The Crown and the Sword Page 8

  “Who will be the judge?” asked du Chagne.

  “I do believe our colleague, the Clerist lord inquisitor, would serve well in that role,” declared Moorvan slyly.

  The three men were silent for a long time, each lost in thought.

  “The White Witch remains a danger to us,” said the lord regent, breaking the silence. “She will undoubtedly attend and be on the lookout for mischief.”

  “I will seek her out after the challenge and suggest we attend together,” Sir Moorvan replied. “I can make sure that she finds no opportunity to cast spells of her own. She will neither detect the haste spell, nor influence the fight by magic. And by my invitation to attend, she will perhaps have her suspicions lulled.”

  “Very well,” declared the regent firmly. “The matter is decided. Now, how do we initiate the plan?”

  “There, too,” said the Kingfisher with a thin smile, “I have an idea.…”

  “From the look on your face, I will judge that your mission was unsuccessful,” Coryn said curtly. She had been seated behind her desk when the lord marshal returned to her laboratory, and after a curious look at Jaymes, she returned her attention to the thick tome she had been reading.

  He merely shrugged and crossed the office to the cabinet where she kept several bottles of wine as well as a corked bottle of fine brandy. After a cursory inspection of the wines, he poured himself a generous draught of the dark liquor. Taking a sip, he turned to regard Coryn and saw that she had set her book aside and was looking at him speculatively.

  “The wizard confounded me,” he admitted at last. “I never even noticed him casting his spell. But I departed without seeing the princess—without even remembering why I was there, in fact!”

  “Sir Moorvan is capable of skullduggery, no doubt. But this is not too surprising. Will you return to your army now?” Coryn asked without a great deal of hope.

  Jaymes glared at her. “No. This was a temporary diversion. I will go back there tomorrow, and if the magic-user tries to bewitch me again, I will run him through.”

  “That would be taking matters to the extreme,” said the white wizard disapprovingly. She stood and closed her book, returning it to the shelf. “Right now,” she said with a sigh of resignation, “we need to get some rest. You can use the same room you slept in last night.”

  “We?” Jaymes asked warily.

  She nodded. “Tomorrow, when you go to call on the lord regent and his daughter, I’m going with you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ARMY OF DARKNESS

  ‘We must get off this cliff—down there into dark,” insisted Laka, gesturing with her death’s-head totem. She glared at Ankhar and Hoarst when neither of her companions made any move to fling themselves into the apparently bottomless space.

  The chasm was vast and eerie, utterly lightless yet somehow strangely alive. Every whisper they made, every scuff of feet or clink of a buckle, was amplified by the gulf of darkness. Ankhar felt the hair at the nape of his neck prickle, and could not suppress a growl. The half-giant clenched his great spear in both fists, brandishing the emerald head.

  “Do you know what’s down there?” asked the Thorn Knight skeptically. “Or even how far it is to the bottom?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the shaman replied. “This is the way we must go. It is one reason you needed to come.”

  “There is another reason as well, I presume?” the wizard wondered.

  “Yes, but that is for later. First, you must get us down to the bottom of this great space.”

  The Thorn Knight looked as though he were inclined to argue, but after a moment he nodded curtly. “I can do this,” Hoarst replied, addressing Ankhar. “But it will take courage. I must cast a spell upon you, my lord. You will need to trust in the magic, and to step off the edge of this precipice. The spell will guarantee that you float gently, like a feather, down to the bottom.”

  “And my mother?” asked Ankhar.

  The wizard shrugged, and there was just a glint of cruel merriment in his eye as he explained. “I have but the one spell. You will have to hold her in your arms and carry her with you.”

  “I do this,” agreed the half-giant, though his heart was in his throat and his chest was constricting with terror at the thought of himself and his precious shaman plunging through the black void. “You, too, will come down to the bottom?”

  “Yes—I have another spell that I shall cast upon myself. I will be able to fly for a short time, and thus I can follow you down to where you will land.”

  “Very well.” Ankhar was suddenly anxious to get this adventure over with, perhaps because he knew that if he hesitated for very long, he would begin to reflect on the dangers and back out. “Cast your spells,” he ordered gruffly.

  Hoarst removed a small pinch of fluff, like a bit of goose down, from one of the pockets of his robe. He held it up to the half-giant’s face—his chin, actually, since that was as high as he could reach—and muttered a series of harsh-sounding words. Such strange words did not even sound as if they could be articulated by a human.

  After waiting patiently for a few moments, Ankhar didn’t feel any different. “How do I know spell is working?” he growled.

  “Trust me,” Hoarst answered coolly. “And remind yourself that I am as anxious for us to succeed with this quest—and get out of this forbidding place—as you are.”

  “Carry me!” Laka insisted, tugging on the half-giant’s burly hand. Reluctantly, he released his two-fisted grip on his spear, clutching the weapon in one hand as he picked Laka up with the other, cradling her bony form like a baby against his broad chest. Hoarst helpfully lifted his sword so its light clearly revealed the edge of the precipice and the whole vast nothingness beyond.

  Ankhar could think of a whole host of reasons this suddenly seemed like a very bad idea, but he could not shame himself in front of his mother or the powerful wizard who was his underling. So he closed his eyes, unconsciously holding his breath, as he took the first great step out into the void. He grunted in surprise as he felt himself toppling forward. Despite her professed confidence, Laka gasped in fright, and her fingers dug like talons into the half-giant’s arms. She clutched her talisman, and the green light from the ghastly sockets bobbed and swept through the vast darkness. They were off the ledge now and tumbling into the chasm.

  But they were falling, as Hoarst had promised, very, very slowly. As the wizard with his glowing sword took to the air above them, flying around them in a lazy circle, Ankhar could see the dark wall of the chasm sliding past. He could have reached out to touch it, but he dared not relax his grip on the trembling hob-wench who clutched him in such palpable panic. Instead, he simply clung to Laka and waited, half amazed and half terrified, as they slowly descended farther and farther below the surface of the world.

  Ankhar tried to estimate how long they fell, how much distance they traveled down past that smooth, dark opposite wall. Once he scuffed against an outcrop of extremely cold stone, but the impact was soft and the force of the bump pushed him away from the surface. In the end he gave up trying to guess how deep they had plunged—surely they were farther underground than he had ever imagined possible. All the while Hoarst fluttered nearby, made visible to him and Laka by the glowing sword that he carried, which was the only light in this whole dark vault of space.

  At long last the magic-user dived below them, circled a few times, and came to rest on a stone floor. Ankhar could make out a surprisingly smooth surface, sloping gently downward away from the wall. As he drew near, he cradled the still-trembling Laka, flexed his knees, and came to a soft landing on the solid ground. His first thought was, how would they ever get out of this place, would Hoarst’s magic just as easily permit them to float up? But he bit his tongue. Instead, he set Laka gently on the ground, and as they both stood in the circle of light cast by Hoarst’s magically illuminated sword, he asked, “Where are we? And where do we go from here?”

  “Good questions,” replied the huma
n magic-user. “Not easily answered, though. This feels like a killing ground; there was death here at one time—lots of it.”

  “Look.” Laka raised her talisman, green light spilling from its ghastly sockets, brighter even than the glow from the magic-user’s sword. The green brilliance illuminated many objects on the broad, sloping floor. Ankhar saw a broken shield, several sharpened points that looked like spearheads, a cracked helm, a part of a breastplate … and bones. What had appeared to be a series of regular, rounded boulders he could now see were skulls, hundreds of them, scattered haphazardly. They were ancient and dusty, and at first glance he could not tell if they had belonged to humans, goblins, dwarves, or some other creatures. The eyeless sockets seemed to stare at him in reproach … or warning.

  “This was once a battlefield,” Hoarst surmised.

  Hoarst kicked at one of the spear points, which was heavily corroded. A dusty, dry stench filled the air. Then the human picked up the spear point and used it to scrape away the crust that had developed over a crude, heavy sword blade. “Bronze,” he mused. “Or copper. These warriors fought a long time ago, even before the advent of iron.”

  “A great host fought here and many died,” Laka observed, holding her talisman higher. The green light spread far, bathing the rough outlines of battlements, shadowing the scar of a trench and the skeletal remnants of chariots and wagons. The wheels had long crumbled, but the outlines of the vehicles remained, layered in dust but still mostly intact.

  “But how could a great army ever get down to these depths? Or two great armies?” wondered the half-giant. “What kind of battlefield is this?”

  “Perhaps it was not always under the ground,” speculated Hoarst. “It is said that in the early days of the world, the land was very different than it is now. Perhaps this was a plain at the foot of a mountain, back in the Age of Dreams. But some time after the killing, the battlefield itself sank beneath the ground, to be preserved in this great vault for all time.”

  “Maybe,” Ankhar acknowledged, frowning. In fact, he couldn’t think of another explanation. “It’s certainly been here a long, long time—on the surface these bones, those relics, would rot away into nothing.” The half-giant was beginning to feel very uncomfortable about the place. “We should get away from here.”

  “Hsst! Look, there!” Laka declared. “Something moves!”

  It looked like a wisp of smoke, at first, but Ankhar knew nothing could be burning down here. Was it fog or some sort of mist? In his heart, which began to pound like a smith hammering on a metal band, he knew it was neither. It was like tangible frost—it looked cold—and he took a step back, his hands tightening around the haft of his spear.

  There were several of the smoke shapes, ghostly forms rising from the skulls, the scattered and broken weaponry, the other debris on the ancient battlefield. They stood like pillars, perhaps the height of a man or a little taller, and they seemed to be rooted to the ground, while freely waving back and forth—though there was not even the hint of a breeze here in the deep underground. Whenever Ankhar turned his head, the smoke shapes seemed to waver, almost to disappear, but when he peered intensely at the figures, he could discern features—not faces, exactly, but holes where eyes ought to be, apertures that gaped soundlessly as though they were mouths giving vent to silent screams.

  The half-giant felt a stab of fear. Helplessly, he looked at his stepmother and saw that Laka was glaring at these apparitions. Her teeth were bared, her eyes flashing with fury.

  “Stay back!” Ankhar growled, waving his weapon.

  “No—they will come,” the hob-wench hissed.

  Indeed, the spires of mist acted as one, slowly, soundlessly moving toward the three intruders who huddled together. No dust was stirred by their passage; they floated as if propelled by a wind. The green light from Laka’s skull totem surged into greater brilliance, and this only magnified the horror, for now Ankhar could see that many more of the spectral images—dozens, scores, even hundreds of the smoke shapes—were rising from the ancient killing ground. The many mist figures writhed in the air with unspeakable hungers and desires, advancing upon the half-giant and his two companions.

  Tall, slender wands of vapor waved above some of the shapes, as if spectral spears were held aloft. Here and there Ankhar saw round disks, like primitive shields, also raised in the air. Wispy blades waved back and forth in the grasp of some of the smoke shapes, and all the intangible weaponry was arrayed toward the three surface dwellers who had dared to trespass on this ancient, long-forgotten killing ground.

  “Destroy them! Blast them with magic!” Ankhar barked to Hoarst, his voice, suddenly loud and startling, a violation of the eerie silence.

  “These beings would not be vulnerable to the kind of magic I possess,” Hoarst croaked, the usually imperturbable magic-user sounding, to Ankhar’s ears, deeply shaken. Testing his own doubts, Hoarst raised a trembling finger and shouted a magical word of command. Arrows hissed and sparked outward from his accusing digit, magic missiles streaking into the darkness, piercing one then another of the ghostly, advancing smoke shapes. The arcane projectiles continued on until they faded and vanished, but the specters advanced unchecked, unhampered by the magical fusillade.

  They were close now, and Ankhar thought he detected faces in the grotesque mist figures—visages locked into expressions of eternal torment. Mouths flexed, and though they made no sound, the half-giant felt the blast of cold breath against his skin. It was colder than a winter gale in the high mountains. The mighty warrior, commander of a horde of thousands, slayer of a hundred enemies, felt his knees weaken, and he staggered backward. A grievous moaning reached his ears, but he was only vaguely aware that it emerged from his own, slack-jawed mouth. He stared into hundreds of empty eye sockets, his bowels churning at the looks of hatred and hunger he perceived there.

  “Courage!” snapped Laka. “See how they feed upon your fear!”

  It was the truth: as Ankhar’s terror weakened him, the spectral warriors grew stronger, lunging for their victims now, stabbing with their vaporous spears. One ghostly tip touched the half-giant’s knee, and he felt a sharp pain. The contact was icy and quickly spread numbingly up and down his leg. He stumbled, grasping his spear and using the stout haft as a crutch. There was no thought of using the weapon to fight these things; he understood instinctively that certainly no blade on Krynn could damage them.

  “Back to the wall,” Hoarst whispered. His voice broke, and it terrified Ankhar further to realize that even the redoubtable wizard was frightened.

  Slowly the trio retreated, but there was no real escape. The spectral images came at them from three sides, stopping just a few paces away, filling ranks into a solid mass. The black wall rose behind the trio, an impassable barrier. They were surrounded.

  “What are these things?” Ankhar said in a low voice.

  “They are ghosts of the slain,” Laka declared with surprisingly calmness. “They have been here for ages, thousands of years, longing for the feel of warmth, the touch of the sun—or of blood.”

  “How do you know this?” demanded Hoarst incredulously.

  “They were part of my dream,” replied the old hob-wench. Her left hand cradled some of the baubles on her necklace while her eyes darted back and forth across the ranks of spectral warriors.

  “You knew about these things?” Ankhar was aghast, resisting an impulse to bash his stepmother senseless. But fear was a greater impulse, and the half-giant understood that only Laka could rescue them from this horror.

  Her bony fingers continued to caress the beads on her necklace while her right hand still clutched the haft of her totem. Apparently she located the right combination of stones, for she abruptly raised the death’s-head with its green gems fixed like eyeballs on the encroaching spirits.

  “Fear the Prince of Lies!” she crowed exultantly. “Truth shall be his sword!

  “Kneel before Lord Ankhar! Hail him as your lord!”

  Green light p
ulsed from the skull’s face, a brilliant wash shooting through the vast battlefield. Ankhar saw ridges outlined in the distance, gaps in the rough ground, and hundreds, even thousands, of the ghostly warriors amassed before the trio. The beams of emerald illumination seemed to transfix them, however, for suddenly they all halted, trembling and shivering in a grotesque caricature of awe, terror, or wonder.

  “Hold, warriors of the ages!” Laka cried again, louder. “For you are in the presence of a mighty lord! Kneel, all of you!”

  Ankhar heard a faint sound, barely, at first, like a slight breeze keening through a forest of leafless trees. It swelled very slowly, becoming a moan, then a cry, and finally building into a howl. The shrieking erupted from all around, and the half-giant had to resist the urge to clap his hands over his ears. But he stood tall and held his hands at his sides, knowing he needed to project an aura not just of fearlessness, but of command and power. One by one, the ghostly forms slumped, a semblance of humans dropping to their knees. The eerie genuflection rippled outward through the vast, silent ranks.

  “Are these ghosts my new ally?” Ankhar asked Laka wonderingly. “They could terrify the humans, surely.”

  “No,” the shaman replied curtly. “They would perish under the sky, as soon as they felt the kiss of the sun. They are condemned to remain here, to guard the legacy of their defeat and death, though their time, the Age of Dreams, is long past.”

  “Then, why?” demanded the commander of the horde. “Why are we here, risking our own deaths?”

  “The answer is simple. They are merely one obstacle—another obstacle, like the cliff we just floated down—on the path to our destination. Behold, now: the power of Hiddukel will hold them at bay. But do not let them detect your fear—the blessing of the Prince will only benefit those who have the courage of victors.”

  “Lead, then,” grunted Ankhar. “And we show our courage.”