Chapter 13

Hyo-khal, Aurim-That-Was

Smoke clung to the air in sinuous drifts, shrouding the village, masking the smell of blood. The sounds of rending flesh, of screams, of harsh, barking laughter echoed through the pall. Here and there, a few fires still guttered, but most of what could burn already had. The battle was done, if it could be called that; in truth, it had been a slaughter. Maladar had brought only a small contingent of his army, maybe two thousand hobgoblins, leaving the rest to finish work on the flotilla that would carry them across the channel. Even so, he’d outnumbered the little harbor’s defenders twenty to one.

It had been much easier than Bishan: Hyo-khal’s folk were fighters all but lacked the skill of the treasure-raiders, and the village had little in the way of fortifications—just a ditch and stake-lined dike surrounding a wooden palisade. One simple spell had sent both stakes and walls up in flames, making a breach large enough for his hordes to boil through. After that, it had fallen to blade-work and burning, all of it done in an hour. One boat had managed to break free of the harbor, but before it got far across open water, Maladar burst its hull with another spell. It foundered and sank out of sight, its crew dragged down with it.

Most of the men and dwarves who lived in Hyo-khal were lucky: they either died in the fighting or were smart enough to take their own lives when hope ran out. For the foolish and unfortunate, things were worse. It was, after all, the hobgoblins’ first skirmish against the Rainwarders, and they were in a blood frenzy. They dragged their victims, dead and alive, off into the smoke and rubble to feast.

Maladar stood in the middle of the carnage, listening to it on all sides. His followers were ravenous and ate with relish and abandon. Inside, he sensed the soul of Barreth Forlo was upset, nauseated, and furious. He paid the feelings no mind, not even to take pleasure in Forlo’s suffering. It got boring after a while—the constant rage, the never-ending, futile attempts to wrest back control of the flesh Maladar wore.

Perhaps it is time take a new body, he thought. One of the survivors that hasn’t been eaten yet. They’re younger, fresher.…

But no. There were still reasons to keep that particular shell—four reasons, in fact: the four who had escaped from that very harbor only a few days earlier.

Especially the wife and the son.

Maladar walked through the cinders, down to the harbor, where smoke and fog blended into a brown haze. Blackened hulls sat swamped along the wharf: aside from the one boat he’d broken out on the open water, all the others had burned to the waterline. That was regrettable; he’d wanted to capture a decent boat so he had something in his fleet besides the miserable, leaky rafts the hobgoblins were building. He gazed across the foul water, where bodies bobbed among the flotsam. Fins plied the waters at the harbor’s edge, and occasionally a corpse vanished in a red spume. The sharks were hungry as well.

Beyond, there was nothing to see but mist. The fog banks over the strait had only grown thicker, hiding the Rainwards from view. He smiled at that. The mist would be useful if it held. The people of Suluk would know of his coming by now, but the mist would hide his fleet from their eyes. If they were quiet enough, the hobgoblins could be inside the city’s breakwaters before anyone knew they were close. The fighting would be hard, but he still had numbers enough to accomplish his goals.

He was still gazing into the fog, as if by will he might see through it to the far side of the water, when Ghashai found him. The warrior walked with a limp—an arrow had pierced his thigh, though not badly enough to cripple him—and blood covered him from snout to stomach. It was bright red, human blood, not hobgoblin black. As a warlord, Ghashai had the choice of the feasting, the youngest, tenderest meat. His eyes gleamed and his nose twitched, as if he could smell the flesh waiting for them across the strait. The day’s gorging was nothing compared with what was to come.

“What is it now?” Maladar demanded. “You always interrupt me when I’m thinking. I tire of it.”

Ghashai stopped, his mouth dropping open. Shreds of meat clung between his sharp teeth. “My lord. You bade me tell you if we found anyone who saw a boat leave the harbor, some days ago.”

“You found a witness?” Maladar asked, one eyebrow lifting. “And your people didn’t eat him?”

“Not… completely.”

Maladar’s lip curled. He hated the hobgoblins—their stupidity, their savagery, their hunger for human flesh. Their only virtues were their ferocity and their willingness to follow him. Once he had his empire back, once Aurim was risen anew, there would be no place for them in Taladas anymore. It would be a pleasure to get rid of them.

“My lord?” Ghashai asked. “Will you see the captive?”

Maladar nodded. “Bring me to him.”

The man’s condition made Maladar hate the hobgoblins all the more. His legs were both broken, and a deep gash across his stomach welled blood. Worse yet, there were other wounds on him, small tears that could only be caused by teeth. There was an art to inflicting pain, and the hobgoblins’ technique was indelicate. He gave Ghashai and the other creatures a glare that made them pale and draw back; then he bent down beside the man.

The man was dying; he wouldn’t live another hour even if the hobgoblins didn’t kill him. He probably would already be dead, but he was strong, sturdy… a stevedore, most likely. They’d found him at the docks. There was enough lucidity left in his eyes for Maladar’s purposes. He grabbed the man’s chin, turned his face toward him, fixed him with his gaze. Confusion creased the man’s features.

“It’s all right,” Maladar lied. “They won’t harm you anymore.”

“I… I know you,” the man said, his eyes rolling. He was delirious, beyond pain. “You were on the boat… but you were younger. And you’ve grown a beard.”

So, then—one question answered before he even asked it. The boy, the son, had been aboard.

“Who else?” Maladar demanded. “A barbarian? An elf? A woman?”

Weakly, the man nodded. “That’s them. I helped load the boat. But how are you back here? You should be on the other side of the Grayveil by now.”

“Where did they go?” Maladar pressed.

The man blinked, groggy. Maladar tightened his grip on his face and slapped him.

“Where?”

“S-Suluk,” the man groaned. “They were going… to warn the king.”

“They know we’re coming?” Ghashai asked.

“Be still!” Maladar snapped over his shoulder, then turned back to the dying man. “You have done well.”

“Don’t… don’t let them hurt me,” the stevedore breathed.

“I won’t,” Maladar replied and twisted the man’s head. There was a snap, and the man fell limp. Maladar rose, leaving him lying there. “He is yours now,” he told Ghashai. “But be quick about it. We sail on the morrow.”

The tide was rising quickly; the hobgoblins watched it come, standing among their rafts on the debris-strewn beach. The fog still clung thick over the water. They watched with hungry eyes, occasionally shouting battle cries that rippled up and down the strand. They were all there, together, in one place for the first time, their numbers dizzying.

A shout arose, a gleeful, hungry whoop: the water’s edge had reached the nearest boats, which were rising off the sand and bobbing on the waves. The hobgoblins pushed them out, jumping on and grabbing up crude oars to begin rowing. Some of them immediately began to sink. A few broke apart. Armored hobgoblins fell into the brine and sank to drown, to hoots of raucous laughter from rival tribes on shore. That was expected, but fewer died in those first moments than Maladar had thought. The hobgoblins were better builders than their savagery indicated.

Ghashai stood beside him, as ever. “Do not worry, my lord,” he said. “The blood-hunger is on them, but not so strong that they won’t remember to row as one.”

“Good,” Maladar replied. “I don’t want half my armada getting lost in that fog and rowing off every which way.”

“Yes, my lord.” Ghashai gazed out at the horde, his chest swelling, his yellow eyes shining with reflected torchlight. “Never have so many of our people gathered together like this. The songs we will sing of the battles to come! The shamans will tell of this day centuries from now, when we feast among the broken towers of the isles!”

Inside, Maladar heard Forlo praying. The man invoked every god he could name to make the hobgoblins fail, but especially Khubak, who ruled the calm sea, and cruel Zai who made the waves and storms. Let them be your sacrifice, the trapped soul pleaded. Claim their blood and breath. Let them drown in the fog!

Silence. The gods made no reply. More rafts launched, a few more foundering but most staying afloat. Maladar smiled.

“Your barge awaits, my lord,” Ghashai said, pointing down the beach. A much larger boat rested near the base of the cliffs, where the tides would climb at their highest; another hour or so, and it would be in the water. Many of the horde’s leaders were gathered near it already.

Too many, was Maladar’s immediate thought.

“You fools,” he growled. “Don’t gather all the chiefs together on one boat. One good shot with a catapult would cut off the horde’s head! Scatter the warlords among the fleet!”

Ghashai stared, slack-jawed. “But, Great One… we thought it only fitting that the chieftains accompany you in the grandest—”

Maladar struck him, hammering him in the face with his fist. Ghashai reeled, blood gushing from his snout, which broke with a ghastly snap. He staggered to one knee then got up again, confusion and anger burning in his eyes. His nose was flattened, spread across his right cheek.

“Wretch!” Maladar thundered. “Oh, yes, a grand boat indeed… and a grand target! One for the Rainwarders to rain down all their wrath upon! Will it fit to have all my commanders lying bloated and crab gnawed on the seafloor because of your stupidity?”

Ghashai made no reply. Maladar could tell from his expression that he didn’t understand; he had the look of a hound that had been whipped for some transgression it didn’t comprehend. That only aroused Maladar’s anger even more.

“I will not sail in that boat,” Maladar went on. “I will not draw the enemy’s eyes to me… and neither will you. Go down there at once and disperse the warlords. And as for that barge… have it broken up with axes, so no one uses it. Now.”

When you whip a dog too much, Maladar knew, it turns on you. He saw a hint of that in Ghashai’s sulky, resentful gaze as he slunk away, clambering down over the rocks. Satisfied, Maladar turned his eyes back out toward the sea. A third of the fleet was on the water, bumping and jostling, occasionally foundering, but mostly staying afloat. The water continued to creep up the beach, devouring it one wave at a time. From the great barge came much shouting and cursing in the hobgoblin tongue, but Maladar didn’t even bother to turn his head. Sure enough, after a few minutes of argument, the sound of axes hewing wood began.

When Ghashai returned, his snout had stopped bleeding, though it was still askew. There was more black blood on his hands, and Maladar knew it wasn’t all his. He’d had to enforce his will on the others.

“It is done, my lord,” Ghashai said, an edge of bitterness in his voice. “The warlords will sail with their own tribes.”

“Good. As they should have done from the start, if they’d had any wits in their empty heads.”

Ghashai was silent a moment, absorbing the insult.

“What of you, Great One?” he asked. “What boat shall you take?”

“Me?” Maladar replied. “Oh, I will take no boat. I will not sail with you.”

What? Forlo thought, deep inside him.

“What?” Ghashai asked.

Maladar waved his hand.

“The crossing and the battle are yours to command,” Maladar said. “You do not need my help—not any longer. I have… other business to attend to. I will meet you in Suluk when it is sacked and your feasting is done.”

What? Forlo wondered again, bewildered.

Maladar relished the man’s confusion. Did you think, he told Forlo in his mind, that I would make the army I sought out of this rabble? No. They are a distraction, nothing more. They need only draw the Rainwarders’ attention away from my real goal. As with the Uigan, and the Hooded One.

“My lord,” Ghashai was saying, “do you not care to watch the city burn?”

“I have burned cities before,” Maladar replied. “I’ve drowned them beneath the waves, and bidden the earth to swallow them whole. One more will not show me anything new. And you do not need me, Ghashai. You have enough warriors to win this battle without any trouble. Let the shamans sing of your victory, not mine.”

That last part worked, as Maladar knew it would. Lust for glory, for riches and blood, eclipsed Ghashai’s worries. The hobgoblins, for all their shortcomings, were easy to manipulate. He sneered as Ghashai clambered down to the beach once more. Maladar knew he would never see the warlord again. He would never see any of the hobgoblins again.

But it didn’t matter. None of it did.

None of it, but reaching the Chaldar.