the streets from the other direction, and were depositing it into the pit.  It was repulsive.

It was a grub, or a maggot, only it was of tremendous size, at least thirty feet long and a dozen wide.  A pustulant, throbbing worm with a slick, moist skin that writhed as it made its way through the streets and over the side of the pit, causing the crowd ahead to part.  It was the size of a small cottage, and wallowed in the slushy filth of the street like a giant sow, crushing everything in its path and leaving a trail of slime behind.  Two shamans were using their staves to wrangle it, he saw, and the Great Goblins were urging the thing forward on its row of tiny, insect-like legs with long poles.

Tyndal recognized it at once – you do not forget the grist of your own nightmares.  It was a Kurja.  He had seen them in Anghysbel, in the desolation.  They were, according to Minalan and Ameras, one of the greatest dangers to Callidore yet living.  They had been confined to the realm of the Jevolar, where a lack of magic kept them from adopting their most terrifying form.  Their foul breeding grounds were guarded by the Leshi, and watched by the Alka Alon.  The Kurja weren’t just disgusting.  They were a threat to the whole world, according to the lore he knew.

But here was one in the Black Vale, being escorted by Black Skulls, a fearsome pustule of pure evil being cultivated, somehow, like a sow in a pigsty.  It made Tyndal’s skin crawl to even see the thing.  The moment he smelled its foul stench, he was nearly overcome.  He was startled to realize that only he and, perhaps, Lilastien guessed the horrific meaning behind the repulsive worm, and the significance to it being here. 

To the others, this was simply another of Sheruel’s horrors, like the Paranchek, the siege beasts, and the dragons.  They did not see it as the harbinger of destruction Tyndal suspected it was.

Still, they pressed on, slowing only slightly to witness the spectacle.  The press of gurvani pilgrims, servants on their masters’ errands and troops marching from one station to another kept the road flowing like a river through the center of the vale.  There was a kind of overwhelming sense of being watched, of being under control, as silent Black Skulls watched over the flow of gurvani from afar.  It was a nightmarish journey he had never wanted to take.  The great pillar of skulls loomed as he came closer.  But he could not stop now.

Before they reached the dreaded monument, Gurkarl raised his staff.

“Spir’am!” he called over his shoulder.  “Pristig nak!”  Halt.  We have arrived.

There was a rickety wooden fence, built long ago by some farmer and now much-patched and repaired to keep the throngs of gurvani on the road at bay.  There was a gate, a rickety construction of logs and planks that was just sturdy enough to serve as a barrier to entrance.  Three maragorku warriors and a hobgoblin stood guard keeping onlookers from gaining entrance to the place.

Gurkarl stopped and exchanged a few words with them, gesturing back to the rest of his party.  Tyndal couldn’t hear what they were saying, nor understand them if he had, but it was clear that Gurkarl was bringing in two new studs for the pits.  The guards waved them through without much fuss, merely examining the next two young bucks who had been selected for the duty. 

Just inside the gate a trio of elderly gurvani matrons stopped them, insisting on sizing up the new recruits.  Tyndal and Rondal were forced to stand there and endure their comments – many of which were bits of gurvani profanity he’d picked up – as they measured their arms and felt the size of their muscles and even looked at his teeth.  He almost squirmed away when the measured the size of his penile sheath with their hands, but Gurkarl caught his eye and silently bade him to suffer the indignity.  He tried to focus his attention on the tower of skulls that peeked over the fence, as if it was mocking his masculinity. 

Finally, they grudgingly admitted them, making crude calls to them as they were led further into the encampment, having apparently measured up to their sophisticated standards.  Resh and Cheshtan were required to stay near the gate, as mere guards, along with Gurkarl – the Black Skulls were not required for such work. 

“They directed us toward the back,” Lilastien murmured to them in Narasi, as they began picking their way across the field.  Tyndal realized that the term “breeding pits” was literal: there were small, grave-sized holes dug into the once fertile field, each containing a miserable-looking gurvani female, and often one or more gurvani males.  “They said no one ever starts at the back, so the girls there are fresher.  That’s where the stone is.  When you’re done, we can just head back to the gate.”

“We’re just supposed to pick one out?” Rondal asked, quietly.

“One, or however many you think you can handle,” Lilastien said.  “You can take your time choosing, though.  It will take me a moment to prepare for the spell.  And then we wait for the distraction.  So don’t be afraid to flirt.”

The entire thing sounded ghastly, to Tyndal – although he had to admit his new gurvani eyes came complete with a new appreciation for gurvani maidens.  There was a certain smell in the air, a musky odor that aroused his passions.  His libido warred with his sense of propriety and decency as he surveyed the fields of the breeding pits, and listened to the unfortunate wails of the maidens as they were taken. 

The males strutted and staggered from hole to hole after their service, as older gurvani females patrolled the pits, overseeing the endless rutting.  They carried jugs of beer or spirits to give to the males, between bouts, to keep them enthusiastic.  Sometimes two or even three of them would descend into the pits and ravage one young female at a time.  The sounds they made were alarming, pitiful – and disturbingly arousing to his gurvani ears.

Tyndal felt ill as he surveyed the field.  It wasn’t even a matter of his marriage vows – part of his mind rebelled at the idea of getting intimate with a goblin girl, no matter how deceptively pretty they might seem at the moment.  They were slaves, their wombs being used for no better purpose that to raise the next generation of warriors,  the next generation of breeders.  Their faces were locked in an expression of despair and resignation as one scrug after another mounted them for the glory of Sheruel.  There was no pleasure, here.  There was only bestial duty.

Lilastien led them back past scores of pits until the Goblin Stone was in sight.  It was an unusual aberration, now that the landscape had changed around it.  Where once it was a spot for cows to rub their sides against and village maidens to surrender their virtue in seclusion, now it seemed like some perverse altar stone set over the breeding pits to encourage the obscene rites.  He risked magesight – a difficult spell to adapt to gurvani eyes – and saw how enrapt the great monolith was with arcane power. 

“This is the place,” Lilastien breathed in their ears as the approached.  “Wander around.  Act like you’re looking for your dream goblin.  Distract attention from me until the real distraction begins,” she ordered.

Tyndal nodded and gave Rondal a knuckle rub with false enthusiasm.  Then he started slowly circling the great stone, peering into one pit after another.  Many were occupied,  he was relieved to see.  But some were not.

“Sizdazl moryak!” one slatternly-looking female called to him, her eyes half-lidded though the sun was fully down.  “Pravish snoshen?”  Her manner was clear, but casual.  Tyndal had no idea what her words meant, but there was no mistaking her meaning.

He affected a big toothy grin.  “Ku bava!” he grunted, leering at her appreciatively.  He didn’t know the exact translation of the word, but Resh had told him it was a high compliment to a female.  He hoped his friend wasn’t trying to prank him.

But the maiden smiled back, and looked away.  Tyndal pretended to be distracted by another goblin girl and stumbled on.  A matron approached him, a cautious look in her eyes, and offered him a swig from a jug.  He swallowed the liquor manfully, but it burned his throat like liquid fire. 

“Blag odah!” he coughed in gratitude, as he lowered the jug.  He beat his chest with his fist a few times until he could breathe again, and then continued wandering the pits, a little more relaxed now that the spirit was mixing in his stomach with hardtack and pea soup.

He spotted Lilastien out of the corner of his eye, idling near to the stone.  She was whispering under her breath, he saw, no doubt preparing her spell.  He quickly moved his attention to the next hole-bound courtesan, pretending to be highly selective of his first mating of the night.

“Sizdazl, krassiv!” a gurvani maiden called to him from one pit.  The moon was just emerging from behind the clouds, casting its pale glow over the field for a moment, bringing her into clear sight.  She was young, he saw, no more than eleven or twelve – in prime breeding territory, from what he understood, the time when most wives were taken in guvani society. 

But she was small, he noted, her frame appearing frail and scant in the moonlight.  There was a certain innocence about her that tugged unexpectedly at Tyndal’s heart, as if she was just trying to make the best of a poor situation.  She was not particularly attractive, for a gurvani maid – it amused and appalled him that he could tell the difference, now – but she had a certain wholesomeness about her stare that affected him.

“Sizdal, ku bava!” he smiled in return in what he hoped was a kindly gesture.  She smiled back and started babbling in gurvani, none of which Tyndal understood.  But it gave him a moment to stand there and listen, while he looked around the field and checked on his companions.  Lilastien was standing casually next to the Goblin Stone, while Rondal was still wandering around the other side, gazing into pits and looking awkward.  Some things didn’t change regardless of what species you were.

But then there was a commotion from somewhere near the gate to the pits.  Tyndal looked up with everyone else, as a bright magelight suddenly burst over the tower of skulls, revealing one lone figure who had scaled the macabre monument.

It was Gurkarl.  Tyndal only vaguely knew what his plan for a distraction was, and knew it involved revealing himself somehow.  But he hadn’t expected this.

Gurkarl clung to the very top of the rounded point of the pyramid, in his Gorod Alon form. A magelight burst near his head, bathing the top of the ghastly pyramid in a ghostly light.  Gurkarl’s fur was suddenly golden in the arcane light that bathed him, and to Tyndal’s gurvani eyes the sudden brightness was near blinding.  As his lids lowered automatically and his vision adjusted to the flare, Gurkarl’s golden fur sparkled with brilliance, as if he was an unearthly figure. 

His voice, augmented with magic, boomed out over the entire region as every goblin eye in view stared at the unusual figure.  He began saying something in gurvani that Tyndal didn’t understand, not more than a few words, and the scrugs around him started to become agitated.

“That’s our distraction,” he said to himself in Narasi, as he glanced over at Lilastien.  The sorceress had wasted no time.  Indeed, she had transformed herself – not into her human-like Tera Alon form, but in her original Alka Alon body.  She leaned both hands on the stone and was singing softly to herself, her eyes closed, oblivious to the mass of gurvani around her.  Rondal, too, was watching her, though he stood and feigned the rapt attention the other scrugs were paying to the revelation of the Golden Goblin.

Tyndal didn’t know what his friend was saying, but the effect of his words was dramatic.  Gurvani began leaving the breeding pits and walking slowly toward the distant pyramid.  Their faces were twisted in awe and wonder as they saw the golden-furred spectacle, and listened to his words.  Here and there, there were shouts of protest and defiance from the Black Skull priests, but most of the goblins in the Black Vale were enthralled by whatever sermon Gurkarl was giving.

It only took Lilastien a few moments to finish casting her spell – she was an experienced sorceress, after all, and the enchantment had been long prepared, Tyndal reasoned.  When she was done she let her palms slip wearily from the stone and then transformed back into a gurvani matron.  A few gape-mouthed gurvani stared at the unexpected sight of an Alka Alon in their midst, but the appearance was so brief, and the competition for their attention so strong, that no one raised an alarm.  Tyndal was impressed.

Still, the sermon from atop the tower of skulls continued.  Gurkarl was sounding impassioned, and pleading in tone as he preached.  It was having an affect.  His sudden and unexpected appearance, combined with the nature of his words, had captivated the hundreds of gurvani around him.  Tyndal didn’t quite know what to make of it.  Whatever his old friend was saying was making the goblins pause.

“He’s speaking to them of transformation,” Lilastien explained in a soft whisper as she approached Tyndal.  “He’s telling them that Sheruel’s priests lie, and that their way leads to nothing but death.”

“That’s not going to be a popular opinion,” Tyndal suggested, his anxiety increasing as he envisioned a riot, after such blasphemy.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Lilastien insisted, as Rondal joined them.  Everyone in the vicinity was staring up at the Golden Goblin, now, and there were many who were walking toward him as if they were mesmerized.  “He’s been preparing for this moment for ten years, now.”

“He thought this would be a good distraction?  A sermon?” Tyndal objected.

“It is the right time for the right moment,” Lilastien assured.  “Tonight is the full moon.  It was supposed to be the night Sheruel revealed his new terror weapon to convince the gurvani that they could win the war.  Instead, Gurkarl has stolen his acclaim with his words and his golden fur,” she said, watching the Gorod Alon proudly.  “He’s been awaiting this moment.  He knew it would come.  That’s why they’ve called him Prorok for all these years.”

“Prorok?” Rondal asked, a little too loudly.  A gurvani maiden nearby echoed the word, as if she were surprised to hear it.  Another goblin girl said it, and then one of the matrons.  “What’s that mean?”

“Prophet,” Lilastien answered, as Gurkarl suddenly produced his kopach, and waved it defiantly at Boval Castle in the distance.  “We need to get moving, boys.  Head toward the gate.  Slow but deliberate, as if we have some important errand.  Just . . . keep . . . moving . . .” she said, as she put her hands on their backs and pushed.

Tyndal immediately shifted his focus from the spectacle in the distance to negotiating the chaotic field of wholes, and the crowds that had emerged from them.  He did his best to keep his attention focused on the gate, sidestepping those who were in his way or threading through the difficult landscape with Lilastien in tow.  Rondal was in the rear, cautiously watching without trying to look like he was watching, and they made slow progress.

“Are you sure it worked?” Tyndal whispered to the sorceress behind him.

“Positive,” she assured.  “And it replaced the previous spell.  It was simple.  And subtle.  They won’t find it for days or weeks or months,” she suggested, proudly.  “I discovered a few things, too,” she informed him.

“Like what?” Tyndal asked.

“Later,” she insisted.  “Let’s just get to the road.  It’s time to enact our escape plan.”

“Our very, very bad escape plan,” Tyndal reminded her.

“It’s the only one we’ve got,” she agreed.  “Move!”

Tyndal moved.  He had a directive and purpose, in the face of so much bald-faced mysticism.  Some of the gurvani around him were on their knees, weeping.  Some were starting to beat their chests in some sort of applause or salute.  Others looked down, shaking their heads in regret and sadness.  Still others were shaking their fists defiantly at the distant, glimmering figure, or crouched on their knees, shivering with an unearthly palsy.

He moved resolutely through the crowd until he sighted Resh and Cheshtan, standing near the gate with a crowd of other guards, clutching their spears absently while they stared at Gurkarl’s presentation.  Their mouths, too, were agape, as the prophet preached a new way and condemned the old.  Some of the goblins had begun a chant, as they arrived at the gate, a low, rhythmic song that was at odds with the usual war cries Tyndal was used to hearing from them. 

Lilastien spoke a few lines of staccato gurvani at Resh and Cheshtan, startling them.  They were as enrapt as every other gurvani in the vicinity.  But they quickly realized the reality of the situation, and both gave a grim nod as Lilastien led them through the gates, past the stupefied guards, and out into the main road.

“Make a way,” she directed, as she looked around at the aimless crowd the thoroughfare had become.  “Give us enough space to bring it out.”

“You think it’s time?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.

“I think if we don’t, we might not get another chance,” she said, as she looked around for a moment.  “The quicker we get out of here, the better!”

“What about Gurkarl?” Rondal asked in a harsh whisper, as the tribesmen began to push the gawking onlookers out of a space on the road.  Tyndal raised his own toyaga and used it to encourage gurvani to move away from the space they were clearing. 

“He knows what to do,” Lilastien assured.  “We’ve been over it.  You just do your part,” she insisted, as she decided the clearing they’d cleared was enough.  About thirty feet by twenty feet.  “And get ready.  We won’t have much time.”

Tyndal did his best to look stern and authoritarian as he pushed gurvani away from the center.  He watched out of the corner of his eye as Rondal reluctantly pulled a wand from under his bandolier, then uttered the mnemonic.

Tyndal could hear audible gasps around him as the Beast was manifested.  They were followed by cries of alarm and confusion.  Tyndal was thrilled to see the old vehicle appear out of thin air and crouch on the main road through his homeland.  He felt somewhat vindicated, as if he had struck a blow against the Dead God with that deed alone.

He didn’t hesitate – the moment he saw the latch to the side hatch he ran to it and threw it open.  Nor did he stop at the doorway – he threw himself into the pilot’s chair and began manually powering up the Beast.

“Authorization required,” Belsi calmly informed him.

“Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd!” he shouted at the panel as he brought the power plant online.  He glanced out the window at scores of wide-eyed goblins who were mystified by the sudden appearance of the vehicle. 

“Vocal pattern match unsuccessful,” Belsi reported.  “Please re-submit.”

“Lilastien!” Tyndal hollered, as Resh, Rondal, Cheshtan and the goblin matron rapidly entered the craft.  “She doesn’t know me with this voice!” he explained, urgently.

“Ishi’s tits!” Lilastien snapped.  She sighed and looked down, eyes closed, as Rondal fastened the hatch behind him.  A few notes of song left her voice . . . and Tyndal felt the strange twist he’d learned to associate with Transgenic Enchantment.  He grew in stature, his vision dimmed precipitously, and his arms and legs grew longer in an instant.

“Thanks!” he said, gratefully, his human voice strange in his ears.  He re-initialized the controls and spoke his name again in a rush.

“Authorization accepted.  Welcome, Viscount Tyndal.  How may I be of service to you?  Shall we continue your previous journey?”

“Manual controls, crowd conditions, slow and steady, engage security protocols!” Tyndal blurted out in Old High Perwynese. 

“Don’t leave yet!” Lilastien yelled from the back.  “He hasn’t gotten here!”

“I’m just warming her up!” Tyndal explained, as Rondal slid into the other seat, still in goblin form.  “Can you put Striker back the way he was?  His feet can’t reach the floor!”

“Where’s Gurkarl?” Rondal demanded, as Lilastien repeated the spell of transformation on him.  Resh and Cheshtan took their accustomed seats – but only after transforming themselves into their Gorod Alon forms.

“He’s coming!” Tyndal insisted, as he twisted the roof camera around, searching for their friend.  He caught the skull shrine as he panned across the landscape, and then honed his focus on the top.  He was brandishing his kopach at the castle in the distance and virtually screaming a defiant stream of gurvani in the light of his magelight and the full moon.  Tyndal checked his position on the map on the console.  He saw, to his dismay, that they weren’t quite in the right position. 

“Hang on!” he urged in Narasi, before toggling the rear cameras.  He hadn’t used them much, or even seen much point in them, but in these conditions he suddenly saw why seeing behind you made all the difference.

That building near the skull shrine was his best bet, he realized.  An old barn and livery stable on the side of the road, just before you got to Hymas Town, two stories tall with a roof of aging thatch.  A very familiar one. 

That was Old Ankras’ stable, he realized.  The one his mother had all but sold him to when he was eleven, old enough to make his way in the world, she had said.  The stable he had toiled at until he accidentally caused all the hayseeds in the loft where he slept to sprout in the dead of winter.  That had necessitated a visit by the new village spellmonger from Minden’s Hall, he realized.  And that had changed his life.

Tyndal didn’t hesitate.  He slammed the steering yoke back towards his lap, throwing the Beast into reverse.  A piercing tone rang out – ostensibly to warn any passersby that the machine was lumbering in an unexpected direction.  Tyndal was gratified that many gurvani got out of his way, once they realized their peril.  A few did not.  Tyndal didn’t care.  He was trying to save his friend.

“What in seven hells are you doing?” Rondal demanded, as he became human – and completely naked.  Tyndal realized that he, too, had manifested his human body without clothes.  He wore only the leather sash his gurvani body had sported. 

“Trying to get us closer to Gurkarl!” Tyndal said, as he studied the monitor as he steered. 

“Was that part of the plan?” Rondal asked, doubtfully, as he pulled the safety straps over his shoulder.

“Probably not,” Tyndal said, absently, as he pushed the Beast backward, closer to the stable.  “I wasn’t’ really paying attention,” he admitted with a small grin.

He stopped the vehicle abruptly near the front of the stable’s yard, where once he’d held horses and escorted them to stalls and hauled an endless amount of hay from wain to loft.  And shoveled an unbelievable amount of horseshit, he reflected.

“What’s going on out there?” Tyndal asked, as he pulled his hands away from the yoke.

“Briga only knows,” Rondal said, as he activated the monitor in front of him.  “I’m assuming that Gurkarl wants to make a big finish before he . . . does whatever he’s planning to do.”  The roof camera view he’d conjured appeared on the monitor, showing an off-color image of Gurkarl.  The gurvan – no, he was a Gorod, now – was on one knee, his halberd in one hand, while he pointed toward Boval Castle and – presumably – Sheruel the Great Ghost, and castigated him in brutal terms.  The spell permeated the cabin, bringing Gurkarl’s gurvani words in rapid-fire fashion. 

Tyndal had no idea what Gurkarl was saying, but he could tell by the tone that he was making an impassioned plea.  Tyndal couldn’t help but be moved by the determined words he couldn’t understand.  Gurkarl’s words were rhetorical magic, and his glances out of the window showed how enthralled the crowd had become as a result.

The entire center of the gurvani city was enrapt.  Gurkarl was speaking to their gobliny hearts.  He was preaching light in the heart of darkness, Tyndal knew for a certainty, and he didn’t even really understand what was being said.

“That’s . . . ambitious . . .” Tyndal heard Lilastien say, behind him.  She had evidently transformed form gurvani back to her Tera Alon form.  Which was completely naked.  As was Tyndal.  As if things weren’t awkward enough.

“What?” Rondal demanded, as he stared at the monitor’s image.

“Gurkarl has challenged Sheruel,” Lilastien related.  “Not necessarily a duel, but a . . . a challenge of leadership, in the tribal gurvani tradition.  A struggle for the leadership of the entire people.  Based on moral clarity, not pure brute force,” she said, clearly impressed.

“That’s not going to go over well with the local manor lord,” Rondal predicted.

“He’s claiming that it was he, not Sheruel, who viewed the sacred cave first,” Lilastien translated.  “He’s calling the Great Ghost a liar and a cheat and a tool of the Enshadowed.  He’s . . . he’s not being kind,” the sorceress admitted, a smirk on her lips.

“Great Ghost lies,” Resh agreed, from his seat.  He was properly strapped in, Tyndal noticed.  “Prorok speaks truth!”  There was grim assurance in his voice, as if he’d suddenly been convinced of something he’d had lingering doubts about.  Cheshtan added his own commentary in gurvani, his anger and resentment clear from his tone.

“Gurkarl just committed blasphemy,” Lilastien reported, her respect as evident as her surprised.  “Against Sheruel and the Alka Alon.  He’s called all those faithful to the spirit of Gurvos to stand against the Great Ghost.  He calls him a counterfeit and a puppet.  He’s really taking a healthy shit on the Abomination!”

“Isn’t that likely to arouse some spirited response?” Rondal asked, anxiously, as he stared at the monitor.  “He’s in Sheruel’s inner sanctum,” he argued.  “He’s essentially committing philosophical hamsoken on Sheruel!”

“That’s his entire point,” Lilastien said, admiringly.  “He’s trying to de-legitimize Sheruel in his capital.  He’s essentially announced a rebellion, and touted the Gorod Alon as the saviors of the race.  It’s . . . it’s audacious,” she admitted, admiringly.

“But how is Sheruel going to take it?” Tyndal asked, as he checked Belsi’s status on the control panel.

As if to answer Tyndal’s question, a bolt of arcane violence launched itself against the summit of the tower, shattering it into thousands of fragile fragments that sprayed the crowd below.  The source of the attack was evident: the summit of Boval Castle, where an eerie green light had begun to stain the clouds above the fortress with a sickly green glow.

“Poorly!” Rondal squeaked, as the report of the blast rang out over them.  “Why are we waiting, again?  And what happened to Gurkarl?” he asked, as the dust and smoke from the strike began to clear on the monitor.  Their friend was no where in sight.  Instead, the jagged ruins of the monument emerged from the dust, the Golden Goblin nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” Rondal asked, as he tagged the camera controls, searching for Gurkarl.

“Be patient!” Lilastien insisted.  “And the moment we know he’s safe, we go . . . fast!” she urged.

“Just waiting for your signal,” Tyndal said, as he toggled through the cameras and planned their exit.  The crowds outside were thicker than ever, and there were plenty of warriors expressing curiosity about the strange wagon that had suddenly appeared in the middle of the street.  He peered out at them over the re-purposed skis he and Rondal and Igor had fastened to the front of the Beast as a temporary barrier.  They had anticipated this kind of congestion prohibiting their escape, and had redeployed the steel and wood constructions to provide a barrier against a crowd. 

“Where is he?” Rondal repeated, a little more shrilly.

“He’ll be here!  Just relax, little girl!” Lilastien nearly shouted.  “Ishi’s tits, have you no patience?”

“We’re in the bloody Black Vale!” Rondal argued, desperately.  “On a bloody covert mission!  Surrounded by goblins!  I think it’s reasonable to be a little nervous!”

“Did you tell him where we’d—” Tyndal asked, when he was interrupted by the unexpected thud on the roof of the Beast, followed a moment later by knocking.  Lilastien grinned, which made her nudity all the more distracting.  It was six knocks, in a particular rhythm, he noted.

“Shave and a haircut,” Lilastien smiled.  “No two bits.  That was the signal!  Gurkarl’s on board.  Are we ready to go, Tyndal?”

He glanced at the board.  All of the main indicators were in positive positions – remarkable, after what Belsi had been through.  He glanced out of the window.  The road ahead was surprisingly clear, despite the number of gurvani who were pressing in the other direction, eager to find out what happened to the Golden Goblin.  He looked back over his shoulder, as he strapped himself into the pilot’s chair – suddenly conscious of his nakedness.  He reached over and turned on the front lights, bathing the road ahead in a harsh electric glow.  The few stragglers in front of the Beast recoiled, shielding their eyes from the sudden, too-bright light.

“We’re ready to go, Sorceress!” Tyndal agreed, as he pushed the steering horns forward, causing the Beast to lurch.  “Spectrum is green!”

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Birthing Maggot

Nothing grants one resolution as much as pure, stark terror.

From the private journals of Baron Rondal

Rondal

Rondal felt much safer now that he was in the Beast.  It was like a movable castle, a strong house on wheels that kept the chaos outside at bay.  The skids that had been added to the front were canted at an angle, so the vehicle moved up the road like an arrow.  Tyndal touched a control and the spotlight on the roof activated, projecting a cone of light ahead that Rondal knew would be blinding to the nocturnal gurvani, and they started moving out of the way. 

As he looked out the window at the throngs of gurvani who were all walking towards them his suddenly human eyes saw the crowd as a threat in the harsh glare of the spotlight.  The faces he had seen as normal a moment ago were now savage and alien to him.  Old fears and terrors came flooding back, filling him with dread even as the Beast wheeled slowly up the road.

“We should go faster,” Lilastien advised, from behind them.  She leaned forward and glanced at the map on the console, then she touched a control.  “And more lights,” she said, as the full battery of tekka lights suddenly filled the road in front of them with illumination, which only heightened Rondal’s anxiety.  He also become incredibly self-conscious about how nude Lilastien was, and how close she was to his face.  It was one thing when she was garbed as an Alka Alon.  Her Tera Alon form was suddenly very distracting.  That made him even more self-conscious of his own nakedness.

“Won’t that draw more attention?” he asked, trying to ignore Lilastien’s all-too-human boobs in his face.

“Sheruel was apparently unveiling something special tonight,” Lilastien informed him as she grabbed ahold of a bar overhead to steady herself as the Beast rumbled along.  “Everyone was talking about it.  It’s supposed to be a secret weapon.  I’m hoping that everyone will think that we are that weapon, and leave us alone.”  She sounded pleased at the stratagem.  Rondal was skeptical.

“And what about Gurkarl?” Tyndal asked, tension in his voice as he steered the craft up the road, taking care to move fast enough to be a threat but slow enough to keep from purposefully running over gurvani by accident.  “What the hell was he telling them?”

“That Sheruel is a fraud, that they’re being manipulated by the Alka Alon, and that they should heed the call that will come,” Lilastien explained.

“There was more than that,” Resh added.  “Much more.”

“He used a lot of mythic language, invoked the gods, leaned heavily on prophecy, and even used a bit of poetry,” Lilastien shrugged.  “It was very impressive, in gurvani.  Especially when he claimed he was the one who first entered the sacred cave.”

“It undermines Sheruel’s entire story,” Resh continued, thoughtfully.  “It challenges his authority and legitimacy.  It was a challenge Black Skulls cannot let go unanswered.”

“Which is why they aren’t going to just let us get away,” Tyndal concluded.  “As soon as they realize that we aren’t Sheruel’s secret weapon, they’ll come after us!”

“So go faster!” Lilastien urged.  “Use the horn!  They’ll get out of the way!”

Tyndal gritted his teeth and stared unblinkingly into the night as the Beast slowly accelerated up the hill.  They were almost past the breeding pits, now.  Rondal glanced back up at Lilastien, trying desperately to focus on her face in the darkness.  “How did Gurkarl get on the roof?” he asked.

“He had an escape route planned,” she said, approvingly.  “He spent all week planning it, as well as his unusual address.  When it was time to go, he jumped over onto the roof of the next building—”

“Ankras’ stable,” Tyndal supplied, not taking his eyes off the road.  “I used to work there.”

“—which he was able to climb down, after he transformed back to his original form.  At least, that was the original plan, to get away in the crowd.  But Tyndal made it convenient for him to jump directly on the roof, so he took that route.  Well done,” she added, patting Tyndal’s shoulder.

“How did he manage all that without killing himself?” Rondal asked, still confused.

“Magic,” Resh revealed.  “He’s been learning spells for months.  Warmagic.”  Cheshtan added a lengthy commentary in gurvani.  “He said that the Prorok has been practicing for this a long time.”

That made sense.  Warmagic was filled with ways for a warmage to augment and enhance their physical abilities temporarily.  Arcane power could make you move faster, endure more pain, improve your endurance, and a host of other things that were useful on the battlefield.  He’d used them himself often. 

Rondal was still getting used to the Gorod Alon all being able to do magic – and do it with surprising ease, he had to admit.  They learned more quickly than human magi.  And they mastered techniques after one or two attempts, he’d noticed.  He was impressed.  The Gorod Alon promised to be formidable allies.

Or devastating foes, another part of him pointed out.  He tried to ignore it.

Rondal felt the engines redouble their efforts as they pushed the Beast up the hill at faster and faster rate.  The crowds ahead were thinning, as they got further from Hymas, and he started to relax a little.  He couldn’t foresee anything ahead that would impede their escape, so far.  He was about to say as much when he spotted a commotion on the left side of the road.  Gurvani seemed to be fleeing the area in terror.  Not anger at the Golden Goblin or at Sheruel and the Black Skulls, or fear of the Beast lumbering down the road, but at something far more immediately terrifying.

Before he could call it to anyone’s attention the source of the threat emerged in unexpectedly sudden fashion: a shockingly chaotic creature flopped on the road in front of them.  The gigantic maggot, he realized, recalling the disgustingly bloated horror they’d passed – was it only an hour before?  Less?

The thing that flopped onto the road so dangerously was somehow even more terrifying in the harsh glare of the Beast’s many lights, and he could see it clearly.  The maggot had somehow ripped open, and it appeared to have swallowed some horrific, insect-like thing, a pale, sickly blue shelled monster covered with slime and ichor that thrashed violently against the putrid sides of the maggot..  Everyone in the Beast gasped. 

Then Rondal realized that the maggot wasn’t trying to swallow the monster.  Whatever foul creature that was attached to its grotesque body was not being consumed – it was emerging from within the pustulant horror.

“Ishi’s tits!” Tyndal exclaimed, as the struggling monster strove to be born in front of them – directly on the road.  He slowed the Beast as they approached.  “What in seven hells is that thing?”

“Kurja!” Lilastien said, her eyes wide in disbelief.  “This is what the Leshi warned us about!  Sheruel got ahold of some Kurja and is hatching them!”

“Into what?” Rondal asked, his voice unexpectedly shrill as he watched the horrific creature use it’s long, saber-like claws to pry itself away from the struggling flesh of its maggot skin. 

“We’re about to find out,” the sorceress whispered, as the Beast came to a halt.  The Kurja was only forty feet ahead of it, thrashing into obstacles and crushing the occasional gurvani who came too close.  A pair of Black Skulls was running around the thing frantically, waving their staves and presumably attempting to control the foul maggot-spawn with spells.  They didn’t seem to be having much success, Rondal noted.  Indeed, one sharp claw lanced through one of their torsos with blinding speed, impaling the shaman in an instant. 

A moment later the struggling goblin was shoved into the most horrific maw Rondal could ever imagine, a nightmare face of ravenous fangs and jagged-looking protrusions that promised a painful death.  The shaman was torn apart in an instant, the insatiable mouth ripping and shredding the screaming gurvan in an instant.

“Well, they wake up hungry,” Tyndal observed.  “There’s no way we’re getting out of here with that thing in the way!”

“Ram it!” Lilastien instructed.  “Get as much speed as possible and ram it!  Drive right over it!  This vehicle weighs more than ten tons – treat that thing like rocky terrain!”   Tyndal started forward before she finished the sentence, pushing the throttle to maximum.  Rondal felt the wheels slip a moment before they found traction and propelled the Beast forward.

“Hang on!” Tyndal called out to the crew, as the torso of the monster emerged from the maggot.  “Belsi, maximum power to traction!  Rough terrain mode!” he ordered the machine. 

The temporary prow of the vehicle felt like a shield, to Rondal, which made rushing at that thing only slightly less terrifying.  Tyndal had gotten up to a good bit of speed as the skids collided with the horror, right at the spot where the thing was emerging from its former body.  The viscous fluids that the rapidly dying flesh of the maggot were secreting splashed across the windshield in a disgusting blob as the prow smashed into it.  The claws and talons of the creature emerging immediately began to scramble against the Beast.

“Gurkarl!” Lilastien said, suddenly, as the entire craft shook with the impact.  “Rondal, open the roof hatch!” she said, slapping his bare shoulder.

“What roof hatch?” Rondal asked, mystified, though he began to unfasten his straps.

“Didn’t you read the manual?” she chided, as she pointed out an unassuming square on the ceiling Rondal had rarely noticed.  She pulled on a recessed handle as she passed under it and headed for the rear of the vehicle.  It was starting to push against the bulk of the horror outside, and the cabin tilted crazily as the rear wheels dug in and pushed the front wheels up its side.  “Get Gurkarl in here now!” she ordered.

Rondal did as he was bidden, unlocking the second latch and pushing the small door open.  He had to stand on the arm of one of the chairs to push himself through, but in a moment he was staring at one of the most terrifying visions he’d ever seen. 

It was worse than a dragon, he understood at once.  The bug-like body was larger than the maggot that spawned it, folded up against itself.  The upper portion was unfolding a variety of limbs from its torso.  Some were sharp and spiky, some were jagged like saws, some were long and flexible, whip-like antennae that thrashed as they emerged; some were tipped with clasping claws that grasped blindly at whatever was at hand. 

The screeching sound they made as they slashed across the hull only added to the terrifying noise it was emitting.  Whether it was a cry of pain as the torso twisted and shook with the impact of the Beast or anger and fury at the pain of its own existence, that horrible maw bellowed a howl that seemed to assault his very being. 

Gurkarl was clinging to the protrusions on the roof near the front of the cockpit, still clad in his Gorod Alon form, his kopach grasped desperately in his hand.  Rondal had to steel himself to stick his head out and shout at his friend to get his attention.

“Get in!  Or do you want to fight that thing alone?” he asked, as the Beast lurched at an even greater angle.  Gurkarl started to slip, and then scrambled unceremoniously toward the hatch, dragging his weapon behind him.  Rondal dove back inside, grateful for at least the illusion of safety as Tyndal drove the Beast over the creature.

Gurkarl dropped down a moment later, but his kopach was too long to bring down easily.  It caught on the small opening of the hatch.  Yet he would not relinquish it.  Instead he thrust his head and shoulders back through, repositioned it, and was just about to drop back down when one of the terrifying, scrambling claws struck at him, almost by accident.

Gurkarl slashed at the limb with his weapon, a precise cut that hit the thing at a joint, and neatly separated the claw from it.  He used the steel haft to block a second strike, this one from a jagged stinger dripping with ichor, before he finally fell into the belly of the Beast.

Rondal was about to close the hatch when the entire craft settled, suddenly, and careened to one side, throwing he and Gurkarl against each other on the floor.  Rondal desperately tried to gain his footing, while trying to ignore just how soft Gurkarl’s fur was against his skin.  It felt as if the land ship had crushed the abdomen of the thing under its wheels.  He tried very hard not to think too much about that, as well.

“I am getting too old for this—” the goblin said, sagging on the floor.

“Coming through!” Lilastien shouted, as she returned the front.

Rondal had just managed to get a handhold when Lilastien stepped over him, put her bare foot on the arm of his seat, grabbed the edge of the hatch, and pushed herself halfway through – with a plasma rifle in her other hand.

Rondal threw himself against the bulkhead as the naked Tera Alon sorceress unleashed bolt after bolt of superheated plasma into the monster, screaming at the top of her lungs.  The second set of wheels took purchase against its sides, giving her an excellent vantage to pepper the length of the Kurja’s sickly, glistening body.

“Almost there!” Tyndal called out, as the Beast tilted crazily to one side.  The cockpit rose up and then slammed down, straining the capacity of the suspension as the first set of wheels reached the other side of the thing.  The engines whined in protest as some wheels spun wildly while others were caught up in the murk of shattered shell and the mangled viscera underneath.  Lilastien dropped down, closing the hatch behind her, a grin on her face, as she held the hot barrel of the weapon away from her body.  Rondal took it from her.

“I wanted to see how vulnerable it was when it was first hatched,” she explained, as she grasped another handhold.  “I think I did it some damage.  And I think the Beast has crippled it,” she added, as the rear of the vehicle began tilting up. 

“This is the Kurja’s form, then?” Tyndal called from the pilot’s seat, as Rondal made his way back to the cockpit. 

“So it appears,” Lilastien answered, as she got Gurkarl settled.  The rear wheels thumped down from the wreck of the Kurja’s body.  “At least half of it,” she amended, as she glanced at the rear monitor. 

Rondal stared as well, as he climbed into his seat, setting the rifle next to his seat.  The great hulk of the horror was decidedly damaged by the passage of the Beast, the center abdomen crushed.  But both sides continued to writhe uncontrollably, and there was still some portion of the monster that kept its connection to its legs intact. 

“But we’re past it!” Rondal announced, in relief – just as some limb of the creature struck a powerful blow against the side of the hull.  The vehicle skidded off the road, and Tyndal struggled valiantly to correct its path.  “Go faster!” Rondal urged, some measure of panic in his voice.

“We need to get out of here before the wings unfold,” Lilastien agreed.

“Wings?” Gurkarl asked, in shocked surprise, “It has wings?”

“They’re still fresh, so they haven’t even been unfolded yet, but I’m pretty sure it has wings,” Lilastien affirmed.  “I only got a brief glimpse, but some of those shells looked decidedly like wing coverings.”

“So it’s a flying horror, as well,” Rondal said, dully, as he started to see the implications.  He slipped his safety harness back on.

“I can’t wait to tell Dara,” Tyndal said, with a wicked chuckle.  “I think we’re clear of it now, at least.  Only another two miles up the road until we turn off for Amadia.  Once we’re there, we’ll be safe.”

“Unless something follows us,” Rondal said, staring at the image of the thing in the rear monitor.  He was so enrapt in watching it that he wasn’t watching out the front window, as Tyndal managed a curve.  They were going much faster, now, so when Tyndal slammed on the brakes it threw Rondal painfully against his straps once again.

He stared up in a panic to see what had inspired his friend to stop so suddenly, when they were still so dangerously near the Kurja’s writhing body.

It was a man – a human man – on a horse, in full armor, a lance in hand and pointed threateningly at the cockpit of the Beast.  A company of goblins accompanied him on foot, spread out across the road, bearing spears and crossbows.  But the horseman was at the fore, barring their path.

He wore a good hauberk of blackened plates over a thick leather jerkin, his mantle thrown over his shoulders to permit his hands freedom.  His helm was open-faced, revealing his gray beard and his half-ruined visage.  The rider bore no shield to proclaim his heraldry, but neither of the boys needed a symbol to tell them who the knight in front of the barricade was.

“Sire Koucey!” they said, nearly in unison.

“Is that fool going to charge us?” Lilastien asked in disbelief.

“Koucey is no fool,” Gurkarl growled.  “He’s trying to capture us for his old master.  It would bring him favor.”

“I’m not about to let the old coot keep us from getting away,” Tyndal said, determinedly.  “I just drove over some kind of giant bug.  I’ll hit a man.  Even if it kills a horse,” he declared.  Then he activated the horn, and trained the spotlight on the knight.

The horse startled, but the lance never wavered. 

“Maybe we can talk to him,“ Tyndal conceded.  “Belsi, activate public address system, conversation mode, maximum volume,” Tyndal said, before he spoke into the microphone overhead.  “Stand down and leave the road!” he commanded.  It boomed and echoed amongst the hills of the vale.

“You will stop and get out of the wagon!” Sire Koucey cried in reply. 

“You aren’t going to win this fight, Koucey!” Tyndal warned, sternly.  “Don’t get your horse killed for a battle that’s already lost!”

“You will not pass!” Koucey bellowed, adjusting his horse’s presentation.  The lance never wavered.  “You will leave the wagon or I will order my troops to open fire!”

“You used to rule this vale!” Tyndal taunted him. “Now you are a mere traitor to all the people you swore to protect here!”

The accusation clearly affected Koucey, Rondal saw, but it did not deter him. 

“You will not pass!” he insisted.  “Get out of the wagon, now!  Or face a volley!  You will not be warned again!”

“Give us a moment to discuss it,” Tyndal requested, and deactivated the public address system.

“Can we take that much damage?” Rondal asked, looking at the goblins’ crossbows through the window with magesight.  They were the newer, more powerful type, with the sinister-looking blades that folded back to assist cocking their powerful iron springs.  Armed with iron bolts, too, Rondal guessed.  He did the mathematical calculations in his head.  He did not like the answer.

“Belsi is tough,” Tyndal affirmed.

“That didn’t answer my question,” Rondal pointed out.

“She can probably take a lot of hits without damaging her mechanisms,” he conceded.  “But there are limits.  She wasn’t designed for war.”

“She’ll be shredded,” Lilastien agreed.  “But we still might make it through, if we’re lucky.”

“And if we’re not, they’ll haul us out of the hatch and execute us on the spot,” Rondal objected.  “They have us outnumbered.”

“We have our blades and our rifles,” Tyndal reminded him.  “They wouldn’t find us easy to take.”

“Some of your spells might work, too,” Lilastien said.  “I think it’s worth the chance.”

“Why not just evacuate?” Rondal proposed.  He manifested his baculus – and the Waystone it carried.  Tyndal had left his back at Kurtz Station, so that they could more easily escape through the Ways.  But as he tried to initiate the spell, it refused to form.

“Because by now Sheruel has taken notice and has locked down the Waypoints, the way they did at the Battle of Olum Seheri,” Lilastien explained, as Rondal threw his head back in disappointment.  “He wont be able to do that to Amergin’s Waypoint, but I figured he do this.  Some of your warmagic might work, though.  I still like our chances.”

“We will fight to the death, if need be,” Gurkarl assured, with grunts of affirmation from Resh and Cheshtan.  “It would be . . . glorious.”

“I think I’m just going to run them down,” Tyndal decided, flexing his fingers on the steering yoke.  “If we hit them hard enough and just keep going, I don’t think they will figure out how to stop us.”

Rondal sighed.  “I’m not one for bloody last stands.  Particularly while I’m stark naked.  But if that’s the only way . . .”

“If we can get past this bend then it’s a straight road up to Amadia,” Tyndal argued.  “I’m not going to let a couple of scrugs get in our way.”  They watched as Koucey coaxed his horse forward a bit in the blinding spotlight.  He seemed quite resolute. 

“Then we need to go before reinforcements arrive,” Lilastien urged.  “Run him over, if you need to, but let’s—” she ended her sentence in a gasp.  In a moment the rest of them joined her.

Koucey and his forces were suddenly bathed in a soft green glow, from above, as a sinister object dropped from the sky, and then halted slightly over the knight’s head.  Rondal had expected the Kurja’s wounded form to come against them – he’d been checking the rear cameras religiously, every few seconds – but he would have preferred that to this arrival.  The darkened silhouette of a skull within the glowing green sphere struck a terror in his heart that even the Kurja could not match. 

Sheruel.  The Dead God.

The sphere of irionite bore a great crack in its surface where Sire Cei the Dragonslayer had once struck at it with the mightiest blow of his magical warhammer.  But the skull within, though in shadow too murky to be made distinct even with magesight, was clearly undamaged by the blow.  It glided effortlessly above the gurvani warriors and his renegade knight.  A greater sphere of shimmering magic surrounded the disembodied skull, no doubt Sheruel’s protective shields.  The ones that had stymied dozens of warmagi and a squadron of Alka Alon sorcerers.

“Oh, shit!” moaned Tyndal.  “We are screwed!”

“I’d rather face a dragon,” Rondal agreed in a harsh whisper.  “You can’t run over him, either,” he pointed out, unhelpfully.

The orb hovered near Koucey for a moment before turning to face the Beast.

Humani, it said into their minds, a disembodied voice that clung to Rondal’s nerves like hot tar. 

There was no real expression in it, no emotion.  Even when it was spewing hateful words Sheruel’s voice in his head it was flat, almost monotone, a profoundly objective tone.  There was no humor.  No passion.  Just the icy assuredness of pure commitment.  Sheruel was ego without id, save for his obsessive nature when it came to the destruction of man. The voice of cold, icy death in absolute darkness.

He had heard it before.  He still had nightmares about that. 

Why have you come to our sacred vale?  You have desecrated it once again.  Or have you come to offer yourselves in sacrifice?

“They mock you, my lord!” Sire Koucey said, loudly enough for them to hear.  “They do not realize that your patience is not something to be toyed with!”

But why did they come?  Why do they harbor these perversions? the Dead God asked.  Each word was an assault on Rondal’s mind.

Tyndal toggled the public address system once again. 

“You are a fraud and a deceit, Sheruel!” Tyndal shouted bravely into the microphone.  Rondal was surprised by his friend’s fury as he spoke.  “Your reign will soon be at an end!  The Golden Goblin has come!  All will be transformed!”

Foolish myths, dismissed the undead goblin head.  Misunderstood prophecy.  I was the first to view the sacred cave, he insisted.

“No, you weren’t!” Tyndal nearly screamed into the microphone.  “I was there!  Gurkarl the Prophet was the first!  Before you came!  Gurkarl saw it first!  Koucey was there, too!  Ask him!”

The old knight startled at the mention of his name, and for the first time his lance wavered.

“Sheruel alone is the lord of the Black Vale!” he called out, forcefully.  “Yield to his judgement and pray for his mercy!”

Tyndal snorted at the mention of Sheruel’s mercy.  There was a bit of a stir amongst the goblins behind Koucey, Rondal noticed.  But they held formation, and there were still plenty of crossbows pointed at them.  Tyndal began to fiddle with the control panel.

You harbor these perversions along with an Alka Alon, Sheruel accused.  She must be behind this.  Speak, Sorceress, and explain yourself.  Or confess your crimes on the sacrificial stone.  It matters not to me.

Lilastien grabbed the microphone off the panel and brought it to her lips.

“I bring the greetings of the Alka Alon Council,” she said, cooly into the device.  Her words rang outside and echoed.  “You are declared an Abomination, and will no longer be tolerated polluting our world.  By the authority of the Council, I demand that you surrender!” she said, to Rondal’s disbelief.

“You want him to surrender?” he asked, stunned.

“I want him pissed off at the Council,” Lilastien murmured.  “If we’re going to die, at least we can do that.”

The Alka Alon have no power here, Sheruel said.  I control the sacred molopor.  Why did you come here?

Gurkarl got out of his seat and pushed Lilastien to the side, grabbing the microphone.  He spat a long, impassioned speech to Sheruel in gurvani, his words snarling across the vale over the intercom.  Rondal had no idea what he was saying.  He was certain it was important, because it was having an affect on the gurvani standing behind Sheruel, but Rondal suspected Sheruel was nearly out of patience. 

So was Tyndal, apparently.  As Gurkarl finished his argument and replaced the microphone, he sighed.  “That should give them something to think about,” he said in Narasi.

“So should this,” Tyndal said.  “Belsi, arm auxiliary defense module.  Transfer control to manual.  Display targeting on main monitor.”

“What?” Lilastien snapped.  “This thing is armed?” she asked in surprise.

“Just a little bit,” Tyndal agreed, as the firing interface appeared on his control panel, and the targeting camera popped up on the central monitor.  He started adjusting it at once.  “But I hope it’s enough.  Sheruel is right bloody there!  And if you think I’m going to pass up this chance, you’re mad!”

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Flight From Darkness

Sometimes the most daring thing you can do is to submit to your baser impulses.  Regardless of outcome, the satisfaction you feel is exquisite.

From the private journals of Tyndal, Viscount of Callierd

Tyndal

“Auxiliary defense module armed,” Belsi informed them helpfully.  “You now have manual control of the module.”

Time seemed to stand still as Tyndal quickly adjusted the targeting controls to put the crosshairs square in the center of Sheruel’s amber-entombed face.  He remembered Gareth’s instructions from weeks ago, when they had practiced driving and other operations at Henga Hospital.  He could still recall his words as the targeting system prepared to fire.

“The auxiliary defense module is just a small missile, with a two kilogram explosive and incendiary warhead and a range of only about two miles at best.  We found a few of them in that ruin we’re exploring in Falas.  It’s designed to be simple to use by civilians in an emergency situation, or by security forces responding to a moderate threat.  It’s something that could be strapped on a vehicle or a machine or deployed in a lot of different tactical situations.  You arm the module, you set the target, you disengage the safety, and you fire.  Simple.”

Simple.  Tyndal knew that the defense module, like the Beast, was the result of thousands of scientific discoveries and complicated engineering refinements over hundreds of years, all done without the benefit of magic.  There was nothing simple about its production.  He understood the principles, he had watched the brief training presentation Belsi provided, and he had seen recordings of such weapons being used from the archives of the Ancients.  The fact that this weapon was centuries old and had never been tested didn’t bother him.  He had faith in his ancestors’ tekka.

He gave one last glance out of the windshield, where he could see Sire Koucey begin to urge his horse forward aggressively toward the Beast.  While his master hung overhead, the former Lord of Boval Vale shifted his lance in his hand in the familiar way Tyndal associated with preparing for a charge.  Koucey had apparently had enough of their stalling.  Tyndal couldn’t help but admire his bravery – the renegade knight had no real idea what the Beast was, how it operated or where it was vulnerable.  He was just doing the one thing every knight knew how to do: charge.

His action seemed to be a signal for the gurvani behind him, who raised their crossbows and began firing.  A thick iron bolt thudded into the wooden skids that were strapped to the front of the craft, giving Tyndal all the excuse he needed.  He returned his attention to the targeting monitor where the green glowing sphere of irionite was neatly centered in the targeting array.

“Tyndal!” Rondal said, warningly, as he flinched at the impact of the first iron bolt into the skids.  Tyndal ignored him.  He was not going to let his friend’s caution interrupt this unique opportunity.

“For Boval!” he breathed, and deactivated the safety.  The red indicator turned green.  “Fire!” he announced, and slapped the trigger control.

For one horrible moment nothing seemed to happen.  Koucey galloped closer, another two bolts hit the skids, and Sheruel’s darkened face seemed to laugh at them from his protective magical sphere. 

Then he felt a shiver shake the entire Beast as a lance of smoke and flame appeared over Koucey’s shoulder, flying unerringly toward the Dead God.  In a flash it had crossed the distance . . . and then stopped firmly in mid-air,  in front of the sphere.  The flare of the rocket motor kept burning, the smoke it trailed billowed out lustfully behind it, creating a thick cloud, but it was apparent that Sheruel had intercepted the weapon before it could impact him, and held it in place by magic.

“Crap!” Tyndal swore, feeling profoundly disappointed, as the rocket engine sputtered out, leaving only a trickle of flame from the short, thick little missile.  He could still see Sheruel’s eternally screaming face over it in the targeting monitor.

And then it exploded.

The force of the blast was sufficient to knock Koucey off his horse and send the animal rolling across the road.  It flattened the company of crossbowmen that face them, sending their shots wild and slapping them into the ground with the blast.  It shook the hull of the Beast alarmingly as the shockwave hit the prow.  He could feel the power of the concussion rattle his chest like he had been standing next to a war spell when it activated.  It slammed his naked body back into the seat.

One of the skids was blown off by the blast, and the entire vehicle was rocked back on the road a few feet.  There ears were deafened by the report of the blast – as the external microphone was still on, making it seem even louder.  A crack appeared in the corner of the windshield.  At the same instant a wave of magical energy was released, the kind of arcane shockwave he’d experienced when irionite was suddenly pulverized.  He’d felt that particular sensation on more than one occasion. 

In the smoke and fire of the explosion Tyndal lost track of where Sheruel was, but he was no longer in the targeting monitor.  The searchlight atop the Beast only revealed a great cloud of smoke and a rain of fire that peppered the ground below.

Tyndal didn’t hesitate.  He might have destroyed Sheruel. or he might not have, but either way their chances of escape were temporarily raised by the attack.  He shoved the control yoke forward and stomped on the throttle, sending the Beast forward.

“Tyndal!” Rondal repeated.  His friend was shouting right next to him, but he heard the words as if they were muffled, or spoken with a blanket over his face.  Tyndal didn’t care.  Smoke obscured the road, and fires littered the area like pools of rain, but he didn’t care.  There was nothing more important that getting out of here like they were being chased.

Because they were, he realized a moment later, as he was starting to rumble over the sprawled bodies of the gurvani crossbowmen.  Rondal grabbed his arm, screamed his name again, and pointed to the rear camera monitor.  There was no smoke to hide the view, as there was in the front.  And he could clearly see the form of the Kurja crawling up the road behind them.

It was massive, and seemed to cover a lot of ground with every step as its hideous insect-like legs propelled it relentlessly forward.  It was wounded ,with the smashed exoskeleton of its abdomen dripping ichor in a slimy trail behind it.  And it was surrounded in a kind of sickly flame – not as if it had caught on fire, but as if it was secreting fire from its body.  The color of the fire was off, with blue and green tints – it was a magical plasma, clearly, or one fueled by something unusual. 

For one brief moment the creatures horrible mouth opened, giving Tyndal new appreciation for the concept of speed.  As the prow of the Beast smashed against one unfortunate gurvani who chanced to stagger to his feet in the very worst place, Tyndal desperately hoped the vehicle could somehow outpace the wounded Kurja.

He pushed the throttle to maximum as the Beast cleared the blast zone.  Most of the gurvani on the road had taken cover in the chaos, or wisely got out of the way when their dark master had arrived.  But Tyndal didn’t care.  Any pedestrians in front of him took their chances.

“Go faster!” Lilastien shouted into his ear, as a ringing began to overcome the deafness the blast had produced. 

“I’m going as fast as I can!” he protested, keeping one eye on the road and the other on the Kurja pursuing them.  Belsi’s engines were roaring with the effort, and the Beast was starting to pick up speed.

“It’s not going to be enough!” Lilastien warned, as she watched the rearward monitor, too.  “Can you target that thing behind us?”

“It only had one shot!” Tyndal yelled, his voice sounding like he was screaming underwater in his own ears.  “I used it on Sheruel!”

“That’s unfortunate!” she said, frowning.  “Let’s hope it gets distracted, then!”

Thankfully, by the time the Kurja came to the blast zone it paused in its pursuit as the surviving goblins started defending themselves against the terrifying creature.  The iron crossbow bolts barely penetrated the chitinous plates as the gurvani frantically tried to keep the monster from eating them.  They were largely unsuccessful.  In an instant Tyndal saw the multiple claws and spiked limbs of the Kurja strike, impaling the goblins like a skewer and shoveling them into its insatiable maw.

“It’s just hungry!” Lilastien remarked, as the ringing in his ears started to fade.  The road ahead was much clearer now, as the gurvani on it cleared the way in front of the strange-looking wagon, and he could spare the odd glance at the rear view.  “I think it purchased us some time!  Keep going!”

“I’m not inclined to stop!” Tyndal agreed, swallowing as the Kurja snapped a goblin in half with its flaming claw like a barber cutting a shock of hair.  A whip-like tendril was clearing the defenders with lashes that left a trail of blue-green flame. He reached up and turned off the spotlight, depending only on the forward lighting to help guide him.  They were making great progress, now that they were ignoring any further obstacles. 

The Beast climbed the gentle grade the road followed until Tyndal could glimpse the silhouette of a familiar sight: Brandmont Tower, off in the distance to the left, the original fortress that had guarded Boval Vale before Koucey’s father had started work on Boval Castle.   It had stood sentry over the entrance to the vale for a century.  He had no idea about what dark purpose it had been put, under Sheruel’s rule, but it signaled the approach of the much smaller road that led up to Amergin. 

He banked the craft sharply to the left, taking the turn on to the much less used road.  The old village of Malin lay off to the right, only a few lights indicating it was inhabited.  Tyndal recalled several friends from Malin he had known.  A few were still living in Sevendor.  Most were dead.  Zagor’s old homestead was in the forest beyond, somewhere, he remembered. 

“Almost there,” he announced, his hearing more or less returned.  The sight of the distant Kurja was gone as the camera changed angles after the turn.  That was a relief for a number of reasons.  There didn’t seem to be anyone following them, now.

“Lights out,” Rondal advised.  “Perhaps they’ll think we’re headed for the entrance to the vale, up near Mor Tower,” he suggested.

“Good idea,” Tyndal murmured, and extinguished the lights.  He could drive well enough by magesight, as well as with Belsi’s instruments.  He took a moment to pat the console affectionately, silently praising the ancient vehicle for carrying them into, through, and back out of danger safely.  “Well done, girl!” he whispered, under his breath.

It didn’t take them long to run out of road – passable road.  The trail narrowed as it climbed, and it simply wasn’t wide enough to accommodate the Beast any more.  Tyndal brought the vehicle to a halt.  “We’re here,” he announced with a gratified, as he deactivated the power plant and began powering down the console.  “At least as close as we can get.  We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

“A lovely night for it,” Rondal grumbled, as he unstrapped and slung the plasma rifle over his shoulder.  He seemed to be shaking.  “That . . . was . . . insanity!”

“That was brilliant,” Tyndal countered.  “We’re still alive, aren’t we?  I really didn’t see that possibility.  Grab my cloak, will you?” he asked Ron, who was getting his own.  “It’s a little chilly to be walking around stark naked.”

“We learned some very valuable intelligence,” Lilastien agreed as she opened the hatch.  “We’ve seen the adult form of the Kurja, now.  Just for a few moments, but we know what they look like now.”

“Like my worst nightmares,” Rondal said, as he followed behind Gurkarl into the night.

“And we blew up Sheruel with an ancient weapon!” Tyndal reminded them, as the console went dark.  “I thought that was a highlight of an otherwise disappointing homecoming!”  He dogged the hatch behind him, and then waited while Rondal found the proper wand and banished Belsi into her hoxter pocket.

They continued to climb up the slope towards Amadia when they found a perch from which they could look back over the Black Vale from a higher elevation.  From here they could see clear to Lake Hymas even without magesight.  From here they could see the flaming figure of the Kurja still flailing around the roadway.  It stood at least thirty feet tall, though it seemed to be stooped strongly to one side, and it seemed to be hurling its flaming claws against a crowd of gurvani who were forming a crowd around it, desperate to get it under control.

Sadly, that wasn’t the only sight they saw: a tiny speck of green was circling around the awful head of the creature, and flashes and flares shot out from it as it moved. 

“It doesn’t look like you destroyed the Great Ghost,” Gurkarl sighed.  “That would have been a boon to us all.  A pity.  It was a good try, Tyndal.”

Tyndal didn’t want to believe it, but there was no denying that the Dead God had somehow survived the missile.  He tried his best to track the whizzing speck with magesight, augmenting his vision until he could almost see it clearly.  Then, as it came to a sudden stop in front of the creature’s face, Tyndal got the briefest view of Sheruel, when an arcane bolt provided enough glare to light up the sphere of irionite.

Only it wasn’t quite a sphere, anymore, Tyndal realized in that moment.  The once-perfectly smooth globe now had a chunk torn off it – not enough to expose the skull within, but there had been some definite damage on the left side of the thing, where Sire Cei’s famous blow had weakened it.  The irionite around the damaged section was puckered and warped, as if it had been partially melted.

But Sheruel was not defeated.  The flying skull whipped out of his vision as it continued to get the Kurja under control. 

“I haven’t destroyed him . . . yet,” Tyndal agreed.  “But at least I gave him a knock.”

“Then I count our mission successful,” Rondal decided.  “Far exceeding expectations.  Now let’s flee this evil place, get wildly drunk, and try to forget the horrors we’ve seen.”

“I’m not certain there’s enough liquor for that,” Tyndal sighed, as he turned and headed back toward the abandoned Alka Alon settlement.  “There are some things that you see that are so dark that you forever carry a bit of that darkness with you, I think.  Seeing your home become a horror . . . that will be a shadow on my soul forever.”

***

They returned through the Ways to Kurtz Station without incident, and each remained quiet with their thoughts about the eventful night.  Dawn was just painting the ridges pink in the east.  It was twilight, once again, and as they emerged from the Ways into the Main Vehicle Bay they were greeted by a group of Gorod Alon chanting, as they faced the rising sun.  The entire party paused, reverently, as the rough singing culminated into a single note, held unbelievably long, and not stopped until the light of the day transformed their black fur to purest gold.

“Hail the Golden Goblins,” Rondal called out.  “Every day is a transformation.”

“And every night an adventure,” Gurkarl chuckled. 

“They are a handsome people,” Ameras agreed.  “I am hopeful that they can build their society into something . . . glorious.”

“There’s no reason they can’t, nor any reason they shouldn’t, as long as the Alka Alon Council allows it,” Ithalia pointed out.

“We are not in the mood to be told by the Council what we’re ‘allowed’ to do anymore,” Gurkarl declared.  “The Gorod Alon will take our destiny into our own hands, without their leave and without their permission.”

“What will you do now?” Tyndal asked.

“I will join my comrades, and we will prepare to march to Kral Krabhet,” he decided.  “We will depart tomorrow, I think.  That will give us just enough time before the spring melt begins, and the rivers become too dangerous to cross.  Then we will discuss the coming transformation with King Ashakarl, and convince him to participate.”

“And that will be in about a month,” Lilastien informed them.  “The next full moon.  The Harmonic Retortion field is tied to the lunar cycle, and it takes about that long for a spell to spread and strengthen enough to take hold.  In theory,” she added.  “No one has ever done this sort of thing before.”

“I’m intrigued to see how it works out,” Ithalia sighed.  “I’m sorry I doubted you, Grandmother.  What you’ve done here . . . it’s remarkable,” she said, as she watched the Gorod Alon break up their singing.  “It really may change things for the better.”

“Or make them very much worse,” she admitted.  “Now I have to go report what happened to Adrian and listen to his criticisms, while that little clown makes wisecracks.  But I think he’ll be pleased that he can end this project and begin his next one: restoring human civilization.”

“I wonder which will be easier, rebuilding humani civilization or building Gorod Alon civilization from scratch,” Rondal mused.

“The two may well be complimentary,” Gurkarl reflected.  “From what I’ve seen of your ancient tekka, there are many useful things we could learn how to use,” he said, gesturing to the plasma rifle still slung over Rondal’s shoulder.  “Our association with Adrian may well see that come to pass.  And of course you two have certainly aided that.  Thank you, gentlemen.  All of you,” he said, nodding toward Lilastien, Ithalia and Ameras, and then added something in gurvani to Resh and Cheshtan. 

Cheshtan responded in kind, and Resh added a comment that made Lilastien snicker. 

“What was that about?” Tyndal asked her.

“They declared their sacred hunt over,” she related.  “They will return to their tribes and prepare for the coming of the Gorod Alon.  And return to their wives . . . with greatly augmented anatomy.”

“Oh!” Rondal said, realizing what she meant.  “I suppose that would be a shock to have your husband come back . . . transformed.”

“I could turn you back into gurvani, if you and your wives want to get exotic,” Lilastien offered.  “Once the spell is done once, it’s easy to repeat.  I can teach it to you,” she offered.  “At least the activations.”

Tyndal shuddered involuntarily.  He had endured the transformation for the sake of the mission, but the idea of repeating the experiment didn’t have much appeal.  It had altered his perspective in some fundamental ways, but he had found the experience incredibly jarring.  It had also made him far more sympathetic to the plight of his former foes, and what they had suffered. 

“Another time, perhaps.  I’m more curious to see what Minalan makes of all of this,” Tyndal said, changing the subject.  “He’s going to be very surprised.”

“The whole world will be surprised,” predicted Lilastien.  “Minalan will accept this.  It shouldn’t interfere with his long-term plans, I think, and may well help them.  If nothing else, it makes Korbal and Sheruel’s life more complicated.  I think—” she stopped as she glimpsed something that caught her attention on the western horizon.  A glint of light in the sky.  Tyndal followed her gaze until he saw it, too.

His heart grew cold as he remembered watching Sheruel fly around the Kurja in the Black Vale.  He had a moment of panic as he feared the Dead God had somehow tracked them through the Ways and located Kurtz Station. 

But the light was in the west, and the Black Vale was southeast of Kurtz Station, he remembered.  Indeed, it was growing brighter and larger as they watched, glinting in the morning sun.  A trail of vapor began to condense behind it, he saw, as it tore through the clouds.  And it was moving fast.

Tyndal automatically called his mageblade to his hand from its hoxter, and Rondal unslung the plasma rifle.  The others merely stared in confusion.  The thing in the sky was getting brighter, and getting larger, and, most worryingly, it was getting closer, he could tell.  Magesight revealed a blob of plasma that obscured some object behind it.  It was like a comet or a meteor, an amorphous mass with a long, long tail.

Then the sound rolled over them, a deep, loud report that sounded like an avalanche, and shook their bones with vibration.  It passed high overhead in an instant, moving in a straight line like an arrow, and continued east leaving its trail behind it to mark its path.

“Dragon?” Gurkarl asked, anxiously.

“Oh, no,” Lilastien sighed, following the trail of the thing as she shielded her eyes from the sun.  “That, my friends, is a sound I thought I’d never hear again, nor a sight I would ever see: that is the re-entry pattern of an Angel-class transorbital shuttle.  If I had to guess, I would say it was the Serenity.”

“That’s the one Forseti said he found in the Cave of the Ancients!” Tyndal remembered.

“The one he was trying to retrieve,” Lilastien nodded.  “It was stuck up in orbit, attached to an ECHO station.  But it appears that he has freed it, finally.”

“It looks to be an omen,” Gurkarl said, doubtfully.

“It is,” Lilastien affirmed, grimly.  “For your people and the humani.  Because there are more than a dozen cryogenic cylinders on that ship, according to the manifest, containing some of the original colonists.”

“The Forsaken!” Rondal gasped.

“You call them that,” Lilastien agreed.  “And they are the first to return to Callidore.  But they are just people from another time, who are about to wake up in a very strange new world.  People with technical skills that can help Minalan with his plan . . . and Adrian with his.”

“They picked one hell of a time to come back,” Tyndal observed.

“They are lucky to be alive at all,” Lilastien assured them, as she resumed walking towards the Annex that housed Adrian’s apartment.  “The odds were greatly against them.  But if I can get to that ship in time, I think I can help revive them – especially if I have Adrian and Igor’s help,” she suggested. 

“Where are they landing?” Tyndal asked, intrigued.

“I have no idea,” Lilastien said.  “I’ll have to plot it out when we get back to Adrian’s.  But Forseti was trying to get it to land somewhere within the Five Duchies, at least.  It will be up to the ship where its emergency protocols will let it land, though.  Once it’s down, we’ll have to go in and revive everyone . . . and that isn’t always easy,” she admitted.

“Then we have even more pressing news to share with Minalan,” Tyndal sighed.  “I suppose our adventures here are done, then.”

“For now,” Lilastien conceded.  “But yes, you do need to inform Minalan.  This concerns him greatly, and will affect the timing of his plans.  But the sooner he knows, the sooner he can make accommodations.  I’m going to brief Adrian, then I will return to Henga to get the supplies I need to revive the passengers on the Serenity.  I will send word as soon as we can figure out where the ship is landing.”

“So . . . we can just . . . go?” Tyndal asked.

“Your mission is accomplished.  You’ve journeyed into the very heart of Sheruel’s dark domain and successfully spit in his eye.  You found me,” she reminded them, “and Gurkarl, and we are both hale and hardy.  So yes, boys, you are finished.  Although I would like to borrow your baculus, Tyndal – or at least the Waystone.  It will make things much easier in the future if we have an easier means to travel here.”

“Won’t that annoy your son?” Rondal asked.

“My dear uncle lives in a constant state of annoyance,” Ithalia promised.  “He’s just going to have to put up with a few visitors.”

“Besides, I need his help,” Lilastien pointed out.  “And he needs mine.  Kurtz Station needs to be accessible for that.  There are things here we definitely will need to use, and almost no one knows about it.  But I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind, so please don’t tell anyone but Pentandra and Minalan about it.”

“You can use mine,” Rondal offered, conjuring it from its hoxter and handing it to Ithalia.  “I’ll get a new one when I’m in Sevendor, and then we can exchange them later.  Otherwise my wife might come looking for me and end up scaring the Gorod Alon.”

“Thank you,” Lilastien said, with a nod of her head.  “You both did brilliantly.  You have justly earned the acclaim you enjoy, and I look forward to our next adventure together,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood said, with a polite bow.

“It was our . . . pleasure isn’t quite the right word,” Rondal decided.  “But we were honored to be a part of this, in some small way.  It’s certainly not what I was anticipating, but I’m glad we were able to help.”

“It was fun!” Tyndal insisted.  “Mostly.  But to be honest I’m eager to return to the comforts of civilization.  There is too much horror and despair out here in the Mindens,” he said, thoughtfully.  “It has given me new appreciation for the comforts of home.  A man needs to fight the world to create them, perhaps, but they are worthwhile.  If the best he can do is protect the petty, silly little people who never have to experience those horrors that lie in the darkness, he’s done no little thing.”

Epilogue

Two days later, they told the entire story to both their former master and Lady Pentandra, Rondal’s superior.  For convenience the meeting took place in the Tower of Sorcery, in Falas, Pentandra’s official residence. 

For two solid hours they explained what they had witnessed during their expedition beyond the Wilderlands.  Apparently everyone had some news to share.  When they were finished, Minalan and Pentandra quietly regarded them across the polished table in Pentandra’s smaller, more intimate conference room.

“That is . . . that is a lot to consider,” Minalan finally said, when they were done and they had answered all of their questions.  “And one hell of an adventure.  It almost makes mine look reasonable and civilized.”

“He seized control of the government of Farise,” Pentandra explained, bluntly.  “Under the name Doge Mirkandar I.”

“Mirkandar?” Rondal asked, skeptically.  “You chose that name?  On purpose?”

“It suited my needs at the time,” Minalan said, with a sniff.  “But Pentandra is correct.  I put myself in a position to be elected Doge by the Imperial Commonwealth of Farise.  I am now sole executive authority there.  Only not many people here in the kingdom know it is me.”

“Why did you do that?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“I have my reasons.  Expediency was among them.  The Duke of Merwyn is sending a fleet to try to take Farise, and I wanted to be in a position to defend it without calling upon King Rard . . . who is not going to be happy when he finds out that Doge Mirkandar is actually me.”

“You’re really in charge?  You . . . you own Farise?” Tyndal asked, still in disbelief. 

“For the moment.  It’s an open question as to whether or not I can keep it, but we’ve already held our first execution, so yes, I am the one in charge.  I would say that it was the most dramatic political change since Rard declared himself king, but then you told me about what Gurkarl and Lilastien are doing and that changes everything.  This Adrian fellow, her secret love child, what do you make of him?”

“He’s as rebellious as his mother, and as smart,” Rondal suggested.  “He’s apparently a mage as well as an engineer, so that might be helpful.  There’s not much left at this old abandoned base, but it might be useful.  We really don’t know,” he confessed.  “But he could prove a powerful ally, considering his stance with the Alka Alon Council.”

“I’m more interested in this . . . Kurja, you called it,” she said, glancing down at her notes.  “What is that thing?”

“The thirty foot tall flaming bug monstrosity?” Tyndal said.  “It was a horror.  Worse than the Parancheck.  Worse than a dragon, in its way.  If Sheruel has any more of those in his cellar, we’re in trouble.”

“Considering he has yet to prove he can master even one of them, it may well be Sheruel who is in trouble,” Minalan pointed out, wryly.  “Look at all the problems they had trying to train dragons.  This thing sounds infinitely worse.  It could destroy what realm he has left, if he isn’t careful.  And then convincing it to fight for him . . . that could be equally problematic,” he said, thoughtfully.  “The Kurja were supposedly once powerful vassals of the Formless.  Their loyalties and motivations are unknown.  But it is very concerning.”

“To a lesser extent, the emergence of a new Alon species under our political purview is just as concerning,” Pentandra said, uncomfortably.  “Using the polite fiction of a feudal oath of fealty to legitimize the establishment of Ashakarl’s kingdom was one thing; but this new development could dramatically upset that.”

“Oh, I think with everything else going on it will largely escape the notice of Rard and Grendine, or be too little a matter for them to bother with,” Minalan proposed.  “It’s the Alka Alon Council who will take far greater issue with the Gorod Alon.  Lilastien was smart to ensure that they would be too plentiful to be able to exterminate easily – which is precisely what they will do, if they can figure out a way.  The history of the Alka Alon is a lot darker and bloodier than you suspect.  And with the Emissary of the High Kings en route to confront them, you can imagine that they will panic.

“But that is there problem, not ours,” he continued. “You boys did well, under the circumstances.  You even took a shot at Sheruel – I wish I’d been there to see that,” he admitted with a smile. 

“I don’t think we could have done it, without the Beast,” Tyndal admitted.  “That little vehicle is tough!  We put her through a lot, but she did everything we asked of her, and then some.  Our ancestors built her really well,” he praised. 

“Just wait until you see the Junebug, then,” Minalan chuckled.  “I found her in the ruins under Palomar Abbey.  She’s like a Beast, in many ways . . . except she flies,” he said, his eyes flashing.

“A Beast that flies?” Tyndal asked, suddenly interested.  Rondal looked less enthusiastic about the prospect.

“My question is how do we proceed?” he asked.  “Lilastien is heading to Henga, and thence to the landing site of the Serenity, if she can find it.  Gurkarl is going to Kral Krabhet to persuade Ashakarl, along with our friends Resh and Cheshtan.  What do we do now?”

“We wait,” Minalan said, quietly.  “Events are in motion, and there are new players to this mad game emerging.  The ancient world appears to be stirring, which deserves cautious study.  New allies and new enemies are making themselves known.  We have to be ready for that,” he conceded, “but sometimes a wizard needs opposition in order to act, and right now things are in a state of flux.  I suggest we bide.”

“Bide?” Rondal asked, confused.

“Bide,” Minalan repeated, sharply.  “We wait for the Emissary to arrive.  Wait for Gurkarl to transform the gurvani.  Wait for Sheruel to emerge from the Black Vale.  Wait for Merwyn’s fleet to arrive in Farise.  Wait for the Iris to act.  Wait for Rard to react.  And I’m going to have to do something about my agreement with Korbal,” he said, looking off into space for a moment.  “But there are times to act, and there are times to bide, and for the moment, Gentlemen, I believe we’ve reached a time to bide.

“In fact,” he continued, “I’d like you and your lovely wives to join me for a bit of a holiday in Farise, at the expense of the Doge,” he informed them.  “Spend a week with sunny beaches, icy rum drinks, and scantily clad Farisian maidens and you’ll forget all about the horrors you’ve witnessed.”

Rondal shuddered.  “You cannot forget about a think like a Kurja.  Or Sheruel.”

“Then you just aren’t drinking enough,” Minalan dismissed.  “But you both deserve a holiday, after what you’ve done.  And before what is to come.  If we don’t take these times between adventures to relax and enjoy ourselves, we lose sight of the things we spend our lives sacrificing to protect.  Come to Farise for a few days, see what I’ve begun there, and spend a little time with your wives.”

“You make a compelling argument, Master,” Tyndal agreed.

“I’ll try,” Rondal said, with a glance at Pentandra, “but my boss is really picky about—”

“Two weeks,” groaned Pentandra, rolling her eyes.  “I can give you two more weeks.  Thankfully, the Farisian situation is the most pressing of the intelligence matters on my desk at the moment.  So you can spend the time trying to study it.  At least, that is how I will note it in the official records.  You two and Gatina are all members of the Garden Society.  Consider it a fully endorsed assignment,” she conceded.

“Gatina will like that,” Rondal nodded.  “She always enjoys mixing business with pleasure.  Maybe she can get Atopol to join us . . . the second week,” he suggested.

“Atopol is quite busy already helping me get the government set up in Farise,” Minalan revealed.  “Not to mention trying to impress my fifteen-year-old daughter.”

Tyndal looked confused.  “Master, Ismina is only nine or ten – I forget which.  Cat isn’t trying to impress her, is he?  Because I don’t think that’s possible.”

Minalan made a sour face.  “I’ve acquired a new fifteen-year-old daughter since we last spoke.  It’s a long story.  But she’s dying to meet you both.  Hells, I might just invite Dara and her fiancée.  That will irritate Gareth, but it can’t be helped. 

“In any case, Gentlemen, you have my personal thanks, and the gratitude of the kingdom who doesn’t know what you’ve done for it,” he concluded. 

“I took the liberty of informing Gatina of your debriefing,” Pentandra nodded, “and she has brought Tandine to Falas, and they’re downstairs awaiting the conclusion of this meeting for your reunion.  I’m certain both girls are very anxious to get their husbands back from this bit of errantry,” she said, with a knowing smile.

“I know the perfect place for dinner,” Rondal smiled in return.  “Thank you.  I . . . didn’t want to tell her anything until I spoke to you.  The poor girls have been completely bored while we’ve been gone, I’m sure.”

“They’re really kind of lost without us,” Tyndal agreed, glancing at Rondal.  “I’m looking forward to a nice, quiet return to civilized life.”

“I don’t think you’ll find they were bored, while you were gone,” Pentandra chuckled.  “They don’t seem the type.  But you are dismissed, Gentlemen.  Go meet your wives and enjoy your holiday.  It sounds as if you have earned one.”

Indeed, Gatina and Tandine were both waiting in the sunny courtyard, below.  Gatina lounged on a bench in front of a planter bursting with daffodils, the bright yellow flowers promising a spring filled with far more vibrant offerings.  The Tower of Sorcery was famous for its gardens.  Rondal’s heart nearly froze as he spied his wife across their sunny expanse as she relaxed with a book.  She had never looked more beautiful.

Tandine, by contrast, was pacing impatiently around the bed, her attention caught by the sounds and sights of the big city.  She was garbed in native clothes – a beautiful blue gown cut in the style of the capital, with flowing skirts and a tightly-laced bodice.  Tyndal didn’t hesitate.  He was already running to embrace her when she realized he was finally done.

The kiss of their wives’ lips reminded both men of why they had embraced such dangers.  Tyndal kept Tandine’s lips so busy with his passions that she finally beat on his arms to get him to release her.

“It’s about time you got back!” she complained, tears in her eyes. 

“I had a mission,” he dismissed.  “It’s going to happen to me.  Occupational hazard of being a hero.”

“I know,” she agreed, still a little sullenly.  “Gatina explained to me how important it was.  But I missed you!” she said, choking back emotion. 

“I missed you, too,” Tyndal affirmed, as he kissed her again.  “I thought about you every moment,” he lied.  “Not even the comeliest goblin maiden could entice me away from thoughts of my darling wife!”

She embraced him, sagging in his arms with relief.

“Poor girl,” Gatina sighed, as she embraced Rondal in turn.  “She’s been beside herself with worry, while he was gone.  I did my best to distract her, but . . . well, she’s pretty obsessed,” she admitted, critically.

“Shopping can only be so distracting,” conceded Rondal, enjoying the feel of his white-haired wife in his arms more than he could have anticipated. 

“You’d be surprised,” Gatina murmured.  “I’ll say one thing for her, though – she can really handle herself with a sword.  In any case, I want to treat you two to a proper welcome.  I haven’t been back to Oirghortsince we were married, but it’s close by.  Perhaps we can spend a few days here, send word ahead, and have a bit of a break from saving the world and stealing incredibly priceless things from people who don’t appreciate them.”

“I . . . actually,” he said, suddenly wondering what she was alluding to, “Minalan has secured the permission of the new Doge of Farise to come spend a two-week holiday there, at his expense.  The four of us,” he amended, gesturing toward Tyndal and Tandine, who were still clutching each other.  “We can meet your brother there.”

“And his new girlfriend,” Gatina said, her eyes narrowing.  “Or so Ruderal hints.  He’s been conspiring with Minalan about Farise for weeks, along with my cousin Jordi.  But that will also give us an opportunity to meet his long-lost father who he discovered in Farise.  So yes, a trip to the fleshpots of Farise sounds lovely, this time of year.  Oirghortcan wait.”

A sudden thought occurred to Rondal.  “We grow lemons at Oirghort, don’t we?” he asked, breaking his embrace.  Gatina looked confused.

“Well, yes,” she admitted.  “We have hundreds of acres of orchards.  But we can’t export them to Castal by sea until the danger from the Farisian pirates is abated.  They’re rotting on the trees,” she added, in frustration.

“Tell them to plant more,” Rondal said, with a grin.  “A lot more.”

The End