Chapter 28

Coldhope Holding, the Imperial League

It was different this time, though nothing looked strange. The great hall, the stairs, and the catacombs were all as they had been the last time she had been down there. Even the vault was undisturbed, the statue looming there in the dark. All of it, unchanged—and yet, something was not the same. It was as if the air itself had soured, dampened, and chilled. There was decay in it, too subtle to call a smell. Her skin prickled, and she had a strange feeling, like she might begin to rot if she stayed too long. Everything seemed tainted, blurred, as if she were regarding the world through discolored glass. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead.

Then she knew, even before she looked up: the bloom. The gray lotus, which had stood guard over the room for uncounted centuries, had died. It drooped pathetically where it had grown, its petals hanging limp and blotched with black and rusty brown. Mold, already growing on them, and white ants swarming in its center, a moving carpet dragging away the few bits of the thing they could eat. It was a husk and nothing more. She wondered if it had been the last of its kind—and if so, if she should feel sorrow at its passing? She couldn't quite manage that.

Another thought, even worse, drove that from her mind. The gray lotus could not be killed! Forlo had told her that much: the key could put it to sleep, but nothing could slay it. That was what made it so useful as a ward against thieves. And yet here it was, rotting before her eyes. She wondered who could have caused its death—but only for a moment. There was only one answer.

A sound, soft and grating, like a distant hinge many years unoiled, drew her attention back to the statue. It took her a moment to recognize the sound as laughter, and her skin grew crawling-cold. He had slain the lotus, and now he was waiting for her, watching and listening. He was waiting for her, watching and listening. Maladar the Faceless was awake for the first time in centuries. Two ages had passed since his death, a long time to endure. Now he lurked in grayness, just beyond the veil of the world, crouched like a panther ready to spring. It would be difficult to keep him imprisoned, a balance as delicate as Silvanaes crystal. Thalaniya would have called her a fool for even trying it. Any mage might.

I am a fool, Shedara thought, staring up at the blankness within the statue's cowl.

She cleared her mind and willed herself to relax—no small feat, with the closeness of the air and the hungry anticipation that swirled around her. Her hands hung loose at her sides, beside her sheathed daggers. Her blades would not protect her if the spell went awry. Even the fabled swords of the old elf-kings wouldn't have had the power save her. Only her own will could do that. She closed her eyes.

Dear gods, the magic was strong. Like a river of red and silver and inky black, surging all around her.

"Moitak larshat ku xalathom," she spoke, moving her fingers and gathering the spell's threads together. There was nothing in the world but her, the statue, and the power she wielded. "Ikuno gangarog te apun do."

Sorcery surged through her and filled her. It was almost too much, like trying to drink from a bursting dam. With all her strength she bore down, shaped it, and forced it out through her reaching fingers. It swirled and gushed, an invisible wave that swallowed the Hooded One. She felt the presence react, stirring, vengeful. It tried to break free, furious, battering at the edges of the spell. She thrust aside her misgivings and focused on binding the unfriendly spirit that lurked within the idol.

He stepped forth, much different from the last time. Then, he had been a wraith; now he looked as solid as her own flesh, a being of regal bearing, grim aspect, and might beyond imagining. It had taken a dozen archmages to bind him to the statue. Their ancient wards crumbled now, like rusted chains, leaving only the threaded strand of Shedara's magic. She gritted her teeth, grunting out one spidery word at a time to keep him under her control.

"Stubborn," said Maladar with a chuckle—an unpleasant bubbling sound from his tongueless mouth. "Submit. It will be easier."

Shedara felt him push at the edges of her mind, and she pushed back, her face ashen from the effort. "I… am not the one… who… must… submit," she grunted, trembling.

"Oh?" the dead emperor asked. His voice was light, almost pleasant—but foul all the same. "You don't seem to understand who I am. I ruled the greatest empire Taladas has ever known. I cast spells no man had dreamt of before—or since, I am certain. I bound demons to my will, and would have done the same with the gods, in time. I could crack this world in half, were it my whim. And you would claim dominion over me?"

He laughed his rusty laugh, folding his hands within his sleeves.

"You were… vulnerable," Shedara said. "They… imprisoned you. You are not free… unless I… will it."

"Then will it," said Maladar.

And suddenly she wanted to—that was the worst part. It would only take a gesture, a word, a moment. The mind that strove against hers pushed its tendrils in, trying to convince her that its release was necessary, even a good thing. With Maladar back in the world, there would be order. She saw herself at his right hand, going to war, and ruling Taladas again. Armach-nesti would be hers to govern, at his whim—she would be the new Voice of the elves. The hordes of the Tamire would be swept away by fire and wind. The Imperial League would fall to rubble. Under the faceless emperor's tutelage, she would learn new magic, spells she couldn't control by herself even with a hundred years of study. It all was hers, if she only willed it.

Will you? asked his voice, deep within her mind. Dare you will it?

"Nnnnnnnnnnnn," she grunted. "Nnnnnnngh."

"You cannot say it," mocked Maladar. "You, who would deny me—and you cannot even say the word!"

"NNNNNNNNNNNNNN…"

"Go on, Shedara—free me. Unleash me upon your foes."

"NNNNNNNNO!"

Something gave. For an awful moment she was certain she had failed. She staggered, fell to her knees, felt her leggings and her skin tear on sharp stones. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she bowed her head, waiting for the emperor's homunculus—or whatever it was—to take its vengeance upon her, to snuff out her life like a candle in the gloom.

Nothing happened.

She took a slow, shuddering breath, then another.

She looked up.

Maladar stood frozen before her, shaking with fury, still bound. She could see the magic holding him fast, silver cords of energy leading from his body back to the statue that was its prison. The old spells still held, if only barely. He was hers to command.

"Tell me your bidding," he said, his voice dark and flat with hatred.

Shedara's heart leaped. This proud specter, this great evil, none more powerful in Taladas's long and deathstrewn history—and her magic had held against it! The statue would do her will. She rose, bleeding, and steepled her fingers.

"You know what I wish," she said.

Once in Aurim there had been a city, a beautiful place called Am Dura, whose walls were sheathed in silver and whose towers gleamed blue with lapis. It had been a city of song, and art, and peace. But when it rebelled against him, Maladar's wrath had wiped Am Dura from the face of Krynn.

He had not used fire or wind to destroy it. Nor the earth.

"I understand," he growled. "Where shall I strike?"

Shedara smiled. Her plan had succeeded. There was a chance now.

"Near here," she said, opening her mind to him. "I will show you."

She did, and a moment later Maladar nodded. "Elas," he said in the old tongue that had perished in flame with his realm, long ago.

It shall be done.

Again, the magic began to gather—but this time the threads of it were dark, fed by Nuvis alone. Maladar drew down the black moon's power, shaping the spell and speaking words that burned Shedara's ears. He held his hands high, forcing the power out in a great, blossoming fountain, that streamed across the walls of the vault and rained down all around them.

Shedara watched, unable to take her eyes off him. This was why she didn't see the shadows behind her begin to move.

The suffocating sea serpent was dead, its thrashings stilled, and lay in a limp coil of ruby scales. Most of the creatures laid bare by the Tiderun's retreat had perished before it, though a few scuttling crabs still moved through the muck. Gulls had begun to settle and to feast on the carrion. A few skyfishers joined them, though their eyes stayed on the Road, where the horsemen had gathered and the soldiers of the League waited to resist them. To those large and foul birds, no meat was as sweet as battle-dead manflesh. They ignored the dead goblins, for the taste of those was foul and rancid.

At the head of the column of horsemen, halfway across the bed of the strait, Chovuk Boyla sat his horse, flanked by Hult and Eldako. He watched as the scouts he'd sent to watch the Wretched Ones' attack rode back to him, leaving Gharmu and the last of his warriors arrow-riddled and ruined on the shore. "Speak," he bade when they got close. "What do we face?"

"They are few," scoffed the lead scout, keeping a tight rein on his nervous horse. It sidled to the right two steps, tossing its head, and he stopped it with a yank. "A few hundred, mostly swords and spears, at the mouth of the ravine."

Chovuk nodded, his strangely aged face grim. He stared out at the southern shore, the wind blowing the white, wispy hairs of his beard. The sun's light glinted off his dragon-scale armor. "Archers?"

"A few, on the surround," the scout replied, grinning. His teeth were yellow, and his breath was foul. "They didn't do much to stop the Wretched Ones."

"Of course not," the Boyla replied. "They knew that was a test. They knew they could handle Gharmu's lot, and held back their bows—one in three, maybe half."

Hult and Eldako both nodded, though the scout looked confused. Not a brilliant man, but he didn't need to be. All that was required of him were good eyes and a fast horse. The other two understood, though—so far the enemy followed good tactics, and whoever led them was a cunning warrior.

"Anything else?" Chovuk asked.

"Snares," replied the scout. "Pits. Goblins found most of those, though."

The Boyla never took his eyes off the far shore, where Gharmu's body sprawled over a rock. He had been one of the last to die. "Well done," he said after a pause. "Go back to your clan and arm for the charge."

Clapping his open hand against his chest, the rider wheeled and rode away, his fellows galloping after him. With the scouts gone, nothing else stood between Chovuk and the cliffs and trees to the south. Looking at the stunted, twisted bodies of the Wretched Ones, Hult thought of Mount Xagal. How close they had come to dying there, at the mountain-folk's hands! Now the goblins were dead, slaughtered in a battle they were too stupid to know they couldn't win. The look in his master's eyes told him he would use the Uigan just as callously, if it came to it. Not White Sky, not if he could sacrifice the other clans first, but still. His own people.

Chovuk pointed. High above the ravine, the broken finger of a tower stuck up from the clifftops. Figures moved atop it. "That is our goal, tenach," he said. "The one who leads them is watching from there. We will break through their ranks, you and I, even before we have the victor}-. We will break through and face their marshal sword to sword."

Hult nodded. An at earlier time, he might have reveled at the prospect of such a glorious fight. Now that he had seen the madness in the Boyla, though, he wondered. Didn't the horde need them on the line of battle, not stalking one man in a tower?

"Yes, master," he said.

"What of my arrows?" asked Eldako. "Where shall I spend them?"

"On the one who commands them below," Chovuk replied. "The marshal will have dispatched an officer to be his voice on the line. Bring him down, and the battle will crumble."

The elf bobbed his head. "As you command."

Chovuk grinned, a little too wide. A tiger's smile, a maniac's. Merciful Jijin, Hult thought, resting a hand on his shuk.

A horn from an ajagh hung on a baldric over the Boyla's shoulder. He raised it, licked his cracked lips, and blew a long, loud note. It rang up and down the valley of the Run, echoing off cliffs both behind and ahead. Glancing back, Hult saw the mass of the horde raise their swords and spears in response. A great bellowing rose from ten thousand throats. Beside him, Chovuk brought his horse about and rose in his saddle, standing on his stirrups and shouting in a voice like thunder. He seemed to grow as he spoke, his body swelling and his eyes flashing with fire. His magic at work.

"Men of the plains, warriors of the steppes!" he roared. "Today we stand on the edge of legend. For hundreds of summers, the lands before us were as unreachable as the moons. Long have the waters stood in our way, long have they kept the minotaur realm beyond our reach… but today, today the waters have fled, and the lands of the bull-men lie naked before us, like a virgin in her bridal bed!

"Great will be the feasting of the crows tonight, on the ground that lies before us. Great it shall be in the villages and towns, the temples and cities where the bull-men hide, rich with gold and jewels. We have already avenged our people against them, driving the foul beasts from our shores. Now let us strike like an arrow through the heart of this fat, lazy empire! Let the League tremble before the sound of our hooves!

"For the Tamire!" he shouted, thrusting his shuk high. "For the Uigan!"

"For the Boyla!" came the bellowed reply.

Blades stabbed the air above the riders' heads. More horns sounded, from all the clans. Horses reared and spears lowered. Chovuk Boyla turned, slamming his helmet down on his head. It was the kind of moment the elders sang about… would sing about, even generations after. Maybe longer. Hult drew his sword, feeling-the battle-rage rise within him.

"Hai!" barked his master, and his horse leaped forward.

Hult dug in his spurs, and the two of them bolted north, rising swiftly to a full charge, their helmets' crests streaming behind them. Eldako followed, silent. Then, with a roar like a storm, the Uigan thundered after them, a raging flood of men, horses and steel.

When the Uigan spurred their horses and surged across the Run, all the strength seemed to drain from Forlo's body. His knees weakened, and he had to lean against the ruined stones of the tower to keep his footing. If Iver noticed, the young guardsman never said—probably, he was too busy fighting off his own crushing panic to care.

"You are soldiers of the League!" Grath was raging down below. "You will hold the line, no matter what happens! Even if the maw of the Abyss opens and all of Hith's demons come flooding out, you will not budge!"

It was a heartening speech, but a few of the troops still turned and bolted from the charging horsemen. The sight angered Forlo, but he couldn't completely blame them. It was one thing to boast about meeting a valiant death against impossible odds when you were sitting in camp with a flask of beer in your hand. It was another thing entirely to watch it bear down on you in lunging, roaring fury.

There were three riders at the head of the horde, Forlo saw, outstripping the main mass of barbarians. One was, incredibly, an elf with a painted face and brightly colored hair. The second was Uigan, dressed like a common warrior. The third wore armor of bronze scales, polished so they burned like molten gold. Forlo knew this was the riders' prince, their Boyla. He offered a silent prayer, to whatever gods might be listening, for the chance to confront the man before his time was done. Just a chance to slay their prince… it might not pay back for all the lives that would be lost that day, and in the days to come across the northern provinces, but it would be a start. He couldn't hope for more.

He turned to Iver. The man's face was white and his eyes were staring. His mouth hung open when Forlo touched his arm.

"You'd better ride now, lad," Forlo said. It surprised him, how calm his voice sounded. "Take this and go."

He pulled the blue banner from the young guardsman's belt and held it out.

Iver stared at the flag and took it without seeming to understand. He twisted the cloth in his hands, then all at once seemed to come back to himself. This was it—the chance to leave the field alive, and with honor. He turned to go, then remembered to salute.

"The gods watch over you, sir," he said.

"We'd better hope they do," Forlo said, hand clasping over fist. "There's not much else left."

Then Iver was gone, running down the stairs so fast it was a wonder he didn't fall and break his neck. Forlo heard his horse whicker, then the clap of hooves above the thunder from the Run, as the guardsman streaked away, bearing his token of doom. He didn't turn to watch. His eyes stayed fast on the horde. The throng was a hundred yards from the shore now, seventy, forty… Grath howled curses as more men bolted from the line. The archers took their positions and nocked their arrows. The footmen lowered their pikes.

"Khot," Forlo whispered as the horde started up the slope.

Far away, at the eastern edge of the Tiderun, where it runs into the Boiling Sea beyond the Steamwalls, something happened.

No one was there to sec it save a lone brass dragon, a young wyrm whose scales still shone bright, without any of the patina of age. The creature soared high on the thermals, above the clouds of yellow, noxious gas that rose from the water, watching—not for prey or foes, but out of pure curiosity. He was safe up high, and he could watch the dwarves and the other bent and twisted denizens of the land below, scratching out meager lives from brimstone-crusted rocks. Nothing fascinated dragons, who could fly wherever they chose, more than those who dwelt in such lethal places. Taladas was full of them.

Then, suddenly, it wasn't safe any more.

There were volcanoes down deep, and not just among the fuming peaks. There were rents in the sea floor—clefts in the stone that ran right down to glowing magma at the world's heart. It was why the sea boiled: scars in the sea floor that mirrored the blazing wound of Hitehkel to the east, where the land still burned from the Destruction.

That morning, seven such faults erupted at once, right at the Run's dry mouth. This caused a great bubble to well up from the depths, filled with venomous vapors. The dragon saw this and tried to pull away, tried to bank north to escape, already knowing it was too late. The bubble reached the surface, bulged for a moment like some awful blister, then burst. A billow of noxious steam blew out from it, rising a mile into the air.

The dragon never had a chance. The geyser roasted its flesh in midair. Shrieking in agony, the dragon spun across the sky, tried to catch itself, and failed. The skin of its wings was charred, and peeling away. Fluttering uselessly, it plunged down toward the sea like a spent arrow. It hit the water with the snap of shattering bones, then was gone, sunk beneath the roiling surface.

No one was there to bear witness as the water swelled in the geyser's wake… and the waves began to rise.