The Fighters: Bladesinger Read online

  "Why don't you just inform the other hathran of what's happened?" Marissa asked the two witches. "Why do you even need me?"

  Tamlith frowned. "We do not know who she is," Tamlith said. "She is strong—and cunning. All of our auguries and oracles have been turned aside by her power. The telthor do not know whom to trust, so we asked for help.

  "And you came," Tamlith said, "but we have little time. Though we do not know the traitor's identity, we can feel her power like a canker on the land. She is concentrat­ing her forces in the ruins of Citadel Rashemar. If she unleashes her forces, Rashemen will be divided against itself. Even if the wychlaran manage to win, it won't be long until the wizardlings in Thay smell blood and come raging into Rashemen like a pack of rabid wolves."

  Marissa raised a hand to her head, trying to keep the jumble of her thoughts together.

  "What can I do?" Marissa asked.

  The old witch smiled and drew something from the folds of her robe.

  "Take this," Imsha said, indicating a knotted yew limb about Marissa's height, "to the Urlingwood. Stand before the border of that forest and use its power. It will summon the living othlor."

  Marissa could only nod her head. "You just said you didn't know who to trust. What if one of the othlor is the traitor?"

  "When you have summoned the othlor," Imsha replied, "I will come to them. My power is weakening, for the traitor's corruption taints the very land itself, but if the evil one is among them, I will know. This will expend all of my strength, but at least you will have the wisdom and power of the Wise Ones to guide you further."

  "What of my companions?" asked Marissa.

  The question drew a smile from Tamlith. "They will be your compass and your strength," the young witch replied. "Keep them close to you, especially the one who is a twisted branch. He will need tending, but there is much power in him."

  "Who—" Marissa started to ask but stopped as Imsha raised a weathered hand.

  "I am sorry, little tiger," the old woman said, "but we must leave you." As she said this, a thin mist began to rise, turning the darkness into a soft blanket of gray. "Will you help us in Rashemen's time of need?" she asked.

  The druid looked at both telthor, watching the out­lines of their bodies flicker and fade in the shifting mist. There was so much she didn't understand; so much she needed to understand. Her duty, however, remained clear. Marissa offered a quick prayer to Rillifane Rallathil then spoke her answer.

  "I will help you," she declared.

  Both witches bowed low to her.

  "Then farewell, Marissa Goldenthorn, daughter of Rillifane, servant of nature, and sister of our heart. You have answered the land's need, and we are grate­ful," Imsha said.

  The world shifted and darkness returned.

  "Farewell, sister," she heard Tamlith say, as if from across a great distance. "Perhaps we shall meet again one day."

  Then she heard no more.

  * * * *

  Taen woke with a start. Bright sunlight poured into his eyes, burning away the distant memory of a dream—of two mysterious women whispering wisdom into his ear. He rubbed his eyes vigorously and cursed at his own lack of discipline. He'd fallen asleep.

  Asleep! After he'd vowed to keep watch over Marissa through the night.

  A shadow fell over the half-elf, and he nearly cried out in surprise.

  "Wake the others, Taenaran," Marissa said softly. "We have much to discuss."

  Chapter 9

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (1372 DR)

  Wind howled through the citadel's shattered walls.

  Like an ethereal wolf it ranged across the hard, cracked earth and ran beneath the shadow of crudely erected towers. The great expanse of cluttered stone passages radiating out from the ruins of the ancient keep could not stop it, nor could the jumble of rock and rotting timber thrown up in hasty defense around the once-proud heart of Citadel Rashemar. Unhindered by work of beast or man, it blew, raged, and howled.

  Sitting on a pitted, stone-wrought throne in what remained of the central keep, the hag closed her ears to the wind's bitter sound. Around her, shadows clung to the high, vaulted arches and raised ceiling of the room, broken only by uneven rays of light that spilled like liquid gold from chinks and cracks in the keep's outer wall. She drew long, bony, blue-skinned fingers across the lines of her forehead, pushing the thick tangle of black hair back from the deep recesses of her ebony eyes.

  She had spent most of the day receiving a seemingly endless array of reports from her minions. Goblins, ogres, and spiteful human sorcerers with their dark spells and darker ambitions had paraded before her in wave after disgusting wave. She had grown tired of their machinations and vain prattling, and the hag's mood had gone from black to murderous. Even the wind, whose sighing and wailing she normally found so sooth­ing, did nothing but grate on her nerves.

  Which was why she stood suddenly, almost leap­ing from the ancient throne to tower over the trio of goblins prattling on in their damned language. The hag watched with satisfaction as two of the goblins jumped back in fright, their normally dull, slack-jawed expressions replaced with expressions of overwhelm­ing horror; their dirty orange skin paled to an almost dusty rose. She pointed a gnarled finger at the third goblin who, the hag noted with an inward snarl, had held his ground. The creature stood almost a head taller than his companions, with thin arms that hung almost to the ground. When it gazed up at her with its pale yellow eyes, she caught a glimmer of calculation, of a sly intelligence that regarded her carefully. Not for the first time, she regretted having to involve herself with these loathsome beasts.

  "Mistress," it hissed in its guttural language, casting wide eyes humbly to the ground. "Giznat not mean to offend you!" The other two goblins had fallen to their knees, whimpering. "Giznat serve Great Mistress," the goblin continued, "Giznat's tribe serve too."

  Rather than calming her, the sound of their pathetic mewling sent her temper rising.

  "Then do not bother me with your ungrateful beg­ging," she snapped. This sent the kneeling goblins to the floor, fully prostrate.

  "Ah," said Giznat, nodding his head in agreement, "but I not have to beg if Great Mistress give Giznat what she promised—gold, jewels, and glittering things." Its voice dropped to a soft whisper, almost crooning out the last words.

  The hag nearly screamed in frustration. Giznat's tribe lived beneath the abandoned village of Rashemar that sat at the base of the long hill upon which the cita­del was built. In addition to providing additional bodies for her army, the filthy goblins served as her first line of defense, spotting the approach of scouts and other would-be invaders from the heart of Rashemen, as well as the occasional band of adventurers. At first, Giznat had been satisfied with the castoffs from those unfor­tunates that her forces had captured and eventually killed. The creature's foul mind had turned quickly to thoughts of more wealth, and it wasn't long before he had started to pester the hag for a larger share in the spoils. She knew, however, that Giznat would never be satisfied with what he received. The goblin's greed was matched only by his propensity for treachery.

  "Why should I give you any more of what is mine?" the hag asked, adding inflection on the last word to make sure that the goblin's limited intellect would catch her meaning. She remained standing, forcing the goblin chief to crane his neck far back to gaze up at her. Its efforts gave her some small measure of satisfaction.

  "Giznat could serve Great Mistress better with more treasure," he answered after a moment. "Tribe want more gold. If Giznat bring tribe more gold, then tribe know Giznat great leader. Listen to Giznat more. Serve Great Mistress better," he finished this last with a smile on his face, the wide mouth gaping open to reveal small, sharp fangs.

  "Indeed," was all she answered, gazing down upon the goblin chief and his two hapless companions. She moved back to the throne and sat down, thinking. Behind her, she could sense the hulking forms of the broad-chested ogres that served as her own personal bodyguards.
As always, they lurked in the shadows like statues. With one signal, the hag knew that she could put an end to the disgusting creatures before her. However, the gob­lins did have their uses, and she rarely enjoyed moving with undue haste.

  Within the span of a few heartbeats, she had made her decision.

  She stood once again.

  "I have decided," she said as regally as she could muster, "to grant you your desire, Giznat."

  The goblin chief looked at her with a gleam in its cold yellow eyes. She could sense the anticipation running through its tiny body.

  "For your service," the hag continued, "you will receive exactly what you deserve."

  She clapped her monstrous, blue-skinned hands together and spoke a single word into the vast chamber. Waves of amber energy emanated from the hag's clasped hands, surrounding the goblin chief. Giznat began to gibber mindlessly, shrieking out his fear. Behind him, his two companions watched as the amber energy passed through Giznat's skin, forming a hardened shell. The goblin chief stopped shrieking and turned to run. His lithe form seemed ungainly, however. He stumbled once then stopped, frozen in mid run. The amber shell faded completely, revealing smooth gray stone.

  "You," the hag called out to one of the remaining goblins. "What is your name?"

  The goblin stared at her for a moment, before answer­ing. "Ha—Hazbik, Great Mistress," it stammered.

  "Well, Hazbik," the hag said, approaching the still-prostrate goblin, "I suggest you run along to the tribe and tell the shaman he needs to pick a new chief."

  Hazbik stumbled to his feet and bowed low, nearly tumbling back down to the ground. "Hazbik goes, Mis­tress," he replied then grabbed the remaining goblin. After a few moments of fumbling, the two creatures managed to make their way to the door.

  "Oh and Hazbik," the hag called after them, "see to it that you remove this statue." She pointed to the trans­formed Giznat. "Please send it to your new chief as my way of... honoring him."

  The hag didn't wait for Hazbik's reply but turned back to the throne and dismissed her ogre bodyguards with a wave of her hand. Killing the goblin chief had eased her tension somewhat, but she still wasn't satisfied. She was tired of lurking in shadows like the villain in a bad children's tale, tired of hiding in the ruins of an ancient keep, plotting and planning.

  It was time to strike.

  She sent a mental summons to the priestess who served as her lieutenant and walked toward the back of the vaulted chamber. There, hidden in the dirt and crumbling mortar, stood a simple circle scribed in dried blood. She stepped into the gruesome circle and spoke a single word before disappearing in a flare of purple light.

  The wind's mournful wailing echoed in the vast, empty chamber.

  * * * *

  Yulda sat in the confines of her spartan room, wait­ing for Durakh's arrival. She had removed the spell of seeming she had cast on herself moments after the teleportation circle delivered her here. Now she sat amidst the broken remains of once-fine furniture and the tatters of sumptuous bedding, grateful to be wear­ing her own skin once again. Though her spell had only been illusory, she felt far more comfortable without any such glamour. Illusion had its uses—after all, wearing the form of an annis hag made it far easier to command her growing army of monsters—but she still preferred her true form. Walking around for too long under the distorting effects of an illusion spell felt like wearing clothes that were ill fitting and confining. She always felt a moment of relief when the spell faded. Even as a master of her lore, she wrestled with the small fear at the base of her spine that the illusion would somehow end up permanent.

  Yulda chuckled at her foolishness as she gathered the length of a black robe around her and surveyed the parchment laid out on the rickety desk before her. The broad, confident strokes of the cartographer stood out in the light of her room, and the witch could clearly see the path her army would take as it began to challenge the wychlaran for dominion over Rashemen. She and the priestess Durakh had spent several months crafting and birthing their plans. The forces at her command slum­bered restlessly in the dungeons and caverns beneath the citadel, and each day she stayed their hand made it more difficult to control them.

  Her army couldn't win in open rebellion. She found that fact as deeply frustrating as it was true. The Iron Lord and his damned warlords controlled too many forces eager to shed their blood in defense of Rashe­men, so she hunkered down within the ruins of Citadel Rashemar, biding her time, consolidating her power, and waiting for the right moment to unveil her strength.

  That moment had finally come.

  The secret, of course, was not to focus on the martial power of the Iron Lord. He and his band of thick-headed louts would find plenty of humiliation at her hands. It was the combined might of both the wychlaran and the vremyonni that posed the single biggest threat to her plans. The only way to defeat them, Yulda knew, was to separate them—to cause a division where there had never been any before.

  She thought of the Old One, wasting away in her mountain demesne, and smiled. The old fool had not revealed a single secret to her, yet she had forced him to give her something far more precious—the very essence of his power. Using forbidden lore taken from the heart of the abyss, she had managed to forge a link to the core of the vremyonni's being. Even now, the wizard's power flowed through her, a slow wave of energy that surged, crested, and surged again, supplementing her own arcane strength and fueling her spells with eldritch might.

  By attacking and overpowering him, the witch had broken a bond forged centuries ago. That would certainly have an effect on the arcane protectors of Rashemen. Already she could feel their spells of divination and their oracular gifts searching the land for her. They pressed against the mystic screens both she and Durakh had erected to conceal their location—pressed but did not penetrate.

  And would not penetrate so long as the vremyonni and the wychlaran were not working in concert. Beneath their combined power, not even Yulda's own heightened gifts could deceive them.

  A loud knock from behind the thick stone door of the chamber brought her attention to the present.

  "Chaul," she heard a husky, feminine voice say from the hallway beyond. "Are you there?"

  Yulda moved aside the thick rolls of parchment and picked up a clear crystal about the size of an egg sitting on the corner of the desk. She blew on it once, and as her breath touched the crystal, its surface shimmered with milky incandescence. The light from the crystal soon faded, leaving the image of a shadowy stone hallway and a single figure standing before a door.

  Durakh.

  Voluminous folds of earth-brown robes covered the broad expanse of the figure's shoulders and back but hung open in the front to reveal a suit of unmarred jet-black plate mail and plate leggings. Yulda could see that the priestess's left hand still touched the haft of her mace as she stood before the door. Red runes spilled down its length, pulsating hotly in the darkness of the hallway. A thick metal bracer with four wicked-looking metal claws covered the length of Durakh's other hand, from her wrist to beyond her fingertips.

  The witch trusted Durakh, as far as anyone in her position could trust another person, which is to say very little, so she had set a permanent divination spell in the hallway. Even as her alter ego Chaul, the annis hag, she still had trouble controlling the more willful components of her army. Already, three of her subordi­nates had tried to kill her, one through assassination and the other two with traps designed to make it look like an accident. Their bodies were staked up outside the walls of the keep as a warning—and a promise. For all that, she knew that for as long as her purpose and Durakh's remained the same, she could trust the priestess with her life.

  "Chaul," the figure called out from the hall once again.

  Yulda sighed at the artifice. Durakh knew her true identity. Indeed, the priestess had been the one to sug­gest the idea in the first place, and now they played an elaborate game for form's sake. The witch couldn't wait until the day when she would walk triumphant
ly through the decimated ranks of the wychlaran and reveal to them that their undoing came at her hands. The delicious agony she would see marked upon the faces of the weak-willed fools she had betrayed would make this infantile cloak-and-dagger game worthwhile.

  She gestured and silver sigils writhed and flared across the door of her chamber before it creaked open, stone grating on stone. Yulda stood up to greet her guest, placing the crystal back on her desk.

  Durakh Haan wore a grim face as she entered the room. Yulda regarded the cleric carefully, measuring each tic of the priestess's eyes and each indrawn breath. She was searching, calculating, as she always did with someone she deemed a threat, for some advantage, a heartbeat's span of warning that might allow her to prevail if something unexpected were to happen.

  The priestess's eyes were a smoky gray, set deep within a harsh, square-jawed face. A wide-bridged nose and thick, sloping forehead easily proclaimed Durakh's orc blood, though the effect was softened somewhat by high-set, delicate cheekbones and full lips. Three scars, faded to a dull purple with age, crisscrossed the cleric's chin, traveling in ragged lines down toward her rough-skinned throat. The half-orc's hair flowed in thick brown waves around ridged ears and spilled into the folds of her robe. A thick chain hung down from the cleric's neck, suspending a circular onyx disk with a silver Orcish rune inscribed upon it.

  If Durakh took offense at such obvious scrutiny, she gave no indication. The cleric bowed her head slightly upon entering and sat upon the simple chair Yulda offered. The door swung closed behind her.

  "You summoned me," the cleric said, and though Yulda listened to each word carefully, she could hear no indication of irony or contempt—just a simple state­ment of fact. Durakh's voice was deep-timbred and rich, though Yulda would never use the word warm to describe it. To her ears, it sounded hollow and cold—like stone in winter.