Nekdukarr Page 2

The door burst open with a glare of light, startling him awake. A thousand questions swirled through his mind, but he could only stare at the hunched figure until the door slammed. He had forgotten that he had a voice. All he gained from the encounter was a greasy haunch of half-rotten meat. He threw the foul fodder away—he was not that hungry yet—then immediately lunged after it, wrenching his arms and causing his wounded wrists to weep bloody tears. The meat might be rotten, but he could sharpen the thick bone to make a crude weapon.

  He cursed his own stupidity. He did not yet know where he was or how he had gotten here, but if he was going to get out, he would have to start using his head.

  Iveron Darkmist's alabaster eyes squinted from behind the demon helm, the glare of winter dawn torturing his dark-attuned vision. Frigid mountain winds tore through the folds of his cloak, chilling him to the bone. Despite these discomforts, the Nekdukarr smiled; his plans were coming together. The raiding missions were a great success. Many of the farms between Zellohar Keep and the city of Beriknor had already been stripped. The humans in this area had been at peace too long; they did not take the first signs of invasion seriously.

  Which, of course, is to my advantage, Iveron thought.

  He watched as the long file of troops trudged into the courtyard of the keep. All were heavily laden, some with small struggling bundles. Iveron smiled again; although live prisoners required extra effort, to the Nekdukarr they were the ultimate treasure, fodder for his foul supplications to Mortas. But the more important spoils were the astonishing quantities of food and clothing for his ever-expanding army. New troops poured into Zellohar, swelling his forces daily. The surrounding mountains harbored orc, goblin, ogre and even troll dens. All it took to lure them into service were promises of slaughter, booty and regular meals.

  Iveron estimated his food stores to be sufficient for several weeks, more than enough time to complete preparations for the ceremony that would launch his campaign. Four of his most adept squires worked day and night on the tedious engraving that was required, chiseling runes into the floor of the specially designed chamber. He would inspect their work before committing himself to the ceremony, of course; an error could release horrors beyond even Iveron's control. Once the preparations were done, all he needed were the gems.

  The cornerstones, he thought, recalling the dwarvish term for the four enchanted stones.

  A deep growl reverberated in his throat as his gauntletted fists clenched. He would have laughed aloud at the irony if it was a laughing matter. The incredible power of the very gems the dwarves had used to imprison him in Zellohar, had been his. But now, due to the incompetence of his troops, only two of the four original gems remained within his reach. What began as an irritating kink in his plans had mushroomed into a threat to his whole campaign.

  Crimson fire flared in the eyes of the gruesome demon helm as his boots clacked back and forth along the battlements. Below, his tired troops hushed their chatter and resumed their labors with new vigor. They had seen him like this before, and someone usually ended up quite nastily dead as a result.

  I must have all four gems! he raged impotently. But how to assure that the job is done right?

  His options were few. He could abandon his stronghold and recover the lost gems himself. Although tempting—he would be able to wreak his personal revenge upon the thieves—Iveron knew it was impossible. Nekdukarr were shunned throughout the Northern Realms; he would be attacked on sight. And if his sisters visited in his absence, they would discover his plans, realize that he had deceived them, and bring his scheme before the Council of the Ten Clans as their own. He depended on the success of this war to shut his sisters up for good. Once he had the power of the cornerstones and the might of Clan Darkmist at his command, he would demand a seat on the council.

  Could he send the dragon, Phlegothax? No. The thieves were last reported en route to the city of Fengotherond, and even a dragon could not breach that city's defenses. Besides, the beast was still surly after being wounded by the rockfall in the lower caverns. Fortunately, the troops that fell into the gorge with the collapse of the bridge had quelled the beast's insatiable hunger, but he was not ready to test its temper yet.

  Iveron's pitiless gaze swept his cowering, inept subordinates; if the dolts had captured the thieves, he would not be in this mess. He had an urge to let the rage flow from the demon helm resting upon his brow, but even as the power began to rise, the rational corner of his mind suppressed it. Reducing one's troops to lifeless puddles of goo was not good for morale.

  His rage once again locked away in a corner of his twisted mind, the dark paladin directed his thoughts along more lucid paths. He despised having to depend on anyone, but there was no choice; he would rely on the assassins he had sent after the thieves. The Shadowknives were competent, born to kill and baptized in blood. And they knew the consequences of failure. But a disturbing question still hung in the back of Iveron's mind: what if he could not recover all the gems?

  "Impossible!" he said, immediately rejecting the thought. He would regain possession of the cornerstones, and with them, ultimate power.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lynthalsea and DoHeney watched in amazement as Shay played an intricate game of negotiation with the Fengotherond tax assessor—give a little here, take a little there, let this small item slip past the inventory, and this gold coin is for you. Avari tapped her foot, too hungry to be amused. Right now all she wanted was a hot lunch and a hotter bath, but lunchtime was long passed before the official let the four companions go. When the tax assessor had finally finished, Shay hurried his friends out the door.

  "Just a reminder!" The tax assessor's call stopped them in their tracks. "You have a fortnight to gain employment, otherwise you will be required to depart our fair city."

  "Depart this, ye—" DoHeney grumbled.

  "Thank you, sir," Shay trilled with a smile as he stuffed the dusty hem of his cloak into DoHeney's mouth. "Rest assured we will have finished with our business before then."

  "Gaaahhhh!" DoHeney spat out the cloth and glared at Shay. "What did ye do that fer? The fella was jist beggin' fer a good drubbin'. He thought we was thieves. Common thieves!" he grumbled, brushing off his grimy tunic. "Why, anyone with any kind o' taste would know that this loot is all first class."

  "At least he didn't ask to inspect Gaulengil," Avari said, caressing the sheath of the enchanted greatsword. "I'd have had a hard time keeping it off of him. I think it's picked up my hunger pangs."

  "I had no idea it would be worth so much!" Lynthalsea exclaimed, looking nervously around at the crowds.

  "Aye, kin ye believe it?" DoHeney beamed, suddenly forgetting his aggravation. "We're rich! And I don't jist mean rich, but RICH!"

  "Hush!" Shay admonished. "Fengotherond is the safest city in the northlands, but I do not think we should let the full extent of our wealth become public knowledge."

  "Do you suppose," Avari contemplated, "that there's enough for me to restart my horse farm?"

  Lynthalsea stared incredulously at her, while DoHeney burst out laughing. But Shay understood Avari's ignorance about money; she had never really dealt much with it before.

  "Avari," he explained as they walked, "your share is enough to buy ten horse farms outright, and stock each with a hundred of the finest thoroughbreds."

  "Uh..." Avari's jaw dropped and she stared for a moment. "In that case," she said breaking into a grin, "lunch is on me!"

  "And I," Shay said, "know just the place."

  Avari's eyes loop-the-looped after a lively fish that swam in circles around a large glass tank. She was so hungry, she could eat one without bothering to scale, cook or even kill the thing. Her stomach elicited a predatory growl and she leaned closer.

  "Avari!" Shay pulled her away and down the street. "We are almost there, and believe me, you will deem it worth the wait. Now look over here." He pointed to an ornate building across the street. "That was the home of the first mayor of Fengotherond back in..."
>
  Although trying desperately to focus on something other than her hunger, Avari was bored by Shay's narrative. A city was a city as far as she was concerned, and she had not been impressed with the few she had seen so far. Besides, they had been on this impromptu guided tour for almost an hour.

  To her, the most interesting thing about Fengotherond was the dome. The entire city was covered by a single piece of enchanted and unbreakable crystal, held in place by pillars of magical force that would allegedly last forever. Air circulated beneath it freely, but snow and rain were caught and diverted into an elaborate system of aqueducts.

  DoHeney was astounded to learn that the entire construction had been accomplished by mages, not craftsmen. Sunlight refracted through the dome in a kaleidoscope of colored light, dazzling his sensitive eyes every time he looked up.

  Lynthalsea was the only one of the group listening to Shay's narration. Fengotherond appealed to her elvish eye for beauty: white buildings, their facades adorned with silver and gold, glowed in the rainbow light of the dome. Clean streets were paved with smooth cobbles, and even the horses were equipped to avoid inappropriate litter.

  Avari snorted in disgust at the sight of a matched team clattering past, each bearing a strapped-on bag to catch manure before it could touch the street. She leaned over the white fence of a stable, and snorted again at the scent of lye rather than the warm, comforting smell of horse and dung.

  City folks! she thought, shaking her head. They care more about keeping their pretty streets clean than about the poor animals' hooves or their dignity.

  Avari's irritation multiplied as they turned down a street lined with restaurants. Menus enticed passersby with promises of everything from elvish cuisine to exotic seafood, and the air was thick with the aromas of a thousand different dishes. Her stomach and mind made their decisions simultaneously.

  "Enough!" she said as she stepped in front of Shay, interrupting his latest statistic. "It's cruel to drag me by all these restaurants when you know I haven't eaten decently for days! I'm starved! Let's eat anywhere!"

  "But Avari," Shay said with a flourish, "we are here!"

  Avari looked up. 'The House of Grandeur' was emblazoned in foot-high gold letters upon the marble facade. Polished stairs led to a pillared entrance tended by a footman in red velvet livery. Ordinarily she would have balked at such as place, but her stomach would brook no more delay. She dashed up the steps two at a time.

  The gaping doorman went unnoticed as she strode through the portal, but she stopped cold as she was confronted by the maître d'. The impeccably dressed elf glared at her as if she had just tracked something onto his rug. His disdain deepened as the others arrived, his lip curling into a sneer.

  "May I... help you in some way?" he asked, looking them up and down.

  "Yes, my good elf," Shay said, stepping forward. "We would like your finest meal served in a private chamber, please."

  The elf snorted, raising an eyebrow.

  "Yes, I am... sure you would," he said, oozing condescension. "I am sorry, but all of our tables are occupied at the moment. I suggest you try another establishment."

  A flick of his skeletal hand dismissed them as he turned and retreated behind a podium of polished hardwood to contemplate a leather-bound appointment book. Shay stepped back as if he had been slapped, unaccustomed to being treated like a common beggar. Beyond a silk-draped archway behind the podium, the opulent dining room stood more empty than full.

  Shay's face flushed scarlet. Granted, they were disheveled and worn from their journey, but that was no excuse for such rude treatment. He hardened his resolve and stepped confidently up to the podium.

  "I assure you, we are more than able to accommodate your prices." Shay rested his hand lightly on the appointment book, three thick gold coins tucked between his fingers. "We have been traveling for some time and are very hungry." He withdrew his now-empty hand.

  The maître d' slapped the book shut, the money inside. He stared at Shay defiantly. "I said we were busy. You will leave immediately, or I will be forced to have you removed!" With a quick snap of his fingers two burly men in black cloaks and wide crimson sashes materialized from an alcove. They towered behind the thin elf, thick arms crossed over barrel chests.

  Shay stared in disbelief. He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, the tips of his ears flushing red. He rolled up the sleeves of his cloak, but was interrupted by a firm hand on his shoulder.

  "Let me handle this pompous twerp," Avari whispered in his ear as she nudged him aside.

  "Listen, scrawny!" She glared down her nose at the elf as she dropped two jingling saddlebags onto the podium. She then placed Gaulengil, still in its sheath, across the bags. "There's enough in these two bags to buy this sorry excuse for an ale house five times over," she said, her voice hard and loud. "And if I decide to do just that, my first act as the new owner will be to kick your skinny arse right out those doors!"

  The elf puffed up, waving his defenders forward, then stopped as Avari slipped Gaulengil several inches out of its sheath. He gulped hard when she leaned close.

  "Now," she whispered, her tone more dangerous than a scream, "we are hungry and road weary, but if you insist upon making a scene, I'm sure we can accommodate you. I just hope it doesn't hurt business when I hack your pudgy friends into mincemeat and drag your headless corpse through the dining room."

  The elf gaped for a moment, eyed the mad glint in Avari's eyes and the sword's razor edge that she was absently caressing with a thumbnail. His lips formed into a tight smile, and he cleared his throat, finding it dry and tight.

  "I... Ahem... may have been mistaken," he said as he extracted the appointment book from beneath the heavy bags and leafed through the pages. "Ah yes. There is an opening here. An usher will take you directly to your table."

  "So long as it's in your best private dining room, I think we have a deal." Avari granted him her sweetest smile as she slapped the sword back into its sheath and hefted her saddlebags.

  "Olaf," the maître d' waved one of the men forward, "please take our guests to the Emerald Room. Full accompaniments."

  "Sometimes," Avari explained casually to an astounded Shay as they were led up a sweeping staircase, "charm and good looks are no substitute for a sincere threat to life and limb."

  CHAPTER 3

  Well, the morning is off to an excellent start! Shay thought as he jumped into his waiting carriage.

  Shay had stolen off before breakfast, leaving his companions still abed at the Kindly Ki-rin, goose-down comforters tucked snugly under their chins. His first appointment had gone well, and he hoped its consequences would bear fruit, but as he considered his next objective his stomach fluttered.

  "We are here, sir."

  Shay looked up. The carriage had stopped. Beyond the patiently waiting driver loomed the towering spires of the temple of Tem the Balancer. Shay’s heart skipped a beat. He straightened his back and flicked imperceptible wrinkles from his worn tunic. Stop stalling! his conscience urged and Shay abruptly stood, forgetting the confines of his quarters.

  "Gods damn this shrunken—"

  The curse escaped his mouth before he could stop it. With a wry grin he stepped from the carriage, massaging the rising lump on his head. The driver's carefully blank look was reassuring; perhaps no one had heard.

  Shay paid the driver, jerked his tunic straight, turned on his heel and— The stares of four acolytes posted at the temple gate stabbed him, dashing any hope that his indiscretion had gone unnoticed. He painted on a smile and climbed the steps, fully aware of their scrutiny of his attire, gait and demeanor.

  The acolytes moved to intercept him. The gate watch was generally assigned to those in their early years of training. They took their duty seriously, even though it was more formality than any real defense.

  "Hail, traveler." The eldest acolyte stepped forward, hand raised. "This is the private temple and rectory entrance reserved for the priesthood. Public services are across t
he way."

  "Hail, acolyte." Shay smiled, dismissing the youngster's curt tone. "I realize that it is not evident from my attire, but I also am a priest of Tem." Anticipating the skeptical looks, he drew his silver icon from beneath his tunic. "My name is Szcze-kon. I have been traveling for some time and have come to speak with an old friend, Ken-Dolan. He is a high priest, in charge of literary researches, and I am sure he—"

  "Of course, brother, of course!" The realization that he was speaking with a superior snapped his challenger to attention. "My name is Merren. I am honored to meet you. There is no need... for a messenger... we can—" Merren struggled to keep his composure while shaking off a younger boy who tugged on his sleeve. The boy whispered something too softly for Shay to hear. Merren's eyes widened and he glanced toward Shay.

  "One of us will escort you to High Priest Ken-Dolan's study." Merren's manner was still polite, but suddenly strained.

  "That won't be necessary," Shay said with a raised hand. "I can find my way, but thank you. Justice be yours, acolytes."

  He bowed politely, continuing on his way before they could even return the blessing. The back of his neck itched as he crossed the courtyard, and a discrete glance confirmed their stares and frantic whispering. The youngest among them then dashed off toward another doorway.

  Shay's teeth clenched as he ascended the steps to the literary research wing. His reputation seemed to have preceded him.

  Waves crashed over the deck as the Valkyrie plunged through the mounting seas, heeling at a dangerous angle. Verdin, the first mate, looked up as dawn's light stained the sails scarlet, as if the cloth bled from a deep wound.

  "Red sails in morning bring gales without warning" was a common sailor's axiom. A cold drop fell on his upturned face and he half-expected to wipe away blood, but it was merely a speck of the sea upon which he had spent his life, a sea that was becoming angrier by the moment.

  "This is mad," he muttered, shaking his head. Under normal circumstances, the sails would already be reefed, but these were not normal circumstances. With only a third of the cargo that usually stabilized them, and more canvas aloft than he liked, things were getting dangerous.